- THREE - 
 MIDNIGHT 
 STORIES- 
 
University of California Berkeley 
 From the Bequest 
 
 of 
 DOROTHY K. THOMAS 
 
THIS EDITION IS LIMITED 
 TO FIVE HUNDRED COPIES, 
 PRINTED FROM TYPE, OF 
 WHICH THIS COPY 
 NO. 
 
THREE 
 MIDNIGHT STORIES 
 
THREE 
 MIDNIGHT )RD 
 
 
 Portrait with Autograph 
 
 Ni 
 
 RY CO. 
 
THREE 
 MIDNIGHT STORIES 
 
 BY 
 
 ALEXANDER W. DRAKE 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 THE CENTURY CO. 
 
 1916 
 
Copyright, 1893, 1894, 1916, by 
 THE CEKTURY Co. 
 
 Published, October, 1916 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 A MEMORY ix 
 
 Albert Bigelow Paine 
 
 THE YELLOW GLOBE . . . . . 3 
 
 INTERLUDE KENSAL GREEN . . 8 
 
 THE CURIOUS VEHICLE . . . . . 31 
 
 INTERLUDE PADEREWSKI . . . 7 
 
 THE LOOSENED CORD . 75 
 
 ALEXANDER W. DRAKE THE MAN 
 
 A BRIEF BIOGRAPHY . . . . . . 93 
 
 Clarence Clough Duel 
 
 AN APPRECIATION ...... 103 
 
 William Fayal Clarke 
 
 A WORD OF TRIBUTE ..... 113 
 Robert Underwood Johnson 
 
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 Portrait with Autograph . . Frontispiece 
 
 FACING 
 PAGE 
 
 Alexander W. Drake ix 
 
 From a photograph by Albert Bigelow Paine 
 
 A Corner of the Drawing Room . . 1 
 Library in the Residence of A. W. Drake 9 
 A Doorway Bottle-Cabinet . . . . 71 
 
 Portrait, . . , - 91 
 
 From a photograph by Hollinger 
 
 East Side of Dining Room . . , . .103 
 West Side of Dining Room . . . . 
 
 Decorations: Bird Cages, Bottles, and Little Ships, 
 from objects in Mr. Drake's Collections. 
 
[EMORY 
 
 It was nearly a quarter of a century 
 ago that I read, in closely succeeding 
 >bers of "The Century" ma 
 
 ble 
 
 Alexander W. Drake 
 
 ife; 
 
 g bird, whose 
 
 attached to a miniature balloon had 
 d upward to the stars. I read each 
 of these stories several times, and after 
 that waited from month to month for 
 others e same hand. But there 
 
 were no more. I often wondered why. 
 For <ed to me not as other 
 
 stories. They were laid in the wor] 
 men and ordinary affairs, but they ^ 
 not of it. Neither were they of 
 
A MEMORY 
 
 It was nearly a quarter of a century 
 ago that I read, in closely succeeding 
 numbers of "The Century" magazine, 
 three stories. One was of a man whose 
 life's aim was to express a veritable 
 haunted house; another, of an artist in 
 quest of the perfect halo that would 
 symbolize adoration for a dead wife; 
 the third told of a singing bird, whose 
 cage attached to a miniature balloon had 
 sailed upward to the stars. I read each 
 of these stories several times, and after 
 that waited from month to month for 
 others from the same hand. But there 
 were no more. I often wondered why. 
 
 For they seemed to me not as other 
 
 stories. They were laid in the world of 
 
 men and ordinary affairs, but they were 
 
 not of it. Neither were they of any 
 
 ix 
 
A MEMORY 
 
 imagined fairyland. They were of that 
 country where the ideal becomes the 
 only reality the land of art. I think 
 I shall not try to describe the effect those 
 three stories had upon me. Certainly 
 they lifted me for a little while out of 
 the general commonness of life re 
 vealed for a moment a vision of a world 
 that lies only a touch away yet remains 
 for the most part hidden, because we 
 walk in blindness and miss the magic 
 door. 
 
 I had never heard of the writer of 
 those stories. They were signed Alex 
 ander W. Drake, and, seeing the name 
 nowhere repeated, it presently passed 
 from my mind. The stories, however, 
 were unforgettable. 
 
 ii 
 
 It was a year or two later, I think, 
 that I found myself in New York City, 
 likewise engaged in the trade of story 
 telling and, in the course of time and 
 
A MEMORY 
 
 fortune, in a position that brought me 
 into frequent association with the edi 
 tors of the "Century" magazine. Among 
 them was the Art Director, whom 
 I learned to know as A. W. Drake, 
 a man of such modest and gentle man 
 ner that I should never have known, had 
 I not been told, that to him more than 
 to any other was due the advancement 
 and refinement of modern magazine 
 illustration. He had been an engraver, 
 they said, and in 1870, when "Scrib- 
 ner's Monthly" was founded, had taken 
 charge of the Art Department of that 
 magazine. Later, "St. Nicholas" had 
 been issued, the name "Scribner's 
 Monthly" was changed to the "Cen 
 tury," and these two publications under 
 Drake's art direction had set the stan 
 dard of illustration for the publishing 
 world. How unpretentious, how hu 
 man and lovable he was! Those who 
 have done most in the world are usually 
 like that. 
 
 xi 
 
A MEMORY 
 
 And Drake was so much more than 
 an art director. His religion the 
 true religion was harmony, and his 
 recognition of it so keen, his taste so 
 exquisite, that he lived, as it seemed, 
 in a world of his own. It was a demo 
 cratic world, wherein the rarest and the 
 humblest things of life were likely to be 
 ranked as of equal value. In whatever 
 form, beauty could not disguise itself 
 from him. Some tint or grace of line 
 in the commonest article of daily use 
 made it for him a treasure. A bit of 
 cheap fabric he recognized as a picture ; 
 an old band box in an attic he found 
 to be precious, not only for its breath 
 of romance but often for some refine 
 ment of color or quaintness of design ; a 
 crude, faded signboard was to him a rare 
 decoration, discarded bottles in an ash- 
 heap were as jewels in a matrix he 
 could not pass them by. Furbished 
 and skilfully placed in his beautiful 
 home, visitors likewise were led to ap- 
 xii 
 
A MEMORY 
 
 predate the super-value of these things 
 to see in a case of variegated glass 
 shapes, with the light shining through, 
 a glory of hue, and tint, and form hith 
 erto undreamed. Along with his thou 
 sand treasures of great worth tapes 
 tries, brasses, paintings, jewel cases, 
 finger rings and the like these humbler 
 gems held rank and, for him at least, 
 equal charm; because he saw them 
 bathed always in the light of his world 
 the "light that never was on sea or land" 
 the light that makes the ideal reality, 
 and beauty alone worth while. 
 
 in 
 
 One day, when I had known Alex 
 ander Drake for as much as five years, 
 and had long been proud to claim his 
 friendship, we were going down the 
 Century elevator together when he made 
 a kindly reference to something I had 
 printed that month in the magazine. 
 Then, a moment later, with great diffi 
 dence, he added: 
 
 xiii 
 
A MEMORY 
 
 "I I tried to write some stories, 
 once, a good while ago but I gave it 
 up. I wrote three and got them 
 printed. You probably never saw 
 them." 
 
 I was about to say no, but then I hesi 
 tated. My subconsciousness was spin 
 ning backward, and from somewhere 
 flashed the name "Alexander W. 
 Drake," with those three stories to 
 which it had been attached so long be 
 fore. I had never forgotten the stories 
 I had only mislaid their label. I 
 knew instantly, then, as I should have 
 known all the time. 
 
 "Yes!" I said, grasping his hand. 
 "You are the man who wrote the stories 
 of the haunted house, the halo, and the 
 singing bird! Alexander W. Drake, 
 of course! I remember perfectly. 
 Why I did not remember before is one 
 of the mysteries. Those wonderful 
 stories!" 
 
 I overflowed in praise of them, and he 
 
 xiv 
 
A MEMORY 
 
 seemed pleased, for he saw that I was 
 sincere. At luncheon we reviewed them 
 and I begged him to do others of the 
 sort. He admitted there were more 
 stories he wished to write that he 
 hoped to write, someday, when he found 
 the time. He was not an author, he 
 said; the doubt of his literary method 
 made him hesitate. The stories already 
 published, he thought, had made little 
 impression. I reminded him how they 
 had impressed at least one reader, who 
 had watched month after month for 
 more from the same pen. There must 
 be others, I said, like myself. 
 
 IV 
 
 But he never wrote the other stories. 
 Often we talked of them, and as often 
 he promised someday to set them down. 
 By and by it was evident that he would 
 never write them. He was old, and he 
 was no longer in health. 
 
 And so one day he left us, taking 
 xv 
 
A MEMORY 
 
 them with him, and all we have now are 
 those three, written out of his first 
 literary impulse, so long ago. They 
 are akin to those art collections he 
 made, for they include the everyday 
 objects of life, but glorified: a show 
 bottle in a druggist's window, yet lit 
 with magic; a "queer box-like wagon" 
 on Broadway, but driving through 
 dreamland ; a miniature balloon bearing 
 a caged bird, but it carries us to the 
 brink of paradise. 
 
A Corner of the Drawing Room 
 

 
THE YELLOW GLOBE 
 
THREE 
 MIDNIGHT STORIES 
 
 THE YELLOW GLOBE 
 
 RETURNING from the club at an 
 hour long past midnight, I noticed 
 a peculiar-looking person of medium 
 height, somewhat angular, with sallow, 
 dark complexion, dressed like any other 
 well-to-do person, gazing intently at the 
 large yellow globe of colored fluid in a 
 druggist's window. The streets were 
 deserted, and his whole attention seemed 
 3 
 
THE YELLOW GLOBE 
 
 riveted on that particular yellow spot. 
 
 A few nights later, about one o'clock, 
 I saw the man again at the same win 
 dow ; so, taking refuge in the shadow of 
 a house opposite, I watched him un 
 observed. He stood looking earnestly 
 at the bright yellow center of the large 
 globe. Now he held his finger out as 
 though he were trying some effect, or 
 placed his hand in silhouette against 
 the bright background. Then he 
 moved forward and backward, with his 
 head bent first on one side and then on 
 the other, as though he were looking for 
 something beyond and through the fluid. 
 At last he walked away, casting glances 
 backward at the fascinating yellow 
 light, and disappeared in the darkness. 
 
 A week passed, and I saw him for 
 the third time again scrutinizing the 
 yellow globe. When he left I followed 
 4 
 
THE YELLOW GLOBE 
 
 him, and as we passed a street-lamp I 
 accosted him. At first I thought he re 
 sented it, but after a moment I ventured 
 to say, "I have observed you gazing into 
 the druggist's window, and I must say 
 my curiosity has been excited to know 
 what you find of such interest in a drug 
 gist's yellow light." 
 
 Then we walked on for some blocks 
 in silence, and I thought I had offended 
 him; but after a while he said slowly: 
 "The hope of my life is to a certain ex 
 tent bound up in that yellow spot, the 
 center of that globe. But pardon me, 
 you are a total stranger, and no one 
 but" 
 
 Just then I interrupted him by re 
 marking, "What a beautiful effect of 
 light through the street, and how soft 
 and velvety the shadows look!" 
 
 There was another long pause, and 
 5 
 
THE YELLOW GLOBE 
 
 then he said, "You seem to take 
 pleasure in the effects of light and 
 shade." 
 
 "Oh, yes," I answered; "I really en 
 joy nature very much." 
 
 "What would you think of pursuing 
 an effect year after year, as I have 
 done?" he asked. 
 
 Now we were fairly launched, and I 
 noticed as we passed the various gas 
 lights what a peculiar, wistful, far-away 
 look the man had, and what a thor 
 oughly artistic make-up. I also noticed 
 that at every turn of the street he 
 seemed to be looking for something. 
 He would pause now and then, and 
 stand in utter silence, watching some 
 unusual effect in the same intent man 
 ner with which he had looked at the 
 druggist's light. In the meantime we 
 were getting into narrower streets, and 
 6 
 
THE YELLOW GLOBE 
 
 as the shadows of the tall buildings 
 partly hid us, he would give me bits of 
 conversation, always on nature or kin 
 dred subjects. 
 
