m w^^W*3$> 
 
 ' V Jr-^*Cl ^PJMT-!^ 
 
 ^M^;^^ms 
 
 T^^^^^m^&'^M^M 
 
 ii^jy^f%iife 
 
 ^*C VK ^'v f f*. */> j 
 
 V'v*F v ># 'r-T' \Mi^ T tt *' 
 
 "w^Xwx^flc 
 
 ^%^4c 
 vM^%^ 
 
 ^ \/f Vh^-v 
 
 '^^ ^.<>^
 
 
 
 
 ^^<^T' 
 
 * PJL& ) :-^OLfc ^tf ^C 1.., 
 
 

 
 THE 
 
 WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 torg of f obe anb ^rt in % Actual. 
 
 BY 
 
 J. B. WIGGIK 
 
 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. 
 
 BOSTON: 
 PUBLISHED BY J. B. WIGGIK 
 
 17 BROMFIELD STREET. 
 
 1888.
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1888, 
 
 BY 
 J. B. WIGGIN. 
 
 BOSTON 
 S. J. PARKHILL & Co. PRINTERS
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 I. THE TRIBE OF BARTLETT 5 
 
 II. ROY GOES TO BOSTON 14 
 
 III. ROT GOES ON A FOOL'S EBB AND 24 
 
 IY. ROT WALKS OUT 31 
 
 V. ROT PROVES HIMSELF A HERO 37 
 
 VI. THE CHURCH WITH THE GOLDEN ROOSTER . . 42 
 
 VII. DULL WEATHER IN HAT TIME 49 
 
 VIII. HUCKLEBERRIES 56 
 
 IX. THE HUNT FOB BEAUTT 62 
 
 X. A LAWSUIT PBE VENTED AND A FARMER'S 
 
 VISIT 68 
 
 XL THE ADVENTURES OF JIM CAMEL 77 
 
 XII. SORROW TURNED TO JOT 89 
 
 XIII. ROT AT THE QUINCT HOUSE 97 
 
 XIV. LIFE WITH SOME FLAVOR IN IT 104 
 
 XV. IT is GOOD TO HAVE A MAN IN THE HOUSE . Ill 
 
 XVI. ROT GOES HOME TO THANKSGIVING .... 117 
 
 XVII. ROT AGAIN OCCUPIES BOSTON 124 
 
 XVIII. WILL GLANCE HAS A DRUNK ....... 132 
 
 XIX. ROT TAKES A STUDIO 137 
 
 XX. THE ART COTERIE is LAUNCHED 144 
 
 XXI. A DISTURBING ELEMENT 157 
 
 XXII. SAM ELLET IN LOVE 163 
 
 XXIII. SAM AND MART 170 
 
 XXIV. DR. A. C. SMITH AT THE ART COTERIE ... 174 
 XXV. ROT COMES TO GRIEF 188 
 
 3 
 
 2047015
 
 4 CONTENTS. 
 
 XXVI. GLORIOUS BOSTON 206 
 
 XXVII. A FRIEND IN NEED 223 
 
 XXVIII. IN THE STUDIO 235 
 
 XXIX. HAIL TO THE CHIEF 247 
 
 XXX. HOY DINES OUT ....'. 268 
 
 XXXI. A CASE AT LAW 282 
 
 XXXII. A RAINY DAY 303 
 
 XXXIII. THE GREAT ENGLISHMAN 314 
 
 XXXIV. THE ARTISTS OF BOSTON 331 
 
 XXXV. A WHITE MAN 359 
 
 XXXVI. SOLOMON IN ALL His GLORY 365 
 
 XXXVII. A CONSUMMATION 376 
 
 XXXVIII. UP IN A BALLOON 386 
 
 XXXIX. AOAMENTICUS, A PILGRIMAGE 395 
 
 XL. GRAND TABLEAU .... . 404
 
 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE TRIBE OF BARTLETT. 
 
