BABYLON 
 
 I. 
 
SECOND EDITION now ready. 
 Crown 8vo. cloth extra, ds. 
 
 STRANGK STORIES. 
 
 By grant ALLEN. 
 
 WITH A FRONTISPIECE BY GEORGE OU MAURIER. 
 
 ' Perhaps the best fiction of the year is " Strange Stories." Mr. Grant Allen 
 certainly took his friends by surprise when he burst forth as the author of the stories 
 which had appeared in the Cornhill, Belgravia, and Longman's, under the signature 
 of J. Arbuthnot Wilson. He was known to us all as one of the most able of the 
 rising men of the evolution school, his contributions to modern science being of con- 
 siderable value. Few suspected him of such levity as telling light stories. The 
 tales, which have been bound together, are now circulating in a book form, and the 
 volume is distinctly good. " Strange Stories " will sell well.' — County Gentleman. 
 
 ' Almost all the stories are good, coming nearer to the weird power of Poe than 
 any that we remember to have seen.' — Pall Mall Gazette. 
 
 ' Mr. Grant Allen has fully established his claim to be heard henceforth as a 
 story-teller.' -The Academy. 
 
 ' No one will be able to say that the stories are dull. The lighter stories can be 
 read with pleasure by everybody, and the book can be dipped into anywhere without 
 disappointment. One and all the stories are told with a delightful ease and with an 
 abundance of lively humour.' — Athen>eum. 
 
 'The public will like "Strange Stories," because they are not commonplace, 
 because they deal freshly as well as neatly with unusual subjects. They give a 
 decided fillip to the jaded literary appetite.'— Derby Mercury. 
 
 ' The stories are exceedingly interesting, and several of them have a humorous 
 tendency. Although in the preface Mr. Allen professes that he is a " scientific 
 journeyman " rather than a writer of fiction, he has given us what many successful 
 novelists have failed to do — a very readable volume of short stories.' 
 
 Literary World. 
 ' Possesses no little cleverness ; bright and entertaining.,' 
 
 ' Manchester Examiner. 
 
 ' " Strange Stories " are partly scientific and partly fanciful and humorous. 
 They deal, for the most part, with queer and curious points of psychology, are well 
 written, and are easy reading.' — Saturday Review. 
 
 ' Altogether the book is clever. To the stories in the light style, and in the 
 ironical, extravaganza, and mock-heroic vein, only praise can be given.' 
 
 British Quarterly Review. 
 
 ' Mr. Grant Allen's stories are capital reading.' — Times. 
 
 ' Truly delightful.'— Warrington Guardian. 
 
 London : CHATTO & WINDUS, Piccadilly. 
 

 
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BABYLON 
 
 BY 
 
 GRANT ALLEN 
 
 (CECIL POWER) 
 
 AUTHOR OF PHILISTTA "STRANGE STORIES ETC. 
 
 
 
 *'^ 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES 
 VOL. I. 
 
 WITH TWELVE ILLUSTRATIONS BY P. MACNAB 
 
 CHATTO & WINDUS, PICCADILLY 
 
 1885 
 
 [The ri^ht of translation is rcser^'ed] 
 
/^ 
 
 PR 
 
 ^oof 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 OF 
 
 THE FIRST VOLUME. 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 I. RURAL AMERICA ...... 1 
 
 II. RURAL ENGLAND 28 
 
 III. PERNICIOUS LITERATURE 45 
 
 IV. PROFESSIONAL SOCIETY 59 
 
 V. EMANCIPATION 77 
 
 VI. ENTER A NEW ENGLANDER 109 
 
 VII. THE DEACON FALTERS 136 
 
 VIII. WOOD AND STONE 162 
 
 IX. CONSPIRACY 176 
 
 X. MINNA IMPROVES HERSELF 2C0 
 
 XI EDUCATIONAL ADVANTAGES . . . .225 
 Xll. AN ARTISTIC ENGAGEMENT 243 
 
 XIII. AN EVE IN EDEN 258 
 
 XIV. MINNA GIVES NOTICE 280 
 
ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 TO 
 
 THE FIRST VOLUME. 
 
 ' It was his First Attempt ' . . . Frontispiece 
 'Hiram LISTENED STILL' .... To face p. 122 
 
 'A BEGINNING IN SeLF-ImPROVEMENT ' . „ 224 
 
 ' Beneath the Shade op the Plane Trees ' „ 288 
 
BABYLON 
 
 CHAPTEK I. 
 
 RURAL AMERICA. 
 
 'Whar's Hiram, Het?' Deacon Zephaniah 
 Winthrop asked of his wife, tartly. * Tears to 
 me that boy's alius off somewhar, whenever 
 he's wanted to do anything. Can't git along 
 without him, any way, when we've got to 
 weed the spring peppermint. Whar's he off, 
 I say, Mehitabel ? ' 
 
 Mrs. Winthrop drew herself together from 
 the peas she was languidly shelling, and 
 answered in the dry withered tone of a 
 middle-aged northern New Yorker, ' Wal, I 
 
 VOL. I. B 
 
 K t 
 
2 BABYLON 
 
 s'pose, Zeph, he's gone down to the blackberry 
 lot, most likely.' 
 
 'Blackberry lot,' Mr. Winthrop replied 
 with a fine air of irony. ' Blackberry lot, 
 indeed. What does he want blackberry in', I 
 should like to know ? I'll blackberry him, I 
 kin tell you, whenever I ketch him. Jest you 
 go an' holler for him, Het, an' ef he don't 
 come ruther sooner 'n lightnin', he'll ketch it, 
 an' no mistake, sure as preachin'. I've got 
 an orful itchin', Mis' Winthrop, to give that 
 thar boy a durned good cow-hidin' this very 
 minnit.' 
 
 Mrs. Winthrop rose from the basket of 
 peas and proceeded across the front yard with 
 as much alacrity as she could summon up, to 
 call for Hiram. She was a tall, weazened, 
 sallow woman, prematurely aged, with a pair 
 of high cheekbones, and a hard, hungry-look- 
 ing, unlovable mouth ; but she was averse to 
 the extreme and unnecessary measure of cow- 
 
RURAL AMERICA 3 
 
 hiding her firstborn. ' Hiram,' she called out, 
 in her loudest and shrillest voice ; ' Hiram ! 
 Drat the boy, whar is he ? Hiram ! Hi-ram ! ' 
 It was a dreary and a monotonous outlook 
 altogether, that view from the gate of Zepha- 
 niah Winthrop's freehold farm in Geauga 
 County. The homestead itself, an unpainted 
 frame house, consisted of planed planks set 
 carelessly one above the other on upright 
 beams, stood in a weedy yard, surrounded by 
 a raw-looking paling, and unbeautified by a 
 single tree, creeper, shrub, bush, or scented 
 flower. A square house, planted naked in 
 the exact centre of a square yard, desolate 
 and lonely, as though such an idea as that of 
 beauty had never entered into the human heart. 
 In front the long straight township road ran 
 indefinitely as far as the eye could reach in 
 either direction, beginning at the horizon on 
 the north, and ending at the horizon on the 
 south, but leading nowhere in particular, that 
 
 B 2 
 
4 BABYLON 
 
 anyone ever heard of, meanwhile, unless it 
 were to Muddy Creek Depot (pronounced 
 deepo) on the Eome, Watertown, and Ogdens- 
 Inirg Eailroad. At considerable intervals 
 along its course, a new but congenitally 
 shabby gate opened here and there into 
 another bare square yard, and gave access to 
 another bare square frame house of unpainted, 
 ])ine planks = In the blanks between these 
 oases of unvarnished ughness the road, instead 
 of being bordered by green trees and smiUng 
 hedgerows, pursued its gaunt way, unrejoic- 
 ing, between open fields or long and hideous 
 snake fences. If you have ever seen a snake 
 fence, you know what that means ; if you 
 haven't seen one, sit down in your own easy 
 chair gratefully and comfortably, and thank 
 an indulgent heaven with all your heart for 
 your happy ignorance. 
 
 Beyond and behind the snake fences lay 
 fields of wheat and meadows and pasture 
 
RURAL AMERICA 5 
 
 land ; not, as in England, green and lush 
 with grass or clover, but all alike bare, 
 brown, weedy, and illimitable. There v\^ere 
 no trees to be seen anywhere (though there 
 were plenty of stumps), for this was 'a very 
 fully settled section,' as Mr. Winthrop used to 
 murmur to himself complacently : ' the coun- 
 try thar real beautiful : you might look about 
 you, some parts, for a mile or two right away 
 togither and never see a single tree a-standin' 
 anywhar.' Indeed, it was difficult to imagine 
 where on earth a boy could manage to hide 
 himself in all that long, level, leafless district. 
 But Mrs. Winthrop knew better : she knew 
 Hiram was loafing away somewhere down in 
 the blackberry lot beside the river. 
 
 ' Lot ' is a cheap and nasty equivalent in 
 the great American language for field, mea- 
 dow, croft, copse, paddock, and all the other 
 beautiful and expressive old-world names 
 which denote in the tongue of the old country 
 
6 BABYLON 
 
 our own time-honoured English inclosures. 
 And the blackberry lot, at the bottom of the 
 farm, was the one joy and dehght of young 
 Hiram Win thr op's boyish existence. Though 
 you could hardly guess it, as seen from the 
 farm, there was a river running in the hollow 
 down yonder — Muddy Creek, in fact, which 
 gave its own euphonious name to the naked 
 little Depot ; not here muddy, indeed, as in 
 its lower reaches, but clear and limpid from 
 the virgin springs of the Gilboa hillsides. 
 Beside the creek, there stretched a waste lot, 
 too rough and stony to be worth the curse of 
 cultivation ; and on that lot the blackberry 
 bushes grew in wild profusion, and the morn- 
 ing-glories opened their great pink bells 
 blushingly to the early sun,' and the bobolinks 
 chattered in the garish noontide, and the grey 
 squirrels hid by day among the stunted trees, 
 and the chipmunks showed their painted 
 sides for a moment as they darted swiftly in 
 
RURAL AMERICA 7 
 
 and out from hole to hole amid the tangled 
 brushwood. What a charmed spot it seemed 
 to the boy's mind, that one solitary patch of 
 undesecrated nature, in the midst of so many 
 blackened stumps, and so much first-rate fall 
 wheat, and such endless, hopeless, dreary 
 hillocks of straight rowed, dry leaved, tillering 
 Indian corn ! 
 
 ' Hiram ! Hiram ! Hi-ram ! ' cried Mrs. 
 Winthrop, growing every moment shriller 
 and shriller. 
 
 Hiram heard, and leaped from the brink 
 at once, though a kingfisher was at that very 
 moment eyeing him with head on one side 
 from the half-concealing foliage of the bass- 
 wood tree opposite. 'Yes, marm,' he an- 
 swered submissively, showing himself as fast 
 as he was able in the pasture above the 
 blackberry lot. ' Wal ! What is it ? ' 
 
 * Hiram,' his mother said, as soon as he 
 was within convenient speaking distance, 
 
8 BABYLON 
 
 ' you come right along in here, sonny. 
 Where was you, say? Here's father swearin' 
 he'll thrash you for goin' loafin'. He wants 
 you jest to come in at once and help weed 
 the peppermint. I guess you've bin down in 
 the blackberry lot, fishin', or suthin'.' 
 
 'I ain't bin fishin',' Hiram answered, 
 with a certain dogged, placid resignation. 
 'I've bin lookin' around, and that's so, 
 mother. On'y lookin' around at the chip- 
 munks an' bobolinks, 'cause I was dreadful 
 
 tired.' 
 
 ' Tired of what ? ' asked his mother, not 
 
 uncompassionately. 
 
 ' Planin',' Hiram answered, with a nod. 
 'Planks. Father give me forty planks to 
 plane, an' I've done 'em.' 
 
 ' Wal, mind he don't thrash you, Hiram,' 
 the sallow-faced woman said, warningly, with 
 as much tenderness in her voice as lay within 
 the compass of her nature. ' He's orful mad 
 
RURAL AMERICA 9 
 
 with you now, 'cause you didn't answer 
 immejately when he hollered.' 
 
 ' Then why don't he holler loud enough ? ' 
 asked Hiram, in an injured tone — he was an 
 ill-clad boy of about twelve — ' I can't never 
 hear him down lot yonder.' 
 
 ' What's that you got in your pocket, sir?' 
 Mr. Winthrop puts in, coming up unex- 
 pectedly to the pair on the long, straight, 
 blinking high-road. ' What's that, naow, eh, 
 sonny ? * 
 
 Hiram pulls the evidence of guilt slowly 
 out of his rough tunic. ' Injuns,' he answers, 
 shortly, in the true western laconic fashion. 
 
 Mr. Winthrop examines the object care- 
 lessly. It is a bit of blackish stone, rudely 
 chipped into shape, and ground at one end 
 to an artificial edge with some nicety of exe- 
 cution. 
 
 ' Injuns ! ' he echoes contemptuously, dash- 
 ing it on the path : ' Injuns ! Oh yes, this is 
 
lo BABYLON 
 
 Injuns ! An' what's Injuns? Heathens, out- 
 landish heathens ; and a drunken, p'isonous 
 crowd at that, too. Tlie noble red man is a 
 fraud ; Injuns must go. It alius licks my 
 poor finite understandin' altogether why the 
 Lord should ever have run tliis great continent 
 so long with nothin' better 'n Injuns. It's one 
 o' them mysteries o' Providence that 'taint 
 given us poor wums to comprehend daown 
 here, noways. Wal, they're all cleared out of 
 this section naow, anyway, and why a lad 
 that's brought up a Chrischun and Hopkinsite 
 should want to go grubbin' up their knives 
 and things in this cent'ry is a caution to me, 
 that's what it is, a reg'lar caution.' 
 
 ' This ain't a knife,' Hiram answered, still 
 doggedly. 'This is a tommy hawk. Injun 
 knives ain't made like this 'ere. I've had 
 knives, and they're quite a different kinder 
 pattern.' 
 
 Mr. Winthrop shook his head solemnly. 
 
RURAL AMERICA II 
 
 * Seems to me,' he said with a loud snort, * 'taint 
 right of any believin' boy goin' lookin' up these 
 heathenish things, mother. He's alius bringin* 
 'em home— arrowheads, he calls 'em, and 
 tommyhawks, and Lord knows what rubbish 
 — when he ought to be weedin' in the pepper- 
 mint lot, an' earnin' his livin'. Why wasn't 
 you here, eh, sonny? Why wasn't you? 
 Why wasn't you? Why wasn't you ? ' 
 
 As Mr. Winthrop accompanied each of 
 these questions by a cuff, crescendo, on either 
 ear alternately, it is not probable that he 
 himsiJf intended Hiram to reply to them with 
 any particular definiteness. But Hiram, 
 drawing his sleeve across his eyes, and wiping 
 away the tears hastily, proceeded to answer 
 with due deliberation : ' 'Cause I was tired 
 planin' planks. So I went down to the black- 
 berry lot, to rest a bit. But you won't let a 
 feller rest. You want him to be workin' like 
 a nigger all day. 'Taint reasonable.' 
 
12 BABYLON 
 
 ' Mother,' Mr. Winthrop said again, more 
 solemnly than before, ' it's my opinion that the 
 old Adam is on-common powerful in this here 
 lad, on-common powerful ! Ef he had lived 
 in Bible times, I sliould liev been afeard of a 
 visible judgment on his head, like the babes 
 that mocked at Elijah. (Or was it Elisha? ' 
 asked Mr. Winthrop to himself, dubitatively. 
 • I don't 'zackly recollect the pertickler pro- 
 phet.) The eye that mocketh at its father, 
 you know, sonny ; it's a dangerous thing, I 
 kin tell you, to mock at your father. Go an' 
 weed that thar peppermint, sir ; go an* weed 
 that thar peppermint.' And as he spoke the 
 deacon gave Hiram a parting dig in the side 
 with the handle of the Dutch hoe he was lightly 
 carrying. 
 
 Hiram dodged the hoe quickly, and set off 
 at a run to the peppermint lot. When he got 
 there he waited a moment, and then felt in 
 his pocket cautiously for some other unseen 
 
RURAL AMERICA 13 
 
 object. Oh joy, it wasn't broken ! lie 
 took it out and looked at it tenderly. It was 
 a bobolink's egg. He held it up to the light, 
 and saw the sunshine gleaming through it. 
 ' Aint it cunning ? ' he said to himself, with a 
 little hug and chuckle of triumph. ' Ain't it 
 a cunning little egg, either ? I thought he'd 
 most broke it, I did, but he hadn't, seems. 
 It's the first I ever found, that sort. Oh my, 
 ain't it cunning ? ' And he put the ^^^ back 
 lovingly in his pocket, with great cautiousness. 
 For a while the boy went on pulhng up the 
 weeds that grew between the wide rows of 
 peppermint, and then at last he came to a big 
 milk-weed in full flower. The flowers were 
 very pretty, and so curious, too. He looked 
 at them and admired them. But he must pull 
 it up : no room in the field for milk-weed (it 
 isn't a marketable crop, alas !), so he caught 
 the pretty thing in his hands, and uprooted it 
 without a murmur. Thus he went on, row 
 
14 BABYLON 
 
 after row, in the hot July sun, till nearly half 
 the peppermint was well weeded. 
 
 Then he sat down to rest a Httle on the pile 
 of boulders in the far corner. There was no 
 tree to sit under, and no shade ; but the boy 
 could at least sit in the eye of the sun on the 
 pile of ice-worn boulders. As he sat, he saw a 
 wonderful and beautiful sight. In the sky 
 above, a great bald-headed eagle came wheel- 
 ing slowly toward the corner of the fall wheat 
 lot. From the opposite quarter of the sky his 
 partner circled on buoyant wings to meet him ; 
 and with wide curves to right and left, crossing 
 and recrossing each other at the central point 
 like well-bred setters, those two magnificent 
 birds swiftly beat the sunht fields for miles 
 around them. At last, one of the pair detected 
 game ; for an instant he checked his flight, to 
 steady his swoop, and then, with wings half- 
 folded, and a rushing noise through the air, he 
 fell plump on the ground at a vague spot in 
 
RURAL AMERICA 15 
 
 the midst of the meadow. One moment more, 
 and he rose again, with a quivering rabbit 
 suspended from his yellow claws. Presently 
 he made towards the corn lot. It was fenced 
 round, like all the others, with a snake fence, 
 and, to Hiram's intense joy, the eagle finally 
 settled, just opposite him, on one of the two 
 upright rails that stand as a crook or stake 
 for the top rail, called the rider. Its big white 
 head shone in the sunlight, its throat rang out 
 a sharp, short bark, and it craned its neck 
 this way and that, looking defiantly across the 
 field to Hiram. 
 
 ' I reckon,' the boy said to himself quietly, 
 ' I could draw that thar ea<de.' 
 
 He put his hand into his trousers pocket, 
 and pulled out from it a well-worn stump of 
 blacklead pencil. Then from another pocket 
 he took a small blank book, an old account 
 book, in fact, with one side of the pages all 
 unwritten, though the other was closely 
 
l6 BABYLON 
 
 covered with rows of figures. It was a very 
 precious possession to Hiram Wintlirop, that 
 dog-eared httle volume, for it was nearly 
 filled with his own tentative pencil sketches 
 of beast and birds, and all the other beautiful 
 things that lived together in the blackberry 
 bottom. He had never seen anything beauti- 
 ful anywhere else, and that one spot and that 
 one book were all the world to him that he 
 loved or cared for. 
 
 He laid the book upon his knee, and pro- 
 ceeded carefully to sketch the grand white- 
 headed eagle in his boyish fashion. ' He's 
 the American eagle, I guess,' the lad said to 
 himself, as he looked from bird to paper with 
 rapid glances ; ' on'y he ain't so stiff-built as 
 the one upon the dollars, neither. His head 
 goes so. Aint it elegant ? Oh my, not a bit, 
 ruther. And his tail ! That's how. The 
 feathers runs the same as if it was shingles on 
 the roof of a residence. I've got his tail just 
 
RURAL AMERICA 17 
 
 as true as Genesis, you bet. I can go the 
 head and the tail, straight an' square, but 
 what Ucks me is the wings. Seems as if you 
 couldn't get his wing to show right, nohow, 
 agin the body. Think it must be that way, 
 pretty near ; but I don't know. I wish thar 
 was some feller here in Geauga could show 
 me how the folks that draw the illustriations 
 in the books ud draw that thar wing. It goes 
 one too high for me, altogether.' 
 
 Even as Hiram thought that last thought 
 he was dimly aware in a moment of an omin- 
 ous shadow supervening behind him, and of 
 a heavy hand lifted angrily to cuff him about 
 the head for his pesky idleness. He knew^ it 
 was his father, and with rapid instinct he 
 managed to avoid the unseen blow. But, 
 alas, alas, as he did so, he dropped the pre- 
 cious account book from his lap. and let it fall 
 upon the heap of boulders. Deacon Winthrop 
 took the mysterious volume up, and peered at 
 
 VOL. I. c 
 
I8 BABYLON 
 
 it long and cautiously. ' Wal,' he said slowly, 
 turning over the pages one by one, as if they 
 were clear evidence of original sin unregene- 
 rated — ' wal, this do beat all, really. I've 
 alius wondered what on airth you could be up 
 to, sonny, when you was sent to weed, ar\d 
 didn't get a furrer or two done, mornings, 
 while I was hoein' a dozen rows of corn or 
 tomaters. Wal, this do beat all. Makin' 
 figgers of chipmunks, and woodchucks, and 
 musk-rats, and — my goodness, ef that thar 
 aint a rattlesnake ! Hiram Winthrop, it's 
 my opinion that you was born to reprobation 
 — that's jest about the size of it ! ' 
 
 If this opinion had not been vigorously 
 backed by a box on the ears and a violent 
 shaking, it isn't likely that Hiram in his own 
 mind would have felt deeply concerned at it. 
 Eeprobation is such a very long way off 
 (especially when you're twelve years old), 
 whereas a box on the ears is usually experi- 
 
RURAL AMERICA 19 
 
 enced in the present tense with remarkable 
 rapidity. But Hiram was so well used to 
 cuffing (for the deacon was a God-fearing man, 
 who held it prime part of his parental duty to 
 correct his child with due severity) that he 
 didn't cry much or make a fuss about it. To 
 say the truth, too, he was watching so eagerly 
 to see what his father would do with the 
 beloved sketch-book that he had no time 
 to indulge in unnecessary sentiment. For if 
 only that sketch-book were taken from him — 
 that poor, soiled, second-hand, half- covered 
 sketch-book — Hiram felt in his dim inarticu- 
 late fashion that he would have solved the 
 pessimistic problem forthwith in the negative, 
 and that life for him would no longer be worth 
 living. 
 
 The deacon turned the leaves over slowly 
 for some minutes more, with many angry 
 ejaculations, and then deliberately took them 
 between his finger and thumb, and tore the 
 
 c 2 
 
20 BABYLOA 
 
 book in two across the middle. Next, he 
 doubled the pages over again, and tore them 
 a second time across, and so on until the 
 whole lot was reduced to a mass of little 
 fluttering crumpled fragments. These he 
 tossed contemptuously among the boulders, 
 and with a parting cuff to Hiram proceeded 
 on his way, to ruminate over the singular 
 mystery of reprobation, even in the children 
 of regenerate parents. ' You jest mind you 
 go in right thar an' weed the rest of that 
 [)eppermint, sonny,' he said as he strode away. 
 'An' bo pretty quick about it, too, or else 
 you'll be more scar't when you come home 
 to-night than ever you was scar't in all your 
 life afore, you take my word for it.' 
 
 As soon as the deacon was gone, poor 
 Hiram sat down again on the heap of boulders 
 and cried as though his little heart would 
 fairly break. In spite of his father's vigorous 
 admonition, he couldn't turn to at once and 
 
RURAL AMERICA 21 
 
 weed the peppermint. ' 'Taint the lickin' I 
 mind,' he said to himself ruefully, as he 
 gathered up the scattered fragments in his 
 hand, ' 'tain't the lickin', it's the picturs. 
 Them thar picturs was pretty near the on'y 
 thing I Hked best of anything livin'. Wal, it 
 wouldn't hev mattered much ef he'd on'y tore 
 up the ones I'd drawed : but when he tore up 
 all my paper, so as I can't draw any more, 
 that does make a feller feel reel bad. I never 
 was so mad with him in my life afore. I 
 reckon fathers is the onaccountablest and most 
 mirac'lous creeturs in all creation. He might 
 hev tore the picturs ef he liked, but what for 
 did he want to go tearin' up all my paper? ' 
 
 As he sat there on the boulders, still, with 
 that gross injustice rankling impotently in his 
 boyish soul, he felt another shadow approach- 
 ing once more, and looked up expecting to 
 see his father returning. But it wasn't the 
 gaunt long shadow of the deacon that came 
 
22 BABYLON 
 
 across the pile : it was a plump, round, 
 thickset English shadow, and it was closely 
 followed by the body of its owner, his father's 
 hired help, late come from Dorsetshire. Sam 
 Churchill leant down in his bluff, kindly way, 
 when he saw the little chap crying, and asked 
 him quickly if he was ill. 
 
 ' Sick ? ' Hiram answered, through his sobs, 
 unconsciously translating the word into his 
 own dialect. ' Sick ? No, I aint sick, Mr. 
 Sam ; but I'm orful mad with father. He 
 kem right here just now and tore up my 
 drawin' book — an' that drawin' book was 
 most everything to me, it was — and he's tore 
 it up, a ravin' an' tearin' like all possest, this 
 very minnit.' 
 
 Sam looked at the fragments sympatheti- 
 cally. ' I tell'ee, Hiram,' he said gently, ' I've 
 got a brother o' my own awver yonder in 
 Darsetshire — about your age, too — as is turble 
 vond of drawin'. I was turble vond of it 
 
RURAL AMERICA 23 
 
 myself when I was a little chap at 'Ootton. 
 Thik ther eagle is drawed first-rate, 'e be, an' 
 so's the squir'l. I've drawed squir'ls myself, 
 many's the time, in the copse at 'Ootton, I 
 mind : an' I've gone mitching, too, in summer, 
 birds'-nestin' and that, all over the vields for 
 miles around us. Your faather's a main good 
 man, Hiram ; 'e's a religious man, an' a 'onest 
 man, and I do love to 'ear 'un argify most 
 turble vine about religion, an' 'ell, an' repro- 
 bation, an' 'Enery Clay, and such like : but 'e's 
 a 'ard man, ther's no denyin' of it. 'E's took 'is 
 religion 'ot an' 'ot, 'e 'as ; an' I do think 'e do 
 use 'ee bad sometimes, vor a little chap, an' no 
 mistake. Now, don't 'ee go an' cry no longer, 
 ther's a good little vuUa; don't 'ee cry, Hiram, 
 vor I never could abare to zee a little chap or 
 a woman a-cryin'. Zee 'ere, Hiram,' and the 
 big hand dived deep into the recesses of a pair 
 of very muddy corduroy trousers, ' 'ere's a 
 sixpence for 'ee — what do 'ee call it awver 
 
24 BABYLON 
 
 'ere, ten cents, bain't it ? 'Ere, take it, take 
 it young un ; don't 'ee be aveard. Now, 
 what'U 'ee buy wi' it, eh? Lollipops, most 
 like, I sim.' 
 
 * Lollipops ! ' the boy answered quickly, 
 taking the dime with a grateful gesture. 
 ' No, Mr. Sam, not them : nor toffy, nor pea- 
 nuts neither. I shall go right away to Wes' 
 Johnson's store, next time father's in the city, 
 an' buy a new book, so as I can make a crowd 
 mc^-e drawin's. That's what I like better 'n 
 anything. It's jest splendid.' 
 
 Sam looked at the little Yankee boy again 
 with a certain faint moisture in his eyes ; but 
 he didn't reflect to himself that human nature 
 is much the same all the world over, in 
 Dorsetshire or in Geauga County. In fact, it 
 would never have occurred to Sam's simple 
 heart to doubt the truth of that fairly obvious 
 principle. He only put his hand on Hiram's 
 ragged head, and said softly : ' Well, Hiram, 
 
RURAL AMERICA 25 
 
 turn to now, an' I'll help 'ee weed the 
 peppermint.' 
 
 They weeded a row or two in silence, and 
 then Sam asked suddenly : ' What vor do un 
 grow thik peppermint, Hiram ? ' 
 
 'To make candy, Mr. Sam,' Hiram an- 
 swered. 
 
 ' Good job too,' Sam went on musingly. 
 ' Seems to me they do want it turble bad in 
 these 'ere parts. Sight too much corn, an' 
 not near enough candy down to 'Murrica; why 
 can't deacon let the little vulla draw a squir'l 
 if 'e's got a mind to ? That's what I wants to 
 know. What do those varmers all around 
 'ere do ? (Varmers they do call 'em ; no 
 better nor labourers, I take it.) Why, they 
 buy a bit 'o land, an' work, an' slave thesselves 
 an' their missuses, all their lives long, what 
 vor ? To raise pork and corn on. What vor, 
 again ? To buy more land ; to raise more 
 corn an' bacon ; to buy more land again ; to 
 
26 BABYLON 
 
 raise more corn an' bacon ; and so on, world 
 without end, amen, for ever an' ever. An' in 
 the tottal, wliat do ur all come to? Pork 
 and flour, for ever an' ever. Why, even 
 awver yonder in old England, we'd got some- 
 thing better nor that, and better worth livin' 
 vor.' And Sam's mind wandered back gently 
 to Wootton Mandeville, and the old tower 
 which he didn't know to be of Norman 
 architecture, but which he loved just as well as 
 if he did for all that : and then he borrowed 
 Hiram's pencil, and pulled a piece of folded 
 paper from his pocket (it had inclosed an 
 ounce of best Virginia), and drew upon it for 
 Hiram's wondering eyes a rough sketch of an 
 English village church, with big round arches 
 and dog-tooth ornament, embowered in shady 
 elm-trees, and backed up by a roUing chalk 
 down in the further distance. Hiram looked 
 at the sketch admiringly and eagerly. 
 
 ' I wish I could draw such a thing as that, 
 
RURAL AMERICA 27 
 
 he said with delight. ' But I can't, Mr. Sam ; 
 I can only draw birds and musk-rats and 
 things — not cliurches. That's a reel pretty 
 church, too : reckon I never see such a one as 
 that thar anywhere. Might that be whar 
 you was raised, now ? ' 
 
 Sam nodded assent. 
 
 ' Wal, that does beat everything. I should 
 like to go an' see something like that, some- 
 time. Ef I git a book, will you learn me to 
 draw a church same as you do, Mr. Sam ? ' 
 
 ' Bless yer 'eart, yes,' Sam answered 
 quickly, and turned with swimming eyes to 
 weed the rest of the peppermint. From that 
 day forth, Sam Churchill and Hiram Winthrop 
 were sworn friends tlirough all their troubles. 
 
28 BABYLON 
 
 CHAPTEE n. 
 
 RURAL ENGLAND. 
 
 It was a beautiful July morning, and Colin 
 Churchill and Minna Wroe were playing 
 together In the fritillary fields at Wootton 
 Mandeville. At twelve years old, the inter- 
 course of lad and maiden is still ingenuous ; 
 and Colin was just twelve, though Httle 
 Minna might still have been some two years 
 his junior. A tall, slim, fair-haired boy 
 was Colin Churchill, with deep-blue eyes 
 more poetical in their depth and intensity 
 than one mijht have expected from a httle 
 Dorsetshire peasant child. Minna, on the 
 other hand, was shorter and darker; a 
 
RURAL ENGLAND 29 
 
 gipsy-looking girl, black-haired and tawny- 
 skinned ; and with two little beady-black eyes 
 that glistened and ran over every moment 
 with contagious merriment. Two prettier 
 children you wouldn't have found anywhere 
 that day in the whole county of Dorset than 
 Minna Wroe and Colin Churchill. 
 
 They had gathered flowers till they were 
 tired of them in the broad spongy meadow ; 
 they had played hide-and-seek among the 
 eighteentli-century tombstones in the big old 
 churchyard ; they had quarrelled and made 
 it up again half a dozen times over in pure 
 pettishness : and now, by way of a distrac 
 tion, Minna said at last coaxingly : * Do ee, 
 Colin, do 'ee come down to the lake yonder 
 and make I a bit of a vigger-'ead.' 
 
 'Don't 'ee worrit me, Minna,' Colin 
 answered, like a young lady who refuses to 
 sing, half-heartedly (meaning all the time 
 that one should ask her again) : ' Don't 
 
30 BABYLON 
 
 'ee see I be tired? I don't want vor to go 
 niakin' no vigger-'eads vor 'ee, I tell 'ee.' 
 
 But Minna would have one : on that she 
 insisted • ' What a vinnid lad 'ee be,' she 
 cried petulantly, ' not to want to make I 
 a vigger-'ead. Now do'ee, Colin, ther's a 
 a good boy ; do'ee, an' I'll gee 'ee 'arf my 
 peppermint cushions, come Saturday.' 
 
 * I don't want none o' your cushions, 
 Minna,' Colin answered, with a boy's gal- 
 lantry ; ' but come along down to the lake 
 if 'ee will: I'll make 'ee dree or vower 
 vigger-'eads, never vear, an' them vine uns 
 too, if so be as you want 'em.' 
 
 They went together down to the brook 
 at the corner of the meadow (called a lake 
 in the Dorsetshire dialect) ; and there, at a 
 spot where the plastic clay came to the 
 surface in a little cliff at a bend of the 
 stream, Colin carved out a fine large lump of 
 shapeless raw material from the bank, which 
 
RURAL ENGLAND 31 
 
 he forthwith proceeded to knead up with 
 his hands and a sprinlding of water from 
 the rill into a beautiful sticky consistency. 
 Minna watched the familiar operation with 
 deepest interest, and added from time to 
 time a word or two of connoisseur criti- 
 cism : ' Now thee'st got it too wet, 
 Colin ; ' or, ' Take care thee don't putt in 
 too much of thik there blue earth yonder ; 
 or, ' That's about right vor the vigger- 
 ead now, I'm thinkin' ; thee'd better begin 
 makin' it now avore the clay gets too dried 
 
 up.' 
 
 As soon as Colin had worked the clay up 
 to what he regarded as the proper require- 
 ments of his art, he began modelling it 
 dexterously with his fingers into the outer 
 form and fashion of a ship's figure-head : 
 'What'll 'ee 'ave virst, Minna?' he asked 
 as he roughly moulded the mass into a bold 
 outward curve, that would have answered 
 
32 BABYLON 
 
 equally well for any figure-head in the 
 whole British merchant navy. 
 