 "Yes," he said; "the mistake that 
 most painters make, especially the real 
 ists, is that they paint nature as they 
 think they see it. But what of it? 'If 
 art is not more than nature, it is not art.' 
 Why," said he, "look at the romantic 
 school, both old and modern. Was it 
 not always the embodiment of an idea? 
 Did they not always make Nature do 
 their bidding, with as much or as little 
 of herself as they chose? There is 
 Monticelli what a wealth of beautiful 
 color! He takes what he wants, and 
 adds his own conception of beauty of 
 color, so that you get his groups of fig 
 ures rich and glowing and harmonious. 
 So with Delacroix, so with Turner. 
 7 
 
THE YELLOW GLOBE 
 
 Look at his 'Slave Ship.' All these 
 men borrowed from nature so far as 
 they chose to embody their own idea of 
 what they wished to express." 
 
 By this time we had reached the 
 lower part of the city, and the streets 
 became even narrower and the odors 
 more disagreeable. There was a sense 
 of great coolness, like the wind from 
 the water. On we walked. I became 
 more and more interested, and occasion 
 ally made a remark to keep the conver 
 sation going, while my companion 
 stopped from time to time to watch 
 some new effect, as though he were 
 afraid something would escape him. 
 
 "Yes," he said; "I have spent years in 
 an experiment which I hope soon to 
 complete. I have walked the streets by 
 day and night; I have sailed on rivers; 
 I have looked through old doorways, 
 8 
 
THE YELLOW GLOBE 
 
 have studied all kinds of vegetation and 
 tree-forms suited to my idea and to my 
 notion of sky effects, old ironwork, 
 old houses, old fences and windows, in 
 fact, all nature has been to me a great 
 storehouse from which to select my 
 material." 
 
 By this time we had reached the river 
 front, and although long past midnight, 
 I was so much interested in finding out 
 what manner of man I had chanced 
 upon that I would gladly have walked 
 until daylight. I feared every moment 
 that he would bid me good night ; but if 
 anything, he grew more confidential. 
 My chance remark about effects had evi 
 dently won him, for some reason. As 
 we walked on, the spars and vessels at 
 the wharves were almost black against 
 the sky, while the lights twinkled across 
 the river, and the stars shone overhead. 
 9 
 
THE YELLOW GLOBE 
 
 Suddenly we turned a sharp corner, and 
 came to a great pile of old buildings 
 with steep slate roofs evidently in 
 their better days sail-lofts. And now, 
 in the gloom of one of the tallest of 
 these buildings, he stopped, and, I 
 thought, was about to say good night. 
 For a time he stood as though he were 
 thinking what he had better do. Fi 
 nally he asked: "Will you come to my 
 room? It is up many flights of stairs, 
 but I think you may perhaps be in 
 terested in what I have to show you." 
 
 As we entered the door, which he 
 unlocked with an old-fashioned iron 
 key, he said: "Give me your hand. 
 This building is unoccupied at night, 
 with the exception of myself and a 
 watchman, who has a small room on the 
 ground floor." So saying, he led me up 
 the creaking stairs, in absolute dark- 
 10 
 
THE YELLOW GLOBE 
 
 ness. A strong smell of oakum and tar 
 pervaded the place. On reaching the 
 top floor, both of us out of breath, he 
 fumbled for another key, with which he 
 unlocked the door of his room. 
 
 Then he excused himself, and left me 
 standing in darkness while he proceeded 
 to strike a light. What a curious room 
 it was! An enormous loft, with a 
 peaked roof, and horizontal beams join 
 ing the sides of the building, and sev 
 eral windows of medium size evidently 
 an old sail-loft, but now filled with a 
 most extraordinary collection of queer 
 objects. At one end of the room were 
 large panes of glass set in upright, 
 movable frames, some of them smeared 
 over with a peculiar mixture. At the 
 other end of the room was a long, plain 
 wooden table, and at its extreme end 
 stood one of the panes of glass. Back 
 11 
 
THE YELLOW GLOBE 
 
 of this I noticed a globe of yellow fluid, 
 something like those used in the drug 
 gist's window, but not so large. Back 
 of the globe again was a small lamp. 
 In another corner of the room was a 
 gigantic thistle, now dead, planted in a 
 large flower-pot. Near it I saw a 
 stuffed blue heron. But, most interest 
 ing of all, at the extreme end of another 
 deal table was a model in clay of what 
 seemed to be an old English manor- 
 house, noble in proportion, exquisite in 
 line, and with little glass windows. 
 Back of this model was one of the large 
 upright frames, holding a pane of yel 
 low glass. Here and there were small 
 models of fences, miniature bits of iron 
 work, gateways, etc. On the walls 
 were nailed the most eccentric sketches. 
 There were gigantic studies of weeds, 
 foreground plants done with strong ef- 
 
THE YELLOW GLOBE 
 
 fects in charcoal, and at one end of the 
 room a water-color drawing on brown 
 paper of a great rose-tree, like an en 
 larged rose-bush. From the ceiling 
 hung globes filled with different-colored 
 fluids, and old ship-lanterns, evidently 
 for some use, not objects of bric-a-brac. 
 In other words, I had been admitted 
 into an immense workshop, where every 
 thing had its purpose for the work in 
 hand only. I noticed that a small por 
 tion of the room was screened off, prob 
 ably as a bedroom. Near the stove, on 
 one side, was a cheap round table, on 
 which were a book or two and some 
 newspapers, as well as several new clay 
 pipes. 
 
 I have given only an idea of my first 
 hasty survey of the room. I was con 
 stantly discovering new objects of in 
 terest. Several large, flat, white por- 
 13 
 
THE YELLOW GLOBE 
 
 celain dishes, with lips at the end, 
 seemed to have held colored liquids of 
 various kinds, which had dried, leav 
 ing a sediment in the bottom. Many 
 sheets of drawing-paper on stretchers 
 were standing about the room. This 
 was not the den of an elegant dilettante, 
 but the workshop of a man in earnest 
 about something. 
 
 And now, as we settled down in the 
 large leather-covered arm-chairs, and 
 the long clay pipes were lighted, my 
 strange companion became more con 
 fidential, although it was plain to be 
 seen that by nature he was a recluse, 
 and perhaps a brooding, melancholy 
 man. After looking me over intently, 
 as though he were studying my first im 
 pression of the place, he began: 
 
 "You are evidently much surprised 
 and bewildered by the mass of objects 
 14 
 
THE YELLOW GLOBE 
 
 with which I am surrounded, but they 
 all mean a great deal to me. They all 
 have their place in a new creation I am 
 evolving. They have been collected, at 
 great expense of time and trouble, to 
 help me carry out the idea I am striv 
 ing to express. Let me explain. 
 First, I wished to render a haunted 
 house which should be not only uncanny 
 and weird, but beautiful as well; in fact, 
 so beautiful that at first you would miss 
 the horrible and mysterious, and notice 
 the beautiful only. How many effects 
 I have studied for this alone ! The sil 
 ver-gray, cold effect was the one I had 
 first thought of, as conveying an im 
 pression of weirdness ; but I finally set 
 tled on a scheme in which the whole pic 
 ture should be flooded in golden light, 
 but a 
 
 Light that never was, on sea or land 
 15 
 
THE YELLOW GLOBE 
 
 something of the effect that you might 
 possibly see on an Indian-summer day, 
 when you feel an awful stillness in na 
 ture ; when the little birds forget to sing, 
 and sit in the sunshine as though they 
 were paralyzed; when even the trees 
 and flowers and all growing things seem 
 to be under some magic spell; when, as 
 you start to walk, you suddenly stand 
 still as if fascinated by the sunlight; 
 when the motion of everything in nature 
 seems suspended. You can hardly un 
 derstand," he added, "what this haunted 
 house means to me. Windows have 
 grown to have human looks, at times al 
 most terrible. Old fences and iron 
 work have as keen expressions as indi 
 viduals. In fact, this whole house 
 wears its personality until I am often 
 deeply depressed by it. Ah, I have had 
 my life's sorrow and trouble, and hor- 
 16 
 
THE YELLOW GLOBE 
 
 rible " He stopped suddenly. Did 
 I observe a faint gleam of something 
 like a pained, agonized look in the sud 
 den expression of his eyes and face ? If 
 so, it was gone in a moment, and the 
 soft, beautiful look returned, although 
 he seemed a trifle embarrassed. 
 
 "Yes," he continued; "I have worked 
 many years at this haunted house. All 
 there is in me shows itself here to one 
 who can read it, in its various moods and 
 parts ; sorrow, love, hope, forgiveness 
 all are expressed here ; and if I can leave 
 behind me this one great picture, I shall 
 be satisfied, even if I never do another. 
 How long I have worked, and how ear 
 nestly I have studied for this result! 
 Do you see those globes filled with fluid, 
 and those upright panes of glass set in 
 frames? They are all parts of my ex 
 periment; all yellow sunsets and pecul- 
 17 
 
THE YELLOW GLOBE 
 
 iar effects of yellow light : yellow lights 
 shining through mists and fogs. Why, 
 look here!" and he handed me a large 
 sketch-book filled with hundreds of 
 studies. In one the trees appeared in 
 silhouette against a sunset sky; in 
 another there would be only a gigantic 
 thistle, or a great rank weed, with the 
 sky for a background. "The house," 
 he said, "was not so difficult a matter, 
 for I had in memory a beautiful old 
 manor-house with its quaint gables and 
 angles and picturesque windows." 
 
 Was it a look of horror on the man's 
 face as he spoke of the windows? Af 
 ter an awkward silence he resumed: 
 "Yes ; I have thought, and planned, and 
 worked over this picture for years." 
 Then, as we smoked in silence, I had a 
 good opportunity to observe him more 
 minutely. It was evident that gentle 
 18 
 
THE YELLOW GLOBE 
 
 blood ran in his veins. His head was 
 massive and strong; there was an in 
 describable softness about his dark eyes, 
 although they showed latent fire. He 
 had a great mass of luxuriant black 
 hair; his beard and mustache were 
 rather long, and very becoming. But 
 now he seemed to feel my glances, and 
 his manner became nervous and agi 
 tated. When he again raised his eyes 
 to mine they had grown cold and hard. 
 
 "To return to my favorite subject," 
 he said, "I am going to have my vege 
 tation on a grand scale. I will have 
 thistles as large as trees if they suit my 
 purpose. Rose-bushes shall be rose- 
 trees." 
 
 "But the air of mystery and weird- 
 ness how are you going to manage 
 that?" I asked. 
 
 He did not answer me at once, but 
 19 
 
THE YELLOW GLOBE 
 
 after a while said slowly: "The myste 
 rious will be there, whatever else is lack 
 ing; and I intend to get such an effect 
 that if innocent children come near the 
 picture they will walk tiptoe with their 
 fingers on their lips. Strange to say, 
 I have decided to do it in water-color, 
 and not in oil. Although one unques 
 tionably does not get such solidity in 
 water-color, it is better suited to my pur 
 pose. Look at those square porcelain 
 dishes with lips, and those great sheets 
 of paper near them all parts of the 
 experiments I have tried. I can flow 
 washes so transparent that they are like 
 air itself; and as for variety of texture, 
 differences of gradation, look at that!" 
 So saying, he handed me a sheet of 
 paper that glowed like sunlight, while 
 the gray house in the middle distance 
 looked as though it were seen through 
 20 
 
THE YELLOW GLOBE 
 
 golden mists, or as though its gray were 
 powdered with gold dust. 
 
 "That," he said, "is only one of hun 
 dreds of experiments I made before I 
 reached with certainty what I wished 
 to express in yellow light. I see you 
 are looking at the sketch of the rose- 
 tree." 
 
 "Yes," I replied; "I am very much in 
 terested." 
 
 "Oh, well," he said, "they are all part 
 and lot of my final picture, which is now 
 almost completed. Perhaps you would 
 like to see how I proceed from time to 
 time with my experiments." 
 