 IT was the last week in June, and New Hampshire 
 never looked handsomer. In old Straff ord County, not 
 far from the river and the head of tide water, among all 
 the alternations of hill and valley, field and orchard, 
 meadow and woodland, are scattered many farms, which 
 prove the truth of the old Saxon definition, that a farm is 
 a place for provision. And few among them all, that 
 day, for beauty and productiveness, for all sweet home 
 qualities, were more worthy of the name than the Bart- 
 lett homestead. The house stood a little in from the 
 road. It had a well-to-do, opulent look. It was ample 
 in size ; white, with green blinds ; with piazza in front, 
 and each column hidden with a trellis bearing queen-of- 
 the-prairie roses, sweet honeysuckle, Virginia trumpet 
 flower, and woodbine, the latter going beyond all 
 bounds, away on the roof of the ell, at its own sweet will. 
 
 A few steps from the front door began the flower gar- 
 den, and slightly sloping away from the house, it in- 
 sensibly resolved itself into herbs, vegetables, summer 
 squash, sweet corn, and early potatoes, in the most pro- 
 fuse manner, until the house and its grounds stood re- 
 vealed to you as a perfect realization of the wedding of 
 Use and Beauty. 
 
 5
 
 6 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 The ample barn, farther back, on the right of the pic- 
 ture, was plainly seen against the dark green of the large 
 orchard beyond ; and afar off, over field, pasture, and 
 woodland, might be seen many miles away the great 
 blue hill in Stratford, and Blue Job in Farmington. In 
 the distance on the left, was a pretty, rolling country, 
 scattered apple-trees, and a few airy and graceful elms. 
 Nearer still, a broad field of grass, which the breeze was 
 moving in waves, which promised well for haying ; and in 
 the foreground, on the left, about five acres of corn, in 
 long rows, well set, hoed clean, and lastly, on the last two 
 rows, the side nearest the house, two men Mr. Guy 
 Bartlett, forty-five years of age, healthy and hearty, the 
 owner of the hundred and fifty acres ; and by his side, 
 hoeing the advance row, his son and only child, Royal 
 Bartlett, in his twenty -first year. 
 
 Mr. Bartlett was an honest, Christian man. It is the 
 highest praise I can give a human being. Some novels 
 are only a receptacle for the memoirs of villains. This is 
 not that kind of a book. I have known, and do now 
 know some splendid people ; I seek such, and cultivate 
 them ; and without undue publicity, I will, with their 
 knowledge and consent, put them in this book. 
 
 "Whether the young man, Roy Bartlett, was worthy of 
 as high praise as his father, you can find out by reading 
 this book ; for I am going to tell you more about him ; 
 and he had some queer experiences. Certain it is that 
 they both believed in the good things of this world, and 
 they both believed in each other. Roy Bartlett was 
 healthy, hearty, good sized, and I hesitate to say 
 good looking. Handsome blue eyes, brown hair, a light 
 golden-brown mustache, red lips, pleasant, winning
 
 THE TKIBE OF BARTLETT. 7 
 
 ways made him a fine ideal of the Bartlett tribe, as I 
 have known them. 
 
 " Well, father ; this finishes the second hoeing of our 
 corn, and it looks well. Not a hill is missing. Of 
 course the crows got a few hills, but I transplanted 
 enough to fill their places, and I think you will be satis- 
 fied with the harvest." 
 
 " It looks like it now," said Mr. Bartlett. 
 
 " Now, father, I have something to say to you. Our 
 farm work is well up to the season. Nothing is suffering. 
 A little more work in the garden, and we are all ready 
 for haying. You know I am nearly twenty-one years 
 old. And you know that I have always liked drawing 
 and pictures of all kinds. From the time that I have ex- 
 pended, and the interest that I have taken in art, perhaps 
 you have thought that I might make some use of it, at 
 some time." 
 
 " Yes, Roy, I have," said Mr. Bartlett. 
 
 " Now here is my proposition. I never shall go far 
 away from you and mother." 
 