 ' I'll 'ave the Mariar-Ann,' Minna an- 
 swered with a nod of her small black head 
 in the direction of the mouth in the valley, 
 where the six petty fishing vessels of 
 Wootton Mandeville stood drawn up to- 
 gether in a long straight row on the ridge 
 of shingle. The Mariar-Ann was the collier 
 that came monthly from Cardiff, and its 
 figure-head represented a gilded lady, gaz- 
 ing over the waves with a vacant smile, and 
 draped in a flowing crimson costume of no 
 very particular historical period. 
 
 Colin worked away at the clay vigor- 
 ously for a few minutes with fingers and 
 knife by turns, and at the end of that time 
 he had produced a very creditable figure-head 
 indeed, accurately representing in its main 
 features the gilded lady of the Mariar-Ann. 
 
 ' Oh, how lovely ! ' Minna cried, de- 
 
RURAL ENGLAND 33 
 
 lighted. ' Thik's the best thee'st made, 
 Colin. Let's bake un and keep un always.' 
 'Take un 'ome an' bake un yourself, 
 Minna,' the boy answered. ' We ain't got no 
 vire 'ere. What '11 I make 'ee now ? 'Nother 
 vigger-'ead ? ' 
 
 ' No ! ' Minna cried, with a happy inspira 
 tion. 'Make myself, Colin.' 
 
 The boy eyed her carefully from head to 
 foot. ' I don't s'pose I can do 'ee, Minna,' 
 he answered after a pause. ' Howsonedever, 
 I'll try ; ' and he took a fresh lump of the 
 kneaded clay, and began working it up 
 loosely into a rough outline of the girl's 
 ficTLire. It was hi-s first attempt at modelling 
 from hfe, and he went at it with careful 
 deliberation. Minna posed before him in 
 her natural attitude, and Colin called her 
 back every minute or two when she got 
 impatient, and kept his httle sitter steadily 
 posed till the portrait statuette was fairly 
 
 D 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
34 BABYLON 
 
 finished. Critical justice compels tlie ad- 
 mission that Colin Churchill's first figure 
 from life was not an entirely successful work 
 of sculpture. Its expression was distinctly- 
 feeble ; its pose was weak and uncertain ; 
 its drapery was marked by a frank disregard 
 of folds and a bold conventionalism ; and, last 
 of all, it ended abruptly at the short dress, 
 owing to certain mechanical difficulties in the 
 way of supporting the heavy body on a pair 
 of slender moist clay legs. Still, it distinctly 
 su<?fyested tlie notion of a human beinff ; it 
 remotely resembled a little girl ; and it even 
 faintly adumbrated, in figure at least, if not in 
 feature, Minna Wroe herself. 
 
 But if the work of art failed a httle when 
 judged by the stern tribunal of adult criticism, 
 it certainly more than satisfied both the young 
 artist and the subject of his plastic skill. 
 They gazed at the completed figure with the 
 deepest admiration, and Minna even ventured 
 
RURAL ENGLAND 35 
 
 to express a decided opinion that anybody 
 in the world would know it was meant for 
 her. Which high standard of artistic por- 
 traiture has been known to satisfy much older 
 and more exalted critics, including many 
 ladies and gentlemen of distinction who have 
 wasted the time of good sculptors by ' having 
 their busts taken.' 
 
 Meanwhile, down in the village by the 
 shore, Geargey Wroe, Minna's father, was 
 standing by a little garden gate, where Sam 
 Churchill the elder was carefully tending his 
 cabbages and melons. 'Zeen our Minna, 
 Sam ! ' he asked over the paHng. ' Wher's 
 'er to, dost know ? OIF zumwhere with yer 
 Colin, I'll be bound, Sammy. They're always 
 off zumwhere together, them two is, I vancy. 
 'E's up to 'is drawin' or zummat down to lake 
 there. Such a lad vor drawin' an' that I 
 never did zee. 'Ow's bisness, Sammy ? ' 
 
 ' Purty good, Geargey, purty good. Yolks 
 
 D 2 
 
36 BABYLON 
 
 be a-comin' in now an' takin' lodgin's, wantin' 
 garden stuff and such like. First-rate family 
 from London come yesterday 'down to 
 Walker's. Turble rich volk I should say by 
 the look o' un. Ordered a power o' fruit and 
 zum vegetables. 'Ow's vishin', Geargey ? ' 
 
 ' Bad,' Geargey answered, shaking his 
 head ominously : ' as bad as ur could be. 
 Town's turble empty still : nobody come 
 'ceptin' a lot o' good-vor-nothin' meetingers. 
 'Cotton ain't wot it 'ad used to be, Sammy, 
 zince these 'ere rail-rawds. Wot we wants is 
 the rail-rawd to come 'ere to town, so volks 
 can get 'ere aisy, like they can to Sayton. 
 Then we'd get zum real gintlevoik who got 
 money in their pockets to spend, an '11 spend 
 it vree and aisy to the tradesmen, and the 
 boatmen, and the vishermen ; that's wot we 
 wants, don't us, Sammy ? ' 
 
 ' Us do, us do,' Sam Churchill assented, 
 nodding. 
 
RURAL ENGLAND yj 
 
 *Ah, I do mind the time, Sammy,' Geargey 
 said regretfully, wiping his eyes with tlie 
 corner of his jersey, ' w'en every wipswile I'd 
 used to get a gintleman to go out way, who'd 
 gi' us share an' share alike o' his grub, and a 
 drap out o' his whisky bottle : and w'en we 
 pulls ashore, he sez, sez'e : '' I don't want the 
 vish, my man," sez'e ; " I only wants the sport, 
 raly." But nowadays. Lard bless 'ee, Sam, we 
 gets a pack o' meetingers down from London, 
 and they brings along a hunk o' bread and 
 some fat pork, or a piece o' blue vinny cheese, 
 as 'ard as Portland stone. Now I can't abare 
 fat pork without a streak o' lean in it, 'spe- 
 cially when I smells the bait ; and I can't 
 tackle the blue vinny, 'cos I never 'as my 
 teeth with me : thof my mate, Bill-o'-my-Soul, 
 'e can putt 'isself outside most things in the 
 way o' grub at a vurry short notice, as you 
 do well know, Sam, and I never seed as bate 
 made no difference to 'e nohow. But these 
 
38 BABYLON 
 
 'ere meetingers, as I was a sayin' (vor I've got 
 avore my story, Sammy), they goes out an' 
 haves vine sport, we'll say ; and then, w'en we 
 comes 'ome they out and kigs out dree or 
 vower shiUin's or so, vor me an' my mate, an' 
 walks off with 'arf-a-suvren's worth o' the 
 biggest vish, quite aisy-like, an' layves all the 
 liddle fry an' the blin in the boat ; the chat- 
 tering jackanapes.' 
 
 ''Ees, 'ees, lad, times is changed,' Sam 
 murmured meditatively, half to himself; 
 ' times is changed turble bad since old Squire's 
 day. Wot a place 'Ootton 'ad used to be then, 
 'adn't ur, Geargey ? Coach from Darchester 
 an' 'bus from Tilbury station, bringin' in gurt 
 folks from London vor the sayson every day ; 
 dinner party up to vicarage with green paysen 
 
 an' peaches, an' nectarines, ' 'An' a 'ole 
 
 turbat,' Geargey put in parenthetically. ' Ay, 
 lad, an' a 'ole turbot every Saturday. Them 
 was times, Geargey ; them was times. I don't 
 
RURAL ENGLAND 39 
 
 s'pose tliey ther times nil never come again. 
 Ther ain't the gentry now as ther'd used to be 
 in old Squire's day. Pack o' trumpery 
 London volk, with one servant, comin' down 
 'ere vor the say son — short say son — six week, 
 or murt be seven — an' then walkin' off agin, 
 without so much as spending ten poun' or so 
 in the 'ole parish. I mind the times, Geargey, 
 when volks used to say 'Ootton were the safety 
 valve o' the Bath sayson. Soon as sayson 
 were over up to Bath, gentlevolk and ladies 
 a-comin' down 'ere to enj'y thesselves, an' 
 spendin' their money vree and aisy, same as if 
 it were water. Us don't see un comin' now, 
 Geargey : times is changed turble : us don't 
 see un now.' 
 
 ' It's the dree terms as 'as ruined 'Ootton,' 
 Geargey said, philosophically — the research 
 of the cause being the true note of philosophy. 
 ' It's they dree terms as 'as done it, vor sartin.' 
 
 ' Why, 'ow's that, Gearge .? ' 
 
40 BABYLON 
 
 'Well, don't 'ee see, Sam, it's like o' thik. 
 Wen they used to 'ave 'arf-years at the 
 schools, bless 'ee, volks with families 'ad used 
 to bring down the children vrom school so 
 soon as the 'arf-year were over. Then the 
 gurt people ud take the young gentlemen out 
 vishin', might be in June, or July may-be, and 
 gee a bit o' work to honest visher-people in 
 the ofT-sayson. Then in August, London 
 people ud come an' take lodgin's and gee us 
 a bit more work nice and tidy. So the say son 
 'ad used to last off an' on vrom June to Oc- 
 tober. Well, bime-by, they meddlesome 
 school people, they goes an' makes up these 
 'ere new-vangled things o' dree terms, as they 
 calls 'em, cuttin' up the year unnat'ral-like 
 into dree pieces, as 'adn't used to be w'en 
 we was children. Wot's the consequence? 
 Everybody comes a-rushin' and a-crushin' 
 permixuous, in August, the 'ole boilin' o' *em 
 together, wantin' rooms an' boats and visher- 
 
RURAL ENGLAND 41 
 
 men, so as the parisli baint up to it. Us 'as 
 to work 'arc! vor six or seven week, and not 
 give satisfaction naytlier; and then rest o' the 
 year us 'as to git along the best us can on 
 the shart sayson. I can't abare they new- 
 vangled ways, upscttin' all tlie constitooted 
 order of things altogither, an' settin' poor 
 vishermen at sixes and sevens for arf their 
 lifetime.' 
 
 * It's the marcli of intellect, Geargey,' Sam 
 Churchill answered, deprecatingly (Sam 
 understood himself to be a Liberal in politics, 
 and used this convenient phrase as a general 
 solvent for an immense number of social 
 difficulties). ' It's the march of intellect, no 
 doubt, Geargey : there's a sight o' progress 
 about ; board-schools an' sich like : an' if it 
 cuts agin us, don't 'ee see, w'y us 'as got to 
 make the best of it, however.' 
 
 * It murt be, an' agin it murtn't ; and agin 
 it murt,' Geargey murmured dubiously. 
 
42 BABYLON 
 
 ' But any way, wlier's Minna to, Sammy ? — 
 that's wot I corned vor to ax 'ee/ 
 
 ' Down to vield by lake, yander, most like,' 
 Sam answered with a nod of his head in the 
 direction indicated. 
 
 Til go an' vetch her,' said Geargey : 
 ' dinner's most ready.' 
 
 ' An I'll come an' zee wot Colin's up to,' 
 added Sam, laying down his hoe, and pulhng 
 together his unbuttoned v>raistcoat. 
 
 They walked down to the brook in the 
 meadow, and saw the two children sitting in 
 the corner so intent upon their artistic per- 
 formances that they hardly noticed the 
 approach of their respective fathers. Old 
 Sam Churchill went close up and looked 
 keenly at the clay figure of Minna that Colin 
 was still moulding with the last finishing 
 touches as the two elders approached them. 
 ' Thik ther vigger baint a bad un, Cohn,' he 
 said, taking it carefully in his rough hand. 
 
RURAL ENGLAND 43 
 
 ' 'Ee 'aven't done it none so ill, lad ; but it 
 don't look so livin' like as it 'ad ought to. 
 Wot do'ee think it is, Geargey, eh ? tell us ? ' 
 
 'Why, I'm blowed if that baint our 
 Minna,' Geargey answered, with a little gasp 
 of open-mouthed astonishment. ' It's her 
 vuriy pictur, Colin : a, blind man could see 
 that, of course, so soon as 'e set eyes on it. 
 'Ow do 'ee do it, Colin, eh ? 'Ow do 'ee do it ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, that baint nothin',' Colin said, 
 colouring up. ' Only a little bit o' clay, just 
 made up vor to look like Minna.' 
 
 ' Look 'ee 'ere,' Colin,' his father went on, 
 glancing quickly from the clay to little Minna, 
 and altering a touch or two with his big 
 clumsy fingers, not undeftly. ' Look 'ee 'ere ; 
 'ee must putt the dress thik way, I should say, 
 with a gurt dale more flusterin' about it ; it do 
 zit too stiff and starchy, somehow, same as if 
 it wur made o' new buckram. 'Ee must put 
 in a fold or two, 'ere, so as to make un sit 
 
44 BABYLON 
 
 more nat'ral. Don't 'ee see Minna's dress do 
 double itself up, I can't rightly say 'ow, but 
 summat o' tliik there way? ' And he moulded 
 the moist clay a bit with his hands, till the 
 folds of the drapery began to look a Httle 
 more real and possible. 
 
 ' I'd ought to 'ave drawed it first, I think,' 
 Colin said, looking at the altered dress with a 
 satisfied glance. ' 'Ave 'ee got such a thing as 
 a pencil about 'ee, father ? ' 
 
 Old Sam took a piece of pencil from his 
 pocket, and handed it to Colin. The boy held 
 it tightly in his lingers, with a true artistic 
 grasp, like one w^ho knows bow to wield it, 
 and wath a few strokes on a scrap of paper hit 
 off httle Minna far better than he had done in 
 the plastic material. Geargey looked over his 
 shoulder with a delighted grin on his weather- 
 beaten features. ' I tell 'ee, Sam,' he said to 
 the old gardener, confidentially, ' it's my be- 
 lief that thik ther boy 'uU be able one o' 
 these vine days to paint rale picturs.' 
 
45 
 
 CHAPTEE III. 
 
 PERNICIOUS LITERATURE. 
 
 When winter came, Hiram Winthrop had less 
 to do and more time to follow the bidding of 
 his own fancy. True, there was cordwood to 
 split in abundance ; and splitting cordwood is 
 no child's play along the frozen shores of Lake 
 Ontario. You go out among the snow in the 
 wood-shed, and take the big ice-covered logs 
 down from the huge pile with numbed fingers : 
 then you lay them on a sort of double St. 
 Andrew's cross, its two halves supported by a 
 thwart-piece, and saw them up into fit lengths 
 for the kitchen fireplace : and after that you 
 spht them in four with a solid-headed axe, 
 taking care in the process not to let your 
 
46 BABYLON 
 
 deadened hands slip, so as to cut off the ends 
 of your own toes with an ill-directed blow 
 glancing off the log sideways. Yes, splitting 
 cordwood is very serious work, with the ther- 
 mometer at 40° below freezing ; and drawing 
 water from the well when the rope is frozen 
 and your skin clings to the chill iron of the 
 tliirsty bucket-handle is hardly better : yet in 
 spite of both these small drawbacks, Hira-m 
 Winthrop found much more to enjoy in his 
 winters than in his summers. There was no 
 corn to hoe, no peas to pick, no weeding to 
 do, no daily toil on farm and garden. The 
 snow had covered all with its great white sheet ; 
 and even the neighbourhood of Muddy Creek 
 Depot looked desolately beautiful in its own 
 dreary, cold, monotonous, Siberian fashion. 
 
 The flowers and leaves were gone too, to 
 be sure ; but in the low brushwood by the 
 blackberry bottom the hares had turned white 
 to match the snow ; and the nut-hatches were 
 
PERNICIOUS LITERATURE 47 
 
 answering one another in their varying keys ; 
 and the skunks were still busy of nights 
 beneath the spreading walnuts ; and the 
 chickadees were tinkling overhead among the 
 snow-laden pine-needles of the far woodland. 
 All the summer visitors had gone south to 
 Georgia and the gulf: but the snow-buntings 
 were ever with Hiram in the wintry fields : 
 and the bald-headed eagles still prowled 
 around at times on the stray chance of catch- 
 ing a frozen-out racoon. Above all there was 
 ease and leisure, respite i^from the deacon's 
 rasping voice calling perpetually for Hiram 
 here, and Hiram there, and Hiram yonder, to 
 catch the horses, or tend the harrow, or mind 
 the birds, or weed the tomatoes, or set 
 shingles against the sun over the drooping 
 transplanted cabbages. A happy time indeed 
 for Hiram, that long, weary, white-sheeted, 
 unbroken northern New York winter. 
 
 Sam Churchill was with tlie deacon still. 
 
48 BABYLON 
 
 but had little enough to do, for there isn't 
 much going on upon an American farm from 
 November to April, and the deacon would 
 gladly have got rid of his hired help in the 
 slack time if he could have shuffled him ofl* ; 
 but Sam had been well advised on his first 
 hiring, and had wisely covenanted to be kept 
 on all the year round, with board and lodging 
 and decent wages during the winter season. 
 And Hiram initiated Sam into the mysteries 
 of sliding on a bent piece of wood (a home- 
 made toboggan) down the great snowdrifts, 
 and skating on the frozen expansion of Muddy 
 Creek, and building round huts, Esquimaux 
 fashion, with big square blocks of solid dry 
 snow, and tracking the white hare over the 
 white fields by means of the marks he left 
 behind him, whose termination, apparently 
 lengthening itself out miraculously before 
 one's very eyes, marked the spot where the 
 hare himself was hopping invisible to human 
 
PERNICIOUS LITERATURE 49 
 
 vision. In return, Sam lent hirn a few dearly 
 treasured books : books that he had brought 
 from England with him : the books that had 
 first set the Dorsetshire peasant lad upon his 
 scheme of going forth alone upon the wide 
 world beyond the ocean. 
 
 Hiram was equally delighted and asto- 
 nished with these wonderful charmed volumes. 
 He had seen a few books before, but they 
 were all of two types : Cornell's Geography, 
 Quackenboss's Grammar, and the other school- 
 books used at the common school ; or else 
 Barnes's Commentary, Elder Coffin's Ezekiel, 
 the Hopkinsite Confession of Faith, and other 
 like works of American exegetical and con- 
 troversial theology. But Sam's books, oh, 
 gracious, what a difference ! There was Peter 
 Simple, a story about a real live boy, who 
 wa'n't good, pertickler, not to speak of, but 
 had some real good old times on board a ship, 
 somewhere, he did ; and there was Tom Jones 
 
 VOL. I. E 
 
50 BABYLON 
 
 (Hiram no more understood the doubtful pas- 
 sages in that great romance than he under- 
 stood the lucubrations of Philosopher Square, 
 but he took It in, in the lump, as very good 
 fun for all that), Tom Jones, the story of 
 another real hve boy, with, most dehghtful of 
 all, a reg'lar mean sneak of a feller, called 
 Blifil, to act as a foil to Tom's straightforward 
 pagan flesh-and-bloodfulness ; the Buccaneers 
 of the Caribbean Sea, a glorious work of fire 
 and slaughter, whar some feller or other got 
 killed right off on every page a'most, you bet ; 
 Jake the Pirate, another splendid book of the 
 same description; and half a dozen more 
 assorted novels, from the best to the worst, 
 all chosen alike for their stirring incidents 
 which went straight home to the minds of the 
 two lads, in spite of all external differences of 
 birth an^l geographical surroundings. Hiram 
 pored over them surreptitiously, late at nights, 
 in tlie room that he and Sam occupied in 
 
PERNICIOUS LITERATURE 51 
 
 common — a mere loft at the top of the house 
 
 and felt in his heart he had never in his life 
 
 imagined such delightful reading could pos- 
 sibly have existed. And they were written 
 by growed-up men, too! How strange to 
 think that once upon a time, somewhile and 
 somewhere, there were growed-up men capable 
 of thus sympathising with, and reproducing 
 the ideas and feeUngs of, the natural mind of 
 boyhood ! 
 
 One evening, very late — eleven nearly — 
 the deacon, prowhng around after a bottle or 
 something, spied an unwonted light gleaming 
 down from the trap-door that led up to the 
 loft where the lads ought at that moment to 
 have been sleeping soundly. Lights in a 
 well-conducted farmhouse at eleven o'clock 
 was indeed incomprehensible : what on earth, 
 the deacon asked himself wonderingly, could 
 them thar lads be up to at this hour? He 
 crept up the step-ladder cautiously, so as not 
 
 E 2 
 
52 BABYLON 
 
 to disturb them by premonitions, and opened 
 the trap-door in sedulous silence. Sam was 
 already fast asleep ; but there was Hiram, sot 
 up in bed, as quiet as a 'possum, 'pearin' as if 
 lie was a-readin' something. The deacon's 
 eyes opened with amazement ! Hiram read- 
 ing ! Had his heart been touched, then, quite 
 sudden-like? Could he have took up the 
 Hopkinsite Confession in secret to his upper 
 chamber ? Was he meditatin' makin' a public 
 profession afore the Assembly ? 
 
 The deacon glowered and marvelled. 
 Creeping, still quite silently, up to the bed- 
 head, he looked with an inquiring glance over 
 poor Hiram's unsuspecting shoulder. A sea 
 of words swam vaguely before his bewildered 
 vision ; words, not running into long orthodox 
 paragraphs, like the Elder's Ezekiel, but cut 
 up, oh horror, into distinct sentences, each 
 indicating a separate part in a conversation. 
 The deacon couldn't clearly make it all out ; 
 
PERNICIOUS LITERATURE 53 
 
 for it was a dramatic dialogue, a form of 
 composition which had not largely fallen in 
 the good man's way: but he picked up 
 enough to understand that it was a low pot- 
 house scene, where one FalstafF was bandying 
 improper language with a person of the name 
 of Prince (given name, Henry) — language that 
 made even the deacon's sallow cheek blush 
 ieebly with reflected and vicarious modesty. 
 For a moment he endeavoured, like a Christian 
 man, to retain his wrath ; and then paternal 
 feeling overcame him, and he caught Hiram 
 such a oner on his ears as he flattered himself 
 that boy wouldn't be likely to forgit in any 
 very partickler hurry. 
 
 Hiram looked round, amazed and stunned, 
 his ear tingling and burning, and saw the 
 gaunt apparition of his father, standing silent 
 and black-browed by the bare bed-head. For 
 a moment those two glared at one another 
 mutely and defiantly. 
 
54 BABYLON 
 
 At last Hiram spoke : ' Wal ! ' he said 
 simply. 
 
 ' Wal ! ' the deacon answered, with smo- 
 thered wrath. ' Hiram, I am angry and sin 
 not. What do you go an' take them bad 
 books up to read for ? Who give 'em you ? 
 Whar did you get 'em ? Oh, you sinful, bad 
 boy, whar did you get 'em ? ' And he ad- 
 ministered another sound cuff upon Hiram's 
 other ear. 
 
 Hiram put his hand up to the stinging 
 spot, and cried a minute silently: then he 
 answered as well as he was able : ' This aint a 
 bad book : this is called " The Complete 
 Dram-attic Works of William Shakespeare." 
 Sam lent it to me, an' it's Sam's book, an' ther 
 ain't no harm in it, anyhow.' 
 
 The deacon was plainly staggered for a 
 moment, for even he had dimly heard the 
 tiame of William Shakespeare ; and though 
 he had never made any personal acquaintance 
 
PERNICIOUS LITERATURE 55 
 
 with that gentleman's works, he had always 
 understood in a vague, indefinite fashion that 
 this here Shakespeare was a perfectly respect- 
 able and recognised writer, whose books were 
 read and approved of even by Hopkinsite 
 ministers edoocaied at Bethabara Seminary. 
 So he took the volume in his hand incredu- 
 lously and looked it through casually for a 
 few minutes. lie glanced at a scene or two 
 here or there with a critical eye, and then he 
 flung the volume from him quickly, as a man 
 might fling and crush some loathsome reptile. 
 By this time Sam was half-awake, and sat up 
 in bed to inquire sleepily, what all thik ther 
 row could be about at thik time of evenin' ? ' 
 The deacon answered by going savagely to 
 Sam's box, and taking out, one by one, for 
 separate inspection, the volumes he found 
 there. He held up the candle (stuck in an 
 empty blacking-bottle) to each volume in 
 succession, and, as soon as he had finally con- 
 
56 BABYLON 
 
 demned them each, he flung them down in an 
 untidy pile on the bare floor of the little bed- 
 room. Most of them he stood stoically 
 enough ; but the Vicar of Wakefield was at 
 last quite too much for his stifled indignation. 
 Sitting down blankly on the bed he fired off 
 his volley at poor Hiram's frightened head, 
 with terrible significance. 
 
 ' Hiram Winthrop,' he said solemnly, ' you 
 air a son of perdition. You air more a'most 'n 
 I kin manage with. Satan's openin' the 
 door for you on-common wide, I kin tell you, 
 sonny. It makes me downright scar't to see 
 you in company along of sech books. Your 
 mother'U be awful took back about it. I 
 don't mind this 'ere about the Pirates of the 
 Caribbean Sea, so much ; that's kinder hist'ry, 
 that is, and mayn't do you much harm: but 
 sech things as this Peter Simple, an' Wake- 
 field, and Pickwick's Papers — why, I wonder 
 the roof don't fall in on 'em an' crush us in 
 
PERNICIOUS LITERATURE 57 
 
 the lot altogether. I'm durned ef I could 
 have thought you'd bin wicked enough to 
 read 'em, sech on-principled hteratoor. I 
 sha'n't chastise you to-night, sonny ; it's late, 
 now, and we've read chapter : but to-morrer, 
 Hiram, to-morrer, you shall pay for them thar 
 books, take my word for it. You shall be 
 chastened in the manner that's app'inted. Ef 
 I was you, I should spend the rest of the 
 evenin' in wrestlin' for forgiveness for the sin 
 you've committed.' 
 
 And yet in the chapter the deacon had 
 read at family worship that evening there was 
 one httle clause which said : ' Quench not the 
 
 Spirit.' 
 
 Hiram slept but little that night, with the 
 vague terror of to-morrow's whipping over- 
 shadowing him through the night watches. 
 But he had at least one comfort : Sam Church- 
 ill had got out and gathered up his books, 
 and locked them carefully in his box again. 
 
58 BABYLON 
 
 ' If the boss tries to touch they books again, 
 I tell 'ee, Hiram,' he said bi-lingually (for 
 absorbent America was already beginning to 
 assimilate him), ^ 'e'll vind 'isself a-lyin' long- 
 ways on the vloor, afore he do know it, I 
 promise 'ee.' Hiram heard, and was partly 
 comforted. At least he would still have the 
 books to read, somehow, at some time. For 
 in his own heart, unregenerate or otherwise, 
 he couldn't bring himself to believe that there 
 could be really anything so very wicked in 
 Henry the Fourth or Peter Simple. 
 
59 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 PROFESSIONAL SOCIETY. 
 
 The deacons cowhide cut deep; but the 
 thrashing didn't last long : and after it was 
 all over, Hiram wandered out aimlessly by 
 himself, down the snowclad valley of Muddy 
 Creek, and along to the wooded wilds and 
 cranberry marshes near the Ontario de- 
 bouchure, to forget his troubles and the 
 lasting smart of the weals in watching the 
 beasts and birds among the frozen lowlands. 
 He had never been so far from home before, 
 but the weather and the ice were in his 
 favour, enabling him to get over an amount 
 of ground he wouldn't have tried to cover in 
 the dry summer time. He had his skates 
 
6o BABYLON 
 
 with him, and he skated where possible, 
 taking them off to walk over the intervening 
 land necks or drifted snow- sheets. The ice 
 was glare in many places, so that one could 
 skate on it gloriously ; and before he had got 
 half-way down to Nine-Mile Bottom he had 
 almost forgotten all about the deacon, and 
 the sermon, and the beating, and the threat- 
 ened ten chapters of St. John (the Gospel of 
 Love the deacon called it) to be learned by 
 heart before next Lord's day, in expiation of 
 the heinous crime of having read that per- 
 nicious work the ' Vicar of Wakefield.' It 
 was the loveliest spot he had ever seen in all 
 his poor unlovely little existence. 
 
 Close under the cranberry trees, by a big 
 pool where the catfish would be sure to 
 live in summer, Hiram heard men's voices, 
 whispering low and quiet to one another. A 
 great joy filled his soul. He could see at 
 once by their dress and big fur caps what 
 
PROFESSIONAL SOCIETY 6i 
 
 they were. They were trappers ! One piece 
 of romance still survived in Geauga County, 
 among the cranberry swamps and rush beds 
 where the flooded creek flowed sluggishly into 
 the bosom of Ontario ; and on that one piece 
 of romance he had luckily lighted by pure 
 accident. Trappers ! Yes, not a doubt of it ! 
 He struck out on his skates swiftly but noise- 
 lessly toward them, and joined the three men 
 witliout a word as they stood taking counsel 
 together below their breath on the ice-bound 
 marshland. 
 
 ' Hello, sonny ! ' one of the men said in a 
 low undertone. ' Say whar did you drop 
 from ? What air you comin' spyin' out a few 
 peaceable surveyors for, eh ? Tell me.' 
 
 ' I didn't think you was surveyors,' Hiram 
 answered, a little disappointed. ' I thought 
 you was trappers.' And at the same time he 
 glanced suspiciously at the peculiar little gins 
 that the surveyors held in their great gaunt- 
 
62 BABYLON 
 
 leted hands, for all the world like Oneida 
 traps for musk-rats. 
 
 The man noticed the glance and laughed 
 to himself a smothered laugh — the laugh of a 
 person accustomed always to keep very quiet. 
 ' Tlie young un has spotted us, an' no mistake, 
 boys,' he said, laughing, to the others. ' He's 
 a bit too 'cute to be took in with the sur- 
 veyor gammon. What do you call this 'ere, 
 sonny ? ' 
 
 ' I calc'late that's somewhar near a mink 
 trap,' Hiram answered, breathless with de- 
 Hght. 
 
 ' Wal, it is a mink trap,' the trapper said 
 slowly, looking deep into the boy's truthful 
 eyes. 'Now, who sent you down here to 
 track us out and peach upon us ; eh. Bob ? ' 
 
 ' Nobody sent me,' Hiram replied, with 
 his blue eyes looking deep back into the 
 trapper's keen restless grey pair. ' I kem out 
 all o' my own accord, 'cos father gave me a 
 
PROFESSIONAL SOCIETY 63 
 
 lickin' this mornin', an' I've kem out jest to 
 get away for a bit alone somewhar.' 
 
 ' Who's your father ? ' asked the man still 
 suspiciously. 
 
 ' Deacon Winthrop, down to Muddy Creek 
 Deepo.' 
 
 ' Deacon Winthrop ! Oh, I know him, 
 ruther. A tall, skinny, dried-up kind of 
 fellow, ain't he, who looks as if most of his 
 milk was turned sour, an' the Hopkinsite Con- 
 fession was a settin' orful heavy on his 
 digestion ? ' 
 
 Hiram nodded several times successively, 
 in acknowledgment of the general accuracy 
 of this brief description. ' That's him, you 
 bet,' he answered with unfilial promptitude. 
 ' I guess you've seed him somwhar, for that's 
 him as like as a portrait. Look here, say, I'll 
 draw him for you.' And the boy, taking his 
 pencil from his pocket, drew as quickly as he 
 was able on a scrap of birch-bark a humorous 
 
64 BABVLOA 
 
 caricature of his respected parent, as he ap- 
 peared in the very act of offering an unctuous 
 exhortation to the Hopkinsite assembly at 
 Muddy Creek meeting-house. It was very 
 wrong and wicked, of course — a clear breach 
 of the Fifth Commandment — but the deacon 
 hadn't done much on his own account to 
 merit honour or love at the hands of Hiram 
 Winthrop. 
 
 The man took the rough sketch and 
 laughed at it inwardly, with a suppressed 
 chuckle. There was no denying, he saw, that 
 it was the perfect moral of that thar freezed- 
 up old customer down to the Deepo. He 
 handed it with a smile to his two companions. 
 They both recognised the likeness and the 
 little additions which gave it point, and one of 
 them, a Canadian as Hiram conjectured (for 
 he spoke with a dreadful Enghsh accent — so 
 stuck-up), said in the same soft undertone : 
 ' Do you know^ where any mink live anywhere 
 hereabouts ? ' 
 
PROFESSIONAL SOCIETY 65 
 
 'A little higher up stream,' Hiram an- 
 swered, overjoyed, ' I know every spot whar 
 ther's any mink stirrin' for five miles round, 
 anyhow.' 
 
 The Canadian turned to the others. 
 
 ' Boys,' he said, ' you can trust the 
 youngster. lie won't peach on us. He's 
 game, you may be sure. Now, youngster, 
 we're trappers, as you guessed correctly. 
 But you see, farmers don't love trappers, 
 because they go trespassing, and over- 
 running the fields : and so we don't w^ant 
 you to say a w^ord about us to this father 
 of yours. Do you understand ? ' 
 
 Hiram rodded. 
 
 'You promise not to tell him or any- 
 body ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, I promise.' 
 
 'Well, then, if you like, you can come 
 with us. We're going to set our traps now. 
 You don't seem a bad sort of httle chap, 
 
 VOL. I. ^ 
 
66 BABYLON 
 
 and you can see the fun out if you've a 
 mind to.' 
 
 Hiram's heart bounded with excitement. 
 What a magnificent prospect ! He pro- 
 mised to show the trappers every spot he 
 knew about the place where any fur-bearing 
 animal, from ermine to musk-rat, was likely 
 to be found. In ten minutes, all four were 
 started off upon their skates once more, 
 striking up the river in the direction of the 
 deacon's, and setting traps by Hiram's advice 
 as they went along, at every likely run or 
 corner. 
 
 'You drew that picture real well,' the 
 Canadian said, as they skated side by side : 
 ' I could see it was the old man at a glance.' 
 
 Hiram's face shone with pleasure at this 
 sincere compliment to his artistic merit. 
 'I could hev done it a long sight better,' 
 he said simply, ' ef my hands hadn't been 
 numbed a bit with the cold, so's I could 
 hardly hold the pencil.' 
 
PROFESSIONAL SOCIETY 67 
 
 It was a grand clay, that day with the 
 trappers — the gipsies of half-settled America ; 
 the grandest day Hiram had ever spent in 
 his whole lifetime. How many musk-rats' 
 burrows he pointed out to his new acquain- 
 tance along the bank of the creek ; how 
 many spots where the mink, that strange 
 water-haunting weasel, lurks unseen among 
 the frozen sedges ! Here and there, too, 
 he showed them the points where he had 
 noticed the faint track of the ermine on the 
 lightly fallen snow, and where they might 
 place their traps across the path worn by 
 the 'coons on their way to and from the 
 Indian corn patch. It was cruel work, to be 
 sure, setting those murderous snapping iron 
 jaws, and perhaps if Hiram had thought 
 more about the beasts themselves (whom 
 after all he loved in his heart) he wouldn't 
 have been so ready to aid their natural 
 enemies in thus catching? and exterminating? 
 
 p 2 
 
68 BABYLON 
 
 them : but what boy is free from the 
 aborijrinal love of hunting sometliing ? 
 Certainly not Iliram Wintlirop, at least, to 
 whom this one glimpse of a delightful 
 wanderinjT life amon<jf the woods and marshes 
 — a life that wasn't all made up of bare fields 
 and fall wheat and snake fences and cross- 
 ploughing — seemed like a stray snatch of 
 that impossible paradise he had read al)out 
 in ' Peter Simple ' and the ' Buccaneers of the 
 Caribbean Sea.' 
 