 He then turned the light almost out. 
 How uncanny it all seemed to me as I 
 stood, long past midnight, in the dim, 
 shadowy loft ! But I was so thoroughly 
 interested that I did not indulge long in 
 reflections. In a few moments he 
 21 
 
THE YELLOW GLOBE 
 
 lighted a small lamp behind the great 
 pane of yellow glass, which I now saw 
 was smeared over with a weird kind of 
 sky, while the model of the house was al 
 most in silhouette against it. In 
 another moment he had lighted a little 
 lamp under the table, which shone 
 through a small pool or pond, also made 
 of yellow glass, which in turn threw a 
 soft light over the front of the house. 
 Then he illuminated the interior of his 
 house, and through the little windows 
 gleamed a melancholy light, subdued 
 here and there by bits of paint carefully 
 and most artistically added to the win 
 dows. Now he placed a small bronze 
 heron on the shore of the miniature 
 pond; then some bits of weeds and 
 grasses. On one side he adjusted a 
 group of thistles, and finally the great 
 rose-tree in miniature at one end of the 
 
THE YELLOW GLOBE 
 
 house. To these he kept adding other 
 objects, among them a small sun-dial. 
 Then he led me to the other end of the 
 room, and by some hidden mechanism 
 threw a soft, delicious, but uncanny yel 
 low glow over the whole. The great 
 loft was now in midnight darkness and 
 gloom, and only this beautiful but al 
 most specter-like, haunted little spot 
 glowing with such strange and fascinat 
 ing light. How real it appeared! I 
 was riveted to the spot; the singular 
 beauty of this miniature house and 
 its surroundings grew on me. We 
 both stood in absolute silence. What 
 strange, hidden something was there 
 about it that affected me so curiously? 
 I felt cold chills begin to creep over me ; 
 the stillness became awful. I looked 
 at my companion; he seemed lost in 
 reverie. But it was not merely seem- 
 23 
 
THE YELLOW GLOBE 
 
 ing, it was with real horror that he stood 
 gazing at those little glass windows. I 
 do not know how long we stood thus; 
 but at last he turned up the light, and 
 I noticed how pale he had become and 
 how absorbed was his manner. 
 
 "Now," he said, "I will show you the 
 picture." He went to the further end 
 of the room and pulled a large curtain 
 aside, exposing the painting to my view. 
 "You see, all the appliances of my 
 model are but mere hints to me. I use 
 them as I use nature, and as a figure- 
 artist uses a lay figure, taking only so 
 much as I care for." 
 
 If I had been impressed before with 
 all I had seen, how much more was I 
 impressed with the picture! How 
 beautiful ! Was the sky painted, or was 
 it real? Now I could well understand 
 all that he had worked so hard to ac- 
 
THE YELLOW GLOBE 
 
 complish. Again I began to feel a 
 mysterious awe, cold shivers creeping 
 over me, and again the painter's manner 
 changed. He looked pale and hag 
 gard, and an expression of pain and 
 anguish seemed to show itself in his 
 whole being. Another awkward pause, 
 while the beautiful yellow sky glowed 
 like light through amber. A queer, far 
 away, hold-your-breath sort of feeling 
 came over me. I looked at the front of 
 the house; the paths were choked with 
 great weeds ; the sun-dial was moss-cov 
 ered, and on it was a lizard so quiet that 
 it seemed petrified. On the shore of 
 the pond the heron stood motionless. 
 The little birds were sitting hushed in 
 the branches of the rose-tree. Great 
 thistles, almost black, were in the left 
 foreground, and the gigantic rose-tree 
 was blooming with beauty. But the 
 25 
 
THE YELLOW GLOBE 
 
 something which made me shudder was 
 the queer, fascinating light shining 
 through the windows, which affected me 
 like a wail from the dead. I expected 
 the next moment to hear a piercing cry 
 from within the house. 
 
 "You seem impressed," he said very 
 gently, and his voice sounded sweet and 
 low. He replaced the curtain over the 
 picture, and, as he did so, said slowly 
 and sadly, "Only a man with a haunted 
 heart can paint a haunted house." 
 
INTERLUDE 
 
KENSAL GREEN 
 
 (October 23, 1890) 
 
 With what sorrow, with what sadness, 
 Laid we one whose heart was gladness 
 Underneath the gentle sod. 
 Silver mist and birches true 
 Wept for him their tears of dew, 
 Wept for him their tears of dew. 
 
 Slowly, sadly we departed; 
 One was dead, one broken-hearted, 
 In this graveyard old. 
 Silver mist and birches true 
 Wept for both their tears of dew, 
 Wept for both their tears of dew. 
 
 A. W. DRAKE. 
 
wary in the Residence of 
 A. W. Drake 
 

THE CURIOUS VEHICLE 
 
w 
 
 THE CURIOUS VEHICLE 
 
 TT was midnight in early December. 
 * A dense silver mist hid the sleeping 
 city, the street-lamps gave a faint yel 
 low glimmer through the -almost im 
 penetrable gloom, the air was like the 
 cold breath from the dying, the fog 
 hanging in great drops from my cloth 
 ing. Stray policemen had taken refuge 
 in sheltering doorways, and my own 
 footsteps echoed with unfamiliar and 
 uncanny sound down the long street 
 the only sound that broke the midnight 
 stillness, save the hoarse whistles of 
 31 
 
THE CURIOUS VEHICLE 
 
 wandering and belated ferry-boats on 
 the distant river. 
 
 As I emerged from a narrow street 
 into the main thoroughfare, my shiver 
 ing attention was attracted to a curious 
 covered vehicle standing in the bright 
 glare of an electric light. It was 
 neither carriage nor wagon, but an odd, 
 strongly made affair," painted olive 
 green, with square windows in the sides, 
 reaching from just above the middle to 
 the roof, and a smaller window in the 
 back near the top. On each side of the 
 middle window were two panels of glass. 
 From the middle window only a dim 
 light shone, like a subdued light from a 
 nurse's lamp. On the seat in front, un 
 derneath a projecting hood, sat a little 
 old black man wrapped in a buffalo-robe 
 and a great fur coat partly covered with 
 a rubber cape or mackintosh, with a fur 
 
THE CURIOUS VEHICLE 
 
 cap pulled down over his ears. The 
 horse was heavily blanketed, and also 
 well protected with rubber covers. 
 Both man and beast waited with un 
 questioning patience. Both seemed 
 lost in reverie or sleep. 
 
 With chattering teeth I stood, won 
 dering what could be going on in that 
 queer box-like wagon at that time of 
 night. The silence was oppressive. 
 There stood the dimly lighted wagon; 
 there stood the horse; there sat the 
 negro and I, the only observer of this 
 queer vehicle. 
 
 I stepped cautiously to the side of the 
 wagon, and listened. Not a sound 
 from within. Shivering and be 
 numbed, I, too, like the policemen, took 
 refuge in a doorway, and waited and 
 watched for some sound or sign from 
 that mysterious interior. I was too 
 
THE CURIOUS VEHICLE 
 
 fond of adventure to give it up. It 
 seemed to me that hours passed and I 
 stood unrewarded. Just as I was re 
 luctantly leaving, much chagrined to 
 find that I had waited in vain, I saw, 
 thrown against the window for a few 
 moments only, a curious enlarged 
 shadow of a man's head. It seemed to 
 wear a kind of tam-o'-shanter, below 
 which was a shade or vizor sticking out 
 beyond the man's face like the gigantic 
 beak of a bird. A mass of wavy hair 
 and beard showed underneath the cap. 
 Suddenly the shadow disappeared, 
 much to my disappointment, and al 
 though I watched in the fog and damp 
 ness for half an hour longer, it did not 
 again appear. 
 
 I wandered home, puzzled and specu 
 lating, but determined that I would wait 
 until morning if I were ever fortunate 
 34 
 
THE CURIOUS VEHICLE 
 
 enough to come across the vehicle again. 
 Weeks passed before the opportunity 
 occurred, and even then, had it not been 
 for a very singular incident, I doubt if 
 I should ever have fathomed the mys 
 tery of the curious vehicle. 
 
 It was Christmas eve, the night bit 
 terly cold. I had clothed myself in my 
 thickest ulster. My feet were incased 
 in arctics, my hands in warm fur gloves, 
 and with rough Scotch cap I felt sure 
 I could brave the coldest night. Thus 
 equipped, I started out, and when I re 
 turned at midnight in the beginning of 
 a whirling, almost blinding snowstorm, 
 the Christmas chimes were ringing, and 
 the whole air seemed filled with Christ 
 mas cheer. 
 
 Turning a corner, I discovered the 
 vehicle in the same place and position. 
 This time, as I had before resolved, I 
 35 
 
THE CURIOUS VEHICLE 
 
 would wait until morning if necessary. 
 So I began pacing up and down the 
 sidewalk in front of the vehicle, taking 
 strolls of five or ten minutes apart, and 
 then returning. I walked until I was 
 almost exhausted. In spite of my 
 heavy ulster I began to feel chilly, so I 
 again took refuge in the doorway of a 
 building opposite. 
 
 Should I give it up, I asked myself, 
 after waiting so long? I stood debat 
 ing the question. No, I would wait a 
 little longer; so, puffing my pipe, I shiv 
 ered, and watched for developments. 
 At last I was about determined that I 
 must go or perish, when suddenly I saw 
 through the blinding snow the shadow 
 of a pair of hands appear at the dimly 
 lighted window, adjusting a frame or 
 inner sash. You can imagine my inter 
 est in the proceedings. 
 36 
 
THE CURIOUS VEHICLE 
 
 Just at this moment a street sparrow, 
 numb with the cold, and crowded from 
 a window-blind by its companions, 
 dropped, half falling, half flying, to the 
 sidewalk directly in front of the window 
 of the vehicle. It sat blinking in the 
 bright rays of the electric light, quite 
 bewildered, turning its little head first 
 one way, then the other. In the mean 
 time the shadows of the two hands were 
 still visible. The sparrow, probably atr 
 tracted by the light and the movement 
 of the hands, suddenly flew up, not 
 striking the glass, but hovering with a 
 quick motion of the wings directly in 
 front of the window, its magnified 
 shadow thrown on it by the rays of the 
 electric light. Then the bird dropped 
 to the ground. The occupant was evi 
 dently much startled by the large 
 shadow coming so suddenly and at 
 37 
 
THE CURIOUS VEHICLE 
 
 such a time of night. The shadow 
 of his hands quickly disappeared, and 
 so did the frame. In another moment 
 the door of the vehicle opened, giving 
 me a glimpse of a cozy and remarkable 
 interior. It seemed, in contrast with 
 the cold and storm without, filled with 
 warmth and sunshine. It was like a 
 pictorial little room rather than the in 
 side of a wagon or carriage. The occu 
 pant looked out in a surprised, excited, 
 and questioning way, as much as to say, 
 "What could that have been?" His 
 whole manner implied that he had been 
 disturbed. 
 
 This was my opportunity, and, seiz 
 ing it instantly, I walked boldly to the 
 door of the vehicle, and said, "It was 
 a little sparrow benumbed with the cold, 
 that fluttered down to the sidewalk, 
 where it lay for a moment, until, prob- 
 
THE CURIOUS VEHICLE 
 
 ably attracted by the light, it hovered 
 for a few seconds before your window, 
 then fell to the ground again." 
 
 I felt the man eying me intently, 
 studying me with a most searching 
 glance. Was he in doubt as to my sin 
 cerity? Was it a hidden bond of sym 
 pathy between us that made him sud 
 denly relent and invite me to enter 
 his vehicle? What else could have 
 prompted him? For my own part, I 
 instinctively felt for the man, without 
 knowing why, a deep pity. 
 
 "Please step inside," he said; "it is 
 cold." 
 
 And so, at last, I was really admitted, 
 invited into the little interior that 
 little interior which had piqued my cu 
 riosity for so long a time. Yes, I was 
 admitted at last, and now had a chance 
 to look about, and to study the general 
 
THE CURIOUS VEHICLE 
 
 appearance of the occupant as he moved 
 over for me to sit beside him on the 
 roomy, luxurious seat. What a cu 
 rious personality! He was a tall, raw- 
 boned man of strong character. His 
 soft gray beard and hair made a marked 
 contrast to the dark surroundings. 
 Now I understood the shadow which I 
 had seen thrown on the window for a 
 few seconds. He wore a tam-o'-shanter 
 cap, and beneath it, to protect his eyes 
 from the lamp-light, a large vizor, or 
 shade, which threw his entire face into 
 deep shadow, giving him a look of a 
 painting by an old master. He had on 
 a loose coat of some rough material. 
 