 " I hope not," said his father. 
 
 "But I wish to go to Boston to-morrow, perhaps back 
 at night, or may be the next day, to ask advice and get 
 evidence as to whether it is safe and wise for me to try 
 to get a living out of art, especially oil painting. Per- 
 haps I cannot decide it at once, and perhaps I shall try 
 for a while and relinquish it ; but at all events I can re- 
 turn to the farm and make a good living from that. If 
 New Hampshire habits and gumption won't win, then I 
 shall consider the fault in me. Are you willing I should 
 try, father?" 
 
 " Yes, Roy, I am. Of course I had rather have you
 
 8 THE WILD AKTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 with me every day ; but that is not quite reasonable. So 
 do what you think is best." 
 
 "Thank you, father. But do not think for a moment 
 that I can consult my own interest, to the neglect of my 
 father and mother. We have improved the farm every 
 way. It is in good order and producing finely. You 
 own it free and clear, and have a good amount at interest. 
 And you have given me a good chance too. I have 
 made some money on the patches of ground I have culti- 
 vated for myself, on apples, and on the colts I have 
 raised and sold. So my experiment will be no expense 
 to you." 
 
 Oh, well," said Mr. Bartlett. "You can have help 
 if you need it. Whom have we but you, Roy ? " 
 
 " I know that, father. But I do not believe, with my 
 health and strength, in wasting nuch time or money that 
 brings no return. I will go to-morrow and look over the 
 chances. Next week I will tune up the mowing ma- 
 chine, to mow around the buildings, nnd after the Fourth 
 of July we will cut the grass as fast as it gets ripe and 
 ready." 
 
 "We finish our work just in season for dinner," said 
 Mr. Bartlett. "The sun just begins to light the west 
 side of the house, so it is about a quarter to twelve. 
 There ! didn't I guess right ! There is your mother on 
 the front steps. And she is blowing the horn." 
 
 Roy swung his hat in answer, and, following the path 
 that wound through the thick clover, they went to the 
 welcome dinner. 
 
 Royal Bartlett inherited his first name as well as his 
 last. His mother's maiden name was Marian Royal. Of 
 good size, cheerful, healthy, and efficient, she was all the
 
 THE TRIBE OF BARTLETT. 9 
 
 wife, mother, and queen needful for one family, and the 
 sufficient ruler of heart and home. The table was spread 
 for four persons. 
 
 " Come, folks," said Mrs. Bartlett, " the dinner is all 
 ready." 
 
 " But where is Sam ?" asked Mr. Bartlett. " He ought 
 to be here. He must have heard the horn, and he's not 
 the boy to neglect his dinner." 
 
 " Xo," said the housekeeper. " Sam Ellet is doing 
 what he thinks ought to be done ; but here he comes 
 now." And, after an interview with the purnp, and pol- 
 ishing his red cheeks on a crash roller towel, he ap- 
 peared smiling at the table. 
 
 Sam Ellet was an orphan, now eighteen years old. He 
 had been fed, clothed, sent to school in winter, and 
 made happy as a member of the family for several years, 
 for what he could do. Lately he had received large 
 pieces of silver, and good-sized bank notes, new and 
 crisp, of the Strafford Bank, which he had judiciously 
 deposited in the Dover Savings Bank. He had proved 
 that he could keep money, and was to be trusted. Fur- 
 thermore, he had learned to despise a man that could not 
 keep a cent, and he had made up his mind that he could 
 not "stomach" anything that was not "bone honest" 
 and truthful. So Sam was trusted and loved. He was 
 one of the family, and he made friends. He was proud 
 to be in the Bartlett family. The Bartletts were good 
 livers. The name is old, and I doubt if her majesty's is 
 older. At the Norman conquest a Bartlett settled on 
 the Arun River, near the Earl of Arundel's castle. The 
 present M. P., who represents the name, can I'ide fourteen 
 miles on his own land, and the name now, and for a thou-
 