 ' Say, Bob,' the Canadian muttered to 
 Iiim as they w^ere half-way through their 
 work (in Northern New York every boy un- 
 known is ex officio addressed as Bob), ' we 
 shall be back in these diggings in the spring 
 again, looking after the summer furs, you 
 see. Now, don't you go and tell any other 
 trappers about tliese places we've set, be- 
 cause trappers gener'ly (present company 
 always excepted) is a pretty dishonest lot, 
 
PROFESSIONAL SOCIETY 69 
 
 and they'll poach on other trappei-s' grounds 
 and even steal their furs and trjips as soon 
 as look at 'em. You stand by us and we'll 
 stand by you, and take care you don't sull'er 
 
 by it.' 
 
 ' When'U you come ? ' Hiram asked in 
 the thrilling delight of anticipation. 
 
 ' When the first spring days are on,' the 
 Canadian answered. ' I'll tell you the best 
 sign : it's no use going by days o' the 
 month — we don't remember 'em mostly ; 
 — but it'll be about the time when the skunk 
 cabbage begins to flower.' 
 
 Hiram made a note of the date mentally, 
 and treasured it up in safety on the lasting- 
 tablets of his memory. 
 
 At about one o'clock the trappers sat 
 down upon the frozen bank and ate their 
 dinner. It would have been cold w^ork to 
 men less actively engaged ; but skating and 
 trapping warms your blood well. ' Got any 
 
70 BABYLON 
 
 grub ? ' one of the men asked Hiram, still 
 softly. Your trapper seems almost to have 
 lost the power of speaking above a whisper, 
 and he moves stealthily as if he thought a 
 spectral farmer was always dogging his steps 
 close behind him. 
 
 ' No, I ain't,' Hiram answered. 
 
 'Then, thunder, pitch into the basket,' 
 his new friend said encouragingly. 
 
 Hiram obeyed, and made an excellent 
 lunch off cold hare and lake ship-biscuit. 
 
 ' Are you through ? ' the men asked at 
 last. 
 
 ' Yes,' Hiram replied. 
 
 ' Then come along and see the fun out.' 
 
 They skated on, still upward, in the 
 general direction of the blackberry bottom. 
 When they got there, Hiram, now quite at 
 home, pointed out even more accurately than 
 ever the exact homes of each individual 
 mink and ermine. So the men worked away 
 
PROFESSIONAL SOCIETY 71 
 
 eagerly at their task till the evening began 
 to come over. Then Hiram, all aglow with 
 excitement and wholly oblivious of all earthly 
 considerations, became suddenly aware of a 
 gaunt figure moving about among the dusky 
 brushwood and making in the direction of 
 his friends the trappers. ' Hello,' he cried to 
 his new acquaintances in a frightened tone, 
 ' you'd best cut it. Thar's the deacon.' 
 
 The Canadian laughed a short little laugh. 
 ' All right, Bob,' he said coolly ; ' we ain't afraid 
 of him. If he touches you to hurt you, I sur- 
 mise he'll find himself measuring his own height 
 horizontally rather quicker than he expected.' 
 
 The deacon overheard the alarming pre- 
 diction, and, being a wise man in his genera- 
 tion, prudently abstained from making any 
 hostile demonstration to Hiram in the presence 
 of his self-constituted protectors. ' Good 
 evenin', gents all,' he said, advancing blandly. 
 ' I'd lost my son, d'ye see, an' I'd kem out riglit 
 
72 BABYLON 
 
 here to look after him. Hiram, you come 
 along home, sonny ; your mother's most out 
 of her mind about you, I kin tell you.' 
 
 ' Good evening, Colonel,' the Canadian 
 answered in a determined fashion. ' We're 
 sorry business has compelled us to trespass on 
 your property ; but the fur trade. Colonel, the 
 fur trade is a pretty exacting profession. 
 The Lord Chief Justice of England insists upon 
 his ermine, you see. Colonel, and the demand 
 compels the supply. We're all instruments, 
 sir, instruments merely. Your boy's a pretty 
 smart lad, and if he concentrates his mind upon 
 the subject, I surmise that he'll grow up to be 
 a pretty accomplished trapper.' (The deacon's 
 disgust spoke out volubly at this suggestion 
 even upon his lantern-jawed impassive coun- 
 tenance.) ' Well, sir, he's been very useful to 
 us, and we particularly request that you won't 
 lick him for it. We don't wish him to be 
 hurt. We're law-abiding citizens, Colonel, but 
 
PROFESSIONAL SOCIETY 73 
 
 we won't let that boy be hurt. You understand, 
 sir — pre-cisely so. Bob, we'll clear them traps 
 on Saturday morning. You come then and 
 report proceedings.' 
 
 ' All right,' Hiram answered defiantly ; ' I'll 
 be along.' 
 
 'Good evenin', Colonel,' the three men 
 said. 
 
 ' Good evenin', gents all,' tlie deacon an- 
 swered, boiling over with wrath, but smother- 
 ing his rage till they were well off the premises. 
 
 Hiram turned and walked home in perfect 
 silence by the side of his father. They had 
 got inside tlie house before the deacon ven- 
 tured to utter a single word, hen he closed 
 the door firmly, cuffed Hiram half a dozen 
 times over about the head, and cried angrily, 
 ' I was afeard, sonny, you'd got drownded in the 
 creek, reely : I was afeard you was cut off in 
 your sin this time ; I was afeard of a judgment, 
 I was : for I've reproved you often, sonny : 
 
74 BABYLON 
 
 you can't blam^ it agin me that I hain't re- 
 proved you often : and he that bein' often re- 
 proved hardeneth his neck shall suddenly be 
 destroyed.' 
 
 ' Wal,' Hiram cried through his tears (he 
 was a stubborn un, some), 'it's you that 
 hardens it, ain't it? What do you go alius 
 hittin' it for ? ' 
 
 ' 'Tain't that neck, you scoffin' sinner,' the 
 deacon answered savagely, dealing him another 
 cuff or two about the head. ' Tain't that neck, 
 you know as well as I do : it's the sperritooal 
 neck the prophet is alloodin' to. But you 
 shall have some cow-hide, again, Hiram ; don't 
 you be afeard about it : you shan't go to 
 reprobation unhindered ef I kin help it. The 
 rod an' reproof give wisdom : but a child left 
 to himself bringeth his mother to shame. Mis' 
 Winthrop, I'm afeard this son o' yours 'ull 
 bring you to shame yet, marm, with his sinful 
 onregenerate practices. What's he bin doin'? 
 
PROFESSIONAL SOCIETY 75 
 
 Now, you jest guess : why, bringin' a whole 
 crowd of disrepootable trappers a-settin' mink- 
 traps an' ermine-springes on his own father's 
 blackberry lot. He ain'' satisfied with the 
 improvin' company he kin get to home, he 
 ain't, but he must go consortin' and associatin' 
 with a lot of no-account, skulkin', profane 
 trappers — a mean crowd, a mob, a set of low 
 fellers I wouldn't hold no intercourse with, 
 anyhow. Hiram Win'ohrop, it's my belief you 
 liev got no sense of the dignity of your 
 persition.' 
 
 'I beg pardon. Colonel,' the Canadian 
 interposed, hfting the latch of the front door 
 lightly (it opened into the living room), ' but I 
 wish gently to protest against them oppro- 
 brious epithets being out of thoughtlessness 
 applied to the exacting perfession of the fur 
 trade. The fur trade, sir, is a most noble 
 perfession. The honourable Hudson Bay 
 Company, for whose deepo at Kingston I trade. 
 
76 BABYLON 
 
 is a recognised public body, holding a charter 
 from Queen Victoria, and reckoning among its 
 officials several prominent gentlemen of the 
 strictest probity. I should- be sorry. Colonel, 
 and my mates 'ud be sorry, to cause any 
 unpleasantness as a sequel to this little ex- 
 cursion : but we can't stand by and hear them 
 opprobrious epithets applied to the noble per- 
 fession of the fur trade, or to ourselves as its 
 representatives in Geauga County. I'll trouble 
 you, Colonel, to withdraw them words, right 
 away, with a candid apology, and to give us 
 your word of honour that you ain't going to 
 thrash this little chap for the exertions he has 
 made to-day on behalf of the noble perfession 
 which me and my mates has the pleasure and 
 honour of representing. Otherwise, I don't 
 hesitate to say, Colonel, I surmise there'll be a 
 little unpleasantness somewhere between us.' 
 
n 
 
 CHAPTER y. 
 
 EMANCIPATION. 
 
 ' Churchill,' said the vicar, pulling up his cob 
 opposite the gate of the little market garden, 
 ' I want to speak to you a minute about that 
 boy of yours. He s twelve years old and more, 
 1 should say, by the look of him, and he's 
 lianging about the village all his time, doing 
 nothing. Do you want a place to put him to ? 
 What are you going to do with him r ' 
 
 'Wull, passon,' Sam Churchill answered, 
 touching his hat in a semi-deferential manner 
 (as a liberal politician, Sam was constitoo- 
 shionally agin the passon), ' Us did think o' 
 zendin' un to school a bit longer, and tryin' 
 vor to prentice un to zum trade zumwhere : 
 
78 BABYLON 
 
 but if a good place at sarvice was goin' a 
 
 beggin', \vy, me an' 'is mother wouldn't stand 
 
 in the way of 'is takin' it, sartinly, noways.' 
 
 ' Don't send the boy to school any more, 
 
 Churchill,' the vicar said decisively. 'This 
 
 education business is being overdone. You 
 
 allowed your other boy — Sam I think you 
 
 called him — to read a pack of nonsensical 
 
 books about going to sea and so forth, and 
 
 what's the result ? He's gone off to America 
 
 and left you alone, just as he was beginning 
 
 to be fitted for a useful assistant. Depend 
 
 upon it, Churchill, over-education's a great 
 
 error.' 
 
 'That's just what my missus do zay, zur,' 
 
 Sam chimed in respectfully. ' If us 'adn't let 
 
 Sam read them Cap'n Marryat books, 'ur do 
 
 zay, 'e 'ouldn't never 'ave gone off a-zeekin' 'is 
 
 fortune awver yander to 'Murrica. Howsom- 
 
 dever, what place 'ave 'ee got in yer eye vor 
 
 our Colin, passon ? ' 
 
EMANCIPA TION 79 
 
 ' Let him come to tlie vicarage,' the parson 
 said, ' and I'll train him to be my own servant. 
 Then he can get to be a gentleman's valet, and 
 take a good place by-and-by in London. The 
 boy's got good manners and good appearance, 
 and would make a capital servant in time, I 
 don't doubt it.' 
 
 'Wull, I'll talk it awver wi' the missus,' 
 old Sam replied dubiously. 
 
 When Colin was asked whether he would 
 like to go to the vicarage or not, he answered, 
 with the true west-country insouciance, that 
 he didn't much care where he went, so long as 
 tlie place w^as good and the work was aisy : 
 and so, before the week was out, he had been 
 duly installed as the vicar's buttons and 
 body-servant, and initiated into the work of 
 brushing clothes, opening doors, announcing 
 visitors, and all the other mysteries of his joint 
 appointment. 
 
 The vicar of Wootton was a very great 
 
8o BABYLON 
 
 person indeed. He was second cousin to the 
 Earl of lieaminster, tlie greatest landowner 
 in that part of Dorset ; and he never for a 
 moment forgot that he w^as a IIoward-Russell, 
 the inheritor of two of the noblest names in 
 England, and of nothing else on earth except 
 a remarkably narrow and retreating forehead. 
 The vicar was not clever ; to that he had no 
 pretensions : but he w^as a higli-minded, 
 honourable, well-meaning English gentleman 
 and clergyman of the old school ; not much 
 interested in their new-fangled questions of 
 High CI lurch, and Low Church, and Broad 
 Church, and all the rest of it, yet doing his 
 parocliial duty as he conceived of it in a 
 certain honest, straightforward, j)erfunctory, 
 official fashion. ' In my young days, my dear,' 
 he used to say to his nieces (for he was a 
 bachelor), 'we didn't have all these high 
 churches, and low churches, and medium- 
 sized churches, that people have nowadays. 
 
EMANCIPATION 8 1 
 
 We had cnly one cliurch, tlie Church ol* 
 EiiiJjUind. That's the onlv rluirdi tliat I for 
 my part can ever consent to hve and die in.' 
 
 In the vicar's opinion, a clergyman was an 
 officer cliar<:fed witli tlie maintenance of 
 spiritual decoi'um in the recognised and 
 organised system of tliis reahn of England. 
 His chief duty was to dispense a decorous 
 hospitality to his friends and equals, to dls- 
 pUiy a decorous pattern of refined hfe to his 
 various inferiors, to inculcate a decorous 
 morality on all liis ])arisliioners, and to take 
 part in a decorous religious service (with the 
 assistance of his curates) twice every Sunday. 
 The marcli of events had latterly compelled 
 him to add morning prayer on Wednesdays 
 and Fridays in Lent to tliis sim])le list of 
 functions ; but further than that the vicar 
 resolutely refused to go. Wlien anyone 
 talked to him about matins and evensong, or 
 discussed the Athanasian Creed, or even 
 VOIi. I. G 
 
82 BABYLON 
 
 spoke of the doings of Convocation, the vicar 
 sniffed a Uttle with his aristocratic nose, and 
 remarked stiffly that people didn't go in for 
 those things in his young days, thank good- 
 ness. So far as his opinion went, he hated 
 innovations ; the creeds were very good 
 creeds indeed, and people had got along very 
 well witn them, and without matins or con- 
 vocations, ever since he could remember. 
 
 Still, the vicar was a man of taste. A 
 cousin of Lord Beaminster's and a vicar of 
 Wootton Mandeville ought, he felt, in virtue 
 of his position, to be a man of taste. Not an 
 admii'er of new fads and fancies in art : oh, 
 no, no ; by no means : not a partisan of 
 realism, or idealism, or romanticism, or classi- 
 cism, or impressionism, or any other of their 
 fashionable isms ; certainly not : but in a 
 grand, old-fashioned, unemotional, dignified 
 sort of way, a man of taste. The vicar had 
 two Eomneys hanging in his dining-room ; 
 
EMANCIPATION 83 
 
 graceful ancestresses with large straw-hats 
 and exquisitely highborn eighteenth-century 
 Howard faces (the Eussell connection hadn't 
 then got into the family) ; and he had good 
 engravings from originals in the Vatican and 
 the Pitti Palace well displayed in his drawing- 
 room : and he had even a sinMe small Thor- 
 waldsen, a Thetis rising from the sea, which 
 fronted him as he sat in the oak-wainscoted 
 study, and inspired his literary efforts while 
 engaged on the composition of his three 
 annual new sermons. It was impossible to 
 enter the vicarage, indeed, without feeling at 
 once the exact artistic position of its excellent 
 occupant. He was decorously aisthetic, just 
 as he was decorously religious and decorously 
 obedient to the usages of society. The 
 Reverend Philip Howard-Russell, in fact, 
 hated enthusiasm in every form. He hated 
 earnest dissent most of all, of course ; it was 
 an irregular, indecorous, unauthorised way of 
 
 e 2 
 
84 BABYLON 
 
 trying to get to lieaven on one's own account, 
 without the aid of tlie duly constituted eccle- 
 siastical order : but he hated all nonsense 
 about art almost equally. He believed firmly 
 in llafTael and Michael Angelo, as lie believed 
 in churcli and state : he tliought Correggio 
 and Guido almost equally fine ; but he had a 
 low opinion of the early Italian masters, and 
 would have looked askance at Botticelli or 
 Fra Angelico, wherever he found them, even 
 in a ducal mansion. He didn't live (as good 
 fortune wculd have it) to see the extremely 
 ill-balanced proceedings of Mr. Burne Jones 
 and his school : indeed the vicar could never 
 have consented to prolong his life into such 
 an epocli of ' movements ' and ' earnestness ' 
 as our own : but he distinctly recollected, 
 wim a thrill of horror, that wlien he was a 
 tutor at Christ Churcli there were two or 
 three young men who got up something they 
 called a Preraphaelite Brotherhood, which 
 
EMANCIPATION 85 
 
 ultimately came to no good. ' One of them, 
 by name Millais,' he used to say, 'got rid of 
 all that nonsense at last, and has become a 
 really very promising young painter : but as 
 to the others, that fellow Hunt, and a half- 
 ItaUan man they call Eossetti — well, you 
 know the things they paint are really and 
 truly quite too ridiculous.' 
 
 On the whole, Colin Churchill liked his 
 place at the vicarage fairly well. To be sure, 
 passon was exacting sometimes ; he had a 
 will of his own, the Eeverend Philip, and 
 knew what was becoming from the lower 
 classes towards their natural superiors — but, 
 for all that, Colin liked it. The work wasn't 
 very hard ; there was plenty of time to get 
 out into the fields still and play with Minna 
 at odd minutes ; the vicarage was pretty and 
 prettily furnished ; and above all, it was full 
 of works of art such as Colin had never before 
 even imagined. He didn't know why, of 
 
86 BABYLON 
 
 course, but the Eomneys and the Thorwaldsen 
 in particular took his fancy immensely from 
 the very first moment he saw them. The 
 Thetis was his special adoration : its curves 
 and lines never ceased to delight and surprise 
 him. An instinctive germ of art which was 
 born in all the Churchill family was begin- 
 ning to quicken into full life in little Colin. 
 Though the boy knew it not, nor suspected it 
 himself, he was in fact an artistic genius* 
 All the family shared his gifts more or less: 
 but in Colin those gifts were either greater by 
 original endowment, or were more highly 
 developed by the accidents of place and time 
 — who shall say which? Perhaps Sam, put 
 where Colin was, might have become a great 
 sculptor : perhaps Colin, put where Sam was, 
 might have become a respectable American 
 citizen. And perhaps not. These are mys- 
 teries which no man yet can solve, least of all 
 the present biographer. 
 
EMANCIPATION 87 
 
 The vicar had a large collection of prints 
 in his study ; and when visitors came who 
 were also men of taste with no nonsense 
 about them, it was his custom to show them 
 his collection on a little frame made for the 
 purpose. On such occasions, Colin had to 
 perform the duty of placing the prints one 
 after another upon the frame : and while the 
 vicar and his guests looked at them critically, 
 the boy, too, would gaze from behind them, 
 and hsten open-mouthed to their appreciative 
 comments. There was one picture in par- 
 ticular that Colin especially admired — a 
 mezzotint from a fresco of the Four Seasons, 
 by a nameless Eenaissance artist, in an out-of- 
 the-way church at Bologna. Perhaps it was 
 the classical bas-relief air of the picture that 
 struck the boy's fancy so much ; for the native 
 bent of Colin Churchill's genius was always 
 rather sculpturesque than pictorial : but at 
 any rate he loved that picture dearly, and 
 
88 BABYLON 
 
 more than once the vicar noticed that when 
 they came to it, his Httle page Hngered behind 
 abstractedly, and didn't go on to the next in 
 order as soon as he was told to. 
 
 ' Churchill,' the vicar once said to him 
 sharply on such an occasion, ' why don't you 
 mind when you're spoken to ? I said " Next ! " 
 Didn't you hear me ? ' 
 
 ' I beg your pardon, zur — sir, I mean,' 
 Colin answered, relapsing for the moment into 
 his original barbarism : ' I heer'd you, but — 
 but I was a-lookin' at it and forgot, sir.' 
 
 The vicar gazed at the boy for a moment 
 in mute astonishment. ' Looking at it ! ' he 
 murmured at last, half to himself, with a 
 curious curl about the corner of his mouth ; 
 ' goodness gracious, what are we coming to 
 next, I wonder ! He was looking at my 
 mezzotints ! Extraordinary. Young Church- 
 ill looking at my mezzotints ! — The next, you 
 see, Colonel, is a very rare print by Cornehus 
 
EMANCIPATION S9 
 
 Bloemart after Mieris. Exquisitely delicate 
 engraving, as you observe ; very remarkable 
 purity and softness. A capital conjunction in 
 fact : no burin but Bloemart*s could render so 
 finely the delicate finish of Frans Mieris. The 
 original is almost worthy of Gerard Douw ; 
 you've seen it, I dare say, at Leyden. Next, 
 boy : next. — Lookmg at it ! Well, I de- 
 clare ! He says he was looking at it ! That 
 man Churchill always was an ill-mannered, 
 independent, upstanding sort of fellow, 
 and after all what can you expect from his 
 children ? 
 
 In spite of occasional little episodes like 
 this, however, Colin and the parson got on 
 fairly well togetlier in the long-run. The 
 parson's first task had been, of course, to take 
 care that that boy's language should be re- 
 duced to something like the queen's English : 
 and to that effect, Capel, the butler (better 
 known in Wootton as the Dook, on account 
 
90 BABYLON 
 
 of his distinguished and haughtily aristocratic 
 manners) had been instructed to point out to 
 Colin the difference in pronunciation between 
 the letters hess and zud, the grammatical 
 niceties of this, these, those, they and them, and 
 the formalities necessary to be used by men 
 of low estate in humbly addressing their duly 
 constituted pastors and masters. Colin, being 
 naturally a quick boy, had soon picked up as 
 much of all this as the Dook was able to teach 
 him ; and if there was still a considerable 
 laxity in the matter of aspiration, and a cer- 
 tain irregularity in the matter of moods and 
 tenses, that was really more the fault of the 
 teacher than of the pupil. The Dook had 
 been to London and even to Eome, and had 
 picked up the elegant language of the best 
 footmen in west-end society. Colin learnt 
 just what the Dook taught him ; he had left 
 behind the crude West-Saxon of the court of 
 King Alfred, on which he had been nurtured 
 
EMANCIPATION 91 
 
 as his mother-tongue, and had almost pro- 
 (Tressed to the comparatively cultivated and 
 cosmopolitan dialect of an ordinary modern 
 English man-servant. 
 
 At first, little Minna was in no small 
 degree contemptuous of Colin's ' vine new- 
 vangled talkin'.' ' " Don't you," indeed,' she 
 cried one day in her supremely sarcastic little 
 manner, when Colin had ventured to use that 
 piece of superfine English in her very ears, 
 instead of his native West-Saxon ' don't 'ee ; ' 
 ' vine things we're comin' to nowadays, Colin, 
 wen the likes o' thee goes sayin' " don't you." 
 I s'pose 'ee want to grow up an' be like the 
 Dook, some o' these vine days. Want to be 
 a butler, an' 'old theeself so stiff, and talk that 
 vine that plain volk can't 'ardly tell what 
 thee's talkin' about. Gurt stoopid, 1 do call 
 'ee.' But Colin, in spite of ridicule, continued 
 on his own way, and Minna, who had her 
 pride and her little day-dreams on her own 
 
92 BABYLON 
 
 account, too, at last began to think that 
 perhaps after all Colin might be in the right 
 of it. 
 
 So, being a west-country girl with a mind 
 of her own (like most of them), Minna set to 
 work on her part also to correct and get I'id 
 of her pretty, melting native dialect. She 
 went to school at the British National School 
 (the vicar had carefully warded off that last 
 disgrace of the age, the blatant board school, 
 from his own village ) ; and even as Colin set 
 himself to attain the lofty standard of ex- 
 cellence afforded him by the Dook, so did 
 Minna do her best to follow minutely the 
 voice and accent of the head pupil-teacher, 
 who had actually been for three terms at the 
 Normal College in London. There she had 
 picked up a very noble vulgar London twang, 
 learnt to pronounce 'no' as 'na-o,' and 
 acquired the habit of invariably slurring over 
 or dropping all her short unaccented syllables. 
 
EMANCIPA TION 95 
 
 In all tliese splendid characteristics of the 
 English language as currently spoken in the 
 great metropolis, Minna endeavoured to the 
 best of her ability to follow her leader ; and 
 at the end of a year she had so far succeeded 
 that Colin himself complimented her on the 
 immense advance she had lately made in her 
 new liniTuistic studies. 
 
 Colin's greatest dehght, however, was still 
 to go down in the afternoon, when the vicar 
 was out, to the brook in the meadow, and 
 there mix up as of yore a good big batch of 
 plastic clay with which to model what he 
 used to call his little images. The Dook 
 complained greatly of the clay, ' a nasty dirty 
 mess, indeed, to go an' acshally bring into 
 any gentleman's house, let alone the vicar's, 
 and him no more nor a page neither ! ' but 
 CoUn managed generally to appease his anger, 
 and to gain a grudging consent at last for the 
 clay to be imported into the house under the 
 
94 BABYLON 
 
 most stringent sumptuary conditions. The 
 vicar must never see it coming or going ; he 
 mustn't be allowed to know that the Dook 
 ])ermitted such goings-on in the house where 
 lie was major-domo. On that point Mr. Capel 
 was severity itself. So when the images were 
 fairly finished, Colin used to take them out 
 surreptitiously at night, and then hand them 
 over to Minna Wroe, who had quite a little 
 museum of the young sculptor's earliest efforts 
 in her ow^n bedroom. She had alike the 
 Thetis after Thorwaldsen (a heathenish, scarce 
 half-clad huzzy, who shocked poor Mrs. 
 Churchill's sense of propriety immensely, until 
 slie was solemnly assured that the original 
 stood in the vicar's study), and the Infant 
 Samuel after the plaster cast on the cottage 
 mantelpiece ; as well as the bust of Miss Eva, 
 the vicar's favourite niece, studied from life ns 
 Colin stood behind her chair at night, or 
 handed her the potatoes at dinner. If Miss 
 
EMANCIPA TION 95 
 
 ^Aa hadn't been eighteen, and such a very 
 grand young lady, Uttle Minna might ahnost 
 have been jealous of her. But as it was — 
 why, Colin was only the page boy, and so 
 really, after all, what did it matter ? 
 
 For three years Colin continued at the 
 vicarage, till he was full fifteen, and then an 
 incident occurred wliicli gave the first final 
 direction to his artistic impulses. 
 
 One afternoon he had been down to the 
 brook, talking as usual with his old playmate 
 Mnna (even fifteen and thirteen are not yet 
 very dangerous ages), when he happened, in 
 climbing up that well-known clay cliff, to miss 
 his foothold on the sticky shppery surface, 
 and fell suddenly into the bed of the stream 
 below. His head was sadly cut by the flints 
 at the bottom, and two neighbours picked him 
 out and carried him between them up to the 
 vicarage. There lie was promptly laid upon 
 his own bed, while Capel sent off hurriedly 
 
96 BABYLON 
 
 for tlie Wootton doctor to staunch the flow of 
 blood from the ugly cut. 
 
 When tlie vicar heard of the accident from 
 tlie Dook, he was sitting in the drawing-room 
 listening to Miss Eva playing a then fashion- 
 able gavotte by a then fashionable composer. 
 * Is he badly hurt, Capel?' the vicar asked, 
 with decorous show of interest. 
 
 ' Pretty bad, sir,' the Dook answered in his 
 ofiicial manner. ' I should judge, sir, by the 
 look of it, that the boy had cut a artery, sir, 
 or summat of that sort ; leastways, the wownd 
 is bleeding most imcommon profusely.' 
 
 ' I'll come and see him,' the vicar said, with 
 the air of a man who decorously makes a 
 sacrifice to Cliristian principles. 'You may 
 tell the poor lad, Capel, that I'll come and see 
 him presently.' 
 
 ' And I will too,' Eva put in quickly. 
 
 ' Eva, my dear ! ' her uncle observed with 
 chilling dignity. ' You had better not. The 
 
EMANCIPATION 97 
 
 sight would be a most unpleasant one for you. 
 Indeed, for all of us. Capel, you may tell 
 Churchill that I am coming to see him. Eva, 
 I'm afraid I interrupted you : go on, my 
 dear.' 
 
 Eva played out the gavotte to the end a 
 little impatiently, and then the vicar rose after 
 a minute or two of decent delay (one mustn't 
 seem in too great a hurry to sympathise with 
 the accidents which may befall one's poorer 
 neighbours), and walked in his stately leisurely 
 fashion towards the servants' quarters. ' Which 
 is Churchill's room, Capel ? ' he asked as he 
 went along. ' Ah, yes, this one, to be sure. 
 Poor lad, I hope he's better now.' 
 
 But as soon as the vicar stood within the 
 room, which he had never entered before since 
 Colin had used it, he had hardly any eyes 
 for the boy or the surgeon, and could scarcely 
 even ask the few questions which decorum 
 demanded as to his state and probable recovery. 
 
 VOL. 1. H 
 
98 .. BABYLON 
 
 For tlie walls of Colin Churchiirs bedroom 
 were certainly of a sort gravely to surprise 
 and disquiet the unsuspecting vicar. All 
 round the room, a number of large sheets of 
 paper hung, on which were painted in bright 
 water-colours cartoon-like copies of the en- 
 gravings which formed the chief decoration 
 of the vicar's drawing-room. 
 
 ' Who did these ? ' he asked sternly. 
 
 ' Me, sir,' the boy answered, trembling, 
 from the bed. 
 
 The Eeverend Philip Howard-Eussell 
 started visibly. He displayed astonishment 
 even before his own servants. In truth, he 
 was too good a judge of art not to see at a 
 glance that the pictures were well drawn, 
 and that the colouring, which was necessarily 
 original, had been harmonised with native 
 taste. All this was disquieting enough ; but 
 more disquieting than all was another work 
 of art which hung right on the top of Colin's 
 
EMANCIPATION 99 
 
 bed-head. It was a composition in clay of 
 the Four Seasons, reproduced in bas-reUef 
 from the mezzotint in the vicar's portfolio, 
 over which he now at once remembered Colin 
 had so often and so constantly lingered. 
 
 Though he ought to have been looking at 
 the boy, the vicar's eyes were fixed steadily 
 during almost all the interview on this singular 
 bas-reUef. If the water-colours had merit, 
 the vicar, as a man of taste, could not conceal 
 from himself the patent fact that the bas-relief 
 showed positive signs of real genius. It was 
 really most untoward, most disconcerting ! A 
 lad of that position in life to go and model a 
 composition in relief from an engraving on 
 the flat, and to do it well, too ! The vicar 
 had certainly never hoard of anything like it I 
 
 He said a few words of decorously con- 
 ventional encouragement to Colin, told the 
 surgeon he was dehghted to hear the wound 
 was not a serious one, and then beckoned the 
 
 H 2 
 
loo BABYLON 
 
 Dook quietly out of the room as he himself 
 took his departure. 
 
 ' Capel,' he said, in a low voice on the 
 hinding, ' what on earth is the meaning of 
 that — ur — that panel at Churchill's bedside ? ' 
 
 ' Well, sir, the boy likes to make a mess 
 witli mud and water, you see,' the butler 
 answered submissively, 'and I didn't like to 
 ])revent him, because he's a well-conducted 
 hid in gen'ral, sir, and he seems to have took 
 a awful fancy to this sort of imaging. I hope 
 there ain't no harm done, sir. I never allows 
 him to make a mess with it.' 
 
 ' Not at all, not at all, Capel,' the vicar 
 continued, frowning slightly. ' No harm in 
 the world in his amusing himself so, of course ; 
 still ' — and this the vicar added to himself as 
 tliough it were a peculiarly aggravating piece 
 of criminality — ' there's no denying he has 
 reproduced that mezzotint m really quite a 
 masterly manner.' 
 
EMANCIPATION loi 
 
 The vicar went back to the drawing-room 
 with a distressed and puzzled look upon hi? 
 clean-shaven clear-cut countenance. 'Is he 
 badly hurt, uncle?' asked Eva. 'No, my 
 dear,' the vicar replied, testily; 'nothing to 
 speak of ; but I'm afraid he has made himself 
 a very singular and excellent bas-relief.' 
 
 ' A what?' cried Eva, imagining to herself 
 that she had overlooked the meaning of some 
 abstruse medical term which sounded strangely 
 artistic to her unaccustomed ears. 
 
 ' A bas-relief,' the vicar repeated, in a 
 disgusted tone. 'Yes, my dear, I'm not 
 surprised you should be astonished at it, but 
 I said a bas-relief. He has reproduced my 
 Bologna Four Seasons in clay, and what's 
 worse, Eva, he has really done it extremely 
 well too, confound him.' 
 
 It was only on very rare occasions that 
 the vicar allowed himself the use of such 
 doubtful expressions, and even then he 
 
102 BABYLON 
 
 employed them in his born capacity as a 
 Howard-Russell rather than in his acquired 
 one as a clergyman of the Church of 
 England. 
 
 ' Eva, my dear,' he said again after a long 
 pause, ' the boy's head is bandaged now, and 
 after all there's really nothing in any way in 
 his condition to shock you. It might be as 
 well, perhaps, if you were to go to see him, 
 and ask Mr. Walkem whether the cook ought 
 to make him anything in the way of jelly or 
 beef-tea or any stuff of that sort, you know. 
 These little attentions to one's dependents in 
 illness are only Christian, only Christian. 
 And, do you know, Eva, you might at the 
 same time just glance at the panel by the 
 bed-head, and tell me by-and-by what you 
 think of it. I've great confidence in your 
 judgment, my dear, and after all it mayn't 
 perhaps be really quite so good as I'm at first 
 sight inclined to believe it.' 
 
EMANCIPATION 103 
 
 When niece and uncle met again at dinner, 
 Eva unhesitatingly proclaimed her opinion 
 tliat the bas-relief was very clever (a femhiine 
 expression for every degree of artistic or 
 intellectual merit, not readily apprehended by 
 the ridiculous hair-splitting male intelligence). 
 The vicar moved uneasily in his cliair. This 
 was most disconcerting. What on earth was 
 he to do with the boy ? As a man of taste, 
 he felt that he mustn't keep a possible future 
 Canova blacking boots in his back kitchen; 
 as a Christian minister, he felt that he must 
 do the best he could to advance the position 
 of all his parishioners ; yet finally, as a loyal 
 member of this commonwealth, he felt that he 
 ought not to countenance people of that 
 position in life in having tastes and occu- 
 pations above their natural station. Old 
 Churchill's son, too ! Could anything be more 
 annoying ? ' What on earth ought we to do 
 with him, Eva?' he asked doubtfully. 
 