 Surely the interior of no conveyance 
 could be more interesting than this. In 
 the front just back of the driver, were 
 two square windows with sliding 
 wooden shutters, and between the two 
 40 
 
THE CURIOUS VEHICLE 
 
 was a little square mirror. Above 
 these was a rod, from which hung a 
 dark-green cloth curtain which could be 
 drawn at will. Underneath was a 
 chest, or cabinet, of shallow drawers 
 filling the entire width of the carriage, 
 with small brass rings by which to pull 
 them out. On top of this cabinet stood 
 several clear glass jars half filled with 
 pure water. There were two or three 
 oil-lamps with large shades hung in 
 brackets with sockets like steamer- 
 lamps, only one of which was lighted. 
 Underneath the seat was a locker. On 
 the floor of the conveyance, along its 
 four sides, were oblong bars of iron, and 
 in the center was a warm fur rug. One 
 side only of the carriage opened. On 
 the side opposite the door was a rack 
 reaching from the window to the floor, 
 in which stood six or eight light but 
 41 
 
THE CURIOUS VEHICLE 
 
 strongly made frames, over which was 
 stretched the thinnest parchment-like 
 paper. The top of the vehicle was 
 tufted and padded. The prevailing 
 color was dark green. In shape it was 
 somewhat longer and broader than the 
 usual carriage. There was a small re 
 volving circular ventilator in front, over 
 the mirror, which could be opened or 
 closed at will, and which could also be 
 used by the occupant for conversing 
 with the driver. 
 
 The man arose, and, opening the ven 
 tilator, told the coachman to drive on. 
 Meanwhile I enjoyed the wonderful ef 
 fect of the little interior its rich gloom, 
 the strong light from the shaded lamp 
 which was thrown over the floor, the 
 bright electric light gleaming through 
 the falling snow into the window on my 
 left. 
 
THE CURIOUS VEHICLE 
 
 The night, being so disagreeable, 
 made the interior seem very bright and 
 comfortable by contrast, as the man 
 closed the sliding wooden shutters, 
 separating us entirely from the snow 
 storm without. There was an artificial 
 warmth which I could not understand, 
 and with it all a sense of security and 
 coziness. The stranger's manner was 
 both gentle and reassuring. We rode 
 in silence over the rough pavement un 
 til we reached the smooth asphalt. 
 Then he began: 
 
 "I do not consider myself supersti 
 tious, but somehow I don't like it that 
 little bird hovering in front of my 
 window. It seems like a bad omen, 
 and it was a shadow which startled 
 me. My life seems haunted with shad 
 ows, and they always bring misfortune 
 to me." 
 
 43 
 
THE CURIOUS VEHICLE 
 
 We were both silent for a time, when 
 he went on: 
 
 "How curious life is! Here am I 
 riding with you, a total stranger, long 
 past midnight. You are the first I 
 have ever admitted into this wagon, 
 with the exception of my faithful Cato, 
 who is driving. If one could only see 
 from the beginning how strangely one's 
 life is to be ordered." 
 
 The stranger's voice was rich and 
 deep. I hoped he would continue so 
 that I might get some idea of him and 
 his peculiar mode of life, and what was 
 going on night after night in this inte 
 rior. I waited for him to proceed. 
 
 "Have you known any trouble or 
 sorrow in your life?" he asked. 
 
 "Yes," I replied; "I have lost nearly 
 all who were dear to me in this round 
 world." 
 
 44 
 
THE CURIOUS VEHICLE 
 
 "Then," said he, "I will tell you my 
 story with the hope that it will be both 
 understood and appreciated. I loved 
 from childhood a charming girl, sweet 
 and pure. I need not go into the detail 
 of all that boyish love, but in my early 
 manhood and her early womanhood we 
 were married and what a sweet bride 
 she was! 
 
 "We lived in an old white farmhouse 
 in a village near the great city a beau 
 tiful place, a long, low, two-story-and- 
 attic farmhouse, probably fifty or sixty 
 years old. How well I can see it its 
 sloping roof, the extension, the quaint 
 doorway with side-lights and with a 
 window over the top, the front porch 
 with gracefully shaped newels, the long 
 piazza running the entire length of the 
 extension, great chimneys at each end, 
 and enormous pine-trees in front of the 
 45 
 
THE CURIOUS VEHICLE 
 
 house ! The house stood on a little ele 
 vation, with terraced bank, and with a 
 pretty fence inclosing it. Beyond was 
 an old well with lattice-work sides and 
 door, and a pathway trodden by the feet 
 of former occupants, long since dead. 
 In front of the house were circular beds 
 of old-time flowers sweet-williams, 
 lady's-slippers, larkspur, and foxglove. 
 At the rear, great banks of tiger-lilies 
 threw their delicate blue shadows 
 against the white surface of our little 
 home. In one corner of our garden we 
 had left the weeds to grow luxuriantly, 
 like miniature forest trees, and found 
 much pleasure in studying their beau 
 tiful forms. How fine they looked in 
 silhouette against the sunset sky! On 
 one side of the old-fashioned doorway 
 were shrubs and a rose-of- Sharon tree, 
 46 
 
THE CURIOUS VEHICLE 
 
 and on the other, honeysuckle and 
 syringa-bushes. There were also many 
 kinds of fruit and shade-trees. 
 
 "How happily we walked up and 
 down the shady lanes of that little vil 
 lage! For us the birds sang sweetly. 
 We took delight in our flowers, and 
 everything about us. In the evening 
 we would enjoy the sunsets, returning 
 home arm in arm in the afterglow, to sit 
 in the cool of the evening on the piazza 
 and to listen to the wind as it sighed 
 through the pines. What music they 
 made for us! We compared it with 
 what poets of all ages had sung of them, 
 and went to sleep, lulled to rest by the 
 wind through their soft boughs." 
 
 He paused again, evidently thinking 
 of the happy time. 
 
 "How can I tell you," he resumed, 
 47 
 
THE CURIOUS VEHICLE 
 
 "of the life that went on in that simple 
 old farmhouse? Our pleasant woodfire 
 on the hearth; a few photographs from 
 the old masters on the walls; our favor 
 ite books of poetry and fiction, which 
 we read together during the long win 
 ter evenings, while the pine-trees sighed 
 outside, and all was so comfortable and 
 cozy within; or the lovely walks in 
 spring and summer, through the by 
 ways of the pretty little village, with its 
 hedgerows, blackberries, and wild flow 
 ers. How we watched for the first vio 
 lets, and what joy the early blossoms 
 gave us! What pleasure we took 
 in those delightful years, and how 
 smoothly our lives ran on! Each day 
 I went to the city, and was always 
 cheered by the thought that my sweet 
 wife would be at the station to meet me. 
 How pure she looked in the summer 
 48 
 
THE CURIOUS VEHICLE 
 
 evenings, clad in her thin white dresses, 
 with a silver fan and brooch, her dark 
 hair and eyes like those of a startled 
 fawn! 
 
 "Well, I need not dwell longer on 
 all this. It was only for a few short 
 years, when one cruel cold day about 
 the happy Christmas-time she was 
 taken ill, and grew steadily worse, and 
 all that could be done for her would 
 not save her. She died. I can see her 
 now her dark hair laid back on the 
 pillow, and the peaceful, happy smile 
 on her face. We buried her beneath 
 the snow, in the old graveyard overlook 
 ing the river, and I went home broken 
 hearted." 
 
 I heard the poor fellow sigh, and for 
 
 a time he was silent as the carriage went 
 
 on through the snow. "What can be 
 
 the connection of this queer craft with 
 
 49 
 
THE CURIOUS VEHICLE 
 
 what he is telling me?" I thought. 
 When he resumed, he said: 
 
 "For months I tried to live on in the 
 little house, but life became terrible. 
 In the evenings, as I sat by the pleasant 
 log-fire, I would imagine I heard her 
 footsteps on the stairs, and her voice 
 calling me. I did my best to conquer 
 my grief, but it was of no use. The 
 light seemed gone out of my life. At 
 last I could stand it no longer, and I 
 moved all my worldly possessions to 
 another house in the same village. I 
 could not bear to think of going away 
 from the place entirely. 
 
 "When the springtime came again, 
 and the lovely flowers were in bloom, 
 and the birds were singing their sweet 
 songs; when the wind breathed softly 
 through the pine-trees, and she was 
 gone, the sunsets were in vain, and all 
 50 
 
THE CURIOUS VEHICLE 
 
 nature seemed mourning. After this 
 I busied myself with all kinds of oc 
 cupation, but without success. Life be 
 came sadder and sadder, until finally in 
 despair I took a foreign trip. I trav 
 eled far and wide, but always with the 
 same weary despondency and gloom. 
 The image of my loved one was al 
 ways with me. Nothing in life satisfied 
 me. I wandered through country after 
 country, looking at old masters, grand 
 churches, listening to cathedral music, 
 but always before me was the same pic 
 ture the old white farmhouse, the 
 great mournful pines, and with it all 
 the memory of the sweet life now de 
 parted, for which nothing could make 
 amends." 
 
 Then he was silent, and as we drove 
 over the soft, snow-covered asphalt, he 
 became absorbed in thought. 
 51 
 
THE CURIOUS VEHICLE 
 
 "After a year or so of restless foreign 
 travel I drifted back to my own country 
 and to the little village. Night after 
 night I wandered around the empty 
 house where we had lived, and through 
 the little garden, and would stand at 
 midnight listening to the sad sighing of 
 the wind through the pine-trees, which 
 to me sounded like a requiem for the 
 dead. Many a moonlight night have I 
 stood gazing into the windows, and 
 imagine her looking out at me as in the 
 happy days of old, and I would walk 
 up and down the path thinking, oh, how 
 sadly! of the times we used to return 
 by it from our evening walks. 
 
 "Finally the little village became 
 hateful to me. I could endure it no 
 longer, and I shook its dust from my 
 feet. With reluctance I moved away 
 into the heart of the great city, but with 
 52 
 
THE CURIOUS VEHICLE 
 
 the same longing in my heart the same 
 despair. I hunted up my two faithful 
 black servants who had lived with us 
 for several years. I bought a house in 
 the old part of the city, and there we 
 now live, and I am well cared for by 
 them. Let me read you portions of a 
 letter from her one of the last she 
 wrote," and he took from his pocket a 
 little morocco book with monogram in 
 silver script letters. He rose and asked 
 the driver to stop, and turning the light 
 up, said: "This will give you some idea 
 of the sweet life, with its love of nature, 
 that went on in and about that little 
 cottage. The letter was written to me 
 when I was in another city." He read 
 as follows: 
 
 "My dear, I can hardly tell you how 
 lovely the shadows looked as I strolled 
 around our little house this evening, and 
 53 
 
THE CURIOUS VEHICLE 
 
 was filled with delight by their beautiful 
 but evasive forms. To begin with, you 
 remember the exquisite, almost sil 
 houette, shadow of the rose-of- Sharon 
 bush by the front door. I gave it a 
 long study to-night. Its fine, decora 
 tive character reminded me of a Japa 
 nese drawing, only it is far more delicate 
 and subtle. If this could be painted in 
 soft gray on the door-posts and around 
 the little side windows, how it would 
 beautify our plain dwelling, and what a 
 permanent reminder it would be of our 
 delightful summer days ! 
 
 "But if I spend too much time on a 
 single shadow, I shall have no room left 
 to 'tell you of the greater ones we have 
 enjoyed together . . . From the path 
 near the gate, and looking toward the 
 house, I saw to-night, and seemed to 
 feel for the first time, the wonderful 
 54 
 
THE CURIOUS VEHICLE 
 
 tenderness of the great shadow which 
 nearly covers the end and side of our 
 house. How mysterious our kitchen 
 became, with its shed completely in 
 closed in velvety gloom suggesting both 
 sorrow and tragedy; while the other end 
 of the house was covered with fantastic 
 forms, soft and ethereal, and with a 
 delicacy indescribable . . . But when 
 the moon came up, and the soft shadows 
 of the pines were cast on the pure white 
 weather-boards of our little home, the 
 shadows of our own pines, the pines 
 we love so well, and through whose 
 branches we have heard music sweet and 
 low, soft and sad, then I thought of 
 you as I studied their masses tossing so 
 gently, their movement almost imper 
 ceptible, and I longed for you as I 
 studied their moving forms, their rich 
 ness, variety, and texture for you to 
 55 
 
THE CURIOUS VEHICLE 
 
 tell me of their artistic beauty your 
 delicate, poetic appreciation of their 
 loveliness. . . . And at last, may the 
 sun and moon shine brightly and cast 
 beautiful shadows among and over the 
 tombstones for you and for me, my 
 dear, and may a blessed hope make the 
 sunset of life glorious for us both." 
 