 10 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 sand years, is a part of England's history, coming down 
 to us through soldiers and statesmen, scholars and gentle- 
 men, through Josiah Bartlett, the first signer of our 
 Magna Charta, the great declaration, and later he was 
 chosen the first governor of New Hampshire, for this, 
 and all family and personal reasons, these Bartletts rejoiced 
 in the bluest blood, and a healthy family pride, that, 
 because they came of good stock, therefore it was their 
 duty and their pleasure to transmit it quite as good or a 
 little better than they received it.* 
 
 So Guy Bartlett and his family felt that if they behaved 
 as well, they were as good as anybody. And they lived 
 wisely and well. So Sam Ellet called them " Uncle 
 Bartlett " and " Aunt Bartlett," and felt himself bound 
 to uphold the honor of the family. 
 
 " Did you hear the horn, Sammy ? " asked Mr. Bart- 
 lett. 
 
 "Yes, sir; I did. But I was almost done with the 
 last pile of rocks, and I thought I had better finish the 
 job. So it is all done, and I think you will like it." 
 
 " I am glad of it, Sammy. We will look it over care- 
 fully once more, and now, or when the grass is grown, 
 we can use a mowing machine over the whole back field. 
 It will make easy work of haying." 
 
 * Those who are interested in the Bartlett name can see " Genea- 
 logical and Biographical sketches of the Bartlett family in England 
 and America," by Levi Bartlett of Warner, N. H., 1875. Since this 
 was written, and before printing, an event has happened that I 
 gladly record here. On July 4, 1888, a magnificent bronze statue of 
 Hon. Josiah Bartlett was inaugurated in Amesbury, Mass., where he 
 was born. It cost many thousand dollars, and was the generous gift 
 of Mr. Jacob R. Huntington. a wealthy citizen of Ainesbury. It was a 
 splendid deed to do, and it was splendidly done that day. And no 
 man stands higher or purer as patriot, statesman, or beloved physi- 
 cian than my ancestor, Doctor Josiah Bartlett.
 
 THE TKIBE OF BARTLETT. 11 
 
 " Now, mother," said Mr. Bartlett, " where do you 
 suppose Roy is going to-morrow?" 
 
 " I don't know," she answered. " Perhaps up to see 
 Aunt Sarah." 
 
 No. Farther than that." 
 
 "Where?" she -asked, anxiously. 
 
 " He is going to Boston to see about learning to paint 
 pictures." 
 
 "Is he going to leave us to be a wild artist?" she 
 asked, in dismay. 
 
 " Oh, that is too bad ! " said Sam Ellet. 
 
 " Not as bad as you think, mother," said Roy. " I 
 shall never leave you and father for long at a time. I 
 shall go to the city in the morning, and perhaps return 
 at night, or next day at farthest ; and as for being wild, I 
 do not think I shall go to the bad at all." 
 
 " Well, I hope not," she added ; " but from some speci- 
 mens that I have seen, it seems as if art was inseparably 
 wedded to poverty, beer, and tobacco. I do not think it 
 need to be so, but perhaps I may find it better." 
 
 " You surely will," said Roy, " for there are as pure 
 and noble men and women in art as in anything. In- 
 deed, it is said Saint Luke was an artist. And some of 
 the old masters painted, as Michael Angelo builded on 
 Saint Peters, for their soul's salvation. See Fra An- 
 gelico's pictures, painted on gold leaf. He prayed as he 
 painted. No, mother. Art is not degrading. And it 
 ought to be ennobling. But it is all in the man. He it 
 is that ennobles the work. Now, mother, don't worry. 
 I shall be none the worse for art, and I hope art will be 
 all the better for me." 
 
 There was a pause.
 
 12 THE WILD AKTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 " Yes," said Sam. " But what will the farm be without 
 
 you, Roy ? " 
 
 " Thank you, Sammy. But the farm will not lose me 
 at all for the present, and not for long at a time in the 
 future. Wouldn't it be nice to visit me for a few days 
 in Boston ? " 
 
 "Oh, it would be splendid," said Sam. "I had not 
 thought of that. But it would be lonesome here." 
 