I04 BABYLON 
 
 ' Send him to London to some good artist, 
 and see what he can make of him,' Eva re- 
 phsd with astonisliing promptitude. (It's 
 really wonderful how young people of the 
 present day will undertake to solve the most 
 difficult practical problems off-hand, as if 
 there were absolutely nothing in them.) 
 
 The vicar glanced towards the Dook un- 
 easily. ' It's a very extraordinary thing,' he 
 said, ' for a lad of his class to go and dream 
 of going and doing. I may be old-fashioned, 
 Eva, my dear, but I don't quite Hke it. I 
 won't deny that I don't quite like it.' 
 
 ' Haven't I read somewhere,' Eva went on 
 innocently, ' that Giotto or somebody was a 
 peasant boy who fed sheep, and that some one 
 or other, Cimabue, I think (only I don't know 
 how to pronounce his name properly), saw 
 some drawings he'd made with a bit of char- 
 coal on some rock, and took him for his pupil, 
 and made him into, oh, such a great painter P 
 
EMANCIPATION 105 
 
 I i<now It was such a deliglitfuUy romantic 
 story, wherever I read it.' 
 
 The vicar coughed drily. 'That was in 
 the thirteenth century, my dear,' he said, in 
 his coldest and most repressive tone. 'The 
 thirteenth century was a very long time ago, 
 Eva. Society hadn't organised itself then, as 
 it has done in our own Tay. Besides, the 
 story has been critically doubted. Ci-ma-bu-e,' 
 and the vicar dwelt carefully on each syllable 
 of the name with a little distinct intonation 
 which mutely corrected Eva's faulty Italian 
 without too obtrusively exciting the butler's 
 attention, ' had probably very little to do 
 with discovering Giot-to. — Capel, this is not 
 the green seal claret. Go and decant some 
 green seal at once, will you. — My dear, this is 
 a discussion which had better not be carried 
 on before the servants.' 
 
 In three days more the Dook was regaling 
 the gossips of the White Lion with the whole 
 
io6 BABYLON 
 
 story liow the vicar, witli liis usual artistic 
 sensibility, liad discovered merit in that lad of 
 Churchill's, and had found out as the thing 
 tlie lad liad made out of mud were really 
 wliat tliey call a bas-relief, ' which I've seen 
 em, of course,' said the Dook, loftily, ' in lots 
 of palaces in Italy, carved by Jotter, and 
 Jionnomey, and Jamberty, and all them old 
 swells ; but I never took much notice of this 
 one o' young Cliurchill's, naterally, till the 
 vicar came in ; and then, as soon as ever he 
 clapped eyes on it, he says at once to me, 
 " Capel," says he, " that's a bas-relief." And 
 then, I remembered as I'd seen just the same 
 sort of things, as I was sayin', over in Italy, 
 by the cart-load ; but, Lord, who'd have ever 
 thought old Sam Churchill's son could ever 
 ha' done one ! And now the vicar's asted Sam 
 to let him get the boy apprenticed to a wood- 
 carver : and Sam's give his consent ; and next 
 week the -boy's going off to Exeter, and going 
 
EMAXCIPATIOS Vfl 
 
 to make liis fortune as sure as tliere's apples 
 ill Hereford si lire.' 
 
 The idea of tlie wood-carver may be con- 
 sidered as a sort of conij^romise on tlie vicar's 
 part between liis two duties, as a munificent 
 discoverer of rising talent, and a judicious 
 represser of the too-aspiring lower orders. A 
 wood-carver's work is in a certain sense 
 artistic, and yet it isn't anything more, as a 
 rule, than a decent handicraft. The vicar 
 rather prided himself upon this clever sop to 
 both his consciences : he chuckled inwardly 
 over the impartial manner in which he had 
 managed to combine the recognition of plastic 
 merit with the equal recognition of profound 
 social disabilities. Eva, to be sure, had stood 
 out stoutly against the wood-carving, and had 
 pleaded hard for a sculptor in London : but 
 the vicar disarmed her objections somewhat by 
 alleging the admirable precedent of Grinling 
 Gibbons. ' Gibbons, you know, my dear, rose 
 
io8.. BABYLON 
 
 to the very first rank as a sculptor from his 
 trade as a wood-carver. Pity to upset the 
 boy's mind by putting him at once to a 
 regular artist. If there's really anything in 
 liim, he'll rise at last ; if not, it would only 
 do him harm to encourage him in absurd ex- 
 pectations.' Oh, wise inverted Gamaliels! you 
 too in your decorous way, with your topsy- 
 turvy opportunism, cannot wholly escape the 
 charge of quenching the spirit. 
 
I09 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 ENTER A NEW ENGLANDER. 
 
 Hiram Winthrop's emancipation had come a 
 little earlier, and it had come after this 
 
 fashion. 
 
 It was early spring along the lake shore, 
 and Hiram had wandered out, alone as usual, 
 into the dense marshy scrub that fringed the 
 Creek, near the spot where it broadens and 
 deepens into a long blue bay of still half- 
 frozen and spell-bound Ontario. The skunk- 
 cabbage was coming into flower! It was 
 early spring, and the boy's heart was glad 
 within him, as though the deacon, and the 
 cord-wood, and the coming drudgery of hoe- 
 ing and weeding had never existed. Perhaps, 
 
no BABYLON 
 
 now, he should see the trappers again. He 
 wandered on among the unbroken woods, 
 just greening with the wan fresh buds, and 
 watched the whole world bursting into life 
 again after its long wintry interlude ; as none 
 have ever seen it waken save those who know 
 the great icy lake country of North America. 
 The signs of quickening were frequent in the 
 underbrush. The shrill peep of the tree-frog 
 came to him from afar through tlie almost 
 silent woodland. The drumming of the red- 
 headed woodpecker upon the hickory trunks 
 showed that the fat white grubs were now 
 hatching and moving underneath the bark 
 Close to the water's edge he scared up a snipe ; 
 and then, again, a little farther, he saw a hen 
 hawk rise with sudden flappings from the 
 clam-shell mound. Hark, too ; that faint, 
 swelling, distant beat ! surely it was a part- 
 ridge ! He looked up into the trees, and 
 searched for it diligently : and there true 
 
ENTER A NEW ENGLANDER in 
 
 enough, settling, after the transatlantic manner, 
 on a tall butternut (oh, heterodox bird !), he 
 caught a single glimpse of the beautiful 
 fluttering creature, as it took its perch lightly 
 upon the topmost branches. 
 
 It was so delightful, all of it, that Hiram 
 never thought of the time or his dinner, but 
 simply wandered on, as a boy will, for hour 
 after hour in that tangled woodland. What 
 did he care, in the joy of his heart, for the 
 coming beating ? His one idea was to see the 
 trappers. At last, he saw an unwonted sight 
 through the trees — two men actually pushing 
 their way along beside the river. His heart 
 beat fast within him : could they be the tra])- 
 pers? Spurred on by that glorious possi- 
 bility, he crept up quickly and noiselessly 
 behind them. The men were talking quite 
 loud to one another : no, they couldn't be 
 trappers : trappers always go softly, and 
 speak in a whisper. But if they weren't 
 
112 BABYLOA 
 
 trappers, what on earth could they be do 
 down here in the unbroken forest ? Not 
 felKng wood, that was clear ; for they had no 
 axes with them, and they walked along 
 without ever observin''^ the lie of the timber. 
 Not going to survey wild lands, for they liad 
 none of those strange measuring things with 
 them (Hiram was innocent of the name theo- 
 dolite) that surveyors are always peeping and 
 squinting through. Not gunning either, for 
 they had no guns, but only simple stout 
 walking-sticks. ' Sech a re-markable, on- 
 common circumstance I never saw, and that's 
 true as Judges,' Hiram said to himself, as he 
 watched them narrowly. He would jest hsten 
 to what they were sayin', and see if he could 
 make out what on airth they could be doin' 
 dovrn in them w^oods thar. 
 
 ' When I picked him up,' one of the men 
 was saying to the other, in a clear, distinct, 
 delicate tone, such as Hiram had never heard 
 
ENTER A NEW ENGLANDER 113 
 
 before, ' I saw it was a wounded merganser, 
 winged by some bad shot, and fallen into the 
 water to die alone. I never saw anything 
 more beautiful than its long slender vermilion 
 bill, the very colour of red sealing wax ; and 
 its clean bright orange legs and feet ; and its 
 pure white breast just tinged at the tip of 
 each feather with faint salmon, or a dainty 
 buff inclining to salmon. I was sorry I hadn't 
 got my colours with me : I'd have given 
 anything to be able to paint him, then and 
 there.' 
 
 Hiram could hardly contain himself witli 
 mingled awe, delight, and astonishment. He 
 wanted to call out on the spur of the moment 
 ' I know that thar bird. I know him. 'Tain't 
 ' called that name you give him, down our 
 section, though. We call him a fisherman 
 diver.' But he didn't dare to in his perfect 
 transport of surprise and amazement. It 
 wasn't the strange person's tone alone that 
 
 VOL. I. I 
 
114 BABYLON 
 
 pleased him so mucli, though he felt, in a 
 vague indefinable way, that there was some- 
 thing very beautiful and refined and ex- 
 quisitely modulated in it — the voice being in 
 fact the measured, clearly articulate voice of 
 a cultivated New England gentleman, such as 
 he had never before met in his whole lifetime : 
 it wasn't exactly that, though that was in 
 itself sufficiently surprising : it was the as- 
 tounding fact that there was a full-grown, 
 decently clad man, not apparently a lunatic 
 or an imbecile, positively interesting himself 
 in such childish things as the very colours 
 and feathers of a bird, just the same as he, 
 Hiram Winthrop, might have done in the 
 blackberry bottom. The deacon never 
 talked about the bill of a merganser ! The 
 deacon never noticed the dainty buff on the 
 breast, inclining to salmon ! The deacon 
 never expressed any burning desire to pull 
 out his brushes and paint it ! All the men he 
 
ENTER A NEW ENGLANDER 115 
 
 had ever yet seen in Geauga County would 
 have re<yarded the colours on the le<7s of a 
 bird as wliolly beneath tlieir exalted and 
 dignified adult consideration. Corn and pork 
 were the objects that engaged their profound 
 intellects, not birds and insects. Hiram had 
 always imagined that an interest in suc^h small 
 things was entirely confined to boys and 
 infants. That grown men could care to talk 
 about them was an idea wholly above his 
 limited experience, and almost above what 
 the deacon would have called his poor finite 
 comprehension. 
 
 ' Yes,' the other answered him, even 
 before Hiram coidd recover from his first 
 astonishment. ' It's a lovely bird. I've tried 
 to sketch him myself more than once. And 
 have you ever noticed, Audouin, the peculiar 
 way the tints are arranged on the back of the 
 neck ? The crest's black, you know, glossed 
 with green ; but the nape's white ; and the 
 
 I 2 
 
ii6 BABYLON' 
 
 colours don't merge into one another, as 3'ou 
 might expect, but cease abruptly with quite a 
 hard line of demarcation at the point of junc- 
 tion.' 
 
 ' Jest for all the world as ef they w^as 
 sewed together,' Hiram mnrniured to himself 
 inaudibly, still more profoundly astonished at 
 this incredible and totally unexpected pheno- 
 menon. Then there were two distinct and 
 separate human beings in the world, it seemed, 
 who were each capable of paying attention to 
 the coloration of a common merganser. As 
 Hiram whispered awestruck to his own soul, 
 ' most mirac'lous ! ' 
 
 He followed them up a little farther, 
 hanging anxiously on every word, and to his 
 continued astonishment heard them notice to 
 one another such petty matters as the flower- 
 ing of the white maples, the twittering of the 
 red-polls among the fallen pine-needles, the 
 wider and ever wider circles on the water 
 
ENTER A AEW ENG LANDER 117 
 
 where the pickerel had leaped, nay, even the 
 tracks left upon the soft clay that marked 
 the nightly coming and going of the stealthy 
 wood-chuck. Impossible : unimaginable : 
 utterly un-diaconal : but still true ! Hiram's 
 spirit was divided within him. At last the 
 one who was addressed as Audouin said 
 casually to his companion, ' Let's sit down 
 here, Professor, and have our lunch. I love 
 this lunching in the open woods. It brings 
 us nearer to primitive nature. I suppose the 
 chord it strikes within us is the long latent 
 and unstruck cliord of hereditary habit and 
 feeling. It's centuries since our old English 
 ancestors lived that free life in the open woods 
 of the Teutonic mainland; but the unconscious 
 memory of it reverberates dhnly still, I often 
 think, through all our nature, and comes out 
 in the universal love for escape from conven- 
 tionality to the pure freedom of an open-air 
 existence.' 
 
ii8 BABYLON 
 
 ' Perhaps so,' the Professor answered witli 
 a lauijh : 'but if you'll leave your Boston 
 philosopliy behind, my dear unpractical ' 
 Audouin, and open your sandwich-case, you'll 
 be doing a great deal more good in the cause 
 of hungry humanity than by speculating on 
 the possible psychological analysis of tlie 
 pleasure of picnicking.' 
 
 Iliram didn't quite know what all that 
 meant ; but from behind the big alder he 
 could, at least, see that the sandwiches looked 
 remarkably tempting (by the way, it was 
 clearly past dinner-time, to judge by the in- 
 ternal monitor), and the Professor was pouring 
 something beautifully red and clear into a 
 metal cup out of the wicker-covered bottle. 
 It wasn't whisky, certainly ; nor spruce beer, 
 either : could it really be that red stufi*, wine, 
 that people used to drink in Bible times, 
 according to the best documentary authorities? 
 
 ' Don't, pray, reproach me with the original 
 
ENTER A NEW ENGLANDER 119 
 
 sin of having been born in Boston,' Audouin 
 answered, with a shght half-allected httle 
 shiver. ' I can no more help that, of course, 
 than I can help the following of Adam, in 
 common with all the rest of our poor fallen 
 humanity.' (Why, that was jest like the 
 deacon!) 'But at least I've done my very 
 best to put away the accursed thing, and get 
 rid, for ever, of our polluted material civilisa- 
 tion. I've tried to flee from man (except 
 always you, my dear Professor), and take 
 refuge from his impertinent inanity in the 
 bosom of my mother nature. From the haunts 
 of the dry-goods man and the busy throng of 
 drummers, I've come into the woods and 
 fields as from a sohtary desert into society. 
 I prefer to emphasise my relations to the 
 universe, rather than my relations to the 
 miserable toiling ant-hill of petty humanity.' 
 
 ' Eeally, Audouin,' the Professor put in, as 
 he passed his friend the claret, ' you're grow- 
 
I20 BABYLON 
 
 ing ])ositively morbid ; degenerating into a 
 wild man of the woods. I must take you 
 back for a while to the city and civilisation. 
 I shall buy you a suit of store clothes, set you 
 up in a five-dollar imported hat, and make 
 you promenade State Street, afternoons, keep- 
 ing a sharp eye on the Boston ladies and the 
 ]V)ston fashions.' 
 
 ' No, no, Professor,' Audouin answered, 
 with a graceful flourish of his small white 
 hand : (Hiram noticed that it was small and 
 white, though the dress the stranger actually 
 wore was not a ' store suit ' but a jacket and 
 trousers of the local home-spun) ; ' no, no ; 
 til at would never do. I refuse to believe in 
 your civilisation. I abjure it : I banish it. 
 What is it ? A mere cutting down of trees 
 and disfiguring of nature, in order to supply 
 uninteresting millions with ilhmitable pork 
 and beans. The object of our society seems 
 to be to provide more and more luxuriously 
 
EXTKR A AEIV ENGLANDER I2l 
 
 for our material wanty, and to shelve all 
 liiirher ideals of our nature for an occasional 
 Sunday service and a hypothetical future 
 existence. I turn with delight, on the other 
 hand, from cities and railroad cars to the 
 forest and the living creatures. They are 
 the one group of beautiful things that the 
 great Anglo-Saxon race, in civilising and vul- 
 garising this vast continent, has left us still 
 undesecrated. They are not conventionalised ; 
 they don't go to the Old Meeting House in 
 European clothes Sunday mornings ; they 
 speak always to me in the language of nature, 
 and tell me our lower wants must be simplified 
 that the higher life may be correspondingly 
 enriched. The only true way of salvation, 
 after all. Professor, lies in perfect fidelity to 
 one's own truest inner promptings.' 
 
 Hiram listened still, all amazed. He didn't 
 fully understand it all ; some of it sounded to 
 him rather affectedly sentimental and finnikin ; 
 
122 BABYLON 
 
 but on tlie Aviiole wliat struck liim most was 
 the strange fact tliat this fine-spoken town- 
 bred gentleman seemed to liave ideas about 
 the world and nature — diflerently expressed, 
 but fundamentally identical — such as he him- 
 self felt but never knew before anybody else 
 in the whole world was likely to share with 
 him. ' That's pretty near jest what I'd have 
 said myself,' the boy thought wonderingly, ' if 
 I'd knowed how : only I shouldn't ever have 
 bin able to say it so fine and high-falutin.' 
 
 They finished their lunch, and sat talking 
 a while together under the shadow of the 
 leafiess hickories. The boy still stopped and 
 watched them, spell-bound. At last Audouin 
 pulled a head of fiowers from close to the 
 ground, and looked at it pensively, with his 
 head just a trifle theatrically on one side. 
 ' That's a curious thing. Professor,' he said, 
 eyeing it at different distances in his hand : 
 ' what do you call it now ? I don't know it.' 
 
w'vy": 
 
 
 ■v^iS" 
 
 
 r-X' 
 
 =»7 ^ 
 
 y 
 
 K H 
 
 w^.i^ 
 
 ^ \i , /"^ 
 
 Hiram listened stiilJ 
 
ENTER A NEW ENGLANDER 123 
 
 'I'm sure I can't tell you,' the Professor 
 answered, taking it from him carelessly. ' I 
 don't pretend to be much of a botanist, you 
 see, and I'm out of my element down here 
 among the lake-side flora.' 
 
 Hiram could contain himself no longer. 
 'It's skunk-cabbage,' he cried, in all the 
 exultation of boyish knowledge, emerging 
 suddenly from behind the big alder. ' Skunk- 
 cabbage, the trappers call it. Ain't it splen- 
 did? You kin hear the bees hummin' an' 
 buzzin' around it, fine days in spring, findin 
 it out close to the ground, and goin' into it, 
 one at a time, before the willows has begun 
 to blossom. I see lots as I kem along this 
 niornin', putting out their long tongues into 
 it, and scarin' away the flies as they tried to 
 get a bit o' the breakfast.' 
 
 Audouin laughed melodiously. 'What's 
 this?' he cried. *A heaven-born observer 
 dropped suddenly upon us from the clouds ! 
 
124 BABYLON 
 
 You seem to know all about it, my j'ouiig 
 friend. Skunk-cabbage, is it? But surely 
 the bees aren't out in search of honey already, 
 are they ? ' 
 
 ' 'Tain't honey they get from it,' the boy 
 answered quickly. ' It's bee-bread. Jest you 
 see them go in, and watch 'em come out 
 ngain, and thar you'll find they've all got little 
 yaller pellets stickin' right on to the small 
 hairs upon their thighs. That's bee-bread, 
 that is, what they give to the maggots. All 
 bees is born out of maggots.' 
 
 Audouin laughed again. ' Wliy, Pro- 
 fessor,' he said briskly, ' this is indeed a 
 phenomenon. A country-bred boy who cares 
 for and watches nature ! Boston must have 
 set her mark on me deep, after all, for I'm 
 positively surprised to find a lover of nature 
 born so far from the hub of the universe. 
 Skunk-cabbage, you call it ; so quaint a flower 
 deserves a rather bettei.^ name. Do you know 
 
ENTER A NEW ENGLANDER 125 
 
 the tassel-flower, my young fellow-citizen? 
 (we're both citizens of the woods, it seems). 
 Do you know tassel-flower ? is it out yet ? I 
 want to find some/ 
 
 'I know it, some,' Hiram answered, de- 
 lighted, ' but it ain't out yet ; it comes a bit 
 later. But I kin draw it for you, if you like, 
 so's you can know it when it comes into 
 blossom.' And he felt in his pocket for some 
 invisible object, which he soon produced in 
 the visible shape of a small red jasper arrow- 
 head. The boy was just beginning to scratcl 
 a figure with it on a flat piece of water-rolled 
 hmestone when Audouin's quick eye caught 
 sight, sideways, of the beautifully chipped 
 mplement. 
 
 'Ha, ha,' he cried, taking it from Hiram 
 suddenly, ' what have we here, eh ? The 
 red man: his mark: as plain as printing. 
 The broad arrow of the aboriginal possessor 
 of all America ! Why, this is good ; this is 
 
 1 
 
126 BABYLON 
 
 jasper. AVhere on earth did you get this 
 from ? ' 
 
 'Whar on airth,' Hiram echoed, astonished 
 anew ; ' wliy jest over tliar : I picked it up as 
 I kem along tliis morning. Thar's lots about, 
 'specially in spring time. Tears as if the 
 Injuns shot 'em off at painters and bars and 
 settlers and things, and missed sometimes, and 
 lost 'em. Then they lie thar in the ground a 
 long time till some hard winter comes along 
 to uncover 'em. Hard winters, the frost 
 throws 'em up ; and when the snow melts, the 
 water washes 'em out into the furrers. I've 
 got crowds of 'em to home ; arrowheads and 
 tommyhawks, aud terbacker pipes, an' all 
 sorts. I pick 'em up every spring, reglar.' 
 
 Audouin looked at the boy with a far 
 more earnest and searching glance for a 
 moment ; then he turned quickly to the Pro- 
 fessor. 'There's some'^hing in this,' he said, 
 in a serious tone, very different from his 
 
ENTER A NEW ENGLANDER 127 
 
 previous half-unreal banter. 'The bucolic 
 intelhgence evidently extends deeper than its 
 liiio-uistic faculties mif^ht at first lead one to 
 suspect.' lie spoke intentionally in hiero- 
 glyphics, aiming his words above the boy's 
 head; but Hiram caught the general sense 
 notwithstanding, and flushed slightly with 
 ingenuous pride. ' Well, let's see your draw- 
 ing,' Audouin went on, with a gracious smile, 
 handing the boy back his precious httle bit of 
 pointed jasper. 
 
 Hiram took the stone weapon between 
 finger and thumb, and scratching the surface 
 of the waterworn pebble lightly with its point 
 in a few places, produced in a dozen strokes a 
 rouo-h outline of the Canadian tassel-flower. 
 Audouin looked at the hasty sketch in evident 
 astonishment. It was his turn now to be 
 completely surprised. ' Why, look here. Pro- 
 fessor,' he said very slowly: 'this is — ye°, 
 this is — actually a drawing.' 
 
128 BABYLON 
 
 The Professor took the pebble from liis 
 liands, and scanned it closely. ' Why, yes,' he 
 said, in some surprise. ' There's certainly a 
 great deal of native artistic freedom about tlie 
 leaf and flower. It's excellent ; in fiict, quite 
 astonishing. I expected a diagrammatic re- 
 j)resentation ; this is really, as you say, 
 Audouin, a drawing.' 
 
 Hiram looked on in perfect silence : but 
 the colour came hot and bright in his cheek 
 with very unwonted pleasure and excitement. 
 To hear himself praised and encouraged for 
 drawing was indeed a wonder. So very un- 
 like the habits and manners of the deacon. 
 
 ' Do you ever draw with a pencil ? ' 
 Audouin asked after a moment's pause, ' or 
 do you always scratch your sketches like this 
 on fiat bits of pebble ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, I hev a pencil and book in my 
 pocket,' Hiram answered shyly ; ' only I 
 kinder didn't care to waste the paper on a 
 
ENTER A NEW ENGLANDER 129 
 
 thing like that ; an' besides, I was scar't that 
 you two growed-ups mightn't think well of 
 my picturs that I've drawed in it.' 
 
 ' Produce the pictures,' Audouin said in 
 a tone of authority, leaning back against the 
 trunk of the hickory. 
 
 Hiram drew them from his pocket timidly. 
 ' Thar they are,' he murmured, with a depre- 
 ciatory gesture. ' They ain't much, but 
 they're all the picturs I knowed how to 
 draw.' 
 
 Audouin took the book in his hand — Sam 
 Churchill's ten-cent copybook — and turned 
 over the well-filled pages with a critical eye. 
 The Professor, too, glanced at it over his 
 shoulder. Hiram stood mute and expectant 
 before them, with eyes staring blankly, and 
 in the expressive uncouth attitude of a naif 
 shamefaced American country boy. 
 
 At last Audouin came to the last page. 
 'Well, Professor' — he said inquiringly. 
 
 VOL. I. K 
 
I30 BABYLON 
 
 * Sometliing in them, isn't tlierc, eli ? This 
 boy'll make a painter, I surmise, won't he ? ' 
 
 The Professor answered only by opening 
 a small portfolio, and taking out a little amateur 
 water-colour drawing. ' Look here, my son,' 
 he said, holding it up before Hiram. ' Do you 
 tliink you could do tliat sort of thing ? ' 
 
 ' I guess I could,' Iliram answered, with 
 the unhesitating confidence of inexperienced 
 youth, * ef I'd on'y got the right sort of colours 
 to do it with.' 
 
 The Professor laughed heartily. ' Then 
 you shall have them, anyhow,' he said 
 promptly. ' Native talent shall not go un- 
 rewarded for the sake of a paltry box of 
 Prussian blue and burnt sienna. You shall 
 have tliem rio^ht off and no mistake. Where 
 do you live, Mr. MelibcBus ? ' 
 
 ' My name's Iliram,' the boy answered, a 
 little smartly, for he somehow felt the un- 
 known nickname was not entirely a courteous 
 
ENTER A iXElV EXG LANDER lu 
 
 one : ' Iliram Wintlirop, and I live jest t'otlu r 
 side of Muddy Creek deepo.' 
 
 ' Winthrop,' Audouin put in gaily. ' Win- 
 tlirop. I see it all now. Good old Masi^a- 
 chusetts name, Wintlirop : connected witli 
 the hub of the universe after all, it seems, in 
 spite of mere superficial appearances to the 
 contrary. But it's a pretty far cry to Muddy 
 Creek depot, my friend. You must be hun- 
 gry, ain't you ? Have you had your dinner ? ' 
 
 *No, I ain't.' 
 
 ' Then you sit down riglit there, my boy, 
 and pitch into those sandwiches.' 
 
 Hiram lost no time in obeying the season- 
 able invitation. 
 
 * How do you find them? ' asked Audouin, 
 
 ' Eeal elegant,' Hiram, answered. 
 
 ' Have some wine .^ ' 
 
 'I never tasted none,' the boy replied.- 
 'But it looks real nice. I don't mind ef I 
 investigate it.' 
 
 K 2 
 
 
132 BABYLON 
 
 Audouin poured him out a small cupful. 
 The boy took it with tlie ease of a freeborn 
 citizen, very unlike the awkwardness of an 
 English plough-boy — an awkwardness which 
 shows itself at once the last relic of oriiii^inal 
 serfdom. ' Tain't bad,' he said, tasting it. 
 * So that's wine, then ! Nothing so much to 
 go gettin' mad about either. I reckon the 
 colour's the best thing about it, any way.' 
 
 They waited till the boy had finished his 
 luncheon, and then Audouin began asking 
 him a great many questions, cunningly de- 
 vised questions to draw him out, about the 
 plants, and the animals, and the drawings, 
 and the neighbourhood, and himself, till at 
 last Hiram grew" quite friendly and confiden- 
 tial. He entered freely into the natural his- 
 tory and psychology of the deacon. He told 
 them all his store of self-acquired knowledge. 
 He omitted nothing, from the cuffs and repro- 
 bation to Sam Churchill and the bald-headed 
 
ENTER A AEIV EXGLANDER 133 
 
 eagles. At each fresh item Audouin's interest 
 I'ose higher and higher. ' Have you gone to 
 school, Iliram? ' he asked at last. 
 
 * Common school,' Hiram answered briellv. 
 
 ' Learnt much there ? ' 
 
 ' Eeadin', writin', spellin*, 'rithmetic, scrip- 
 tur', jography, an' hist'ry an' const'tooshun of 
 the United States,' Iliram replied, with tlie 
 sharp promptitude begotten of rote learning. 
 
 Audouin smiled a sardonic Massachusetts 
 smile. ' A numerous list of accomplishments, 
 indeed,' he answered, playing with his watch- 
 chain carelessly. ' The history of the United 
 States in particular must be intensely interest- 
 ing. But the Indians — you learnt about them 
 yourself, I suppose — that's so, isn't it, Hiram ? 
 What we learn of ourselves is always in the 
 end the best learning. Well, now look here, 
 my boy ; how'd you like to go to college, and 
 perhaps in time teach school yourself ? ' 
 
 ' I'd like that fust-rate,' Hiram answered ; 
 
134 BABYLON 
 
 ' but I tliink I'd like best of all to go to sea, 
 or to be a painter.' 
 
 * To be a painter,' Aiidouin murmured 
 softly ; ' to be a painter. Our great continent 
 hasn't produced any large crop of prominent 
 citizens who wanted to be painters. This one 
 might, after all, be worth trying. Well, 
 Hiram, do you think if I were to ask your 
 father, there's any chance that he might 
 possibly be willing to let you go to college ? ' 
 
 ' Nary chance at all,' Hiram answered 
 vigorously. ' Why, father couldn't spare me 
 from the peppermint an' the pertaters ; an' as 
 to goin' to college, why, it ain't in the runnin' 
 any way.' 
 
 ' Professor,' Audouin said, ' this boy in- 
 terests me. He's vital : he's aboriginal : he's 
 a young Anta3us fresh from the bare earth of 
 the ploughed fields and furrows. Let's till 
 him ; without cutting down all the trees, let's 
 lay him out in park and woodland. I'll have 
 
ENTER A NEW ENGLANDER 135 
 
 a try, anyhow, with this terrible father of 
 yours, Hiram. Are you going home now ? ' 
 
 ' I reckon I must,' the boy answered with 
 a nod. ' He'll be mad enough with me as it 
 is for stopping away so long from him.' 
 
 ' You'll get a thrashing, I'm afraid, wlien 
 you go home ? ' 
 
 ' I guess that's jest the name of it.' 
 
 ' Professor,' Audouin said, rising resolutely, 
 ' tliis means business. We must see this tiling 
 right through immediately to the very conclu- 
 sion. The boy must not have his thrashing. 
 I'll £ro and see the father — beard the Geaui^a 
 County agriculturist in his very lair : dispute 
 his whelp with him : play lambent lightning 
 round him : save the young Antseus from sink- 
 iufT in the natural course of thinf]fs into one 
 more pickler of pork and contented devourer 
 of buttered buckwheat pancakes. There's a 
 spark in him somewhere : I'm going to try 
 whether I can manage to blow it up into a 
 full-fed flame.' 
 
136 BABYLON 
 
 CHAPTER YII. 
 
 THE DEACON FALTERS. 
 
 Boston has worn itself out. The artificial 
 centre of an unnatural sickly exotic culture 
 ever alien to the American soil, it has gone on 
 studying, criticising, analysing, till all the 
 vigour and spontaneity it may ever have pos- 
 sessed has utterly died out of it from pure 
 inanition. The Nemesis of sterility has fallen 
 upon its head in the second generation. It 
 has cultivated men, fastidious critics, receptive 
 and appreciative intellects by the thousand ; 
 but of thinkers, workers, originalities, hardly 
 now a single one. 
 
 Lothrop Audouin was the very embodi- 
 ment of the discontent and mocking intellectual 
 
THE DEACON FALTERS 137 
 
 nihilism begotten of this purely critical un- 
 originative attitude. Eeaction against Ameri- 
 can materialism was the mainspring of his 
 inner being. He felt himself out of harmony 
 with the palace cars on the New York Central 
 Eailroad ; jarring and conflicting with the 
 big saloons of the Windsor Hotel ; unappreci- 
 ative of the advertising enterprise on the 
 rocks of the Hudson Eiver ; at war with 
 mammoth concerns, gigantic newspapers, Presi- 
 dential booms, State legislatures, pop corn, 
 saw mills, utilisation of water power, and all 
 the other component elements of the great 
 American civilisation. Therefore, being hap- 
 pily endowed by fate and his ancestors with a 
 moderate competence, even as moderate com- 
 petences go on the other side of the Atlantic, 
 he had fled from Boston and thv*^ world to take 
 refuge in the woods and the marshes. For 
 some years he had hidden himself in the 
 western hill district of Massachusetts ; but 
 
138 BABYLON 
 
 being dri 7en tlience by the march of intellect 
 (enthroned on a steam plough), he had just re- 
 moved to a new cottage on the shore of 
 Muddy Creek, not far from its entry into Lake 
 Ontario. There he lived a solitary life, 
 watchim? the birds and beasts and insects, 
 sketching the trees and shrubs and flowers, 
 and shunning for the most part liis fellow- 
 man, save only his friend, tlie distinguished 
 ornithologist. Professor Ezra P. Hipkiss, of 
 Harvard College, Massachusetts. 
 
 The Professor had left them, intending to 
 return home by himself ; and Audouin walked 
 back alone with tlie boy, noticing at every 
 step his sharp appreciation of all the natural 
 signs and landmarks around him. At last a 
 sudden thought seemed to strike Hiram. He 
 drew back a second in momentary hesitation. 
 ' Say,' he said falteringly, ' you ain't one of 
 Father Noyes's crowd at Oneida, are you ? ' 
 
 Audouin smiled half contemptuously. 
 
THE DEACON FALTERS 139 
 
 Father Noyes is a New Haven fanatic who 
 has established an Agapemone of his own in 
 northern New York ; and to Hiram, who had 
 heard the Oneida community spoken of with 
 vague horror by all the surrounding farmers 
 from his babyhood upward, the originally 
 separate and distinct notions of Father Noyes 
 and the Devil had so coalesced that even now 
 in his maturer years they were not com- 
 pletely differentiated or demarcated. 'No, 
 no,' Audouin answered reassuringly : ' I'm 
 not one of the Oneida people, my boy : I'm 
 quite free from any taint of that sort. I'm a 
 Boston man ; a Boston man, I said ; even in the 
 woods that sticks to me. " Patriee quis exul," 
 I think the line runs, " se quoque fugit." ' 
 
 Hiram didn't understand exactly what he 
 was driving at, but he went along satisfied at 
 least that his strange acquaintance, though he 
 spoke with tongues, was not directly connected 
 either with Father Noyes or the Devil. 
 