 When he had finished reading, and 
 had asked the driver to drive on, he be 
 came absorbed and silent, and I 
 thought, "How strange to be riding 
 through the streets of the city after mid 
 night in a whirling snowstorm with a 
 stranger, in a vehicle so remarkable, 
 listening to such a pathetic love-story, 
 such a beautiful description of quiet do 
 mestic life." It was a charming idyl. 
 
 "You can get an idea from this," he 
 said, "of the delightful, contented life 
 which went on in the little cottage," 
 56 
 
THE CURIOUS VEHICLE 
 
 and he sat holding the book in his hands 
 as though he were living it all over 
 again, while the bright silver script 
 monogram gleamed and glistened on the 
 cover until he turned down the light, 
 and for a time we drove over the smooth 
 asphalt in utter silence. 
 
 "Do you wonder," he suddenly asked, 
 "that the shadow of that little bird has 
 caused me uneasiness, and yet do you 
 not see that almost the last letter she 
 wrote me was filled with omens, 
 shadows? It is but natural that I 
 should have some feeling about it and 
 yet, why should I care? I have only 
 myself and my two old servants who 
 could be affected by it, bad or good. 
 For myself, my only desire is to live 
 long enough to complete my work ; then 
 I am both ready and willing to go. I 
 shall welcome death with delight." 
 57 
 
THE CURIOUS VEHICLE 
 
 I had become so absorbed in his story 
 that I had forgotten all about my sur 
 roundings ; but now as he paused I again 
 asked myself what strange connection 
 had this sad story, and the letter, and 
 all that he had been telling me, with the 
 wagon; for I was sure that in some 
 queer way the story would help to ex 
 plain it all. 
 
 "While in Europe," he went on, "I 
 studied the old masters a great deal, par 
 ticularly the halos and nimbuses sur 
 rounding the heads of the saints. I 
 cannot begin to tell you how interesting 
 they became to me. I was struck with 
 the exquisite workmanship bestowed on 
 many of them, but fine as they were, 
 they never came up to my idea of what 
 a halo should be. As my loved one was 
 so pure and gentle, I always thought 
 of her as a saint (and indeed she is 
 58 
 
THE CURIOUS VEHICLE 
 
 such), and I would become interested 
 and imagine what kind of halo I would 
 surround her with if I were painting 
 her not one of the halos of the old mas 
 ters seemed fine enough or ethereal 
 enough for her. I had always been 
 fond of art, and had been considered a 
 fair amateur artist. One evening after 
 I had moved to the city, and while rid 
 ing in a cab (oh, how gloomy!) on a 
 snowy evening something like this very 
 night, I looked through the window 
 down at an electric light, and there I 
 saw the loveliest halo, in miniature. 
 Such tints! A heavenly vision! I 
 thought of the old masters, of the beau 
 tiful Siena Madonna, and with sudden 
 joy I thought: 'Why should I not paint 
 the image of her I love ? Why should I 
 not clothe her in Madonna-like robes, 
 with a halo which could come only 
 59 
 
THE CURIOUS VEHICLE 
 
 out of the nineteenth century? Why 
 should she not have a halo far outshin 
 ing and far surpassing in beauty halo 
 ever painted by mortal man?' I rode 
 nearly the whole night through, evi 
 dently to the despair of the driver, as 
 I repeatedly asked him to stop opposite 
 electric lights and street-lamps. 
 
 "From that day I had a new purpose 
 in life. I had this wagon built just as 
 you see it. For months I thought of 
 it. Over and over again I drew my 
 plans before the vehicle was actually 
 constructed. Then I began my work. 
 Old Cato, who is driving, sits night af 
 ter night, unmindful of the cold, 
 wrapped in his great fur coat, and 
 he waits and I work through the mid 
 night hours to conceive and make real 
 the new Madonna." 
 
 What a strange, subtle connection 
 60 
 
THE CURIOUS VEHICLE 
 
 the whole thing had, as he suddenly 
 tapped on the small window and we 
 stopped directly in front of an electric 
 light ! As he opened the sliding shutter 
 I saw, through the frosted window and 
 the feathery snow, such a vision of love 
 liness a little halo that could scarcely 
 be described in words. It was like a 
 miniature circular rainbow, intensified 
 and glorified by the glittering rays of 
 the penetrating electric light. 
 
 "What could be more beautiful than 
 that? Isn't it exquisite?" he asked. 
 "Did ever painted saint have a halo like 
 that?" 
 
 I held my breath, for I had never 
 seen anything so beautiful. 
 
 "I have worked at it for a long time. 
 
 I have not yet accomplished it, but I 
 
 hope to. I am coming nearer to it 
 
 every night in which I can work. 
 
 61 
 
THE CURIOUS VEHICLE 
 
 There are not many during the winter; 
 the conditions of atmosphere and tem 
 perature must be just right. On foggy 
 nights, or when the air is filled with 
 light, flying snow these are the nights 
 in which the little halos glow around the 
 electric lights, street-lamps, and lights 
 in show-windows. Oh," he said, "they 
 fill me with a happiness and delight I 
 cannot describe, as I try all kinds of ex 
 periments to transfix the beautiful 
 colors of their delicate rays! 
 
 "Let me show you," he went on, and 
 he lifted one of the frames which I have 
 already described, covered with a thin 
 parchment-like paper. This he care 
 fully buttoned to a groove in the win 
 dow. On the surface of the stretched 
 parchment the little halo glowed with 
 its prismatic tints, and again I held my 
 breath at the beauty of it. I too was 
 
THE CURIOUS VEHICLE 
 
 becoming a halo-worshiper. Then he 
 lifted from the rack on the side, and 
 held up to the light, first one and then 
 another of the frames on the parchment 
 surface of which he had actually traced 
 with lines of color, against the gloom be 
 yond, radiating lines crossing and re- 
 crossing, glowing with rainbow tints 
 seen through and against the window. 
 
 "Do you know anything of Franken 
 stein's wonderful Magic Recipro 
 cals, sometimes called Harmonic Re 
 sponses?" 1 he asked. "How I longed 
 
 iThe Magic Reciprocals or Harmonic Responses, 
 were discovered by Gustavus Frankenstein, and are 
 properly drawn in color. The following are extracts 
 from letters received from Mr. Frankenstein, to whom 
 the author is indebted for the drawings at the be 
 ginning and end of this story: "To-morrow morning 
 I shall send them. They are transcendently lovely. 
 They are halos, if ever there was a halo. So wonder 
 fully magical are they that I think thou wilt modify 
 thy language, and perhaps say that Frankenstein pro 
 duces halos almost, if not quite, to the very perfection. 
 Why, they seem to dazzle and bewilder like the very 
 sun itself. They do not actually emit light, but they 
 
THE CURIOUS VEHICLE 
 
 for his marvelous power, so that I might 
 experiment with them. But they were 
 far beyond my skill, and also, perhaps, 
 too scientific and geometrical for my 
 purpose ; and so I was forced to discard 
 them and begin afresh in my own way. 
 I have had reasonable success, although 
 I have not yet reached the purity of 
 color nor the brilliancy that I wish. I 
 
 look like the soul of light. More like beautiful 
 thoughts are they, spirits of loveliness, than like any 
 thing tangible." ... "I was a long time working out 
 the mathematical problem of the perfectly balanced 
 and completely symmetrical circular harmonic re 
 sponses ; and then the drawings were executed with the 
 greatest care as to perfect precision and accuracy." 
 . . . "The little round white spot in the center imparts 
 an animating expression to the whole Response; and 
 now, as I write, it occurs to me very forcibly that the 
 whole Response looks something like and very much 
 like the iris of the eye, and the little round spot in the 
 center is the pupil. If the iris were all iris, having no 
 pupil in the center, it would appear expressionless and 
 not vividly suggestive of the soul of life. The spot 
 in the center may be looked upon as the tangible exist 
 ence or thing which is the source of the surrounding 
 halo." Again : "The true and complete Response the 
 mathematical assertion has the animating spot in the 
 center." 
 
 64 
 
THE CURIOUS VEHICLE 
 
 do not know that mortal man ever can. 
 I have tried all sorts of experiments 
 lines of silver crossed with lines of gold; 
 prismatic threads of silk; and now I 
 have abandoned them all, and beginning 
 again, perhaps for the fortieth time. 
 But if I am only able to do it, nothing 
 can give me greater happiness. I can 
 close my eyes in peace at last." After 
 he had shown me his experiments, he 
 removed the little frame from the win 
 dow, closed the sliding shutter on the 
 side, and, turning the circular ventila 
 tor, asked the driver to drive on. 
 
 "Now for an extended view," he said, 
 and he opened the shutter of one of the 
 front windows, and then of the other on 
 each side of the mirror. What a vista 
 of loveliness! A long perspective of 
 glowing halos, vanishing down the 
 street through the flying snow, until 
 65 
 
THE CURIOUS VEHICLE 
 
 they were mere specks of light in the 
 distance. The whole atmosphere was 
 filled with circular rainbows, and again 
 he dwelt on their beauty. They glowed 
 with ultramarine, with delicate green, 
 with gold and silver, and like light from 
 burnished copper, and our little vehicle 
 seemed a moving palace of delight, as 
 we drove on through the blinding storm. 
 Turning into one of the narrower 
 streets, away from the electric lights, 
 we saw the long line of receding gas- 
 lamps, each with its softly subdued 
 nimbus, and he said in a low and gentle 
 voice, almost a whisper, "The street of 
 halos." 
 
 When he had closed the shutters again 
 he said, "Let me show you my cabinet 
 of colors and working tools." He 
 pulled out a shallow drawer, and there 
 on small porcelain plaques (the kind 
 66 
 
THE CURIOUS VEHICLE 
 
 used by water-color painters) side by 
 side, in regular order, was every shade 
 of red, from the faintest pink to the 
 deepest crimson. He opened the next 
 drawer, and instead of the red was an 
 arrangement of blues, from delicate tur 
 quoise to deepest ultramarine. In the 
 third drawer was an arrangement of 
 yellows, running from Naples to deep 
 est cadnium. 
 
 "I deal in primary colors," he said, 
 "for what would you paint rainbows in 
 but red, blue, and yellow?" 
 
 Then he opened the fourth drawer, 
 and there, laid with precision, were 
 long-handled brushes from the finest 
 sable (mere pin points) up to thick ones 
 as large as one's finger. There were 
 flat ones and round ones, short ones and 
 long ones. As he opened the fifth 
 drawer, "For odds and ends," he said. 
 67 
 
THE CURIOUS VEHICLE 
 
 This was a little deeper than the others, 
 and in it were sponges fine and coarse, 
 erasers, scrapers, and boxes of drawing- 
 tacks of various sizes. In the last 
 drawer were soft white rags and sheets 
 of blotting-paper of assorted sizes. 
 
 After he had shown me the contents 
 of the cabinet, he said, "I have been 
 quite disturbed by the shadow of that lit 
 tle bird. Will you join me in a glass of 
 old sherry?" He opened the locker un 
 derneath the seat, and brought out an 
 odd-shaped bottle, which he unscrewed, 
 handing me a small, thistle-shaped glass 
 and a tin box containing crackers. 
 
 "It is a bad night," he said; "a very 
 bad night. I feel it, even, with the 
 warmth of this interior. Those long 
 bars of iron are filled with hot water, 
 which usually keeps me very warm." 
 
 Then he passed through the ventila- 
 
THE CURIOUS VEHICLE 
 
 tor, to the driver, some crackers and 
 sherry. After he had closed it, and put 
 away the bottle, box, and glasses, we 
 both mused a long time, the halo-painter 
 completely lost in reverie, and I think 
 ing of the undying love of such a man 
 a man who could love but one and for 
 whom no other eyes or voice could ever 
 mean so much. With him love was an 
 all-absorbing passion. He had given 
 his heart without reserve, and for him 
 no other love could ever bloom again. 
 I thought of him sitting, night after 
 night, in his solitary vehicle working at 
 the halo the new halo which should 
 surround the head of her he loved. I 
 thought of him in the lonely early morn 
 ing hours, working at a nimbus which 
 was far to outshine in beauty and 
 delicacy any painted or dreamed of by 
 God-fearing saint-painters of old. 
 69 
 
THE CURIOUS VEHICLE 
 
 He opened the shutters, and the light 
 from the lamp began to grow dimmer 
 as the early morning light shone faintly 
 through the windows. I noticed the 
 deep furrows of care and sorrow which 
 marked his strong, pathetic face, puri 
 fied by suffering and lighted by divine 
 hope the face of one who lived in 
 another world, and for whom all of life 
 was centered in his ideal one who was 
 in the world, but not of it. 
 