 "Now," said Mr. Bartlett, "we will stop borrowing 
 trouble, and not try to cross a bridge until we get to it. 
 And, to make it all the prettier, we w r ill put the garden 
 in order this afternoon, for I think there are some green 
 squirrels in it." 
 
 "Green squirrels?" said Sam, in wonder. " What are 
 they?" 
 
 " Weeds," said the farmer. " Daniel Webster wrote 
 home to his man John, at Marshfield, ' Take good care of 
 my mother's garden.' It is good advice." 
 
 Right well the Bartlett family followed it that after- 
 noon. Later, when the weeding was finished, the supper 
 put where it would do the most good, the stock cared for, 
 and the chores all done, the lord of that home walked in 
 that garden in the cool of the day with his helpers, and he 
 saw as much beauty and found as much peace and com- 
 fort as is ever found in this bunchy and peculiar planet 
 that is all the world to us, at least, for the present. 
 
 Disdaining horse and carriage, Roy, after a very early 
 breakfast, and, as much as anything to put an end to too 
 much vigorous thinking, he waved his hand in farewell to 
 the family, who came to the piazza to see him off, and he 
 took "shank's mare" for a walk to the station. 
 
 It is a New Hampshire superstition not to watch a
 
 THE TRIBE OF BARTLETT. 13 
 
 friend out of sight else they may never return. Of course, 
 no one believes it, but they observe it all the same, and 
 when, a quarter of a mile away, Roy looked back, he saw 
 no one looking, but gazing earnestly for a moment at the 
 landscape, which was so much to him, he exclaimed, "It 
 is a beauty, indeed it is a beauty. I hope I shall one day 
 do it justice in a picture." Then he turned and continued 
 his journey in a run. 
 
 Mrs. Bartlett wore a sober face that day. 
 
 " Sammy," said Mr. Bartlett, " our work is well up to 
 the season. Have you anything you wish to do to-day ? 
 You can have a part or all of to-day, if you wish, only be 
 back at milking time." 
 
 " Yes, sir," said Sam, " I should like to hoe my water- 
 melons, and that patch of land you gave me, and, as it is 
 just cloudy enough, I will go up to the brook this after- 
 noon and see if I can get a string of trout, so if Roy 
 comes home to-night, and I think he will, we can have 
 something he likes for supper." 
 
 " Good," said Mr. Bartlett, " and mother will like it 
 too." So Sam had his day to himself. With lines enough 
 and to spare, with hooks enough to lose a few, and a tin 
 mustard-box, that used to be, but now containing a good 
 supply of angle- worms, Sam came home with a string of 
 trout that \\ould have delighted a city chap. I know 
 what I am talking about, for many a good fry I have 
 taken out of the same brook, and this novel is a good 
 deal more of a history than you think it is. Heretofore 
 it had been considered that Roy could take the finest 
 string of fish, but Sam had got his thinking cap on, and 
 had fished, like Simon Peter, to some purpose. And Roy 
 went to Boston to seek his fortune.
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 EOT GOES TO BOSTON. 
 
 WHEN a young man leaves the old home, whether it 
 be high or low, and drops into a city where he is nearly 
 or quite a stranger, there is a feeling of all-over-ishness, 
 that comes over him which almost amounts to desolation. 
 But the poet says, " This world's mine oyster, that I with 
 sword will open," and that was Mr. Royal Bartlett's feel- 
 ing as he stepped into Haymarket Square and walked 
 up town. "J. Sardou, Artist, Room 39," he saw, a 
 modest sign, on the upper end of a line beside a door. 
 He went up four flights and knocked. 
 
 " Come in," said a man's voice. 
 
 " Can I look at your pictures, sir ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir. But I have not many in." 
 