I40 BABYLON 
 
 By-and-by they reached the high-road, 
 and came at last opposite the bare gate that 
 gave access to Deacon Winthrop's yard. Au- 
 douin gazed about him drearily at the dreary 
 prospect. 'A very American view, Hiram,' 
 he said slowly : ' civilisation hard at work 
 here ; my boy, we must try to redeem you 
 out of it.' 
 
 Hiram looked up in the stranger's face 
 curiously. He had grown up among his 
 native surroundings so unquestioningly, after 
 the fashion of boys, that, though he knew it 
 was all very ugly, hopelessly and hideously 
 ugly, it would never even have occurred to 
 him to say so in so many words. He took it 
 for granted that all the world was of course 
 dull and uninteresting, except the woods, and 
 the weeds, and the marshes, and the vermin. 
 He expected always to find all man's handi- 
 craft a continuous course of ugiification, and 
 he never suspected that there could by any 
 
THE DEACON FALTERS 141 
 
 possibility be anything beautiful except un- 
 touched and unpolluted nature. If you had 
 told him about the wonders and glories of art, 
 he would simply have listened to you then in 
 mute incredulity. 
 
 Audouin lifted up the latch of the gate 
 and walked into the yard ; and the deacon, 
 seeing him approach, strode to meet him, in 
 no very amiable frame of mind, thinking it 
 probable that this was only another one of 
 Hiram's undesirable trapper acquaintances. 
 To say .the truth, the misapprehension was a 
 natural one. Audouin was coarsely dressed 
 in rough country clothes, and even when he 
 spoke a nature like the deacon's was hardly 
 of the sort to be much impressed by his quiet 
 cultivated manner. ' Wal, cap'n,' the deacon 
 said, coming towards them, ' what might you 
 be lookin' after this mornin', eh ? I presume 
 you air on the look-out for horses .^ ' 
 
 Audouin smiled and bowed with a dignity 
 
142 BABYLON 
 
 which suited strangely with his rude outer 
 aspect. ' Ko, sir,' he answered in his bland 
 voice. ' I'm not looking out for horses. I 
 met your son here — a very interesting boy — 
 down by the Creek, and I have come up here 
 with him because his individuality attracted me. 
 I wanted to have a talk with you about him.' 
 
 As it happened, to speak well of Hiram, 
 and before his face too (the scapegrace !), 
 wasn't exactly the surest path to the deacon's 
 esteem and affection. He coughed nervously, 
 and then inquired in his dry manner, ' Trapper? ' 
 
 ' No, not exactly a trapper,' Audouin re- 
 plied, smiling again faintly. The faint smile 
 and the ' exactly ' both misled and exasperated 
 the deacon. 
 
 ' Farmer, then ? ' he continued laconically, 
 after the fashion of the country. 
 
 'No, nor farmer either,' the New Eng- 
 lander answered in his soft voice. ' I am Mr. 
 Audouin, of Lakeside Cottage.' 
 
THE DEACON FALTERS 143 
 
 The deacon scanned him contemptuously 
 from head to foot. ' Oh, Mister Audouin,' lie 
 said significantly. ' Wal, Mister Audouin, so 
 you've bought up that thar ramshackle place 
 of Hitchcock's, hev you ? And what air you 
 goin' to dew with it naow you've got it? 
 Clear off the timber, I reckon, and set up 
 rafting.' . ' 
 
 ' God forbid,' Audouin replied hastily. 
 (The deacon frowned slightly at such obvious 
 profanity.) ' I've taken the place just because 
 of its very wildness, and I merely wish to live 
 in it and watch and sympathise with nature. 
 I see your son loves nature, too, and that has 
 formed a bond of union between us.' 
 
 'Wal,' the deacon murmured meditatively, 
 * that's all accordin' to taste. Hiram is my 
 own son, an' if the Lord has bin pleased to 
 afflict us in him, mother an' me ain't the ones 
 to say nothin' agin him to casual strangers, 
 anyway. But I don't want to part with him. 
 
144 BABYLON 
 
 Mister Audouin ; we ain't lookin' out for a 
 place for him yet. Thar's work enough for 
 him to do on this farm, I kin tell you, ef on'y 
 he'd do it. You wasn't in want of any butter 
 or eggs now, was you ? ' 
 
 ' No, Mr. Winthrop,' Audouin answered 
 seriously, leaning against the gate as he spoke. 
 ' I see you quite misunderstand me. Allow 
 me a moment to explain the position. I'm a 
 Boston man, a man of independent means, and 
 I've taken Lakeside because I wish to live 
 alone, away from a world in which I have 
 really very little interest. You may possibly 
 know, by name at least, my uncle. Senator 
 Lothrop, of Syracuse ; ' (that was a horrid bit 
 of snobbery, worthy almost of the old world, 
 Audouin thought to himself as he uttered it ; 
 but it was necessary if he was to do anything 
 for Hiram). ' Well, that's my card — some 
 use in civilisation after all — ^Lothrop Audouin ; 
 and I was wandering in the woods by the 
 
THE DEACON FALTERS 145 
 
 Creek tliis morning with my friend, Professor 
 Ilipkiss of Harvard, when I liappened to fall 
 in quite accidental with j^oiir son here. He 
 charmed us by his knowledge of nature all 
 around, and, indeed, I was so much interested 
 in him that I thought I would just step over 
 and have a little conversation with you about 
 his future.' 
 
 The deacon took the little bit of paste- 
 board suspiciously, and looked with slowly 
 melting increduHty at Audouin's rough dress 
 from head to foot. Even upon his dense, 
 coarse, materiahsed mind the truth bcfran to 
 
 CI/ 
 
 dawn slowly that he was deahng with a verit- 
 able gentleman. ' Wal, Mr. Audouin,' he said, 
 this time without the ironical emphasis upon 
 the 'Mister,' 'what do yer want to dew with 
 the boy, eh, sir ? I don't see as I kin spare 
 him ; 'pears to me, ef he's goin anywhar, he 
 may as well go to a good farmer's.' 
 
 ' You mistake me still,' Audouin went on. 
 
 VOL. I. L 
 
146 BABYLON 
 
 ' My meaning is this. Your son has talked to 
 tlie Professor and myself, and has shown us 
 some of his sketches.' The deacon nodded 
 ominously. ' Now, his conversation is so in- 
 telligent and his drawings so clever, that we 
 hotli think you ought to make an effort to give 
 Iiim a good education. He would well repay 
 it. We have both a considerable influence in 
 educational quarters, and we w^ould willingly 
 exert it for his benefit.' 
 
 The deacon opened his eyes with astonish- 
 ment. That lad intelligent? Why, he was 
 no judge at all of a bullock, and he knew 
 scarcely anythin' more about fall wheat 'n a 
 greenliorn that might hev kem out from 
 Ireland by the last steamer. However, he 
 contented himself upon that head with smiling 
 sardonically, and muttered half to himself, 
 ' Edoocation ; edoocational influence ; not 
 with members of the Hopkinsite connection, I 
 reckon.' 
 
THE DEACON FALTERS 147 
 
 Audouin carefully checked the smile tliat 
 threatened to pull up the corners of his deli- 
 cate mouth. He was beginning to understand 
 now what manner of man he had got to deal 
 with, and for Hiram's sake he was determined 
 to be patient. Fancy such a lad living al- 
 ways exposed to the caprices of such a father ! 
 ' No,' he said gravely, ' not with tlie Hopkin- 
 sitcs, but with the Congregationalists and 
 others, where your boy would not be inter- 
 fered with in his religious convictions.' 
 
 ''Tain't entirely satisfactory,' the deacon 
 continued. ' Considei* my persition as one set 
 in authority, as it were, in the Hopkinsite con- 
 nection. Hiram ain't bin nowhar so far, 
 'ceptin' to common school, an' I dunno as I 
 hev made up my mind ever to send him any- 
 whar else. Boys loses a lot o' time over this 
 here edoocation. But ef I was to, I guess I 
 should send him to Bethabara Seminarv. We 
 hev a seminary of our own, sir — we of the 
 
 l2 
 
14S BABYLON 
 
 ]]elievin' Church, commonly known as the 
 Ilopkinsite connection — at Athens in Madison 
 County, wliich we call Bethabara, because we 
 surmise it's the on'y place in America wliar 
 tlie Gospel is taught on thorough-goin' Baptist 
 principles. We air not only for immersion as 
 agin sprinklin', mister, but also for scriptooral 
 Innnersion in runnin' water as agin the lax 
 modern practice r)f or'nary immersion in tanks 
 or reservoyers. That's why we call our semi- 
 nary Bethabara — Athens bein' sitooated on 
 the Musk-rat river close above its junction 
 witli the Jordan ; an' that's why, ef I was 
 goin' to send Iliram anywhar, I sliould send 
 him wliar he could hear tlie Gospel expounded 
 accordin' to the expositions an' opinions of 
 Franklin P. Hopkins, of Massachusetts, wliich 
 air the correck ones.' 
 
 ' This question will take a little time to 
 tlirash out,' Audouin answered with unruffled 
 gravity. 'May I ask, deacon, whether you 
 
THE DEACON FALTERS 149 
 
 will courteously permit me to take a chair in 
 your house and talk it over fully with you ? ' 
 
 'Why, certainly,' the deacon answered 
 with a doubtful look that clearly belied his 
 spoken w^ords. ' Hiram, you jest go an' drive 
 up the cows, sonny, an' mind you put up 
 the fence behind you, jest the same as you find 
 
 it; 
 
 They went together into the dreary living- 
 room, a room such as Audouin had seen in 
 duplicate ten thousand times before, with a 
 bare wooden floor, bare walls, a wliite pine 
 table, a rocking-chair, a bunk, some cane seats, 
 a stove, and a cheap lithograph of a vacant- 
 looking gentleman in a bag-wig and loose 
 collar, whom an inscription surmounted by a 
 spread eagle declared largely to have been first 
 in war, first in peace, and first in the hearts of 
 his countrymen. (Lithographs of tlie sort are 
 common in American farmhouses, and arci 
 understood to be posthumous libels on the in- 
 
ISO BABYLON 
 
 telligence and personal appearance of George 
 Washington.) Audouin seated himself humbly 
 on the bunk, and the deacon took his accus- 
 tomed place in the rocking-chair, where he 
 continued to sway himself violently to and fro 
 during the whole interview. 
 
 Audouin began by pleading hard for edu- 
 cation for Hiram, and suggesting, as delicately 
 as he was able, that if pecuniary difficulties 
 barred the way, they might perhaps be easily 
 smoothed over. (As a matter of fact, he 
 would willingly have given freely of that dirty 
 paper, stamped with the treasury stamp, that 
 they call money, to free such a lad as Hiram 
 Winthrop from the curse of that material civil- 
 isation that they both so cordially detested.) 
 He praised Hiram's intelhgence and his 
 wonderful talent for drawing : spoke of the 
 wrongfulness of not allowing full play to his 
 God-given faculties : and even condescended 
 to point out that Hiram educated would prob- 
 
THE DEA CON FAL TERS 1 5 1 
 
 ably make a much larger fortune (ugh ! how 
 he shuddered over it) than Hiram set to do tlie 
 drudgery of a farm which he hated and always 
 would hate. The deacon listened, half-wratli- 
 ful ; such open aiding and abetting of sinful 
 rebelliousness and repining was almost too 
 much for him ; his only consolation was tliat 
 Hiram wasn't along to listen to it all and drink 
 in more unfilial sentiments from it. 
 
 But Audouin soon made one convert at 
 least. Mrs. Winthrop, with her hard unlovable 
 face, sat silently listening beside the stove, 
 and picking over the potatoes for the spring 
 planting. In her shrivelled mother's heart, 
 she had always been proud of Hiiam ; proud 
 even of his stubbornness and rebellion, whicli 
 in some dim, half-unconscious fashion she 
 vaguely knew to be really a higher, nobler sort 
 of thing at bottom than the deacon's stern, 
 unbending fidelity to the principles of Solomon 
 and the Hopkinsite Confession. Somewhere 
 
152 BABYLON 
 
 away down in tlie dark unfatliomed depths of 
 Mehitabel Winthrop's stunted personality there 
 lay a certain stifled, undeveloped, long-since- 
 smothered germ of human romance and femi- 
 nine sympathy^ which had blossomed out in 
 Iliram into true love of art and of nature. 
 Deadened as it was in her by the cruel toilsome 
 life of Muddy Creek, with its endless round of 
 dull monotonous labour, as well as by the 
 crushing defeat experienced by all her girlish 
 ideals in the awful reality of the married state 
 with Zephaniah Winthrop, the deacon's wife 
 Still retained in some half-buried corner of her 
 soul a little smouldering spark of the divine 
 fire which enabled her in a doubtful half- 
 frightened fashion to sympathise with Iliram. 
 It was very wrong and weak of her, she knew : 
 father was right, and Iliram was a no-account, 
 idle loiterer : but still, when lie spoke up to 
 fatlier, to his very face, about his novel-reading, 
 and his birds-nesting, and his drawing, Mrs. 
 
THE DEACON FALTERS 153 
 
 Wintlirop was somehow aware of a sneaking 
 admiration and pride in him which she never 
 felt towards the deacon, even during his most 
 effective and unctuous exhortation. And now, 
 wlien she heard Audouin praising and speak- 
 ing well of her boy for those very- things that 
 the deacon despised and rejected, she felt that 
 here was somebody else who could appre- 
 ciate Hiram, and that perhaps, after all, her 
 own instinct had not in the end entirely misled 
 her. 
 
 ' Zeph,' she said at last — it was many 
 years since she had called him ' Zeph ' 
 habitually, instead of ' Father ' or ' Deacon ' 
 — ' Zeph, I think we might manage to send 
 Hiram to colle<]je.' 
 
 Tlie deacon started. Et tit, Brute ! This 
 was really almost too much for him. He 
 began to wonder whether the universe was 
 turned upside down, and all the powers that 
 be were hereafter to be ranjjed on the side 
 
154 BABYLOA 
 
 of rebelliousness and opposition. To say the 
 truth, his godly horror was not altogetlier 
 feigned. According to his lights, his dusky 
 and feeble lights, the deacon wished and 
 believed himself to be a good father. He 
 held it his clear duty, as fLet forth in his 
 reading of the prophets and apostles, to 
 knock this idle nonsense out of Hiram, and 
 train him up in the way he should go, to be 
 a respectable corn-raising farmer and shining 
 light of the Hopkinsite connection. These 
 habits of hunting 'coons and making pictures 
 of rattlesnakes, into which the boy had 
 lapsed, were utterly abhorrent to the 
 deacon's mind as idle, loitering, vagabond 
 ways, deserving only of severe castigation 
 His reading of English classics appeared as 
 a crime only one degree less heinous than 
 frequenting taverns, playing cards, or break- 
 ing the Sabbath. The boy was a bad boy, 
 a hopelessly bad boy, given him as a thorn 
 
THE DEACON FALTERS 155 
 
 in the flesh to prevent spiritual boasting : 
 on that hypothesis alone could the deacon 
 account for such a son of perdition being 
 born of such believing and on the whole (as 
 poor worms go) extremely creditable parents. 
 And now, here was this fine-spoken, 
 incomprehensible Boston critter, who had 
 took that ramshackle place of Hitchcock's, 
 and didn't even mean to farm it — here was 
 this unaccountable phenomenon of a man 
 positively interested in and pleased with 
 Hiram, just because of these very self-same 
 coon-hunting, snake-drawing, vagabond pro- 
 clivities. The Deacon's self-love and self- 
 respect were deeply wounded. Audouin 
 liad already been talking with the boy : no 
 doubt he had set him even more agin his 
 own father than ever. No doubt he had 
 told Hiram that there was something fine 
 in his heathenish love for Injun tommy- 
 hawks, in his Bohemian longings for inter- 
 
156 BABYLON 
 
 course witli ungodly trappers (men to whom 
 tlie Sabbath was absolutely indifTerent), in 
 liis wicked yearning after Pickwick's Papers, 
 and the Complete Dramatic Works of 
 William Wakefield. The deacon couldn't 
 bear to stultify himself after all, by sending 
 Iliram to school at the request of this 
 favourer of rebellion, this vile instigator of 
 revolt against paternal authority, this Ahitho- 
 phel who would lure on a foolish Absalom 
 with guileful counsel to his final destruction. 
 
 ' Wal, Het,' the Deacon said slowly, ' I 
 dunno about it. We must take time to con- 
 sider and to wrastle over it.' 
 
 But Audouin, now thoroughly in earnest, 
 his sense of plot-interest vividly aroused, 
 would hear of no delay, but that the ques- 
 tion must be settled that very evening. 
 He saw the deacon wouldn't entertain the 
 idea of Hiram being sent somewhere to pre- 
 pare for Yale or Harvard, where Audouin 
 
THE DEACON FALTERS 157 
 
 would have liked him to <.^o : and so, witli a 
 diplomatic cleverness which tlie deacon, if lie 
 could liave read his visitor's mind, would 
 doubtless have characterised as devihsh, he 
 determined to shift his ground, and beg only 
 that Iliram miizlit be sent to Betliabara. In 
 a year or two, he said to himself, the boy 
 would be older and would have a mind of 
 his own ; and then it would be possible, lie 
 tliought, to send him to some college where 
 his intellectual and artistic nature might 
 have freer development tlian at the Hopkin- 
 site Seminary. Bit by bit, the Deacon gave 
 way : he couldn't as a consistent church 
 member and a father with the highest 
 interests of his son at heart, refuse to let 
 him go to Betliabara, when a mere stranger 
 declared he saw in him signs of talent. He 
 yielded imgraciously at last, and told Audouin 
 he wouldn't stand in the way of the boy's 
 receivin' a good edoocation, purvided alius it 
 
158 BABYLON 
 
 wa'n't contrary to the principles of Franklin 
 P. no])kins. 
 
 ' Very well,' Audouin said with a sigh of 
 relief. ' I'll write and inquire about the 
 matter myself tliis very evening.' 
 
 ' Address the Secatary,' Mr. Winthrop put 
 in officially, 'Betliabara Seminary, Athens, N.Y.' 
 
 Audouin made a note in his memorandum 
 book of the incongruous address with a stifled 
 sigh. 
 
 ' Mother,' the deacon said, 'call in Hiram.' 
 
 Mrs. Winthrop obeyed. Hiram, who liad 
 been loitering about the wood-shed in wonder 
 at what this long interview could portend, 
 slunk in timidly, and stood with his ragged 
 hat in his hand beside the table. 
 
 ' Hiram,' said the deacon, solemnly, with 
 the voice and air of a judge publicly address- 
 ing a condemned criminal, 'that gentleman 
 thar has been conversin' with mother an' me 
 relatively to the desirabihty of sendin' you to 
 
' THE DEACON FALTERS 159 
 
 ail cdoocational establishment, wliar you may, 
 p'raps, be cured from your present oncom- 
 monly idle and desultory proclivities. Though 
 you hev alius bin, as I confess with shame, 
 a most lazy lad, sonny, an' liev never done 
 anything to develop your nat'ral talents in 
 any way, that gentleman thar, who has 
 received a college edoocation hisself at one of 
 our leadin' American Universities, an' who is 
 competent by trainin' an' experience to form 
 an opinion upon the subjeck, believes that you 
 dew possess nat'ral talents of which you ain't 
 yet giv any open indication. 'Tain't for me 
 to say whether you may hev inherited them 
 or not : it is sufficient to point out that that 
 thar gentleman considers you might, with 
 industry and application, dew credit in time 
 to an cdoocational institoot. Such an institoot 
 of our own denomination is Bethabara Semi- 
 nary, located at Athens, New York. Thar 
 you would receive instruction not at variance 
 
i6o BABYLON 
 
 witli tlie religious tcarliiu' you licv cujoyod 
 in your own residcnco an' from your own 
 parents. An eminent Ilopkinsite pastor is 
 installed over tliat institoot as President ; I 
 allood to Elder Ezra W. Coffin, with whose 
 commentary on the propliet Ezekiel you air 
 already fiimiliar. Mother an' me has decided, 
 accordingly, that it will be for your good, 
 both temporal and sperritooal we hope, to enter 
 junior at Betliabara Seminary. That gentle- 
 man thar will make inquiries relatively to the 
 time when you kin be received into the insti- 
 tootion. We trust that wlien you he ventered 
 upon this noo stage in your career, you wdll 
 drop them habits of idleness an' insubordina 
 tion for which it lias been my dooty on a great 
 many occasions to correck you severely.' 
 
 Hiram stood there dazed and tremblincr, 
 listening Avitli blank amazement to the deacon's 
 exliortation (the same as if it was conference), 
 and only vaguely taking in the general idea 
 
THE DEACON FALTERS lOi 
 
 hat he was to be sent away shortly to some 
 school or other somewhere. Aiidouin saw at 
 a irlance the lad's timid hesitation, and added 
 kindly : 'Your father and mother tliink, Iliram, 
 that it would be well to send you to Beth- 
 abara ' (he suppressed his rising shudder), ' so 
 that you may have opportunities of learning 
 more about all the things in which you're 
 already so much interested. You'll like it, 
 my boy, I'm sure ; and you'll get on there, I 
 feel confident.' 
 
 The boy turned to him gratefully : ' That's 
 so, I guess,' he answered, with his awkward 
 country gratitude ; ' I shall like it better 'n 
 this, anyhow.' 
 
 The deacon frowned, but said nothing. 
 
 And so, before a week was over, Hiram 
 had said good-bye to his mother and Sam 
 Churchill, and was driving over in the deacon's 
 buggy to Muddy Creek deepo, ong rowt for 
 Athens, Madison County. 
 
 VOL. I. M 
 
i62 BABYLON 
 
 CHAPTER VITI. 
 
 WOOD AND STONE. 
 
 Colin Churchill's first delight at the wood- 
 carver's at Exeter was of the sort that a man 
 rarely feels twice in a lifetime. It was the joy 
 of first emancipation. Hitherto, Colin had 
 been only a servant, and had looked forward 
 to a life of service. Not despondently or 
 gloomily — for Colin was a son of the people, 
 and he accepted servitude as his natural 
 guerdon — but blankly and without eagerness 
 or repining. The children of the labouring 
 class expect to walk through life in their 
 humble way as through a set task, where a man 
 may indeed sometimes meet with stray episodes 
 of pleasure (especially that one human episode 
 of love-making), but where for the most part 
 
WOOD AND STONE 163 
 
 he will come across nothing whatsoever save 
 interminable rules and regulations. Now, 
 however, Colin felt himself free and liappy : 
 he had got a trade and a career before him, 
 and a trade and a career into which he could 
 throw himself with his utmost ardour. For 
 the first time in his life Colin began dimly to 
 feel that he too had something in him. How 
 could he possibly have got up an enthusiasm 
 about the vicar's boots, or about the proper 
 way to deliver letters on a silver salver ? But 
 when it came to carving roses and plums out 
 of solid mahogany or walnut, why, that of 
 course was a very different sort of matter. 
 
 Even at Wootton Mandeville, the boy had 
 somehow suspected, in his vague inarticulate 
 fashion (for the English agricultural class has 
 no tongue in which to express itself), that he 
 too had artistic taste and power. When he 
 heard the vicar talking to his friends about 
 paintings or engravings, he recognised that he 
 
 M 2 
 
1 64 BABYLON 
 
 could understand and appreciate all that the 
 vicar said ; nay, more : on two or three 
 occasions he had even boldly ventured to 
 conceive that he saw certain thinc^s in certain 
 pictures which the vicar, in his cold, dry, 
 formal fashion, with his coldly critical folding 
 eyeglass, could never have dreamt of or 
 imagined. In his heart of hearts, even then, 
 the boy somehow half-knew that the vicar saw 
 what tlie vicar was capable of seeing in each 
 work, but that he, Colin Churchill the page- 
 boy, penetrated into the very inmost feeling 
 and meaniuGj of the orimnal artist. So much, 
 in his inarticidate way, the boy had sometimes 
 surprised himself by dimly ftmcying ; but as 
 he had no language in which to speak such 
 things, even to himself, and only slowly learnt 
 tiu^it hmiTuaG^e afterwards, lie didn't foi'mulate 
 his ideas in his own head for a simile minute, 
 allowing them meiJy to rest there in the 
 inchoate form of shapeless feeling. 
 
WOOD AND STONE 165 
 
 Now, at Exeter, however, all tins was quite 
 altered. In the aisles of the great catlie- 
 dral, looking up at the many-coloured saints 
 in the windows, and listenino^ to the lon<? notes 
 of tlie booming organ, Colin Churchill's soul 
 awoke and knew itself. The gift that was in 
 him was not one to be used for himself alone, 
 a mere knack of painting pictures to decorate 
 the bare walls of his bedroom, or of making 
 clay images for little Minna to stick upon the 
 fisherman's wooden mantelshelf: it was a 
 talent admired and recognised of other people, 
 and to be employed for the noble and useful 
 purposes of carving pine-apple posts for 
 walnut bedsteads or conventional scrolls for 
 fashionable chimneypieces. To such great 
 heights did emancipated Colin Churchill now 
 aspire. Even his master allowed him to see 
 that he thought well of him. The boy was 
 given tools to work with, and instructed in 
 the use of them ; and he learnt how to employ 
 
i66 BABYLON 
 
 them SO fast that the master openly expressed 
 his surprise and satisfaction. In a very few 
 weeks CoUn was fairly through the first stage 
 of learning, and v/as set to produce bits 
 of scroll work from his own design, for a 
 wainscoted room in the house of a resident 
 canon. 
 
 For seven months Colin went on at his 
 wood-carving with unalloyed delight, and 
 wrote every week to tell Minna how much he 
 liked the work, and what beautiful wooden 
 things he would now be able to make her. 
 But at the end of those seven months, as luck 
 would have it (whether good luck or ill luck 
 the future must say), Colm chanced to fall in 
 one day with a strange companion. One 
 afternoon a heavy-looking Italian workman 
 dropped casually into the workshop where 
 Colin Churchill was busy carving. The boy 
 was cutting the leaves of a honeysuckle spray 
 from life for a long moulding. The Italian 
 
IVOOD AND STONE 167 
 
 watched him closely for a while, and then he 
 said in his liquid English : ' Zat is good. You 
 can carve, mai boy. You must come and see 
 me at mai place. I wawrk for Smeez and 
 Whatgood.' 
 
 Colin turned round, blushing with pleasure, 
 and looked at the Italian. He couldn't tell 
 why, but somehow in his heart instinctively, 
 he felt more proud of that workman's simple 
 expression of satisfaction at his work than he 
 had felt even when the vicar told him, in his 
 stiff, condescending, depreciatory manner, that 
 there was ' some merit in the bas-relief and 
 drawings.' Smith and Whatgood were stone- 
 cutters in the town, who did a large trade in 
 tombstones and ' monumental statuary.' No 
 doubt the Italian was one of their artistic 
 hands, and Colin took his praise with a flush 
 of sympathetic pleasure. It was handicrafts- 
 man speaking critically and appreciatively of 
 handicraftsman. 
 
i68 BABYLON 
 
 ' What's your name, sir ? ' he asked the 
 man, poUtely. 
 
 ' You could not pronounce it,' answered 
 the Italian, smiling and showing his two fine 
 rows of pure white teeth : ' Giuseppe Cicolari. 
 You cannot pronounce it.' 
 
 ' Giuseppe Cicolari,' the boy repeated 
 slowly, with the precise intonation the Italian 
 had given it, for he had the gift of vocal imi- 
 tation, like all men of Celtic blood (and the 
 Dorsetshire peasant is mainly Celtic). ' Giu- 
 seppe Cicolari ! a pretty name. Da you carve 
 figures for Smith and Whatgood ? ' 
 
 ' I am zair sculptor,' the Italian replied, 
 proudly. ' I carve for zem. I carve ze 
 afflicted widow, in ze classical costume, who 
 bends under ze weeping willow above ze oorn 
 containino^ ze ashes of her decease husband. 
 You have seen ze afflicted widow ? Ha, I 
 carve her. She is expensive. And I carve 
 ze basso-rilievo of Hope, gazing toward ze 
 
IVOOD AND STONE 169 
 
 sky, in expectation of ze glorious resurrection. 
 I carve also busts ; I carve ornamental figures. 
 Come and see me. You are a good workman. 
 I will show you mai carvings.' 
 
 Colin liked the Italian at first sight : there 
 was a pride in his calling about him which he 
 hadn't yet seen in English workmen — a certain 
 consciousness of artistic worth that pleased 
 and interested him. So the next Saturday 
 evening, when they left off work early, he 
 went round to see Cicolari. The Italian 
 smiled again warmly, as soon as he saw the 
 boy coming. ' So you have come,' he said, in 
 his slow Enghsh. ' Zat is well. If you will 
 be artist, you must watch ozzer artist. Ze 
 art does not come of himself, it is learnt.' 
 And he took Colin round to see his works of 
 statuary. 
 
 There was one little statuette among the 
 others, a small figure of Bacchus, ordered 
 from the clay by a Plymouth shipowner, that 
 
BABYLON 
 
 pleased Colin's fancy especially. It wasn't re- 
 motely like the Thorwaldsen at Wootton ; that 
 he felt intuitively ; it was a mere clever, 
 laughing, merry figure, executed with some 
 native facility, but with very little real deli- 
 cacy or depth of feeling. Still, Colin liked it, 
 and singled it out at once amongst all the 
 mass of afflicted widows and weeping children 
 as a real genuine living human figure. The 
 Italian was charmed at his selection. ' Ah, 
 yes,' he said ; ' zat is good. You have choosed 
 right. Zat is ze best of ze collection. I wawrk 
 at zat from life. It is from ze model.' And he 
 showed all his teeth again in his satisfaction. 
 
 Colin took a little of Cicolari's moist clay 
 up in his hand and began roughly moulding 
 it into the general shape of the little Bacchus. 
 He did it almost v\rithout thinking of what he 
 was doing, and talking all the time, or listen- 
 ing to the Italian's constant babble ; and 
 Cicolari, with a httle disdainful smile playing 
 
WOOD AND STONE 171 
 
 round the corners of his full hps, made no 
 outward comment, but only waited, with a 
 complacent sense of superiority, to see wliat 
 the English boy would make of his Bacchus. 
 Colin worked away at the familiar clay, and 
 seemed to delight in the sudden return to that 
 plastic and responsive material. For the first 
 time since he had been at Begg's wood-carving 
 works, it sudddenly struck him that clay was 
 an infinitely finer and more manageable 
 medium than that solid, soulless, intractable 
 wood. Soon, he threw himself unconsciously 
 into the task of moulding, and worked away 
 silently, listening to Cicolari's brief curt criti- 
 cisms of men and things, for hour after hour. 
 In the dehorht of findin^^ himself once more 
 eiiipending his energies upon his proper 
 material (for who can doubt that Colin 
 Churchill was a born sculptor ?) he forgot the 
 time — nay, he forgot time and space both, 
 and saw and felt nothing on earth but the 
 
172 BABYLON 
 
 iirtistic joy of beautiful workmanship. Cico- 
 lari stood by gossiping, ])ut said never a word 
 about tlie boy's ]5acclius. At first, indeed 
 (thougli he had admired Cohn's wood-work), 
 he expected to see a grotesque failure. Next, 
 as the work grew slowly under tlie boy's hands, 
 he made up his mind tliat he would produce 
 a mere stiff, lifeless, wooden copy. But by- 
 and-by, as Colui added touch after touch with 
 his quick deft fingers, tlie Italian's contempt 
 passed into surpiise, and his surprise into 
 wonder and admiration. At last, when the 
 boy had finished his rough sketch of the head 
 to his own satisfaction, Cicolari gasped a little, 
 open-mouthed, and then said slowly: 'You 
 have wawrked in ze clay before, inai friend ? ' 
 
 Colin nodded. 'Yes,' he said, 'just to 
 amuse myself, don't 'ee see ? Only just copyin 
 the figures at the vicarage.' 
 
 The Italian put his head on one side, and 
 then on another, and looked critically at the 
 
WOOD AND STOXK 173 
 
 ropy of the Bacclius. Of course it was only a 
 raw adumbration, as yet, of the head and bust, 
 but lie saw quite enon<xh to know at a glance 
 that it was the work of a born sculi)tor. The 
 vicar had half guessed as much in his dilet- 
 tante hesitating way ; but the workman, who 
 knew what modelling was, saw it indubitably at 
 once in that moist ]3acchus. ' Mai friend,' he 
 said decisively, through his closed teeth, ' you 
 must not stop at ze wood-carving. You must 
 go to Eome and be a sculptor. Yes. To 
 Iiome. To Eome. You must go to Eome 
 and be a sculptor.' 
 
 The man said it with just a tinge of 
 jealousy in his tone, for he saw that Colin 
 Churchill could not only copy but could also 
 improve upon his Bacchus. Still, he said it 
 so heartily and earnestly, that Colin, now well 
 awakened from his absorbing pursuit, laughed 
 a boyish laugh of mingled amusement and 
 exultation. ' To Eome ! ' he cried gaily. ' To 
 
174 BABYLON 
 
 Rome ! Why, Mr. Cicolari, that's where all 
 the pictures are, by Raffael and Michael 
 Aiigelo and tliem that I used to see at the 
 vicarage. Eome ! why isn't that the caj^ital 
 of Italy ? ' For he put together naively the 
 two facts about Rome which he had yet 
 gathered : the one from the vicar's study, and 
 the othsr from the meagre little geography 
 book in use at the Wootton national school. 
 
 ' Ze capital of Italy ! ' cried the Italian 
 contemptuously. 'Yes, mai friend, it is ze 
 capital of Italy. And it is somesing more zan 
 zat. I tell you, it is ze capital of art.' 
 
 Colin Churchill was old enough now to 
 understand the meaning of those words ; and 
 from that day onward, he never ceased to re- 
 member that the goal of all his final en- 
 deavours must be to reach Rome, the capital 
 of art, and then learn to be a sculptor. 
 
175 
 
 CHAPTEE IX. 
 
 CONSPIRACY. 
 
 After that, Colin went many days " and 
 evenings to see Cicolari : and the more he 
 talked with him and the more he watched 
 him, the more dissatisfied did the boy get 
 with the intractability of wood, and the more 
 enamoured did he become of the absolute 
 plasticity of clay and marble. How could he 
 ever have been such a fool, he thought to 
 himself, after having once known what he 
 could do with the kneaded mud of Wootton 
 lake, as to consent — nay, to consent gladly — 
 to work in stupid, hard, irresponsive walnut, 
 instead of in his own familiar, plastic, all- 
 potential material? Why, wood, do what 
 
176 BABYLON 
 
 you would to it, was wood still : clay, and 
 after clay marble, would answer immediately 
 to every mood and fancy and idea of the 
 restless changeable human personality. The 
 fact was the ten or twelve months Colin 
 Churchill had spent at Exeter had made a vast 
 difference to his unfolding intellect. He was 
 going to school now — to the university of 
 native art ; he was learning himself and his 
 own powers ; learning to pit his own views 
 and opinions against those of other and less 
 artistic workmen. Every day, though he 
 couldn't have told you so himself, the boy 
 was beginning to understand more and more 
 clearly that while the other artificers he saw 
 around him had decent training, he himself 
 had instinctive genius. He ought to have 
 employed that genius upon marble, and now 
 lie was throwing it away upon mere wood. 
 When one of the canons called in one day 
 patronisingly to praise his wooden roses, he 
 
CONSPIRACY 177 
 
 could scarcely even be civil to the good man : 
 praising his wooden roses, indeed, when he 
 saw that fellow Cicolari enoranped in modellintr 
 from the life a smiling Bacclius ! It was all 
 too atrocious ! 
 