 As he bade me good-by, his face 
 beamed in the early Christmas morning 
 light with indescribable tenderness ; and 
 as the little wagon with its faithful old 
 black driver disappeared through the 
 snow, I thought again and again of the 
 beautiful, touching love of the man who 
 would sit night after night trying to re 
 alize his dream of beauty, to clothe in the 
 garb of a saint the form of her he loved. 
 70 
 
A Doorway Bottle-Cabinet 
 

INTERLUDE 
 
PADEREWSKI 
 
 (December 27, 1891) 
 
 First it was the hum of bees, 
 Then the wind through forest trees, 
 Note of bird, and waters flowing, 
 Lovely fragrance, sweet things grow 
 ing, 
 
 When Paderewski played. 
 
 Sorrow fled, and Hope returned, 
 Ambition on the altar burned, 
 It was not day, it was not night, 
 But the world was filled with golden 
 light 
 
 When Paderewski played. 
 A. W. DRAKE. 
 
THE LOOSENED CORD 
 
THE LOOSENED CORD 
 
 r I^HE host was noted for his charm- 
 * ing dinners. He had never been 
 known to give them twice alike, and 
 whoever was fortunate enough to be 
 invited to one of his entertainments al 
 ways had a delightful memory of it 
 something unusual, some wonder of the 
 table, some setting original and pecul 
 iar. His combinations were carefully 
 considered, and many were the stories 
 told of them. 
 
 Once it was a delightful dinner in 
 midsummer, where small vessels floated 
 75 
 
THE LOOSENED CORD 
 
 about among miniature icebergs over a 
 sea of cobalt blue, a cool, refreshing, 
 and unique centerpiece. 
 
 At another time the centerpiece was 
 a large, circular, shallow vessel of 
 brightly burnished copper, filled with 
 water, and surrounded with small pots 
 of growing verbenas pink, crimson, 
 purple, white, and variegated, fringing 
 the miniature lake like a beautiful 
 meadow of flowers. On the surface of 
 the water floated delicate blown-glass 
 balls of various sizes, like bubbles, kept 
 in motion by gold and silver fish swim 
 ming about among them; they caught 
 reflections of color from the flowers, and 
 high lights gleamed here and there, 
 thrown from the softly glowing candles 
 above. Now and then a gold or a sil 
 ver fish would be magnified through a 
 glass ball until it became a golden or sil- 
 76 
 
THE LOOSENED CORD 
 
 ver bubble drifting slowly over the 
 water. Old Russian hammered copper 
 receptacles at the four corners of the 
 table held towering rose-bushes in full 
 bloom, so that the lovely guest of the 
 evening sat in a bower of green and 
 roses. 
 
 To-night every one was wondering 
 what new device, what new treatment of 
 the table, the host had evolved. The 
 dinner was held in a lofty studio at the 
 top of the house, in early spring. Rare 
 low-toned tapestries adorned the side 
 walls. Here and there gleamed brass 
 and copper plaques of the fifteenth cen 
 tury. Venetian glass glittered in 
 antique carved cabinets. There were 
 old musical instruments, crucifixes, 
 paintings, arms, and bric-a-brac from 
 77 
 
THE LOOSENED CORD 
 
 every quarter of the globe. The night 
 being warm, the great skylight had been 
 thrown open, and above the beautiful 
 studio there could be seen a velvety 
 patch of sky, through which the stars 
 twinkled softly, making a marked con 
 trast to the rich surroundings of the 
 interior. 
 
 The host had provided a table marked 
 by the simplicity of its decoration a 
 few flowers here and there, bits of old 
 repouse silver of the times of the 
 Georges, dainty glass and china, and 
 that was all. When the company en 
 tered the room there was an exclama 
 tion, and all eyes were turned toward the 
 chair assigned to the honored guest, for, 
 attached to it by a most delicate silken 
 cord, floated a miniature balloon, 
 swayed by every current of air which 
 passed through the great studio. It 
 78 
 
THE LOOSENED CORD 
 
 was a balloon perfect in all its details, 
 a complete miniature of a real and pos 
 sible one, not the red ball of the toy 
 shops. All its ropes and stays were of 
 threads of silk, golden and delicate 
 apple-green, crossing and recrossing one 
 another. Beneath it, instead of the 
 usual car or basket, hung a circular cage 
 of gossamer-like workmanship. In it 
 was a swinging perch on which sat a 
 little bird that sang with the greatest de 
 light as the balloon rocked to and 
 fro, held in place by its single cord of 
 silk. 
 
 It was a charming company. There 
 was a wit, a naval officer, a contralto 
 singer, a story-teller but why enumer 
 ate all of that delightful group? The 
 studio and table looked lovely in the 
 soft glow of candle-light, for neither 
 gas nor electric light had any part in 
 79 
 
THE LOOSENED CORD 
 
 the host's entertainment. Later on, 
 when the merriment was at its height, 
 the voices were almost drowned by the 
 notes of the little songster in his gilded 
 cage. Just as the contralto had arisen 
 to sing, the silken cord which held the 
 balloon became loosened in some acci 
 dental manner. Hands were eagerly 
 but vainly extended to catch it, and all 
 eyes were turned upward as the balloon 
 rose rapidly higher and higher out of 
 reach. The joyous notes of the bird 
 grew fainter and fainter until balloon 
 and songster disappeared through the 
 open skylight, into the patch of velvety 
 sky studded with stars. The merri 
 ment was hushed, and it was minutes 
 before any one spoke, and then the 
 bronzed naval officer suggested that 
 they should go to the roof and see which 
 way the wind was blowing. They as- 
 80 
 
THE LOOSENED CORD 
 
 cended the winding stairs, and the offi 
 cer held up his handkerchief to catch 
 the breeze. 
 
 "The wind is due north," he said, 
 "and by morning the little bird will be 
 well on its way toward the Gulf." 
 
 They returned to the studio, but do 
 what they would, the conversation 
 flagged, and it was impossible to revive 
 the merriment. Even the contralto's 
 beautiful song failed to interest them, 
 and nothing seemed to restore the spirits 
 of the guests. Each one was thinking 
 of the little bird; each one seemed to 
 hear its ecstatic notes as it sailed away 
 out of sight under the stars, and a feel 
 ing of sympathy and pity for the little 
 prisoner came over them all. 
 
 Coffee and cigars were brought, and 
 the ladies disappeared. The party 
 broke up at midnight. Carriages were 
 81 
 
THE LOOSENED CORD 
 
 called and the host bade his guests good 
 night. He whose dinners had always 
 been a success was forced to ac 
 knowledge that to-night's was a dismal 
 failure, and he sat gloomy and silent, 
 thinking of the little balloon sailing 
 away through the blackness of the night, 
 carrying the imprisoned songster he 
 knew not whither. 
 
 II 
 
 The sun is just setting behind a beau 
 tiful old French town on the west 
 bank of the southern Mississippi. 
 The streets are filled flooded with sun 
 light. The gardens are blooming with 
 oleander-trees. There is the humming 
 of bees, singing of birds, and a 
 fragrance indescribable. The Missis 
 sippi stretches away like a great sil- 
 82 
 
THE LOOSENED CORD 
 
 ver serpent between golden meadows 
 and headlands on either side, until it 
 becomes a mere glint of light in the 
 distance. Children are playing in the 
 streets, and dark-eyed French girls in 
 their pure white dresses are sitting in 
 the balconies among the flowers. Many 
 of the villagers are wending their way 
 to the post-office for the evening mail, 
 and here and there in a doorway is a 
 gossiping group. Suddenly there is an 
 exclamation. The children stop their 
 play, and point to the sky. At the ex 
 treme end of the village street is a mere 
 speck floating and swaying in the air as 
 it comes nearer and nearer. Heads 
 are peering out of windows. The vil 
 lagers have forgotten their mail and 
 their gossip. All is hushed. There in 
 the yellow light something floats in the 
 sky, coming steadily nearer. Music 
 83 
 
THE LOOSENED CORD 
 
 is heard bird-music. Among those 
 watching are a few brothers of the 
 church, who cross themselves and look 
 wonderingly at the rapidly growing 
 speck. On it comes, larger and larger 
 it grows, and now a miniature balloon 
 is seen sailing slowly, swaying grace 
 fully to and fro, but keeping almost a 
 steady course down the quiet street. 
 The villagers are filled with awe, as 
 floating overhead almost within reach 
 the little balloon passes on and on in the 
 golden light of the dying day, with its 
 feathered passenger sending forth its 
 liquid, almost heavenly song. 
 
 At the other end of the village street 
 is a group of people standing about a 
 noble-looking house with a double piazza 
 where flowers are blooming cactus, 
 crimson roses, and yellow jasmine. 
 The group includes old and young, men, 
 84 
 
THE LOOSENED CORD 
 
 women, and little children, a cripple on 
 crutches, and colored servants; for they 
 are standing about the house of Rose 
 Danian she who has done sweet deeds 
 of charity throughout the short life 
 which is now slowly ebbing away. All 
 wait in reverent mood; even the chil 
 dren forget their play: for all love her, 
 and remember some kindness, some 
 unexpected, generous deed, and the 
 whole town is in mourning. In the 
 room above, which is flooded with soft 
 warm sunlight, stand parents and 
 friends, and the village priest adminis 
 tering the last sacrament to the dying 
 girl. Her luxuriant auburn hair sur 
 rounds her head like the aureole of a 
 saint. Her eyes gaze into the distance 
 with a look of rapture. 
 
 And now down the village street, 
 through a cloud of golden dust raised 
 85 
 
THE LOOSENED CORD 
 
 by a passing vehicle, there floats gently, 
 gently, before the house of Rose Dan- 
 ian, the little balloon with its half -fam 
 ished singing prisoner that has made so 
 long and perilous a journey. Caught 
 by a sudden current of air, it drifts 
 lower and lower until it pauses under 
 neath the upper balcony, trembling with 
 a slight quivering motion before the 
 open window, in the tender, soft light of 
 departing day. The last look of the 
 dying girl rests on the little songster as 
 it pours forth again and again its ec 
 static song with delight indescribable, 
 then drops from its perch. What cu 
 rious coincidence causes the balloon sud 
 denly to collapse, and to sink slowly and 
 softly until it lies on the balcony among 
 the flowers, it, too, like the little bird, 
 with life extinct? 
 
 The priest crosses himself. The 
 86 
 
THE LOOSENED CORD 
 
 weeping friends drop on their knees as 
 the last ray of sunlight disappears gild 
 ing here and there a roof, here and there 
 a bit of projecting ornament. The 
 golden light changes to a delicate apple- 
 green; the great river gleams and glows, 
 assuming prismatic hues reflected from 
 the sky above. All is hushed and 
 solemn in the twilight, as the priest says 
 reverently, "A miracle, my children! a 
 miracle!" 
 
 In the chapel of the church of Saint 
 Mary, just in front of the altar, to the 
 left of the picture of Mary and the 
 Child, hangs suspended from a curiously 
 wrought brass scroll, or arm, the little 
 balloon. It was the clock-maker of the 
 village, who, with loving care, arranged 
 the ribs of wire which hold it out until 
 it assumes its natural, inflated form. 
 87 
 
THE LOOSENED CORD 
 
 Underneath is the delicate cage, and, 
 done with the tenderest love of the vil 
 lage taxidermist, there sits the little 
 feathered songster on its swinging 
 perch, its head turned upward, its 
 throat expanded, its mouth open, ap 
 parently singing its last rapturous song. 
 It is placed there as a token of love to 
 mark the miracle of the dying day of 
 sweet Rose Danian. 
 
 Children peer between the wrought- 
 iron bars of the great gates, with their 
 noble family escutcheon, which protect 
 the chapel. Mothers pause, looking 
 lovingly at the balloon with its lifeless 
 songster. The cripple, leaning on his 
 crutch, gazes long and wonderingly, 
 with almost superstitious awe, at this 
 singular token of loving remembrance. 
 Many are the stories told of beautiful 
 Rose Danian on this, the anniversary 
 88 
 
THE LOOSENED CORD 
 
 day of the miracle, and in the church 
 mass has been celebrated for the repose 
 of her soul. But now vespers are being 
 held; great shafts of colored light are 
 thrown through the stained-glass win 
 dows, penetrating the gloom of the 
 darkest recesses, flooding the picture of 
 Mary and the Child, lighting and gild 
 ing the little balloon until it looks like 
 a floating glory, or halo. There is an 
 odor of burning incense, the grand chant 
 of the brothers, and the solemn swell of 
 the organ. 
 