 ' Mai friend,' Cicolari said to him one day, 
 as he was moulding a bit of clay in his new 
 acquaintance's room, into the counterfeit pre- 
 sentment of Cicolari's own bust, ' you should 
 not stop at ze wood wawrk. You have no 
 freedom in ze wood, no liberty, no motion. 
 It is all flat, stupid, ungraceful. You are fit 
 for better sings. Leave ze wood and come 
 here and wawrk wiz me.' 
 
 Cohn siglied deeply. ' I wish I could, Mr. 
 Cicolari,' he said eagerly. 'I was dehghted 
 with the wood at first, and now I'm disgusted 
 at 'un. But I can't leave 'un till I'm twenty- 
 one, because I'm bound apprentice to it, and 
 I've got to go on with the thing now whether 
 I like 'un or not.' 
 
 VOL. I. N 
 
178 BABYLON 
 
 Cicolari made a wry face, expressive of a 
 very nasty taste, and went through a little 
 pantomime of shrugs and open hand-lifting, 
 which did duty instead of several vigorous 
 sentences in the Italian language. Colin 
 readily translated the pantomime as meaning 
 in English : ' If I were you, I wouldn't trouble 
 myself about that for a moment.' 
 
 'But I can't help it,' Colin answered in 
 Iiis own spoken tongue ; ' I'm obliged to go 
 on whether I clioose to or not.' 
 
 Cicolari screwed himself up tightly, and 
 held his hands, palms outward, on a level 
 with his ears, in the most suggestive fashion. 
 ' England is a big country,' he observed enig- 
 matically. 
 
 Cohn's face flushed at the vague hint, but 
 he said nothing. 
 
 ' You see,' Cicolari went on quickly, ' you 
 are a boy yet. When you come to Exeter, 
 you are still a child. You come from your 
 
CONSPIRACY 179 
 
 own village, your country, and you know 
 nossing of ze wawrld. Zis master and ze 
 priest of your village between zem, zey bind 
 you down and make you sign a paper, in- 
 denture you call it, and promise to wawrk for 
 zem zese six years. It is ridiculous. When 
 you come here, you do not know your own 
 mind : you do not understand how it differs, 
 wood and marble. Now you are older : you 
 understand zat ; it is absurd zat you muss 
 stand by ze agreement.' 
 
 CoHn listened and took in the words 
 eagerly. ' But what can I do, Mr. Cicolari ? ' 
 he asked in suspense. ' Where can I go to ? ' 
 
 'England is a big country,' the Italian 
 repeated, with yet another speaking panto- 
 mime. ' Zere are plenty railways in England. 
 Zere is wawrk for clever lads in London. I 
 have /riends zere who carve in marble. Wliy 
 should you not go zere ? ' 
 
 ' Eun away ? ' Colin said, interrogatively. 
 
 21 A 
 
i8o BABYLON 
 
 * Run away, if you call it zat,' Cicolari 
 replied, bowing with liis curved hands in 
 ^ront of his breast, apologetically. ' Wliat 
 does it matter, ze name? Eun away if zey 
 will not let you go. I care not what you call 
 it. Zey try to keep you unjustly ; you try to 
 get away from zem. Zat is all.' 
 
 ' But I've got no money to go with,' Colin 
 cried, faltering 
 
 ' Zen get some,' Cicolari answered with a 
 shrusj. 
 
 Cohn thought a good deal about that 
 su£fgestion afterwards, and the more he 
 thought about it, the more did it seem to him 
 just and proper. A week or two later, little 
 Minna came over to Exeter for a trip, no- 
 minally to do a few errands of household shop- 
 ping, but really of course to see Colin ; and 
 to her the boy confided this difficult case of 
 conscience. Was the signature obtained from 
 him when he first came to Exeter binding on 
 
CONSPIRACY i8i 
 
 him now that he knew more fully his own 
 powers, and rights, and capabilities ? 
 
 Colin was by this time a handsome lad of 
 sixteen, while little black-eyed gipsy- faced 
 Minna, though two years younger than him, 
 was already budding out into a pretty woman, 
 as such dark types among the labouring 
 classes are apt to do with almost Oriental 
 precocity. 
 
 ' What should you do, Colin ? ' she repeated 
 warmly, as the boy propounded his question 
 in casuistry to her for her candid solution. 
 ' Why, just you go and do what Mr. Chicka- 
 leary tells you, won't 'ee, sure ? ' 
 
 ' But would it be right; Minna ? ' Colin 
 asked. 'You know I signed the agreement 
 with them.* 
 
 'What's the odds of that, stupid?' Minng, 
 answered composedly. 'That were a year 
 ao-o an' more, weren't it? You weren't no 
 more nor a boy then, Lord bless 'ee.' 
 
i82 BABYLON 
 
 'A year older nor you axe now, Minna,' 
 Colin objected. 
 
 ' Ah, but you didn't know nothing about 
 this sculpturin' then, you see, Colin. They 
 tooked advantage of you, that's what they did. 
 They hadn't ought to have done it.' 
 
 ' But I say, Minna, why shouldn't I wait 
 till I'm twenty-one, an' then take up the 
 marble business, eh ? ' 
 
 ' What rubbish the boy do talk,' Minna 
 cried, imperiously. ' Twenty-one indeed ! Talk 
 about twenty-one! Why, by that time you'd 
 'a' got fixed in the wood-carving, and couldn't 
 change your trade for marble or nothin'. If 
 you're goin' to change, you must do it 
 quickly.' 
 
 ' I hate the wood-carving,' Colin said, 
 gloomily. 
 
 ' Then run away from it and be done 
 wi it. 
 
 ' Eun away from it ! Oh, Minna, do you 
 
CONSPIRACY 183 
 
 know that they could catch mc and put me 
 in prison ? ' 
 
 * I'd go to prison an' laugh at 'em, sooner 
 nor I'd be bound for all those years against 
 my will,' Minna answered firmly. * Leastways 
 I would if I was a man, Cohn.' 
 
 That last touch was the straw that broke 
 the camel's back with poor Colin. ' I'll go,' 
 he cried ; ' but where on earth can I go to ? 
 It's no use goin' back to Wootton. Vicar 'd 
 help 'em to put me in prison.' 
 
 ' I'd like to see 'em,' Minna answered, with 
 her little eyes flashing. ' But why can't you 
 go to London like Mr. Chickaleary told you ? ' 
 
 'Cicolari, Minna,' Cohn said, correcting 
 her as gravely and distinctly as the vicar had 
 corrected Miss Eva. ' The Itahans call it 
 Cicolari. It's as well to be right whenever 
 we can, ain't it? Well, I can't go to 
 London, because I've got no money to go 
 with. I don't know as I could get any 
 
i84 BABYLON 
 
 M'ork wlien I got there ; but I know I can't 
 get tliere without any money ; so tliat 
 settles it.' 
 
 Minna rose from the seat in tlie Northern- 
 hay where tliey were spending CoUn's dinner- 
 hour together and walked slowly up and 
 down for a minute or two without speaking. 
 Then she said, with a little hesitation, 
 ' CoHn ! ' 
 
 ' Well, Minna.' 
 
 ' I could lend 'ee — lend you — nine shillin'.' 
 
 ' Nine shillings, Minna ! Why, where on 
 earth did you get 'em from ? ' 
 
 ' Saved 'em,' Minna answered laconically. 
 ' Fish father give me. In savin's bank.' 
 
 ' What for, Minna ? ' 
 
 Minna hesitated again, still more markedly. 
 Though she was only fourteen, there was a 
 good deal of the woman in her alread3^ 
 ' Because,' she said at last timidly,' ' I thought 
 it was best to begin savin' up all my money 
 
CONSPIRACY 185 
 
 now, in case — in case I should ever want to 
 furnish house if I was to get married.' 
 
 Country boy as he was, and child as she 
 was, Colin felt instinctively that it woulda't be 
 right of him to ask her anything furtlier about 
 the money. ' But, Minna,' he said, colouring 
 a little, ' even if I was to borrow it all from 
 you, all your nine shillings, it wouldn't be 
 enough to take me to London.' 
 
 Minna had a brilliant idea. ' Wait for a 
 'scursion,' she said simply. 
 
 Colin looked at her with admiring eyes. 
 ' Well, Minna,' he cried enthusiastically, ' you 
 are a bright one, and no mistake. That's a 
 good idea, that is. I should never have 
 thought of that. I could carve you, Minna, so 
 that a stranger anywhere 'd know who it was 
 the minute he set eyes on it ; but I should 
 never have thought of that^ I can tell you.' 
 
 Minna smiled and nodded, the dimple in 
 her brown cheek growing deeper, and the 
 
i86 BABYLON 
 
 light in her bright eye merrier than ever. 
 What a vivacious, expressive httle face it 
 was, really ! ' I'll tell you what I'd do,' 
 Minna said, with her sharp determination as 
 if she were fifty. ' I'd go first and ask Mr. 
 What's-his-name to let me ofi* the rest of my 
 'prenticeship. I'd tell him I didn't like wood, 
 an' I wanted to go an' make statues. Then if 
 he said to me : '* You go on with the wood- 
 carvin' an' don't bother me," I'd say : " No, I 
 don't do another stroke for you." Then if he 
 hit me, I'd leave ofi', I would, an' refuse to 
 work another turn till he was tired of it. But 
 if lie hardened his heart then, an' wouldn't let 
 'ee go still, I'd wait till there was a 'scursion, 
 I would, and then I'd run away to Mr. Chick- 
 o-lali-ree's friends in London. That's what I'd 
 do if I was you, Cohn.' 
 
 ' I will, Minna,' Colin faltered out ir reply ; 
 » I will' 
 
 ' Do 'ee, Colin,' Minna cried eagerly, catch- 
 
CONSPIRACY 187 
 
 met his arm. * Do 'ee, Colin, and I'll send 'ee 
 the money. Oh, CoUn, I know if you'd only 
 get 'prenticed to the sculpturin', you'd grow 
 to be as grand a man — as grand as parson.* 
 
 ' Minna,' Colin said, taking her hand in his 
 as if it were a lady's, ' thank you very much 
 for the money, an' if I have to work my 
 finorers to the bone for it, I'll send it back to 
 'ee.' 
 
 ' Don't 'ee do that, Colin, oh don't 'ee do 
 that,' Minna cried eagerly. ' I'd a great deal 
 rather for you to keep it.' 
 
 When Colin told Cicolari of this episode 
 (suppressing so much of it as he thought 
 proper), the Italian laughed and showed all 
 his teeth, and remarked with a smile that 
 Colin was very young yet. But he promised 
 staunchly to keep the boy's secret, and to give 
 him good introductions to his former employer 
 in London. 
 
 The die was cast now, and Colin Churchill 
 
1 88 BABYLON 
 
 resolutely determined in his own mind that he 
 would abide by it. So a few days later he 
 screwed up courage towards evening to go to 
 Mr. Begg, his ma sr, and for form's sake, at 
 least, ask to be let off the remainder of his 
 apprenticeship. ' At any rate,' he thought to 
 himself, ' I won't try running away till I've 
 tried in a straightforward way to get him to 
 cancel the indentures I signed when I didn't 
 really know what I was signing.' 
 
 Mr. Begg, that eminently respectable 
 Philistine cabinet-maker, opened his eyes in 
 blank astonishment when he actually heard 
 with his two waking ears this extraordinary 
 and unprecedented request. ' Let you off' 
 the rest of your time, Churchill ! ' he cried, 
 incredulously. ' Was that what you said, 
 boy ? Let — yoii — off* — the rest — of — your — 
 time .^ ' 
 
 ' Yes,' Colin answered, with almost dogged 
 firmness, ' I said that.' 
 
CONSPIRACY 189 
 
 ' x\-nd why, Churcliill ? ' Mr. Begg asked 
 again, lost in amazement. ' And why ? ' 
 
 ' Because, sir, I don't Uke wood-carvmg, 
 and I feel I could do a great deal better at 
 r\arble.' 
 
 Mr. Begg gazed up at liim (he was a little 
 man and Colin was tall) in utter surprise and 
 hesitation. ' You're not mad, are you, 
 Churchill ? ' he inquired cautiously. ' You're 
 not mad, are yoii ? ' 
 
 ' No, sir,' Colin replied stoutly ; ' but I 
 think I must have been when I signed them 
 indentures.' 
 
 The cabinet-maker went into his little 
 office, called Colin in, and then sat down in 
 a dazed manner to hear this stranjre thinir 
 out to its final termination. Colin burst fortli, 
 then, with his impassioned pleading, astonish- 
 ing himself by the flood of native eloquence 
 with which he entreated Mr. Begg to release 
 him from that horrid wood-carving, and let 
 
190 BABYLON 
 
 him follow his natural calling as a sculptor 
 in clay and marble. He didn't know what he 
 was doing when he signed the indentures ; he 
 had only just come fresh from his life as a 
 servant. Now he knew he had the makings 
 of a sculptor in him, and a sculptor alone he 
 wished to be. Mr. Begg regarded him askance 
 all the time, as a man might regard a stray 
 dog of doubtful sanity, but said never a single 
 word, for good or for evil. When Colin had 
 worn himself out with argument and exhorta- 
 tion, the cabinet-maker rose from his high 
 seat, unlocked his desk mechanically, and 
 took out of it his copy of Colin's indentures. 
 He read them all through carefully to himself, 
 and then he laid them down with the puzzled 
 air of one who meets for the first time in his 
 life with some inexplicable practical enigma. 
 ' This is very strange, Churchill,' he muttered, 
 coolly, half to himself ; ' this is really most 
 remarkable. There's no mistake or flaw of 
 
CONSPIRACY 191 
 
 any sort in those indentures ; nothing on earth 
 to invalidate 'em or throw doubt upon them 
 in any way. Your signature's there as clear 
 as daylight. I can't understand it. You've 
 always been a good workman — the best 
 apprentice, take you all round, I've ever 'ad 
 'ere ; and Canon Melville, he's praised your 
 carving most uncommonly, and so they all do. 
 A good, honest- working, industrious lad I've 
 always found you, one time with another ; not 
 such a great eater neither ; and I was very 
 well satisfied altogether with you till this very 
 evening. And now you come and say you 
 want to cancel your indentures, and go to the 
 stone-cutting ! Never heard anything so re- 
 markable in all my life ! Why, you're worth 
 more than a hundred poi^ids to me! I 
 couldn't let you go, not if you was to pay me 
 for it.' 
 
 Poor CoUn ! how he wished at that 
 moment that he had been idle, careless, 
 
192 BABYLON 
 
 voracious and good-for-nothing ! His very 
 virtues, it seemed, were turning against him. 
 lie liad thrown liimself so heartily into the 
 wood -carving at first that his master had 
 found him worth half a dozen common 
 apprentices. He fumbled in his pocket 
 nervously at little Minna's poor nine shillings 
 which he had changed that very morning 
 from her post-office order. 
 
 ' Can't you understand, Mr. Begg,' he said 
 at last, despairingly, ' that a fellow may change 
 his mind ? He may feel he can do one thing 
 a great deal better than another, and he may 
 have a lon<^injT to do that thinf? and nothincr 
 else, because he loves it ? ' 
 
 Mr. Begg gazed at him stolidly. ' Cabinet- 
 making 's a very good trade,' he said in his 
 dull methodical bourgeois tone ; ' and so, no 
 doubt, 's stone-cutting. But these indentures 
 'ere bind you down to the cabinet-making, 
 Churchill, and not to the sculpture business. 
 
CONSPIRACY 193 
 
 There's your signature to 'em ; and you've got 
 to stick to it. So that's the long and the 
 short of it.' 
 
 ' But it's not the end of it,' Colin answered 
 in his most stubborn voice (and your Dorset- 
 shire man can be very stubborn indeed when 
 he pleases) : ' if you don't let me off my in- 
 dentures as I ask you, you'll have to put up 
 in future with what you can get out of me.' 
 
 Next morning, when it was time to begin 
 work, Colin marched as usual into the work- 
 shop, and took up a gouge as if to continue 
 carving the panel on which he was engaged. 
 But instead of doing anything to the purpose, 
 he merely kept on chipping off small splinters 
 of wood in an aimless fashion for half an hour. 
 After a time, Mr. Begg observed him, and 
 came up to see what he was doing, but said 
 nothing. All through the day Colin went on 
 in the same manner, and from time to time 
 Mr. Begg looked in and found the work no 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
194 BABYLON 
 
 further advanced than it had been last even- 
 ing ; still, he said nothing. When the time 
 came to shut up the shop, Mr. Begg looked at 
 him sternly, but only uttered a single sentence : 
 ' We shall have the law of you, Churchill ; we 
 shall have the law of you.' 
 
 Colin stared him back stolidly and answered 
 never a word. 
 
 For a whole week, this passive duel between 
 the man and boy went on, and towards the 
 end of that time Mr. Begg began to grow 
 decidedly violent. He shook CoUn fiercely, 
 he boxed his ears, he even hit him once or 
 twice across the head with his wooden ruler ; 
 but Colin was absolutely immovable. To all 
 that Mr. Begg said the boy returned only one 
 answer : ' I mean to be a sculptor, not a wood- 
 carver.' Mr. Begg had never seen anything 
 like it. 
 
 ' The obstinacy and the temper of that 
 boy Churchill,' he said to his brother-trades- 
 
CONSPIRACY 195 
 
 men, ' is really something altogether incredu- 
 lous.' (It may be acutely conjectured that 
 he really meant to say ' incredible.') 
 
 Sunday came at last, and on Sundays 
 Colin went round to visit Cicolari. The 
 Italian listened sympathetically to the boy's 
 story, and then he said, ' I liave an idea 
 of mai own, mai friend. Let us both go to 
 London together. I have saved some money ; 
 I want to set up on mai own account as a 
 sculptor. You will go wiz me. I have 
 quarrelled wiz Smeez. We will start to- 
 morrow morning. I will pay you wages, 
 good wages, and you will wawrk for me, and 
 be mai assistant.' 
 
 'But I've only got nine shillings,' Colin 
 answered. 
 
 ' I will lend you the rest,' Cicolari said. 
 
 Colin closed with the offer forthwith, and 
 went home to Mr. Begg's trembling with ex- 
 citement. 
 
 2 
 
196 BABYLON 
 
 Early next morning, he tied up his clothes 
 in his handkerchief, crept downstairs noise- 
 lessly and let himself out by the backdoor. 
 Then he ran without stopping all the way to 
 the St. David's station, and found Cicolari 
 waiting for him in the booking office. As the 
 engine steamed out of the station, Colin felt 
 that he was leaving slavery and wood-carving 
 behind him for ever, and was fairly on his 
 way to London, Rome, and a career as a 
 sculptor. 
 
 Mr. Begg, when he found that Colin was 
 really gone, didn't for a moment attempt 
 to follow him. It was no use, he said, to 
 throw good money after bad : the boy had 
 made up his mind not to work at wood- 
 carving ; he was as stubborn as a mule ; and 
 nothing on earth would ever make him again 
 into a good apprentice. So, though he 
 felt perfectly sure that that nasty foreigner 
 fellow had enticed away the boy for his own 
 
CONSPIRACY 197 
 
 purposes, he wouldn't attempt to bring him 
 back or take the trouble to have him 
 punished. After all, he reflected to himself 
 philosophically, as things had lately turned 
 out it was a good riddance of bad rubbish. 
 Besides, it would be rather an awkward thing 
 to come out before the magistrate that he 
 had hit the boy more than onc^ across the 
 head with a wooden ruler. 
 
 Two days later, it was known in Wootton 
 Mandeville that that lad o' Churchill's had 
 gone and broke his indentures and runned 
 away from Exeter along of a furrener chap o' 
 the name of Chickaleary. The vicar received 
 the news with the placid contentment of a 
 magnanimous man, who has done his duty 
 and has nothing to reproach himself with, but 
 who always told you so from the very be- 
 ginning. 'I quite expected it, Eva,' he said 
 loftily ; ' I fully expected it. Those Churchills 
 were always a bad radical lot, and this 
 
198 BABYLON 
 
 i3oy's just about tlie very worst among tlieni. 
 When 1 discovered his shglit taste for 
 (carving, I feared it was hardly right to en- 
 courage tlie lad in ideas above his station : 
 ])ut I was determined to give him a chance, 
 and now this is how he goes and repays us. 
 I did my best for him : very respectable man, 
 Begg, and well recommended by Canon Har- 
 bottlc. But the boy has no perseverance, no 
 application, no stability. Put him to one 
 thing, and he runs away at once and tries 
 to do another. Quite what I expected, quite 
 what I expected.' 
 
 'Perhaps,' Eva ventured to say sugges- 
 tively, ' if you'd sent him to a sculptor's in 
 London at first, uncle, he might have been 
 perfectly ready to stop there. But you see his 
 natural taste was for sculpture, not for wood- 
 carving ; and I'm not altogether surprised 
 myself to hear he should have left Exeter.' 
 
 The vicar put up his double eyeglass and 
 
CONSPIRACY 199 
 
 surveyed Eva from liead to foot, as though 
 she were some wild animal, with a stare of 
 mingled amazement and incredulity. * Well,' 
 he said slowly, opening the door to dress 
 for dinner. ' Upon my word ! What the 
 young people of this generation are coming 
 to is really more than I can answer for.* 
 
200 BABYLON 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 MINNA IMPROVES HERSELF. 
 
 Five years is a long slice out of a young 
 man's life, but the five years that Colin 
 Churchill spent with Cicolari in London were 
 of a sort that he need never have regretted ; 
 for though the work he learnt to do in the 
 Italian's little shop and studio in the Maryle- 
 bone Road was mainly self-taught, he found 
 Cicolari always sympathetic and anxious to 
 help him, and he had such opportunities of 
 study and improvement at the British 
 Museum, and the South Kensington, and the 
 great houses in the suburban counties, as he 
 could never have obtained in the artless wilds 
 of his native west country. It was a grand 
 
MINNA IMPROVES HER^^ELF 201 
 
 day for Colin, the day when he first entered 
 the smoky galleries in Great Russell Street 
 and feasted his eyes on those magnificent 
 Hellenic torsos, carved by tlie vivifying chisel 
 of Pheidias himself Cicolari was an easy 
 master : he had an ItaUan's love of art for art's 
 sake and he was proud of ' mai Englishman,* 
 as he used to call him ; the boy whom he had 
 himself discovered in the midst of a profoundly 
 inartistic race, and released from the petty 
 drudgery of an uncongenial vulgar calling. 
 He felt a genuine interest in Colin's success ; 
 so he allowed the boy as much time as possi- 
 ble for visiting the places where he could see 
 the finest works of art in England, and helped 
 him to see those which are usually locked up 
 in rich men's tasteless houses from the eyes 
 of all who would most appreciate them. 
 
 Colin's own taste and love for art, too, 
 were daily developing. He saw all that he 
 could see, and he read about all that he 
 
202 BABYLON 
 
 couldn't see, spending every penny of his 
 spare money (after he had repaid poor little 
 Minna's nine shillings) on books about sculp- 
 ture and painting ; and making frequent visits 
 to the reading-room and galleries at the great 
 Museum. Now and then, too, when the trade 
 in mourninf]^ widows was slack, when busts 
 were flat and statuettes far from lively, Cico- 
 lari would run down into the country with 
 him, and explore the artistic wonders of the 
 big houses. At Deepdene they could look at 
 Thorwaldsen's Jason and Canova's Venus : at 
 Knole they gazed upon Vandycks, and Eey- 
 nolds's, and Constables, and Gainsboroughs ; in 
 London itself they had leave to visit the 
 priceless art collections at Stafford House, and 
 half a dozen other great private galleries. So 
 Colin Churchill's mind expanded rapidly, in 
 the midst of the atmosphere it should natur- 
 ally have breathed. Not books alone, but 
 the mighty works of the mightiest workers, 
 
MINNA IMPROVES HERSELF 203 
 
 were the documents from which he spelt out 
 slowly his own artistic education. Later on, 
 men who met Colin Churchill at Eome — men 
 who had f]^one throu^^h the reo^ular dull 
 
 ODD 
 
 classical round of our universities — were as- 
 tonished to find that the Dorsetshire peasant- 
 sculptor, of whom they had heard so much, 
 was a widely cultivated and well-read man. 
 They expected to see an inspired boor wield- 
 ing a sculptor's mallet in a rude labourer's 
 hand : they were surprised to meet a hand- 
 some young man, of delicate features and 
 finely-stored mind, who talked about Here 
 and Aphrodite, and the nymphs who came to 
 visit the bound Prometheus, as if he had 
 known them personally and intimately all 
 his life long in their own remote Hellenic 
 dwelling places. 
 
 And indeed, though the university where 
 Colin Churchill took his degree with honours 
 was not one presided over by doctors in red 
 
204 BABYLON 
 
 hoods and proctors in velvet sleeves, one may 
 well doubt whether he did not penetrate 
 quite as deeply, after all, into tlie inmost 
 recesses of the great Hellenic genius as most 
 men who have learnt to write iambic trimeters 
 from well-trained composition masters, with 
 the most careful avoidance of that ugly long 
 syllable before the cretic in the two last feet, 
 to which the painstaking scholar attaches so 
 much undue importance. Do you think, my 
 good Mr. Dean, or excellent Senior Censor, 
 that a man cannot learn just as much about 
 the Athens of Pericles from the Elgin Marbles 
 as from a classical dictionary or a dog-eared 
 Thucydides ? Do you suppose that to havs 
 worked up the first six Iliads with a Liddell 
 and Scott brings you in the end so very much 
 nearer the heart and soul of the primitive 
 Achseans than to have studied with loving 
 care the vases in the British Museum, or 
 even to have followed with a sculptor's eye 
 
MINNA IMPROVES HERSELF 205 
 
 the exquisite imaginings of divine John Flax- 
 man ? Why, where do you suppose Flaxman 
 himself got his Homer from, except from the 
 very same source as poor, self-taught Colin 
 Churchill — Mr. Alexander Pope's correctly 
 colourless and ingenious travesty? Do you 
 really believe there is no understanding the 
 many-sided essentially artistic Greek idiosyn- 
 crasy except through the medium of the 
 twenty-four written signs from alpha to 
 omega ? Colin Churchill didn't believe so, at 
 least : and who that has seen his Alcestis, or 
 his Agamemnon and Clytemnestra, or his 
 Death of Antigone, can fail to admit that 
 they are in very truth the direct offshoots of 
 the Hellas of Sophocles, and j^schylus, and 
 Pheidias ? 
 
 All Colin Churchill's reading was, in its 
 way, sculpturesque. Of poetry, he loved 
 Milton better than Shakespeare. Shake- 
 speare is the painter's poet, Milton the sculp- 
 
2o6 BAB YLON 
 
 tor's ; and he wearied out his soul because he 
 could never rise in clay to his own evasive 
 mental image of the Miltonic Satan. He 
 read Shelley, too, most Greek of Englishmen, 
 and took more than one idea for future 
 statues from those statuesque tragedies and 
 poems. But best of all he loved ^^Eschylus, 
 whom he couldn't read in the original, to be 
 sure, but whom he followed through half a 
 dozen translations till he had read himself 
 into the very inmost spirit of the Agamemnon 
 and the Persai and the Prometheus. The 
 man who has fed his fancy on ^schylus, 
 Milton, and Shelley, and his eyes on Michael 
 Angelo, Thorwaldsen, and Flaxman, is not, 
 after all, wholly wanting in the elements of 
 the highest and purest culture. 
 
 Two years after Colin went to live at the 
 little workshop in the Marylebone Eoad, 
 another person came to swell the population 
 of the great metropolis by a unit, and to 
 
MINNA IMPROVES HERSELF 207 
 
 correspondingly diminish the dwindUng ac- 
 count at Wootton Mandeville. Minna Wroe 
 was now sixteen, and for a year past she had 
 been hving out at service as kitchen-maid at 
 the village doctor's. But Minna was an 
 ambitious small body, and had a soul above 
 dish-cloths. So she kept the precious nine 
 shillings that Colin had returned to her well 
 hoarded in her own little purse, and added to 
 them from time to time whatever sums she 
 could manaj^e to save from her small wages — 
 for wages are low in Dorsetshire, and white 
 caps cost money both for the buying and 
 washing, you may be certain. When her 
 sixteenth birthday had fairly come and gone 
 Minna gave notice to her mistress, and at the 
 end of her month started off to London, like 
 so many other young people of both sexes, to 
 seek her fortune. 
 
 ' Dear Colin,' she wrote to him a day or 
 two before from the doctor's at Wootton, ' I 
 
2o8 BABYLON 
 
 am coming up to London to look out for a 
 situation on Monday next, and I should be very 
 glad if you could meet me at Paddinton 
 Station at 6.30. I have not got a situation 
 but I hope soon to get one there is lots to be 
 had in London and has you are their I should 
 like to be in London. Please dear Cohn come 
 to meet me as I am going to Mrs. Woods of 
 Wootton till I get a situation to lodge with 
 love from all so no more at present from your 
 old Friend, Minna.' 
 
 Colin took the letter from the postman, as 
 he was working at the clay of a little bas- 
 relief for a mural tablet, and read it over 
 twice to himself with very mingled and un- 
 certain feelings. On the first reading he felt 
 only a glow of pleasure to think that little 
 Minna, his old playmate, would now be within 
 easy reach of him. Colin had never con- 
 sidered himself exactly in love with Minna 
 (he was only eighteen), and he had even 
 
MLXNA IMPROVES HERSELF 209 
 
 indulged (since the sad trutli must out) in a 
 passing flirtation with the young lady at the 
 open greengrocer's shop just round the 
 corner ; but he was very fond of Minna for 
 all that, and in an indefinite way he had 
 always felt as if she really belonged to him 
 far more than anybody else did. So his first 
 feeling was one of unmixed pleasure at the 
 prospect of having her to live so near him. 
 On the second reading, however, it did strike 
 even Colin, who was only just beginning his 
 own self-education in literary matters, that 
 the letter might have been better spelt and 
 worded and punctuated. He had been rising 
 in the social scale so gradually that, for the 
 first time in his life, he then felt as if Minna 
 were just one single level below him, intellec- 
 tually and educationally. 
 
 He pocketed the letter with a sHght sigh, 
 and went on moulding the drapery of St. 
 Mary Magdalene, after the design from a 
 
 VOL. 1. p 
 
210 BAD\LON 
 
 fresco in St. John Port Lateran. Would 
 Minna care at all about Flaxman, he wondered 
 to himself mutely ; would she interest herself 
 in that admirable repUca by Bartohni ; would 
 she understand his torso of Theseus, or his 
 copy in clay of the Florentine Boar, or his 
 rough sketch for a Cephalus and Aurora ? Or 
 would she be merely a London housemaid, 
 just hke all the girls he saw of a morning 
 cleaning the front door-steps in Harley Street, 
 and stopping to bandy vulgar chaff with the 
 postman, and the newspaper boy, and the 
 young policeman? Two years had made a 
 great deal of difierence, no doubt, to both of 
 them ; and Cohn wondered vaguely in his own 
 soul what Minna would think of him now, 
 and what he would think of Minna. 
 
 On Monday, he was down at the station true 
 to time, and waiting for the arrival of the 6.30 
 from Dorchester. As it drew up at the plat- 
 form, he moved quickly along the third-class 
 
MINNA IMPROVES HERSELF 211 
 
 carriages, on the look-out for anybody who 
 might answer to the memory of his Httle 
 Minna. Presently he saw her jump lightly, 
 as of old, from the carriage — a mignonne 
 little figure, with a dark, round, merry face, 
 and piercing black eyes as bright as diamonds. 
 He ran up to greet her with boyish awkward- 
 ness and bashful timidity. ' Why, Minna,' he 
 cried, ' you've grown into such a woman that 
 I'm afraid to kiss you ; but I'm very glad 
 indeed to see you.' 
 
 Minna drew herself up so as to look as 
 tall as possible, and answered with dignity : 
 * I should hope, Colin, you wouldn't want to 
 kiss me in any case here in the station. It 
 was very kind of you to come and meet me.' 
 
 CoHn observed at once that she spoke with 
 
 a good accent, and that her manner was, if 
 
 anything, decidedly less embarrassed than his 
 
 own. Indeed, as a rule, the young men of 
 
 the working classes, no matter how much 
 
 p 2 
 
212 BABYLON 
 
 intellectual or artistic power they may possess, 
 are far more shy, gauche, and awkward than 
 the young women of the same class, who 
 usually show instinctively a great deal of 
 natural refinement of manner. He was im- 
 mediately not a little reassured as to Minna's 
 present attainments. 
 
 ' I want to go to Mrs. Wood's,' Minna 
 said, as calmly as if she had been accustomed 
 to Paddington Station all her lifetime ; ' and 
 I've got two boxes ; how ought I to get 
 there ? ' 
 
 ' Where is Mrs. Wood's ? ' Colin asked. 
 
 ' At Dean Street, Marylebone.' 
 
 'Why, that's quite close to our place,' 
 Colin cried. ' Are they big boxes ? I could 
 carry 'em, maybe.' 
 
 'No, you couldn't carry them, Colin. 
 Why, what nonsense. It wouldn't be respect- 
 able.' 
 
 Cohn laughed, ' I should have done it at 
 
MINNA IMPROVES HERSELF 21 
 
 ^ I -? 
 
 Wootton, anyhow, Minna,' he answered ; ' and 
 a working stone-cutter needn't be ashamed ol 
 anytliing in the way of work, surely.' 
 
 ' But a sculptor 's got to keep up his posi- 
 tion,' Minna put in firmly. 
 
 Colin smiled again. Already he had x\ 
 nascent idea in his own head that even a 
 sculptor could not bemean himself greatly by 
 carrying a wooden box through the streets of 
 London for a lady — he was getting to believe 
 in the dignity of labour — but he didn't insist 
 upon this point with Minna ; for, young as he 
 was, he had a notion even then that the gospel 
 for men isn't always at the same time the 
 gospel for women. Even a good woman would 
 feel much less compunction against many 
 serious crimes than against trundlinoj a wheel- 
 barrow full of clean clothes up Eegent Street 
 of an afternoon in the height of the season. 
 
 So CoHn was for calling a porter with a 
 truck ; but even that modified measure of 
 
214 BABYLON 
 
 conveyance did not wholly suit Minna's aristo- 
 cratic fancy. ' Are they things cabs, CoUn ? ' 
 she asked quietly. 
 
 ' Those things are,' Colin answered with 
 a significant emphasis. Minna blushed a 
 trifle. 
 
 ' Oh, those things,' she repeated slowly ; 
 ' then I'll have one.' And in two minutes 
 more, CoHn, for the first time in his life, 
 found himself actually driving along the pubhc 
 streets in the inside of a hansom.. Why, you 
 imperious, extravagant little Minna, where on 
 earth are you going to find money for such 
 expenses as these in our toilsome, under-paid, 
 workyday London ? 
 
 When they reached Mrs. Wood's door, 
 CoUn, feeling that he must rise to the situa- 
 tion, pulled out his purse to pay for the 
 hant^om, but Minna waved him aside with a 
 dignified air of authority. ' No no,' she said, 
 ' that won't do ; take my purse, Cohn. I 
 
MINNA IMPROVES HERSELF 215 
 
 don't know how much to pay him, and like 
 enough he'd cheat me ; but you know the 
 ways in London.' 
 
 Cohn took the purse, and opened it. The 
 first compartment he opened contained some 
 silver, wrapped up in a scrap of tissue paper. 
 Oolm undid the paper and took out a shilling, 
 which he was going to hand the cabman, 
 when Minna laid her hand upon his arm and 
 suddenly checked him. 'No, no,' she said, 
 ' not that, Colin. From the other side, please, 
 will you ? ' 
 
 Colin looked at the contents of the little 
 paper once more, and rapidly counted it. It 
 was nine shillings. He caught Minna's eye at 
 the moment, and Minna coloured crimson. 
 Then CoHn knew at once what those nine 
 shillings were.; and why they were separately 
 wrapped in tissue paper. 
 
 He paid the cabman, from the other half, 
 and put the boxes inside Mrs. Wood's door 
 
 / 
 
2i6 BABYLON 
 
 way. ' And now may I kiss you, Minna ? ' he 
 asked, in the dark passage. 
 
 ' If you like, Colin,' Minna answered, turn- 
 ing up her full red lips and round face with 
 child-like innocence, 
 
 Colin Churchill kissed her : and when he 
 had kissed her once, he waited a minute, and 
 then he took her plump little face between 
 his own two hands and kissed her rather 
 harder a second time. Minna's face tingled a 
 little, but slie said nothing. 
 
 The very next morning Minna came round, 
 by Colin's invitation, to Cicolari's workshop. 
 Colin was busy at work moulding, and Minna 
 cast her eye around lightly as she entered on 
 all the busts and plaster casts that filled the 
 room. She advanced to meet him as if she 
 expected to be kissed, so Colin kissed her. 
 Then, with a rapid glance round the room, 
 her eye rested at last upon the Cephalus and 
 Aurora, and she went straight over to look at 
 
MINNA IMPROVES HERSELF 217 
 
 it with wondering eyes. ' Oh, Cohn,' she 
 cried, did you do that ? What a lovely 
 image ! ' 
 
 Cohn was pleased and flattered at once. 
 ' You like it, Minna ? ' he said. ' You really 
 hke it ? ' 
 
 Minna glanced carefully round the room 
 once more with her keen black eyes, and after 
 scanning every one of the plaster casts and 
 unfinished busts in a comprehensive survey, 
 answered unhesitatingly : ' I hke it best of 
 everything in the room, Colin, except the 
 image of the man witli the plate over 
 yonder.' 
 
 Colin smiled a smile of triumph. Minna 
 was not wholly lacking in taste, certainly; for 
 the Cephalus was the best of his compositions, 
 and the man with the plate was a plaster 
 copy of the Discobolus. ' You'll do, Minna,' 
 he said, patting her little black head with his 
 cleanest hand (to the imminent danger of the 
 
2i8 BABYLON 
 
 small hat with the red rose in it). * You'll do 
 yet, with a little coaching.' 
 
 Then Colin took her round the studio, as 
 Cicolari ambitiously called it, and explained 
 everything to her, and showed her plates of 
 the Venus of Milo, and the Apollo Belvedere, 
 and the Laocoon, and the Niobe, and several 
 other ladies and gentlemen with very long 
 names and no clothes to speak of, till poor 
 Minna began at last to be quite appalled at 
 the depth of his learning and quite frightened 
 at her own unquestioning countrified ignor- 
 ance. For as yet Minna had no idea that 
 there was anything much to learn in the 
 world except reading and writing, and the 
 art of cookery, and the proper use of the 
 English language. But when she heard Colin 
 chattering away so glibly to her about the 
 age of Pheidias, and the age of the Decadence, 
 and the sculptors of the B,enaissance, and the 
 absolute necessity of going to Eome, she began 
 
MINNA IMPROVES HERSELF 219 
 
 to conceive that perhaps CoUn in his own 
 heart might imagine she wasn't now good 
 enough for him ; which was a point of view 
 on the subject that had never before struck 
 the Dorsetshire fisherman's pretty black-eyed 
 little daughter. 
 
 By-and-by, Colin began to talk of herself 
 and her prospects ; and to ask whether she 
 was going to put herself down at a registry 
 office ; and last of all to allude deUcately to 
 the matter of the misspelt letter. ' You know, 
 Minna,' he said apologetically, feeling \ih 
 boyish awkwardness far more than ever, * I've 
 tried a lot to improve myself at Exeter, and 
 still more since I came to London. I've read 
 a great deal, and worked very hard, and now 
 I think I'm beginning to get on, and know 
 something, not only about art, but about 
 books as well. Now, I know you won't mind 
 my telling you, but that letter wasn't all 
 spelt right, or stopped right. You ought to 
 
220 "' BABYLON 
 
 be very particular, you know, about the stop- 
 ping and the spelling.' 
 
 Before he could say any more, Minna 
 looked full in his face and stopped him short 
 immediately. ' Cohn,' she said, ' don't say 
 another -word about it. I know what you 
 mean, and I'm going to attend to it. I never 
 felt it in my life till I came here this morning ; 
 but I feel it now, and I shall take care to alter 
 it.' She was a determined little body was 
 Minna ; and as she said those words, she 
 looked so thoroughly as if she meant them 
 that Colin dropped the subject at once and 
 never spoke to her again about it. 
 
 Just at that moment two customers came 
 to speak to Colin about a statuette he was 
 working at for them. It was an old gentleman 
 and a grand young lady. Minna stood aside 
 while they talked, and pretended to be looking 
 at Cephalus and Aurora with a critical eye, but 
 she was really listening with all her ears to the 
 
MINNA IMPROVES HERSELF, 221 
 
 conversation between Colin and the grand 
 young lady. She was a very grand young 
 lady, indeed, who talked very fine, and drawled 
 her vowels, and clipped her r's, and mangled 
 the Enghsh language hideously, and gave other 
 indubitable signs of the very best and highest 
 breeding : and Minna noticed almost with 
 dismay that she called Colin ' Mr. Churchill,' 
 and seemed to defer to all his opinions about 
 curves and contours and attitudes. ' You 
 have such lovely taste, you know, Mr. 
 Churchill,' the grand young lady said ; ' and 
 we want this copy to be as good as you can 
 make it, because it's for a very particular 
 friend of ours, who admired the original so 
 much at Eome last winter.' 
 
 Minna listened in awe and trembHng, and 
 felt in her heart just a faint twinge of feminine 
 jealousy to think that even such a grand 
 young lady should speak so flattering like to 
 our Colin. 
 
222 BABYLON 
 
 'And there's the Cephalus, Papa,' the 
 grand young lady went on. ' Isn't it beauti- 
 ful? I do hope some day, Mr. Churchill, 
 you'll get a commission for it in marble. If I 
 were rich enough, I'd commission it myself, 
 for I positively doat upon it. However, some- 
 body's sure to buy it some time or other, so 
 it's no use people like me longing to have it.* 
 
 Minna's heart rose, choking, into her 
 mouth, as she stood there flushed and silent. 
 
 When the grand young lady and her papa 
 were gone, Minna said good-bye a little hastily 
 to Colin, and shrank back, crying : ' No, no, 
 Colin,' when he tried to kiss her. Then she 
 ran in a hurry to Mrs. Wood's in Dean Street. 
 But though she was in a great haste to get 
 home (for her bright little eyes had tears 
 swimming in them), she stopped boldly at a 
 small bookseller's shop on the way, and in- 
 vested two whole shilUngs of her little hoard 
 in a valuable work bearing on its cover the 
 
MINNA IMPROVES HERSELF 223 
 
 title, ' The Polite Correspondent's Complete 
 Manual of Letter Writing.' ' He shall never 
 kiss me again,' she said to herself firmly, 
 ' until I can feel that I've made myself in 
 every way thoroughly fit for him.' 
 
 It wasn't a very exalted model of literary 
 composition, that Complete Manual of Letter 
 Writing, but at least its spelling and punctua- 
 tion were immaculate ; and for many months 
 to come after she had secured her place as 
 parlour-maid in an eminently creditable family 
 in Regent's Park, Minna sat herself down in 
 her own bedroom every evening, when work 
 was over, and deliberately endeavoured to per- 
 fect herself in those two elementary accom- 
 plishments by the use of the Polite Corre- 
 spondent's unconscious guide, philosopher, and 
 friend. First of all she read a whole letter 
 over carefully, observing every stop and every 
 spelling ; then she copied it out entire, word 
 for word, as well as she could recollect it, 
 
224 BABYLON 
 
 entirely from memory ; and finally she cor- 
 rected lier written copy by the printed version 
 in the Complete Manual, until she could tran- 
 scribe every letter in the entire volume with 
 perfect accuracy. It wasn't a very great 
 educational effort, perhaps, from the point of 
 view of advanced culture ; but to Minna Wroe 
 it was a beginning in self-improvement, and in 
 these matters above all others the first step is 
 everything 
 
i'i it:!:i'^''"i !i- •••• 
 
 *A begin?ii?tg tii self-improvement.' 
 
225 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 EDUCATIONAL ADVANTAGES. 
 
 And now, while Minna Wroe was waiting at 
 table in Eegent's Park, and while Colin 
 Churchill was modelling sepulchral images for 
 his Itahan master, Cicolari, how was our 
 other friend, Hiram Winthrop, employing his 
 time beyond the millpond ? 
 
 'Bethabara Seminary, at the time when 
 Hiram Winthrop, the eminent American 
 artist, was enrolled among its alumni ' (writes 
 one of his fellow-students), ' occupied a plain 
 but substantially built brick structure, com- 
 modiously located in the very centre of a 
 large cornfield, near the summit of a consider- 
 able eminence in Madison County, N.Y. It 
 
 VOL. I. ^ 
 
226 BABYLON 
 
 had been in operation close on three years 
 when young Winthrop matriculated there. 
 He secured quarters in a room with four 
 fellow-students, each of whom brought his 
 own dipper, plate, knife, fork, and other 
 essential requisites. Mr. Winthrop was 
 always of a sohtary, retiring character, with- 
 out much command of language, and not 
 given to attending the Debating Forum or 
 other public institutions of our academy. 
 Nor was he fond of the society of the lady 
 students, though one or two of them, and 
 notably the talented Miss Aimed a A. Stiles, 
 now a prominent teacher in a lyceum at 
 Smyrna, Mo., early detected his remarkable 
 gifts for pictorial art, and continually impor- 
 tuned him to take their portraits, no doubt 
 designing them for keepsakes to be given to 
 the more popular male students. Young 
 Winthrop always repelled such advances : 
 indeed, he was generally considered in the 
 
EDUCATIONAL ADVANTAGES 227 
 
 light of a boorish rustic ; and his singular 
 aversion towards the Hopkinsite connection 
 (in which he had nevertheless been raised by 
 that excellent man, his father, late Deacon 
 Zephaniah Winthrop, of Muddy Creek, N.Y.) 
 caused him to be somewhat disliked among 
 his college companions. His chief amusement 
 was to retire into the surrounding country, 
 oddly choosing for the purpose the parts 
 remotest from the roads and houses, and there 
 sketch the animated creation which seemed 
 always to possess a greater interest for his 
 mind than the persons or conversation of his 
 fellow- citizens. He had, indeed, iis facts 
 subsequently demonstrated, the isolation of a 
 superior individual. Winthrop remained at 
 Bethabara, so far as my memory serves me, 
 for two years only.' 
 
 Indeed, the Hopkinsite Seminary was not 
 exactly the sort of place fitted to suit the 
 peculiar tastes of Hiram Winthrop. The 
 
 a2 
 
228 BABYLON 
 
 boys and girls from the farms around had 
 hardly more sympathy with him than the 
 deacon himself. Yet, on the whole, in spite 
 of the drawbacks of his surroundings, Athens 
 was a perfect paradise to poor Hiram. This 
 is a universe of relativities : and compared 
 with life on the farm at Muddy Creek, life at 
 Bethabara Seminary was absolute freedom 
 and pure enjoyment to the solitary little 
 artist. Here, as soon as recitation was over, 
 he could wander out into the woods alone 
 (after he had shaken off the attentions of the 
 too sequacious Almeda), whenever he liked, 
 no man hindering. The country around was 
 wooded in places, and the scenery, like all 
 that in Madison County, was beautifully un- 
 dulating. Five miles along the leafy highroad 
 brought him to the banks of Cananagua Lake, 
 one of those immeasurable lovely sheets of 
 water that stud the surface of Western New 
 York for miles together; and there Hiram 
 
EDUCATIONAL ADVANTAGES 229 
 
 would sit down by the shore, and watch the 
 great divers disappearing suddenly beneath 
 the surface, and make little pictures of the 
 grey squirrels and the soldier-birds on the 
 margin of Cyrus Choke's 'Elements of the 
 Latin Language,' which he had brought out 
 with him, presumably for purposes of prepa- 
 ration against to-morrow's class-work. But 
 best of all there was a drawing- master at 
 Athens, and from him, by Audouin's special 
 arrangement, the boy took lessons twice a 
 week in perspective and the other technical 
 matters of his art — for, as to native ability, 
 Hiram was really far better fitted to teach the 
 teacher. Not a very great artist, that 
 struggling German drawing-master at Athens, 
 with his formal little directions of how to go 
 jig-jig for a pine-tree, and to-whee, whee, 
 whee, for an oak ; not a very great artist, to 
 be sure ; but still, a grand relief for Hiram to 
 discover that there were people in the world 
 
2jo BABYLON 
 
 who really cared about these foolish things, 
 and didn't utterly despise them though they 
 were so irrelevant to the truly important 
 questions of raising corn, and pork, and 
 potatoes. 
 
 The great joy and dehght of the term, 
 however, was Audcuin's periodical visit to his 
 little protege. Audouin at least was deter- 
 mined to let Hiram's individuality have fair 
 play. He regarded him as a brand plucked 
 from the burning of that corn-growing civili- 
 sation which he so cordially detested ; and he 
 had made up his own mind, rightly or 
 wrongly, that Hiram had genius, and that 
 that genius must be allowed freely to develop 
 itself. Hiram loved these quarterly visits 
 better than anything else in the whole 
 world, because Audouin was the one person 
 he had met in his entire hfe (except Sam 
 Churchill) who could really sympathise with 
 him. 
 
EDUCATIONAL ADVANTAGES 231 
 
 Two years after Hiram Winthrop went to 
 Bethabara, Audouin wrote to ask whether he 
 would come and spend a week or two at 
 Lakeside during the winter vacation. Hiram 
 cried when he read the letter ; so much plea- 
 sure seemed almost beyond the possibilities 
 of this world, and the deacon would surely 
 never consent ; but to his great surprise, the 
 deacon wrote back gruffly, yes ; and as soon 
 as term was finished, Hiram gladly took the 
 cars on the New York Central down to Nine 
 Mile Bottom, the depot for Lakeside. Audouin 
 was waiting to meet him at the depot, in a 
 neat little sleigh ; and they drove away gaily 
 to the jingUng music of the bells, in the 
 direction of Audouin's cottage. 
 
 'A severe artist, winter,' Audouin said, 
 glancing around him quickly over the frozen 
 fields. ' No longer the canvas and the colours, 
 but the pure white marble and the flowing 
 chisel. How the contours of the country 
 
232 BABYLON 
 
 soften with the snow, Hiram ; what a divine 
 cloak the winter clouds spread kindly over 
 the havoc man has wrought upon this dese- 
 crated landscape ! It was beautiful, once, I 
 believe, in its native woodland beauty ; and 
 it's beautiful even now when the white pall 
 comes down, so, to screen and cover its arti- 
 ficial nakedness. The true curse of Ham (and 
 worse) is upon us here ; we have laughed at 
 the shame of our mother earth.' 
 
 Hiram hardly understood him — he seldom 
 quite understood his friend — but he answered, 
 with a keen glance over the white snow, ' I 
 love the winter, Mr. Audouin ; but I appre- 
 hend I like the summer an' autumn best. 
 You should jest have seen the crimson and 
 gold on Cananagua Lake last fall; oh, my, 
 the colours on the trees ! nobody could ever 
 have painted 'em. I took out my paints an' 
 tried, but I wasn't anywhere like it, I can tell 
 you ; Mr. MooUer, he said he didn't b'heve 
 
EDUCATIONAL ADVANTAGES 233 
 
 Claude or Turner could ever have painted a 
 bit of Amurrican fall scenery.' 
 
 ' Mr. Mliller isn't a conclusive authority,' 
 Audouin answered gravely, removing his cigar 
 afi he spoke ; ' but on this occasion I surmise, 
 Hiram, he was probably not far from a correct 
 opinion. Still, Mr. Mliller won't do for you 
 any longer. The fact is, Hiram, sooner or 
 later you must go to Europe. There's no 
 teaching here good enough for you. I've 
 made up my mind that you must go to 
 Europe. Whether the deacon likes it or not, 
 you've got to go, and we must manage one 
 way or another.' 
 
 To Europe ! Hiram's brain reeled round at 
 the glorious, impossible notion. To Europe ! 
 Why, that was the wonderful romantic 
 country where Tom Jones ran away with 
 Ameha, where Mr. Tracy Tupman rode to 
 Ipswich on top of the mail-coach, where 
 Moses bought the gross of green spectacles 
 
234 BABYLON 
 
 from the plausible vagabond at the country 
 fair. Europe ! There were kings and princes 
 in Europe ; and cathedrals and castles ; and 
 bishops and soldiers ; ay, he could almost 
 believe, too, there were giants, ogres, ghosts, 
 and fairies. In Europe, Sam Wellers waited 
 at the wayside inns ; mysterious horsemen 
 issued darkling from arched castle gates ; 
 Jews cut pounds of flesh, Abyssinian fashion, 
 from the Hving breasts of Venetian ship- 
 owners ; and itinerant showmen wandered 
 about with Farley's waxworks across a 
 country haunted by masked highwaymen and 
 red-coated squires, who beat you half to death 
 for not telling them immediately which way 
 the hare ran. As such a phantasmagoria of 
 incongruous scenes did the mother continent 
 of the American race present itself in some 
 swimming panorama to Hiram's excited brain. 
 It was almost as though Aladdin and the one- 
 eyed calender had suddenly appeared to him 
 
EDUCATIONAL ADVANTAGES 235 
 
 in the familiar woods of Geauga County, and 
 invited him forthwith to take the cars for 
 Bagdad at the urgent personal request of the 
 good CaHph Haroun al Easchid. 
 
 The boy held his breath hard, and answered 
 in his self-restrained American manner, ' To 
 Europe, Mr. Audouin ! Well, I guess I should 
 appreciate that, consid'able.' 
 
 ' Yes, Hiram,' Audouin went on, ' I've 
 made my mind up to that. Sooner or later 
 you must go to Europe. But not just at once, 
 my boy. Not till you're about nineteen, I 
 should say ; it wouldn't do you so much good 
 till then. Meanwhile, we must put you to 
 some other school. Bethabara has done its 
 little best for you : you must go elsewhere, 
 meanwhile. I mean that you shall go to 
 some one of the eastern colleges, Yale if 
 possible.' 
 
 ' But what about father ? ' Hiram asked. 
 
 ' Your father must be made to do as I tel 
 
236 BABYLON 
 
 him. Look here, Hiram, the fact is this. 
 You're a boy whose individuahty must be 
 developed. The deacon mustn't be allowed 
 to prevent it. I've taken you in hand, and I 
 mean to see you through it. Look yonder, 
 my boy, at the edge of the ice there on the 
 creek ; look at the musquash sitting in the 
 sun on the brink of the open water eating a 
 clam, and the clamshells he has left strewed 
 along the shore and beach behind him. See 
 him drop in again and bring up another clam, 
 and stride sleek and shining from the water 
 on to his little chff of ice again. You and I 
 know that that sight is beautiful. You and 
 I know that it's the only thing on earth worth 
 living for — that power of seeing the beautiful 
 in art and nature — but how many people do 
 you suppose there are in all America that 
 would ever notice it? What percentage, 
 Hiram, of our great, free, intelHgent, demo- 
 cratic people, that sing their own praises daily 
 
EDUCATIONAL ADVANTAGES 237 
 
 with SO shrill a voice in their ten thousand 
 " Heralds," and " Tribunes," and " Courants," 
 and " Mirrors " ? How small a percentage, 
 Hiram ; how small a percentage ! ' 
 
 The boy coloured up crimson to the very- 
 roots of his shaggy hair. It was such a very 
 new point of view to him. He had always 
 known that he cared for these things towards 
 which all other boys and men were mere dull 
 materialistic Gallios ; but it had never before 
 occurred to him that his doing so was any 
 mark of a mental superiority on his part. 
 Eather had he thought that it betokened some 
 weakness or foolishness of his own nature, 
 for he wasn't like other boys ; and not to be 
 like other boys is treated so much as a crime 
 in junior circles that it almost seems like a 
 crime at last even to the culprit himself in 
 person. So Hiram coloured up with the 
 shame of a first discovery of his own better- 
 ness, and merely answered in the same quiet 
 
238 BABYLON 
 
 self-restrained fashion, ' I apprehend, Mr. 
 Audouin, there ain't many folks who pay 
 much attention to the pecooliarities of the 
 common American musk-rat.' 
 
 All the rest of the way home, Audouin 
 plied the boy with such subtle ilattery — not 
 meant as flattery, indeed, for Audouin was 
 incapable of guile ; if he erred, it was on the 
 side of too outspoken truthfulness : j^et, in 
 effect, his habit of speaking always as though 
 he and Hiram formed a class apart was really 
 flattery of the deepest sort to the boy's nature. 
 At last they drew up at a neat wooden cottage 
 in a small snow-covered glen, where the 
 circhng amphitheatre of spruce pines opened 
 out into a long sloping vista in front, and the 
 frozen arm of the great lake spread its limit- 
 less ice sheet beyond, away over in weird per- 
 spective toward the low unseen Canadian 
 shore. The boy uttered a little sharp cry of 
 delight at the exquisite prospect. Audouin 
 
EDUCATIONAL ADVANTAGES 239 
 
 noticed it with pleasure. * Well, Hiram,' he 
 said, ' here we are at last at my lodge in the 
 wilderness.' 
 
 ' I never saw anything in all my life,' 
 the b( )y answered truthfully, ' one-thousandth 
 part so beautiful.' 
 
 Audouin was pleased at the genuine tone 
 of the compliment. ' Yes, Hiram,' he said, 
 looking with a complacent smile down the 
 pine-clad glen toward the frozen lake, ' it 
 certainly does help to wash out Broad- 
 way.' 
 
 Hiram's three weeks at Lakeside Cottage 
 were indeed three weeks of unalloyed delight 
 to his eager, intelligent nature. There were 
 books there, books of the most delicious sort ; 
 Birds of America with coloured plates ; Flora 
 of New York State with endless figures ; 
 poems, novels, histories — Prescott's ' Peru,' 
 and Macaulay's ' England.' There were 
 works about the Indians, too ; works written 
 
240 BABYLON 
 
 by men who actually took a personal interest 
 in calumets and tomahawks. There were 
 pictures, books full of them ; pictures by 
 great painters, well engraved ; pictures, the 
 meaning of which Audouin explained to him 
 carefully, pointing out the peculiarities of 
 style in each, so far as the engravings could 
 reproduce them. Above all, there was 
 Audouin's own conversation, morning, noon 
 and night, as well as his friend the Professor's, 
 who was once more staying with him on a 
 visit. That was Hiram's first extended 
 glimpse of what a cultivated and refined life 
 could be made like, apart from the sordid, 
 squalid necessities of raising pork and beans 
 and Johnny cake. 
 
 Best of all, before Hiram left Lakeside, 
 Audouin had driven him over to the Deacon's 
 in his neat little sleigh, and had seriously dis- 
 cussed the question of his further education. 
 And the result of that interview was that 
 
EDUCATIONAL ADVANTAGES 241 
 
 Hiram was to return no more to Bethabara, 
 but (being now nearly sixteen) was to go 
 instead to tlie Eclectic Institute at Orange. 
 It was with great difficulty that this final 
 step was conquered, but conquered it was 
 at last, mainly by Audouin's masterful per- 
 sistence. 
 
 ' 'Tain't convenient for me, mister,' the 
 deacon said snappishly, ' to go on any longer 
 without the services of that thar boy. I 
 want him to home to help with the farm work. 
 He's progressing towards citizenship now, an' 
 I've invested quite a lot of capital in his 
 raisin', an' it's time I was beginnin' to see 
 some return upon it.' 
 
 'Quite true and very natural,' Audouin 
 answered with his diplomatic quickness. 
 'Still, you must consider the boy's future. 
 He won't cost you much, deacon. He's a 
 smart lad, and he can help himself a great 
 deal in the off seasons. There's a great call 
 
 VOL. I. R 
 
242 BABYLOA 
 
 for school-teachers in the winter, and coUesfe 
 students are much sought after.' 
 
 ' Wliat might be the annual expense to 
 an economical student ? ' asked the deacon 
 dubiously. 
 
 ' A hundred dollars a year,' Audouin re- 
 plied boldly. He murmured to himself that 
 whatever the difference might be between this 
 modest estimate and the actual truth, he 
 would pay it out of his own pocket. 
 
 The deacon gave way grudgingly at last, 
 and to tlie end neither he nor Hiram ever 
 knew that Hiram's three years at the Eclectic 
 Institute cost his unsuspected benefactor some 
 two hundred dollars annually. 
 
243 
 
 CHAPTEE XII. 
 
 AN ARTISTIC ENGAGEMENT. 
 
 Three years at Orange passed away quickly 
 enough, and Hiram enjoyed his time there far 
 better than he had done even in the sohtude 
 of Bethabara Seminary. He didn't work 
 very hard at the classics and mathematics, it 
 must be admitted : Professor Hazen com- 
 plained that his recitations in Plato were not 
 up to the mark, and that his Cicero was 
 seldom prepared with sufficient diligence : 
 but though in the dead languages his work 
 was most too bad, the Professor allowed tliat 
 in English literatoor he did well, and seemed 
 to reach out elastically with his faculties in 
 all directions. He spent very little time over 
 
 B 2 
 
244 BABYLON 
 
 liis books to be sure, but he caught the drift, 
 appropriated the kernel, and let the rest slide. 
 Fact was, he created his own culture. He 
 didn't debate in the lyceum, or mix much in 
 social gatherings of an evening (where the 
 female stoodents entertained the gentlemen 
 with tea, and Johnny cake, and crullers, and 
 improving conversation), but he walked a 
 great deal alone in the hills, and interested 
 himself with sketching, and the pursoot of 
 natural history. Still, he wasn't social ; so 
 much Professor Hazen was compelled by 
 candour to admit. When the entire strength 
 of the Eclectic Institoot went in carriages to 
 the annual grove-meeting at Eudolph, Hiram 
 Winthrop was usually conspicuous by his 
 absence. The lady stoodents fully expected 
 that a gentleman of such marked artistic and 
 rural proclivities would on such occasions be 
 the life and soul of the whole party : that he 
 would burst out occasionally into a rapturous 
 
AN ARTISTIC ENGAGEMENT 245 
 
 strain at the sight of an elegant bird, or a 
 traiHng vine, or a superb giant of the prim- 
 a3va] forest. They calculated confidently 
 on his reciting poetry appropriate to the 
 scene and the social occasion. But Hiram 
 generally stopped away altogether, which 
 operated considerable disappointment on the 
 ladies ; or if he went at all, accompanied the 
 junior stoodents in the refreshment waggon, 
 and scarcely contributed anything solid to 
 the general entertainment. In short, he was 
 a very bashful and retiring person, who didn't 
 amalgamate spontaneously or readily with 
 the prevalent tone of Ufe at the Eclectic 
 Institoot. 
 
 Nevertheless, in spite of the solitude, 
 Hiram Winthrop liked the Institute, and 
 often looked back afterwards upon the time 
 he had spent there as one of the happiest 
 portions of his life. He worked away hard 
 in all his spare moments at drawing and 
 
246 BABYLON 
 
 painting ; and some of the lady students still 
 retain some of his works of this period, which 
 they cherisli in small gilt frames upon the 
 parlour wall, as mementoes of their brief 
 acquaintance with a prominent American 
 artistic gentleman. Miss Almeda A. Stiles in 
 particular (who followed Hiram from Betha- 
 bara to Orange, where she graduated with 
 him in the class of 18 — ) keeps even now two 
 of his drawings in her rooms at the lyceum 
 at Smyrna, Mo. One of them represents a 
 large Europian bird, seated upon the bough 
 of a tree in winter ; it is obviously a copy 
 from a drawing-master's design : the other, 
 which is far finer and more original, is a 
 sketch of Chattawauga Falls, before the erec- 
 tion of the existing sawmills and other im- 
 provements. Hiram was singularly fond of 
 Chattawauga; but strange to say, from the 
 very first day that the erection of the saw- 
 mills was undertaken, he refused to go near 
 
AN ARTISTIC ENGAGEMENT 247 
 
 the spot, alleging no otlier reason for \\\^ 
 refusal except that he regarded these useful 
 institootions in the light of a positively 
 wicked desecration of the work of nature. 
 There was a general feeling at Orange that in 
 many respects young Winthrop's sentiments 
 and opinions were in fact painfully im- 
 American. 
 
 In the holidays — no, vacation — (one 
 mustn't apply European names to American 
 objects), Hiram found enough to do in 
 teaching school in remote country sections. 
 Nay, he even managed to save a little money 
 out of his earnings, which he put away to 
 help him on his grand project of going to 
 Europe — that dim, receding, but now far 
 more historical and less romantic Europe to- 
 wards which his hopes were always pointing. 
 Audouin would gladly have sent him on his 
 own account — Hiram knew that much well ; 
 for Audouin was comfortably rich, and he 
 
248 BABYLON 
 
 had taken a great fancy to his young protege. 
 But Hiram didn't want to spend his friend's 
 money if he could possibly help it : he had the 
 honest democratic feeling strong upon him, 
 that he would like to go to Europe by his 
 own earnings or not at all. So as soon as his 
 three years at Orange were over, he deter- 
 mined to go to Syracuse (not the Sicilian one, 
 but its namesake in New York State), and 
 start in business for the time being as a 
 draughtsman on the wood. He was drawn 
 to this scheme by an advertisement in the 
 ' Syracuse Daily Independent,' requiring a 
 smart hand at drawing for a large block- 
 engraving establishment in that city. 
 
 ' My dear Hiram,' Audouin exclaimed in 
 dismay, when his young friend told him of 
 his project, ' you really mustn't think of it. 
 At Syracuse, too ! why, what sort of work do 
 you conceive people would want done at 
 Syracuse ? Nothing but advertisement draw- 
 
AN ARTISTIC ENGAGEMENT 249 
 
 ings of factories for the covers of biscuit tins, 
 or flaring red and yellow fruits for the decor- 
 ation of canned peaches.' 
 
 ' Well, Mr. Audouin,' Hiram answered 
 with a smile, 'I guess I must go in for the 
 canned peaches, then, if nothing better offers. 
 I've got to earn enougli to take me across 
 to Europe, one way or the other ; — no, don't 
 say that now,' for he saw Audouin trying to 
 cut in impatiently with his ever friendly 
 offer of assistance : ' don't say that,' and he 
 clutched his friend's arm tightly. ' I know 
 you would. I know you would. But 1 can't 
 accept it. This thing has just got to be done 
 in the regular way of business or not at all ; 
 and what's more, Mr. Audouin^ I've just got 
 to go and do it.' - 
 
 'But, Hiram,' Audouin cried, half angrily, 
 ' I want you to go to Europe and learn to 
 paint splendid pictures, and make all America 
 proud of your talent. I found you out, and 
 
250 BABYLON 
 
 I've got a sort of proprietary interest in you ; 
 and just when I expect you to begin doing 
 something really great, you calmly propose to 
 go to Syracuse, and draw designs for canned 
 peaches ! You ought to consider your duty 
 to your country.' 
 
 'I'm very sorry, Mr. Audouin,' Hiram 
 answered with his accustomed gravity, ' if I 
 disappoint you personally ; but as for the rest 
 of America, I dare say the country'll manage 
 to hold on a year or two longer without my 
 pictures.' 
 
 So Hiram really went at last to Syracuse 
 (pronounced Sirrah-kyooze), and duly applied 
 for the place as draughtsman. The short boy 
 who showed him in to the office went off to 
 call one of the bosses. In a few minutes, the 
 boss in question entered, and in a quiet 
 American tone, with just a faint rehc of some 
 English country dialect flavouring it dimly in 
 the background, inquired if this was the 
 
AN ARTISTIC ENGAGEMENT 251 
 
 young man who had come about the drawnig. 
 ' For if so, mister,' he said with the true New 
 Yorker ring, 'just you step right back here 
 with me, will 'ee, a minute, and we'll settle 
 this Uttle bit of business right away, smart 
 and handy.' 
 
 Hiram knew the boss in a moment, in 
 spite of his altered voice ajid manner. ' Sam,' 
 he said, taking his hand warmly (for he 
 hadn't had so many friends in his lifetime that 
 he had forgotten how to be grateful to any 
 single one of them) : ' Sam, don't you re- 
 member me ? I'm Hiram Winthrop.' 
 