 Penitents young and old are kneeling 
 in the church, but who, think you, is 
 standing before the altar in the chapel, 
 examining with intense interest the lit 
 tle balloon, while the distant voices of 
 the brothers and the last strains from the 
 organ die away? On whom, think you, 
 does the sweet, pensive smile of Mary 
 89 
 
THE LOOSENED CORD 
 
 rest, and to whom does the Infant 
 Saviour hold out his little hands ? 
 
 It is the host, whose imagination has 
 been kindled, whose heart has been 
 touched, by the curious story of the mir 
 acle which he has heard to-day for the 
 first time. He has found his long-lost 
 device. 
 
 As he passes out of the church and 
 down the village street, again the great 
 river gleams and glows, the sunset sky 
 flames and burns with crimson light. 
 And as he leaves the little town behind 
 him, now almost lost in the purple mist 
 of twilight, he murmurs to himself, 
 "How strange a transformation a 
 thought of beauty has become a miracle 
 of God r 
 
 90 
 
Portrait 
 
ALEXANDER W. DRAKE 
 THE MAN 
 
I 
 
 A BRIEF BIOGRAPHY 
 
 OF Alexander Wilson Drake if might 
 well be said that the enjoyment of 
 natural and spiritual beauty was the con 
 trolling purpose of his life. To art as a 
 career his first thoughts had therefore nat 
 urally turned. To acquire the necessary 
 facility in drawing he studied with August 
 Will, and also attended the night classes at 
 the Cooper Union. With improvement he 
 became a student at the National Academy 
 of Design. In both schools he had for a col 
 league Augustus Saint-Gaudens, then an ap 
 prentice (to a cameo-cutter), and seemingly 
 unaware of being indentured to Fame. 
 
 A craving for excellence was instinctive 
 with Mr. Drake, and after he had established 
 a successful wood-engraving business of his 
 own the willingness to take vast trouble for 
 the slightest gain in quality was cultivated to 
 
ALEXANDER W. DRAKE 
 
 a habit. It was natural, therefore, that 
 when in midyear, 1870, the first issue of 
 "Scribner's Monthly" (now "The Century" 
 Magazine) was prepared, his cooperation was 
 sought by RicharH Watson Gilder, who was 
 responsible for the art policy and make-up of 
 the magazine. A finer alliance of editorial 
 leadership and expert direction than was ob 
 tained in these two men could not be imag 
 ined. For forty years they worked in per 
 fect unison and, with the steadfast aid and 
 counsel of Mr. Theodore L. DeVinne, brought 
 about a revolution in the art of illustration. 
 
 Mr. Drake supplied the taste and steady 
 pressure that forced the advance in printing. 
 His leadership had a threefold quality: to 
 encourage the artist to find in himself un- 
 thought-of resources of truth and beauty, to 
 stimulate the engraver to preserve the tone 
 and feeling of the artist as well as his 
 graphic qualities, and to hold the printer to 
 an adequate conveyance to paper of all that 
 had been gained for art by tireless love and 
 liberal expense. 
 
 Year after year Mr. Drake began his 
 working day by a visit to the printers, where 
 94 
 
ALEXANDER W. DRAKE 
 
 the runs of the previous day were inspected. 
 His criticisms were supplications rather than 
 fault-findings, and were warmed with his 
 never-failing humor. Emulation was a part 
 of the atmosphere of the place ; still, it could 
 happen that a press crew would fall below 
 concert-pitch or encounter a difficulty that 
 to them seemed trivial. Such a case merely 
 inspired him to increase his attention, and as 
 it was impossible to evade him, a degree of 
 uneasiness would persist until the refractory 
 form was run off. 
 
 A great leap forward was made when it 
 was found possible to transfer a drawing or 
 painting to the wood-block by means of the 
 camera. Thus a mechanical process en 
 larged the scope of the artist in illustration, 
 and in a sense forced the engraver to paint 
 with the burin ; for Mr. Drake now demanded 
 of him not only that he should reproduce the 
 body of a picture, but also the feeling and 
 spirit which might be called its soul. There 
 upon the life of the engraver grew more and 
 more complex and artistic, with the result 
 that several of the craft gained high distinc 
 tion. Yet the aspiring engravers were not 
 95 
 
ALEXANDER W. DRAKE 
 
 allowed to hold the ground they had gained 
 by skill and patience ; the half-tone and other 
 processes of transferring a picture to a metal 
 plate put them out of business. While Mr. 
 Drake eased the decline of many of them by 
 employing them to trim and perfect the new 
 fangled metal plates and also those used in 
 color printing, his fastidious care involved an 
 expense which few publishers were willing to 
 assume. So the wood-engravers as a large 
 and important class went the way of the 
 world, save three or four of exceptional tal 
 ent, including Timothy Cole, who was then 
 producing his remarkable series of wood-en 
 gravings of the old masters and was enabled 
 to continue his work with the result that his 
 incomparable blocks, engraved only for "The 
 Century," number about two hundred and 
 thirty. 
 
 After the daily visit to the printers, Mr. 
 Drake's duties brought him in touch with the 
 procession of artists, engravers, and plate- 
 makers that moved on in quiet deliberation 
 from one year's end to another. He was 
 wont to convey his pictorial idea by a few 
 strokes of a pencil, and cautious artists would 
 96 
 
ALEXANDER W. DRAKE 
 
 submit rough sketches before buckling down 
 to the final task. Often the consultation over 
 the completed picture called for equal tact 
 from editor and artist. It was at such times 
 that Mr. Drake's "manifest kindness and un 
 varying gentleness," as one of the most indi 
 vidual artists defined the manner, enabled him 
 to win cooperation for revision which a more 
 aggressive criticism would have lost. The 
 engraved blocks, and later the plates, were 
 subjected to a more minute, scrutiny than the 
 drawings, until the engravers grew so used to 
 calls for an improving touch here and there 
 to brighten the effect or more closely favor 
 the original that a failure to ask for better 
 ment would have seemed out of routine. 
 While tenacious to the point of obstinacy of 
 his views and opinions, he was studiously gen 
 tle in stating them, and was loath to urge 
 them unless his sense of duty was involved. 
 
 In 1880, Mr. Drake had his first look at 
 the art treasures of England, France, and 
 Italy. The trip was arranged as much for 
 the benefit of the magazine, an expectation 
 which was richly justified, as for the rest and 
 pleasure of a hard-worked enthusiast. He 
 97 
 
ALEXANDER W. DRAKE 
 
 made the acquaintance of William Morris, 
 Rossetti, and other noted English artists of 
 that day, and in Italy he, with Robert Blum, 
 was greeted and guided by Elihu Vedder and 
 Charles Caryl Coleman ; he also met Whistler 
 in Venice. 
 
 In 1890, Mr. Drake made his second visit 
 to Europe, which began auspiciously with a 
 tour in Algiers, Morocco, and the enchanting 
 cities of Spain. His companion was his only 
 son, a boy in his teens, who was being initi 
 ated into the mysteries of art. Alas! they 
 also came in Spain to an outpost of the great 
 mystery, for here the boy showed signs of 
 fever, and was rushed with every possible pre 
 caution to a London hospital. After days 
 of tender watching the youth was laid to rest 
 in an English cemetery, and a little later the 
 father found solace for his sorrow in the 
 pathetic expression of his first poem, "Ken- 
 sal Green." 
 
 Out of that period of introspection came a 
 short season of literary creation which was 
 as delicate, significant, and individual as the 
 art side of his career. Three short stories 
 were published. He planned other plots to 
 98 
 
ALEXANDER W. DRAKE 
 
 express the thoughts of his teeming, sensitive 
 nature, but the demands of his vocation for 
 bade. However, the three stories may be 
 taken as a complete unfolding of a rare mind, 
 with an outlook and a feeling all its own. 
 They could not have been written by any one 
 who had not his thirst for the beautiful and 
 his insight into the hidden springs of art. 
 
 To a public that knew little of his charm 
 ing personality and influential labors in the 
 interest of art Mr. Drake was known chiefly 
 as a collector. In that field he was distinctly 
 a creator, for he awakened the perception 
 that objects of common use often enshrine 
 the basic lineaments of beauty. If those 
 who, hearing that he was making new collec 
 tions, sometimes scoffed, in the end they were 
 forced to admire after beholding the revela 
 tion of human ingenuity and love of grace 
 that was emphasized by the bringing together 
 of selected specimens of any craft or art. 
 Even the simple pictures on the wall-paper 
 used to decorate the bandboxes of a century 
 ago acquired esthetic value after Mr. Drake 
 had had the perception, not to mention cour 
 age, to frame some of his duplicates. 
 99 
 
ALEXANDER W. DRAKE 
 
 Two of his collections have been kept to 
 gether: the forty little ships and boats ap 
 propriately enliven India House in the old 
 shipping district, and the hundred bird 
 cages now ornament the kindly halls of 
 Cooper Union, where the man who had 
 brought them together was first initiated into 
 the mysteries of drawing. 
 
 In 1913 ill health led Mr. Drake to retire 
 from the position he had filled with historic 
 success for forty-three years. How much 
 that meant to hundreds of artists and writers 
 was shown by two dinners given in his honor. 
 More than two hundred illustrators and writ 
 ers joined in a memorable gathering. 
 Shortly afterward, on February 25, 1913, 
 four hundred members of his art and profes 
 sional clubs joined in a famous "Dinner of 
 Alexander Wilson Drake and His Friends, at 
 the Aldine Club." He who had often embel 
 lished feasts to others with amusing menus 
 was celebrated in a souvenir of fifty pages, 
 most of them being humorous sketches by 
 prominent artists, making good-natured 
 sport of the salient traits of the editor and 
 collector. 
 
 100 
 
ALEXANDER W. DRAKE 
 
 Most men die poor, and only a few die 
 rich; but fewer still leave behind them so 
 much of the remembrance that wealth cannot 
 
 create as does Alexander Wilson Drake. 
 CLARENCE CLOUGH BUEL 
 
 in the "Century Magazine." 
 
 101 
 

 
 WITH the deat: 
 
 thai- 
 pel? 
 
 East Side of Dining Room 
 
 ami J to 
 
 rememhr great debt *' ! 
 
 
 the allied arts of wood-< 
 
 iR/ar 
 
 ; >ewed acknowledgment i 
 
 If was miK I 
 il L-istirif 
 wert- T .*W Georgi- 
 
 i^ Lt 4* ^- ... ; -.- .-. A^-t T arl 
 
 ; C> 
 
 devotion of 
 
 103 
 
II 
 
 AN APPRECIATION 
 
 WITH the death of Alexander W. 
 Drake there passes from our sight a 
 figure so benignant and beloved that more 
 than one friend must feel irresistibly im 
 pelled to supplement with a word of earnest 
 personal tribute the epitome of his career 
 printed in the daily press. The main 
 achievements of his singularly useful life, 
 often heretofore chronicled both in magazines 
 and newspapers, have there been recalled to 
 remembrance. The great debt which the 
 country owed to his leadership in perfecting 
 the allied arts of wood-engraving and print 
 ing has received fresh recognition and will 
 claim renewed acknowledgment in the history 
 of American art. 
 
 But the man himself was much greater 
 than his triumphs, varied and lasting as they 
 were. "Never elsewhere," said George W. 
 Cable, " have I seen so great modesty and 
 devotion of character so unfailingly combined 
 103 
 
ALEXANDER W. DRAKE 
 
 with such masterful gifts and achievements as 
 in Mr. Drake in the third of a century that 
 I have known him." And with the rare com 
 bination of qualities here set forth there 
 seemed no room among them for anything 
 even resembling egotism; there was no word 
 or thought of self. He was content to say, 
 "My work is my biography," and he often 
 quoted that noble aphorism, "The reward of 
 a thing well done is to have done it." Yet 
 even casual acquaintances perceived or felt in 
 him natural powers surpassing all that he ac 
 complished and exceptional traits of charac 
 ter as yet unregistered in words. 
 