 Sam's whole voice and manner changed in 
 a moment, from the sharp, official, Syracuse 
 business man to something more like the old 
 simple, easygoing, bucolic Sam Churchill, who 
 had come out so long ago from Dorsetshire. 
 ' Why, bless my soul, Hiram,' he exclaimed, 
 grasping both his hands at once in an iron 
 grip, ' so it's you, lad, is it ? Well, \am glad 
 
252 BABYLON 
 
 to see you. Yoii step right back here and 
 let's have a look at you ! Why, how you've 
 grown, Hiram ! Only don't call me Sam, too 
 open, liere ; liere, I'm one of tlie bosses, and 
 ijet called Mr. Churchill. And how's the 
 deacon, and the missus, and old Major (you 
 don't mind old Major? he was the ofF-horse at 
 the plough, always, he was). And how are 
 you ? Been to college, 1 reckon, by the look 
 of you. You come right back here and tell 
 me all about it.' 
 
 So Hiram went right back (behind the 
 little counter in the front office), and told 
 Sam Churchill his whole story. And Sam in 
 return told his. It wasn't very long, but it 
 was all prosperous. He had left the deacon 
 soon after Hiram went to live at Bethabara 
 Seminary ; he had come to Syracuse in search 
 of work ; had begun trying his hand as 
 draughtsman for a wood-engraver ; had gone 
 into partnership with another young man, on 
 
AN ARTISTIC ENGAGEMENT 253 
 
 liis own account ; had ri.scn as fast as people 
 in America do rise, if they have anything in 
 them ; and was now joint boss of the biggest 
 woodcut establishment in the whole Lake 
 Shore section of New York State. ' See here,' 
 he cried with infinite pride to Iliram. ' Just 
 you look at all these labels. Ilemmings' 
 Patent Blacking — nigger w^oman admiring 
 her own teeth in her master's boots — that's 
 ours. And this : Chicago General Canning 
 Company ; Prime Fruit : I did that myself. 
 And tliis : Philbrick's Certain Death to Eats : 
 good design, rather, that one, ain't it ? Here's 
 more : Potterton's Choke-cherry Cordial ; 
 Old Dr. Hezekiah Bowdler's Elixir of Winter- 
 green ; Eselmann and Schneider's Eagle Brand 
 Best Old Bourbon Whiskey ; Smoke None but 
 Cyrus A. Walker's Original and Only Genuine 
 Old Dominion Honeydew. That's our line of 
 business, you see, Hiram. That's where we've 
 got on. We've put mind into it. We've 
 
254 BABYLON 
 
 struck out a career of our own. We've deter- 
 mined to revolutionise the American adver- 
 tisement illustration market. When we took 
 the thing in hand, it was all red and yellow 
 uglinesses. We've discarded crudeness and 
 vulgarity, we have, and gone in for artistic 
 colouring and the best sentiments. Look at 
 Philbrick's Certain Death, for example. 
 That's fine, now, isn't it ? We've made the 
 fortune of the Certain Death. When we took 
 it up, advertising I mean, there wasn't a living 
 to be got out of Philbrick's. They had a sort 
 of comic picture of four rats, poisoned, with 
 labels coming out of their mouths, saying 
 they were gone coons, and so forth. Vulgar, 
 vulgar, very. We went in for the contract, 
 and produced the chaste and elegant design 
 you see before you. It has succeeded., 
 naturally,' and Sam looked across at Hiram 
 with the serious face of profound conviction 
 with which he was always wont to confront 
 
AN ARTISTIC ENGAGEMENT 255 
 
 the expected customer, in the interests of the 
 joint establishment. 
 
 Poor Hiram ! his heart sank within him a 
 little when he looked at the chaste and elegant 
 design ; but he had put his hand to the 
 plough, and he would not look back : so 
 before the end of that day Sam Churchill had 
 definitely engaged him as chief draughtsman 
 to his rising establishment. 
 
 That was how Hiram came to spend two 
 years as an advertisement draughtsman at 
 Syracuse. He didn't deny, afterwards, that 
 those two years were about the dreariest and 
 most disappointing of his whole lifetime. In 
 his spare moments, to be sure, he still went 
 on studying as veil as he was able ; and on 
 Sundays he stole away with his easel and 
 colours to the few bits of decently pretty 
 scenery that lie within reach of tliat flat and 
 marshy mushroom city : but for the greater 
 part of his time he was employed in designing 
 
256 BABYLON 
 
 neat and appropriate wrappers for quack 
 medicine bottles, small illustrations for cata- 
 logues or newspaper advertisements, and huge 
 flaring posters for mammoth circuses or variety 
 dramatic entertainments. It was a grinding, 
 horrible work ; and though Sam Churchill did 
 his best to make it pleasant and bearable 
 for him, Hiram cordially detested it with all 
 his heart. The only thing that made it any 
 way endurable was the image of that far-off 
 promised European journey, on which Hiram 
 Winthrop had fixed all his earthly hopes and 
 ambitions. 
 
 Sam often told him of Colin, for Colin had 
 kept up a correspondence with his thriving 
 American brother; and it was a sort of day- 
 dream with Hiram that one day or other 
 Cohn Churchill and he should go to Eome 
 together. For Audouin's encoura<?ement and 
 Colin's eagerness had inspired Hiram with a 
 like desire : and he saved and hoarded in 
 
AN ARTISTIC ENGAGEMENT 257 
 
 1 
 
 hopes that the time would at last come whei 
 he might get rid of advertisements, and take 
 instead to real painting. Meanwhile he con- 
 tented himself with working at his art by 
 himself, or with such Uttle external aid as he 
 could get in a brand-new green-and-white 
 American city, and hoping for the future that 
 never came but was always coming. 
 
 VOL. I. S 
 
258 BABYLON 
 
 CHAPTEE XIII. 
 
 AN EVE IN EDEN. 
 
 Once a year, and once only, Hiram had a holi- 
 day. For a glorious fortnight every summer, 
 Sam Churchill and his partner gave their head 
 draughtsman leave to go and amuse himself 
 wheresoever the spirit led him. And on the 
 first of such holidays, Hiram went with 
 Audouin to the Thousand Islands, and spent a 
 delightful time boating, fishing, and sketching, 
 among the endless fairy mazes of that en- 
 chanted re<?ion, where the ffreat St. Lawrence 
 loses itself hopelessly in innumerable petty 
 channels, between countless tiny bosses of 
 pine-clad rock. It was a fortnight of pure 
 enjoyment for poor drudging advertisement- 
 
AN EVE IN EDEN 259 
 
 drawing Hiram, and he revelled in its wealth 
 of beauty as he had never revelled in anything 
 earthly before during his whole lifetime. 
 
 One morning Hiram had taken his little 
 easel out with him from Alexandria Bay to one 
 of the prettiest points of view upon the neigh- 
 bouring mainland — a jutting spit of ice-worn 
 I'ock, projecting far into tlie placid lake, and 
 thickly overhung with fragrant brush of the 
 beautiful red cedar — and was making a little 
 water-colour sketch of a tiny islet in the fore- 
 ground, just a few square yards of smooth 
 granite covered in the centre with an inch deep 
 of mould, and crowned by a single tall straight 
 stem of sombre spruce fir. It was a delicate, 
 dainty little sketch, steeped in the pale morn- 
 ing haze of Canadian summer ; and the scarlet 
 columbines, waving from the gnarled roots of 
 the solitary fir tree, stood out like brilliant 
 specks of light against the brown bark and 
 dark green foliage that formed the back- 
 
 8 2 
 
26o BABYLON 
 
 ground. Hiram was just holding it at arm's 
 length, to see how it looked, and turning to 
 ask for Audouin's friendly criticism, when he 
 heard a clear bright woman's voice close 
 behind him speaking so distinctly that he 
 couldn't help overhearing the words. 
 
 ' Oh, papa,' the voice said briskly, ' there's 
 an artist working down there. I wonder if 
 he'd mind our going down and looking at his 
 picture. I do so love to see an artist painting.' 
 
 The very sound of the voice thrilled through 
 Hiram's inm.ost marrow as he heard it, some- 
 what as Audouin's voice had done long ago, 
 when first he came upon him in the Muddy 
 Creek woodland — only more so. He had 
 never heard a woman's voice before at all like 
 it. It didn't in the least resemble Miss Almeda 
 A. Stiles's, or any other one of the lady students 
 at Bethabara or Orange, who formed the sole 
 standard of female society that Hiram Win- 
 throp had ever yet met with. It was a rich, 
 
AN EVE IN EDEN 261 
 
 liquid, rippling voice, and it spoke with the 
 soft accent and delicate deliberate intonation 
 of an English lady. Hiram, of course, didn't 
 by the light of nature recognise at once this 
 classificatory fact as to its origin and historj', 
 but he did know that it stirred him strangely, 
 and made him look round immediately to see 
 from what manner of person the voice itself 
 ultimately proceeded. 
 
 A tall girl of about nineteen, with a 
 singularly fall ripe-looking face and figure 
 for her age, was standing on the edge of the 
 little promontory just above, and looking 
 down inquisitively towards Hiram's easel. Her 
 cheeks had deeper roses in them than Hiram 
 had ever seen before, and her complexion 
 was clearer and more really flesh-coloured 
 than that of most pale and sallow American 
 women. ' What a beautiful skin to paint ! ' 
 thought Hiram instinctively; and then tl:e 
 next moment, with a flush of surprise, he 
 
262 BABYLON 
 
 bcc^an to reco<ynise to liimself tliat this un- 
 known girl, whose eyes met his for an infini- 
 tesimal fraction of a second, had somehow 
 immediately impressed him — nay, thrilled him 
 — in a way that no other woman had ever 
 before succeeded in doing. In one word, 
 she seemed to him more womanly. Why, he 
 didn't know, and couldn't have explained 
 even to himself, for Hiram's forte certainly 
 did not lie in introspective analysis ; but he 
 felt it instinctively, and was conscious at once 
 of a certain bashful desire to speak with her, 
 whicli he had never experienced towards a 
 single one of the amiable young ladies at 
 Bethabara Seminary. 
 
 ' Gwen, my dear,' the father said in a 
 dried-up Indian military tone, ' you will dis- 
 turb these artists. Come away, come away ; 
 people don't like to be watched at their duties, 
 really.' 
 
 Gwen. by way of sole reply, only bent 
 
AN EVE IN EDEN 263 
 
 over the edge of the little blufl'that overhung 
 the platform of rock wliere Iliram was sitting, 
 and said with the same clear deliberate accent 
 as before, ' May I look ? Oh, thank you. 
 How very, very pretty ! ' 
 
 ' It isn't finished yet,' Audouin said, taking 
 the words out of Hiram's mouth almost, as he 
 held up the picture for Gwen's inspection. 
 'It's only a rough sketch, so far: it'll look 
 much worthier of the original when mv 
 friend lias put the last little touches to it. In 
 art, you know, the last loving lingering touch 
 is really everything.' 
 
 Hiram felt half vexed that Audouin should 
 thus have assumed the place of spokesman for 
 him towards the unknown lady ; and yet at 
 the same time he was almost grateful to him 
 for it also, for he felt too abashed to speak 
 himself in her overawing presence. 
 
 ' Yes, the original's beautiful,' Gwen 
 answered, taking her father's arm and lead- 
 
264 BABYLOA 
 
 ing him down, against his will, to the edge of 
 the water : ' but the sketch is very pretty too, 
 and the point of view so exquisitely chosen. 
 What a thing it is, papa, to have the eye of 
 an artist, isn't it ? You and I might have 
 passed this place a dozen times over, and 
 never noticed what a lovely little bit it is to 
 make a sketch of ; but the painter sees it at 
 once, and picks out by instinct the very spot 
 to make a beautiful picture.' 
 
 ' Ah, quite so,' the father echoed in a cold 
 unconcerned voice, as if the subject rather 
 bored him. ' Quite so, quite so. Very pretty 
 place indeed, an excellent retired corner, I 
 should say, for a person who has a taste that 
 way, to sit and paint in.' 
 
 ' It is beautiful,' Audouin said, addressing 
 himself musingly to the daughter, ' and our 
 island in particular is the prettiest of all the 
 thousand, I do believe.' 
 
 ' Your island ^ ' Gwen cried interroga- 
 
AN EVE IN EDEN 265 
 
 lively. * Then you own that sweet little spot 
 there, do you ? * 
 
 ' My friend and I, yes,' Audouin answered 
 airily, to Ilirani's great momentary astonish- 
 ment. ' In the only really worthy sense of 
 ownership, we own it most assuredly. I 
 dare say some other man somewhere or 
 other keeps locked up in his desk a dirty 
 little piece of crabbed parchment, which he 
 calls a title-deed, and which gives him some 
 sort of illusory claim to the productive power 
 of the few square yards of dirt upon its sur- 
 face. But the island itself and the enjoyment 
 of it is ours, and ours only : the gloss on the 
 ice-grooves in the shelving granite shore, the 
 scarlet columbines on the tall swaying stems, 
 the glow of the sunlight on the russet boles of 
 the spruce fir — you see my friend has fairly 
 impounded them all upon his receptive square 
 of cartridge paper here for our genuine title- 
 deed of possession.' 
 
266 BABYLON 
 
 ' Ah, I see, I see,' the old gentleman said 
 testily. ' You and your friend claim the 
 island by prescription, but your claim is dis- 
 puted by the original freeholder.' 
 
 The three others all smiled slightly. 'Oh 
 dear, no, papa,' Gwen answered with a touch 
 of scorn and impatience in her tone. 'Don't 
 you understand ? This gentleman ' 
 
 ' My name is Audouin,' the New Englander 
 put in with a slight inclination. 
 
 ' Mr. Audouin means that the soil is some- 
 body else's, but the sole enjoyment of the 
 island is his friend's and his own.' 
 
 ' The so-called landowner often owns 
 nothing more than the dirt in the ditches,' 
 Audouin explained with a wave of the hand, 
 in his romantic mystifying fashion, ' while the 
 observer owns all that is upon it, of any real 
 use or beauty. For our whole lifetime, my 
 friend and I have had that privilege and 
 pleasure. The grass grows green for us in 
 
AN EVE IN EDEN 267 
 
 spring ; the birds build nests for us in early 
 summer ; the fire-flies flit before our eyes on 
 autumn evenings ; the stoat and hare put on 
 their snow-white coat for our delight in winter 
 weather. I've seen a poet enjoy for a whole 
 season the best part of a farm, while the 
 crusty farmer supposed he had only had out 
 of it a few worthless wild apples. We are the 
 real freeholders, sir ; the man with the title- 
 deeds has merely the usufruct.' 
 
 ' Oh, ah,' the military gentleman repeated, 
 as if a light were beginning slowly to dawn 
 upon his bewildered intelligence. ' Some re- 
 servation in favour of rights of way and 
 royalties and so forth, in America, I suppose. 
 Only owns the dirt in the ditches, you say, — 
 the soil presumably. Now, in England, every 
 landowner owns the mines and minerals and 
 springs and everything else beneath the soil, 
 to the centre of the earth, I believe, if I've 
 been rightly instructed.' 
 
268 BABYLON 
 
 ' It can seldom be worth his while to push 
 his claims so far.' Audouin replied with great 
 gravity, still smiling sardonically. 
 
 Gwen coloured slightly. Hiram noticed 
 the delicate flush of the colour, as it mantled 
 all her cheek for a single second, and was 
 hardly angry with his friend for having pro- 
 voked so pretty a protest. Then Gwen. said 
 with a little cough, as if to change the subject : 
 ' These islands are certainly very lovely. 
 They're the most beautiful thing we've seen 
 in a six weeks' tour in America. I don't think 
 even Niagara charmed me so much, in spite 
 of all its grandeur.' 
 
 ' You're right,' Audouin went on (a little 
 in the Sir Oracle vein, Hiram fancied) ; ' at 
 any rate, the islands are more distinctly 
 American. There's nothing like them any- 
 where else in the world. They're the final 
 word of our level American river basins. You 
 have grand waterfalls in Europe ; you have 
 
AN EVE IN EDEN 269 
 
 broad valleys ; you have mountains finer than 
 any of ours here east at least ; but you've 
 nothing equal in its way to this flat interwoven 
 scenery of river and foliage, of land and water. 
 It has no sublimity, not a particle ; it's utterly 
 wanting in everything that ordinarily makes 
 beautiful country ; but it's absolutely fairy 
 like in its endless complexity of channels and 
 islands, and capes and rocks and lakelets, all 
 laid out on such an infinitesimally tiny scale, 
 as one might imagine the sylphs and gnomes 
 or the Lilliputians would lay out their ground 
 plan of a projected paradise.' 
 
 'Yes, I think it's exquisite in its way,' 
 Gwen went on. ' My father doesn't care for 
 it because it's so flat : after Naini Tal and the 
 Himalayas, he says, all American scenery palls 
 and fades away into utter insignificance. Of 
 course I haven't seen the Himalayas — and 
 don't want to, you know — but I've been in 
 Switzerland ; and I don't see why, because 
 
270 BABYLON 
 
 Switzerland is beautiful as mountain country, 
 this shouldn't be beautiful too in a different 
 fashion.' 
 
 ' Quite so,' Audouin answered briskly. 
 * We should admire all types of beauty, each 
 after its own kind. Not to do so arfjues nar- 
 rowness — a want of catholicity.' 
 
 The military gentleman fidgeted sadly by 
 Gwen's side ; he had caught at the word 
 ' catholicity,' and he didn't like it. It savoured 
 of religious discussion ; and being, like most 
 other old Indian officers, strictly evangelical, 
 he began to suspect Audouin of High Church 
 tendencies, or even dimly to envisage him to 
 himself in the popular character of a Jesuit in 
 disguise. 
 
 As for Hiram, he listened almost with envy 
 to Audouin's glib tongue, as it ran on so hghtly 
 and so smoothly to the beautiful overawing 
 stranger. If only, now, he himself dared 
 talk like that, or rather if only he dared talk 
 
AN EVE IN EDEN 271 
 
 after his own fasliion — which, indeed, to say 
 the truth, would have been a great deal better ! 
 But he didn't dare, and so he let Audouin carry- 
 off all the conversation unopposed ; while 
 Audouin, with his easy Boston manners, never 
 suspected for a moment that the shy, self re- 
 straining New Yorker countryman was burn- 
 ing all the time to put in a little word or two 
 on his own account, or to attract some tiny 
 share of the beautiful stranger's passing atten- 
 tion. And thus it came to pass that Audouin 
 went on talkinor for half an hour or more 
 uninterruptedly to Gwen, the mihtary gentle- 
 man subsiding meanwhile into somewhat sulky 
 silence, and Hiram listening with all his ears 
 to hear what particulars he could glean by the 
 way as to the sudden apparition, her home, 
 name, and calling. They had come to America 
 for a six weeks' tour, it seemed, ' Papa ' having 
 business in Canada, where he owned a little 
 property, and having leave of absence for the 
 
272 BABYLON 
 
 purpose from his regiment at Chester. That 
 was almost all that Hiram gathered as to her 
 actual position ; and that little he treasured up 
 in his memory most religiously against the possi- 
 ble contingency of a future journey to England 
 
 ' And you contemplate returning to Europe 
 shortly?' Hiram ventured to rsk at last of 
 the English lady. It was the first time he 
 had opened his lips during the entire conver- 
 sation, and he was surprised even now at his 
 own temerity in presuming to say anything. 
 
 Gwen turned towards the young artist 
 carelessly. Though she had been evidently in- 
 terested in Audouin's talk, she had not so far 
 even noticed the painter of the little picture 
 which had formed the first introduction to 
 the entire party. ' Yes,' she said, as uncon- 
 cernedly as if Europe were in the same State ; 
 * we sail next Friday.' 
 
 It was the only sentence she said to him, but 
 she said it with a bright frank smile, which 
 
AN EVE IN EDEN 273 
 
 Hiram could have drawn from memory a 
 twelvemonth after. As a matter of fact, he 
 did draw it in his own bedroom at the Alex- 
 andria Bay Hotel that very evening : and he 
 kept it long in his little pocket-book as a 
 memento of a gleam of light bursting suddenly 
 upon his whole existence. For Hiram was 
 not so inexperienced in the ways of the world 
 that he couldn't recognise one very simple and 
 palpable fact : he was in love at first sight with 
 the unknown English lady. 
 
 'Eeally, Gwen,' the military gentleman 
 said at this point in the conversation, ' we 
 must go back to lunch, if we're going to catch 
 our steamer for Montreal. Besides, you're 
 hindering our friend here from finishing his 
 picture. Good morning — good morning ; 
 thank you so very much for the opportunity 
 of seeing it.* 
 
 Gwen said a little 'Good morning' to 
 Audouin, bowed more distantly to Hiram, 
 
 VOL. 1. T 
 
274 BABYLON 
 
 and taking her father's arm jumped lightly up 
 the rocks again, and disappeared in the direc- 
 tion of the village. When she was fairly out 
 of sight, Hiram sat down once more and 
 finished his water-colour in complete silence. 
 
 ' Pretty girl, Hiram,' Audouin said lightly, 
 as they walked back to their quarters at 
 lunch- time. 
 
 'I should think, Mr. Audouin,' Hiram 
 answered slowly, with even more than his 
 usual self-restraint, ' she must be a tolerably 
 favourable specimen of European women.' 
 
 Audouin said no more ; and Hiram, too, 
 avoided the subject in future. Somehow, for 
 the first time in his life, he felt just a Httle bit 
 aggrieved and jealous of Audouin. It was he, 
 Hiram, who had painted the picture which 
 first caught Gwen's fancy — he called her 
 ' Gwen ' in his own mind, quite simply, having 
 no other name by which to call her. It was 
 he who was the artist and the selector of that 
 
AN EVE IN EDEN 275 
 
 particular point of view ; and yet Audouin, 
 all unconsciously as it seemed, had stepped in 
 and appropriated to himself, by implication, 
 the artistic honours of the situation. Audouin 
 had talked his vague poetical nature- worsliip 
 talk — it seemed to Hiram a trifle aflected 
 somehow, to-day ; and had monopolised all 
 Gwen's interest in the interview, and had left 
 him, Hiram (the founder of the feast, so to 
 speak), out in the cold, while he himself 
 basked in the full sunshine of Gwen's momen- 
 tary favour. And yet to Audouin what was 
 she, after all, but a pretty passing stranger ? 
 while to him she was a revelation, a new birth, 
 a latter-day Aphrodite, rising unbidden with 
 her rosy cheeks from the very bosom of the 
 smiling lake. And now she was going back 
 again at once to Europe, that great, unknown, 
 omnipotential Europe ; and . perhaps Hiram 
 Winthrop would never again see the one 
 woman who had struck him at first sight with 
 
 T 2 
 
276 BABYLON 
 
 tlie instantaneous thrill which the man who 
 has once experienced it can never forget. 
 Colin Churchill hadn't once yet even asked 
 himself whether or not he was in love with 
 Minna ; but Hiram Winthrop acknowledged 
 frankly forthwith to his own heart that he 
 was certainly and undeniably in love with 
 Owen. 
 
 Who was she ? that was the question. 
 He didn't even know her surname : his sole 
 information about her amounted exactly to 
 
 this, that she was called Gwen, and that her 
 father had been quartered at Chester. Hiram 
 smiled to himself as he recollected the old 
 legend of how St. Thomas k Becket's mother, 
 a Saracen maiden, had come to England from 
 the East, in search of her Christian lover, 
 knowing only the two proper names, Gilbert 
 and London. Was he, Hiram Winthrop, in 
 this steam-ridden nineteenth century, in like 
 manner to return to the old home of his fore- 
 
AN EVE IN EDEN 277 
 
 fathers, and make inquiry with all diligence 
 for Gwen, Chester ? The notion was of course 
 too palpably absurd (though Audouin would 
 have been charmed with it). Yet there can 
 be no denying that from the moment Hiram 
 met that beautiful English girl by the Lake of 
 the Thousand Islands, his desire to see Europe 
 was quickened by yet one more unacknow- 
 ledged, but very powerful private attraction. 
 If anybody had talked to him about marrying 
 Gwen, he would have honestly laughed at the 
 improbable notion, but in the indefinite way 
 that young men often feel, he felt as though 
 some vague influence drew him on towards 
 Gwen, not as a woman to be wooed and won, 
 but as a central object of worship and admir- 
 ation. 
 
 At the hotel, they didn't know the name 
 of the English gentleman and his daughter ; 
 the clerk said they only came for a day and 
 expected no letters. Another guest had 
 
278 BABYLON 
 
 asked about them, too, he mentioned casually ; 
 but Hiram, accustomed to looking upon his 
 friend as so much older than himself as to 
 have outgrown the folly of admiring female 
 beauty, never dreamt of supposing that that 
 other guest was Lothrop Audouin. He 
 searched the 'Herald,' indeed, a week later, 
 to see if any English officer and his daughter 
 had sailed from New York on the Friday, but 
 there were no passengers whom he could at 
 dU identify with Gwen and her father. It 
 didn't occur to him that they might have 
 sailed, as they did sail, by the Canadian mail 
 steamer from Quebec, where he couldn't have 
 failed to discover them in the list of pas- 
 sengers ; so he was loft in the end with no 
 other memorial of this little episode save the 
 sketch of that junny face, and the two names, 
 Gwen and Chester. To those Httle memorials 
 Hiram's mind turned back oftener than less 
 
AN EVE IN EDEN i-jc) 
 
 solitary people could easily imagine during 
 the next long twelve months of dreary 
 advertisement-drawing at long, white, dusty, 
 sun-smitten Syracuse. 
 
zSo BABYLON 
 
 CHAPTEE XIV. 
 
 MINNA GIVES NOTICE. 
 
 ' Colin,' Minna Wroe said to the young work- 
 man one evening, as they walked together 
 through the streets of London towards the 
 Regent's Park : ' do you know what I've 
 actually gone and done to-day ? I've give 
 notice.' 
 
 ' Given notice, Minna I What for, on 
 earth ? Why, you seemed to me so happy 
 and comfortable there. I've never seen you 
 in any other place where you and your people 
 seemed to pull so well together, like.' 
 
 ' Ah, that's just what She said to me, Colin.' 
 {She in this connection may be familiarly 
 recognised as a pronoun enclosing its own 
 
MINNA GIVES NOTICE 281 
 
 antecedent.) * She said she couldn't imagine 
 what my reason could be for leaving ; and so 
 I just up and told her. And as it isn't any 
 use keeping it from you any longer, I think 
 I may as \^ell up and tell you too, Colin. 
 Colin, I don't mean any more to be a servant.' 
 
 Cohn looked at her, dazzled and stunned 
 a little bv the suddenness and conciseness of 
 this resolute announcement. Half a dozen 
 vague and unpleasant surmises ran quickly 
 through his bewildered brain. ' Why, Minna,' 
 he exclaimed with some apprehension, look 
 ing down hastily at her neat little figure and 
 her pretty, dimpled gipsy face, 'you're not 
 going — no you're not going to the drapery, 
 are you ? ' 
 
 Minna's twin dimples on the rich brown 
 cheeks grew deeper and deeper, and she 
 laughed merrily to herself a wee musical ring^ 
 ing laugh. ' The drapery, indeed,' she cried, 
 three-quarters amused and one-quarter iridig- 
 
282 BABYLON 
 
 nant. ' The drapery, he says to me ! No, Mr. 
 Colin, if you please, sir, I'm not going to be a 
 shop-girl, thank you. A pretty shop-girl I 
 should make now, shouldn't I ? That's just 
 like all you men : you think nobody can go 
 in for bettering themselves, only yourselves. 
 If a girl doesn't want to be a parlour-maid 
 any longer, you can't think of anything but 
 she must want to go and be a shop-girl. I 
 wonder you didn't say a barmaid. If you don't 
 beg my pardon at once for your impudence, 
 I won't tell you anything more about it.' 
 
 'I beg your pardon, I'm sure, Minna,' 
 Colin answered submissively. ' I didn't mean 
 to hurt your feelings.' 
 
 ' And good reason, too, sir. But as you've 
 got the grace to do it, I'll tell you all the rest. 
 Do you know what I do with my money, 
 Colin ? ' 
 
 ' You save it all, I know, Minna.' 
 
 *Well, I save it all. And then, I've got 
 
MINNA GIVES NOTICE 283 
 
 grandmother's eleven pound, what she left 
 me ; and the little things I've been given now 
 and again by visitors and such like. And I've 
 worked all through the " Complete Manual of 
 Ijetter Writing," and the " Enghsh History," 
 and the " First School Arithmetic " : and now, 
 Miss Woollacott — you know ; her at the 
 North London Birkbeck Girls' Schools — she 
 says she'll take me on as a sort of a pupil- 
 teacher, to look after the little ones and have 
 lessons myself for what I can do, if only I'll 
 pay her my own board and lodging.' 
 
 Colin gazed at the girl aghast. ' A pupil- 
 teacher, Minna ! ' he cried in astonishment. ' A 
 pupil-teacher ! Why, my dear child, what 
 on earth do you mean to do when you're 
 through it all ? ' 
 
 Minna dropped her plump brown hand 
 from his arm at the gate of the park, and 
 stood looking up at him pettishly with bright 
 eyes flashing. ' There you are again,' she said, 
 
284 BABYLOA 
 
 with a little touch of bitterness in her pretty 
 voice. ' Just like you men always. You 
 think it's all very well for CoHn Churchill to 
 want to go and be a sculptor, and talk with 
 fine ladies and gentlemen, and make his for- 
 tune, and become a great man by-and-by, 
 perhaps, like that Can-over, or somebody : 
 that's all quite right and proper ; of course it 
 is. But for Minna Wroe, whose people are 
 every bit as good as his, to save up her money, 
 and do her best to educate herself, and fit 
 herself to be his equal, and become a gover- 
 ness, — ^why, that of course is quite unnatural. 
 Her proper place is to be a parlour-maid : she 
 ought to go on all her life long cleaning silver, 
 and waiting on the ladies and gentlemen, and 
 changing the plates at dinner — that's just 
 about what she's fit for. She's only a woman. 
 You're all alike, Colin, all you men, the whole 
 lot of you. I won't go any further. I shall 
 just go home again this very minute.' 
 
MINNA GIVES NOTICE 285 
 
 Colin caught her arm gently, and held her 
 still for a minute by quiet force. 'My dear 
 Minna,' he said, ' you don't at all understand 
 me. If you've really got it in your mind to 
 better yourself like that, why, of course, it's a 
 very grand thing in you, and I admire you 
 for your spirit and resolution. Besides, 
 Minna,' and Colin looked into her eyes a 
 little tenderly as he said this, ' I think I 
 know, little woman, what you want to do it 
 for. What I meant was just this, you know : 
 I don't see what it'll lead to, even when 
 you've gone and done it.' 
 
 'Why,' Minna answered, trying to dis- 
 engage herself from his firm grasp, 'in the 
 first place, — let me go, Colin, or I won't 
 speak to you ; let me go this minute I say ; 
 yes, that'll do, thank you — in the first place, 
 what I want most is to get the education. 
 When I've got that, I can begin to look out 
 what to do with it. Perhaps I'll be a 
 
286 BABYLOh 
 
 governess, or a Board-school teacher, or sucli- 
 like. But in the second place, one never 
 knows what may happen to one. Somebody 
 might fall in love with me, you see, and then 
 I should very hkely get married, Colin.' And 
 Minna said this with such a saucy little smile, 
 that Cohn longed then and there, in the open 
 park, to stoop down and kiss her soundly. 
 
 ' Then you've really arranged it all, have 
 you, Minna ? ' he asked wonderingly. ' You've 
 really decided to go to Miss WooUacott's ? ' 
 
 Minna nodded. 
 
 ' Well, Minna,' Colin said in a tone of 
 genuine admiration, ' you may say what you 
 like about us men being all the same (I 
 suppose we are, if it comes to that), but I do 
 admire you immensely for it. You've got 
 such a wonderful lot of spirit and determin- 
 ation. Now, I know what you'll say ; you'll 
 go and take it wrong again ; but, Minna, it's 
 a great deal harder and more remarkable for a 
 
MINNA GIVES NOTICE 287 
 
 woman to try to raise herself than for a man 
 to go and do it. Why, now I come to think 
 of it, httle woman, I've read of lots of men 
 educating themselves and rising to be great 
 people — George Stephenson, that made the 
 steam-engines on railways, and Gibson the 
 sculptor, and lots of painters and architects 
 and people — but really and truly, I beheve, 
 Minna, I never read yet of a woman who'd 
 been and done it.' 
 
 ' That's because the books are all written 
 by men, stupid, you may be certain,' Minna 
 
 « 
 
 answered saucily. ' Anyhow, Colin, I'm going 
 to try and do it. I'm going to leave my place 
 at the end of the month, and go for a pupil- 
 teacher at Miss WooUacott's. And I'm begin- 
 ning the geography now, and the Second Grade 
 English Grammar, so that I can get myself fit 
 for it, Colin, a bit beforehand. I don't see 
 why you should be reading all these fine 
 books, you know, and I should be content 
 
288 BABYLON 
 
 with being no more nor a common parlour- 
 maid.' 
 
 It was in the park, but it was getting 
 dusky, and lovers in London are not so 
 careful of secrecy as in the unsophisticated 
 and less limited country. The great per- 
 ennial epic of eacli human heart must needs 
 work itself out somehow or other even under 
 the Argus eyes of the big squaHd ugly city. 
 So Colin stooped down beneath the shade of 
 the plane trees and kissed Minna twice or 
 three times over in spite of her pretended 
 struggling. (It is a point of etiquette with 
 girls of Minna's class that they should pretend 
 to struggle when one tries to kiss them.) 
 * Minna,' he said earnestly, ' I'm proud of you. 
 My dear little girl, I'm really proud of you.' 
 
 ' What a funny thing it is,' thought Minna 
 to herself, 'that he never makes love to me, 
 though ! I don't know even now whether he 
 considers himself engaged to me or not. 
 
^Beneath tJie shade of the plane-trees.^ 
 
MINxWA GIVES NOTICE 2S9 
 
 How queer it is that he never makes me ;i 
 proper proposal ! ' For Minna had diUgently 
 read her ' London Herald,' and knew well 
 that when a young man (especially of Colin's 
 attainments) proposes to a young lady, he 
 ought to do it with all due formalities, in a 
 set speech carefully imitated from the finest 
 literary models of the eighteenth century. 
 Instead of which, Colin only kissed her now 
 and again quite promiscuous like, just as he 
 used to do long since at Wootton Man- 
 deville, and called her ' Minna ' and ' little 
 woman.' Still she did think on the whole 
 that ' little woman ' sounded after all a great 
 deal like an irregular betrothal. (She dis- 
 tinctly recollected that Mabel in the ' London 
 Herald,' and Maud de Vere in the ' Maiden's 
 Stratagem,' always called it a betrothal and 
 not an engagement.) 
 
 END OF THE FIRST VOLUME. 
 
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