 For seldom if ever have such positive quali 
 ties as a manly strength of purpose, untiring 
 zeal, and unflinching loyalty been cloaked in 
 such a gentleness of nature as in his unique 
 and many-sided personality. The truth is 
 that, deeper than all these endowments, he 
 had an ingrained love of beauty that was to 
 him the very breath of life. This was the 
 foundation of his character and the corner 
 stone of his career. All his activities, in 
 deed, were tinged with the latent force and 
 inspiration of this enchantment of his soul. 
 104 
 
ALEXANDER W. DRAKE 
 
 It was the hidden dynamic power that speed 
 ily made him a connoisseur in his own special 
 field and eventually one of the most remark 
 able collectors of modern times. Through 
 out his many years as the honored art di 
 rector of "The Century" and "St. Nicholas" 
 magazines this love of beauty was the incen 
 tive to a tireless patience in striving to attain 
 at any cost the utmost possible result or the 
 long-coveted perfection. To see him with an 
 engraver's proof in his hand or bending over 
 a first sheet from the press was to behold an 
 artist at work upon a task he loved ; he never 
 spared himself in the effort to insure a flaw 
 less rendering of a fellow-artist's creation. 
 Even in drawings submitted to him by young 
 illustrators he sought and never failed to note 
 and encourage that "touch of real art," as he 
 phrased it, that he dearly prized, and his 
 trained discrimination gave added strength 
 and comradeship to his relations with paint 
 ers and members of the larger world of art. 
 They felt that Mr. Drake's taste and knowl 
 edge were well-nigh infallible, and their trust 
 in him was deepened because they knew the 
 absolute integrity of his judgment. With 
 105 
 
ALEXANDER W. DRAKE 
 
 all his gentleness, there was never the least 
 taint of capitulation in any verdict that he 
 rendered. Here no compromise was possible, 
 and his loyalty to his ideals was as sacred as 
 his conscience. 
 
 Of course the graphic arts alone could not 
 satisfy him; they were but the vestibule to 
 the temple of color, form, and music. All 
 beauty was his heritage, and to him collecting 
 was not, as to many, a fad: it was a quiet, 
 perpetual, glorified enthusiasm that enriched 
 immeasurably his own life and thousands of 
 other lives by its sure instinct for the genuine 
 in art. It would take a volume to do justice 
 to any of his collections, but the range, vari 
 ety, and extent of the rich spoil he gathered 
 are well known to the art world and the pub 
 lic. 
 
 Again, no visitor needs to be reminded of 
 the charm and distinction of his home, 
 wherein was gathered so much fascinating 
 and endlessly interesting treasure-trove, 
 "where color glowed unglittering, and the soul 
 of visible things showed silent happiness." 
 Each individual object was, in truth, a part 
 of his life. He loved it. It was, in its de- 
 106 
 
ALEXANDER W. DRAKE 
 
 gree, a symbol of all that beauty meant to 
 him; and in the mass the whole rich array was 
 softened into a single, mellow harmony that 
 thrilled the beholder with the sense of beauty 
 in sumptuous repose. 
 
 His gentleness was not that of manner 
 only, but was the natural expression of a 
 deeper kindliness of heart. With his associ 
 ates in daily tasks there was no end to the 
 courtesies, great or small, that he constantly 
 rendered not only whenever opportunity pre 
 sented itself, but frequently when the oppor 
 tunity was of his own making. Whenever 
 good or bad fortune befell, he was first to of 
 fer congratulations or sympathy ; and by 
 countless ingenious and original acts of kind 
 ness he lit up the routine of crowded hours, 
 and made smiles resume their proper sove 
 reignty on tired or troubled faces. His very 
 presence brought with it a sense of cheerful 
 tranquillity, for it always meant that a jest 
 or story was imminent, or some quaint by 
 play of comment that left one refreshed and 
 gladdened; and many silent benedictions fol 
 lowed him as he dispensed these sunny, ex 
 hilarating greetings from day to day. 
 107 
 
ALEXANDER W. DRAKE 
 
 Every least gift to his friends bore the 
 royal stamp of beauty, while in the manner of 
 its bestowal there was always some quaint or 
 tender touch of surprise that added charm 
 and made it doubly precious. 
 
 As for the assistance of every sort ad 
 vice, encouragement, patient, kindly criti 
 cism, and financial aid which he gave to 
 artists and others in depression or necessity, 
 no one knows, or ever will know, the full rec 
 ord of his benefactions. "Think of the help 
 ing hand he has held out to hundreds of 
 struggling young beginners in art and let 
 ters !" writes a grateful member of his corps 
 of illustrators. 
 
 He had a genius for friendship. With his 
 intimates he fulfilled Emerson's definition of 
 a friend as "one with whom we can think 
 aloud"; and as a well-known artist has de 
 clared, "To good stories or fine music he 
 would listen till the gray hours of the morn 
 ing, and, if the opportunity offered, empty 
 his purse to help a comrade in need." But 
 he exercised also a strong and subtle mag 
 netism for men of most diverse and seemingly 
 unrelated types. They were drawn to him 
 108 
 
ALEXANDER W. DRAKE 
 
 with gentle compulsion, and he had the power 
 to make them sharers of his own joy in the 
 things he loved. In proof of the general es 
 teem in which he was held, it may be men 
 tioned that, when his health began to fail and 
 he felt compelled to resign from five clubs, he 
 was immediately made an honorary member 
 for life by every one of them. His joy in 
 friends and their affectionate pride in him 
 will endure indeed among the recollections 
 that are linked with life's best moments. 
 
 In England he might well have been 
 knighted in recognition of his services to the 
 allied arts of engraving and printing, for, as 
 Joseph Pennell says, "He has done more for 
 the advancement of illustration than any man 
 living." In France his collections, if kept 
 together, would have established another goal 
 for art lovers in many ways resembling the 
 Musee Carnavalet. And in these war- 
 blinded times, when the maddened lords of 
 destruction are casting into ruin the glorious 
 fanes and towers that have illumined many 
 generations, his friends, and America itself, 
 should be more than ever grateful for this 
 ardent devotee of beauty whose soul was bent 
 109 
 
ALEXANDER W. DRAKE 
 
 upon the salvage from oblivion of every least 
 relic of art. 
 
 Back of all the grace and loveliness that 
 charmed him in material things, he saw as 
 clearly the spiritual values they represented, 
 the love that had gone into the making of 
 them. 
 
 It is ideals that determine character. We 
 are known at last by the mental pictures that 
 we cherish. Great thoughts, noble harmo 
 nies, love of beauty, friendship no worshiper 
 at any of these shrines go unrewarded, and 
 the inestimable largess they bestow brings 
 with it always some full measure of their time 
 liness and spiritual power. With Mr. Drake, 
 books and music were among the richest, 
 most enchanting satisfactions of his leisure ; 
 but the love of beauty was a transcendent, 
 vital force that from first to last dominated 
 his whole being. He answered to its every 
 call, and, like a joyous child, followed where 
 it led. For reward, it filled his daily vision, 
 his home, his spirit, with opalescent harmo 
 nies, and his later years with "honor, love, 
 obedience, troops of friends." More: it 
 made him its revealer, its interpreter, who for 
 110 
 
ALEXANDER W. DRAKE 
 
 many others had opened eye and heart to the 
 magical beauty that lies hidden all about us 
 under the dust of common things and in the 
 passing hour. 
 
 To those who knew him best his high ideal 
 ism and transparent kindliness, his personal 
 charm and warm, indulgent comradeship, 
 will remain in memory, as they were in real 
 ity, influences of incalculable beauty and 
 beneficence. That he reached the allotted 
 span of life with scarce-diminished vigor and 
 as young at heart as ever is indeed cause for 
 gratitude; but it is from finely sensitive na 
 tures such as his that we learn the poignant 
 truth of Emerson's saying, "Life is not long 
 enough for Art not long enough for 
 
 Friendship." 
 
 WILLIAM FATAL CLARKE 
 
 in the "Century Magazine." 
 
 Ill 
 
Ill 
 
 
 
 West Side of Dining Room 
 
 qua' are not usual in t 
 
 and 
 
 tht 
 couir 
 
 I *bnl! no! 
 
 frbi* of wood-engre< 
 
 to v. >. gave new 
 
 and iK-t t* atid extinction stamJ 
 
 j,r< ^Tftver Timothy Cole aid 
 
 that of one xr iww worthy associates ; or of 
 his exp] -f painting and scuiptu 
 
 113 
 
Ill 
 
 A WORD OF TRIBUTE 
 
 To the Editor of the New York Evening 
 Post: 
 
 SIR: I am sure that in the throng that 
 attended the beautiful service for Mr. 
 Drake at the Church of the Ascension to-day 
 there were many who would like to say a 
 public word of tribute to the qualities of 
 mind and heart that endeared him to them 
 qualities which are not usual in themselves 
 and certainly are rare in combination, and 
 which in this instance have gone far to enrich 
 the life of this community and of the whole 
 country. 
 
 I shall not speak of Mr. Drake's service in 
 the promotion of the art of wood-engraving, 
 to which his experiments gave new vitality, 
 and between which and extinction stands the 
 life of our great engraver Timothy Cole and 
 that of one or two worthy associates; or of 
 his exploitation of painting and sculptor by 
 113 
 
ALEXANDER W. DRAKE 
 
 the presentation through the "Century," in 
 conjunction with Mr. Gilder, of their finest 
 examples. These are already matters of rec 
 ord, and speak for him who never spoke for 
 himself. Enough to say that if we had had, 
 as in France, a National Bureau of Fine 
 Arts, Mr. Drake would have been the one 
 man most fitted, by his ideality and his force 
 of practical administration, to be the director 
 of it. 
 
 I wish to speak only of two points first, 
 the comprehensiveness, the severity, and the 
 loyalty of his artistic taste. Here was a 
 man who loved beauty as a principle, seeking 
 it out with a gentle enthusiasm, of joy, rather 
 than stopping to rail at our abounding ugli 
 ness. He made no compromise with the in 
 tegrity of his exquisite taste; no personal 
 consideration operated to lower his standard, 
 which ran in little things as in great. He 
 felt that if America shall ever attain a clas 
 sical sense of beauty out of which shall come 
 an era of art of great worth, it will be by a 
 rigid cultivation of taste in every depart 
 ment of life. In his more than forty years 
 of close touch with the artists of his time, 
 114 
 
ALEXANDER W. DRAKE 
 
 while his own sensibilities drew much from 
 them, it is safe to say that he gave more than 
 he received. His feeling for color, propor 
 tion, and form seemed faultless, and his un 
 recorded comments on works of art would 
 have made one of those volumes that always 
 seem more precious because they have never 
 been written. 
 
 The other point, which it is wholesome to 
 accentuate, is the constancy and abundance 
 of his personal service. Of those who filled 
 the church to-day I doubt if there was one 
 who had not received from him some special, 
 often unusual, mark of his friendliness in gift, 
 counsel, or sympathy. To quote Shake 
 speare, he was 
 
 the kindest man, 
 
 The best-conditioned and unwearied spirit 
 In doing courtesy. 
 
 This radiance of good will is not a posthu 
 mous fancy ; it was the first thought of him 
 in the minds of those who met him and it 
 found expression at the several memorable 
 dinners in his honor given at the time of his 
 retirement from his active and loyal service 
 of the "Century." He befriended many a 
 115 
 
ALEXANDER W. DRAKE 
 
 struggling draughtsman and engraver, espe 
 cially in the later years of his editorship 
 when new fashions in illustration and the 
 abandonment of engraving gave poignancy to 
 their struggle for life. We who were associ 
 ated with him knew of some of these generosi 
 ties by inference, for such good actions were 
 done by stealth only to be found out by acci 
 dent. But what was as open as the day was 
 the gentleness of his sympathy. The French 
 say that there is no real friendship without 
 some tenderness in it, and this moving quality 
 he put into even casual courtesies, so that 
 one left his presence with an access of self- 
 respect and a kindling of brotherhood. I 
 wish it were in my power to define more ac 
 curately this lovable quality, this charming 
 atmosphere of the man. It is the highest 
 tribute to him that his friends and even his 
 acquaintances who may happen to read these 
 lines will divine what I am so inadequately 
 endeavoring to convey. 
 
 Whatever of beauty there may be in re 
 serve after the wondrous beauty of this world 
 few could be better qualified to enjoy and ap- 
 116 
 
ALEXANDER W. DRAKE 
 
 predate it than this sensitive spirit, who in 
 his long life of happiness and devotion gave 
 to a multitude the true meaning of art. 
 
 ROBERT UNDERWOOD JOHNSON. 
 
 February 7, 1916. 
 
 117