 Roy did look. There were not many finished, and he 
 could hardly tell what was finished and what was not. 
 Landscapes, cattle and figure pieces, and the usual variety 
 points of merit in all, some quite good. But nearly 
 all had the feeling that a little more was needed to make 
 it good and complete the art of the picture. Roy praised 
 the noble quality of this group of oaks, the form of this 
 waterfall, the sky effects, and what he could without vio- 
 lence to truth ; said he was much obliged for the kindness, 
 and was about to go. 
 
 " Do you paint, sir ? " asked the artist. 
 
 "No, sir; I have drawn some, I love art and am always 
 14
 
 KOY GOES TO BOSTON. 15 
 
 interested in pictures. Perhaps I may paint some a little 
 later." 
 
 " Don't do it, sir ; however much you may like art or 
 get the itch of paint, don't do it. You'll be sorry if 
 you do." 
 
 "Why, sir?" 
 
 " Poverty, self-denial, hope deferred, and perhaps star- 
 vation. I do not mean that I am starving now," added 
 the artist, " but I have been very hungry. Oh no ! art is 
 not in much demand. You had better let it alone." 
 
 " Well, sir," said Roy, " I am obliged for your kind 
 word, and will consider it. It is a great pleasure to see 
 your pictures. What price should you get for that bright 
 moonlight, sir ? " 
 
 Fifty dollars." 
 
 "And that cluster of oaks?" 
 
 "One hundred." 
 
 "Does not that pay?" 
 
 " Oh, but they don't sell." 
 
 " Would they not at a less price ? " 
 
 " No they wouldn't (fiercely). If a man wants a pic- 
 ture he will have it. But the minute you put your price 
 down you are gone. You can never get it up again. 
 And pupils are no better. At the first of the season I 
 put out ten dollars in advertising for pupils. And they 
 came, sometimes a dozen in a day, looked in, looked over 
 the pictures, praised some of them, said they would see, 
 and that is the last of it. No, sir, take a friend's advice 
 and let art alone." 
 
 Roy thanked him and passed out, but as he did so he 
 heard the artist remark in a stage whisper, " I'll bet the 
 fool won't let it alone."
 
 16 THE WILD ARTIST IX BOSTON. 
 
 And the young man laughed for the first time to-day. 
 He had seen enough in this one interview, to prove that 
 a different course would bring a different result, and he 
 approved of the* judgment of the average art pupil, that 
 sought an atmosphere not quite so heavy with grumbling 
 and tobacco. 
 
 He next called at a picture store. There were many 
 attractive pictures in the window, and among others, two 
 New England home scenes, one summer, the other winter. 
 They were much like his own home, with cattle and all 
 the evidences of life around the house and barn. Over 
 the door the name, long and well known in Boston, 
 " C. Drew, Pictures and Frames." He went in. Several 
 people were looking at the pictures around the store. 
 
 "Are you Mr. Drew?" asked Roy. 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 " Will you please tell me who painted those landscapes 
 in the window?" 
 
 "Certainly; Mr. Titcombe painted them, and see the 
 crowd around them. Why ! a little while ago a man said 
 he saw one of those cows go down to the Avater and 
 drink." 
 
 " They do look almost natural enough to. What is the 
 price of them ? " 
 
 "Twenty-five dollars each. They are eighteen by 
 twenty-six inches." 
 
 "Does Mr. Titcombe have pupils?" 
 
 "Yes, indeed. He paints all sorts of pictures, colors 
 photographs, and I don't know what he don't do in art." 
 
 " Does he make money ? " asked Roy. 
 
 "Of course he does. I sell a great many of his pic- 
 iires, and I send him pupils and custom. Oh -yes, Mr.
 
 ROY GOES TO BOSTON. 17 
 
 Titcombe can get rich if he will take care of his money. 
 He gets enough. Here is his card. Look in and he will 
 
 o o 
 
 show you around." 
 
 "I thank you for your kindness, Mr. Drew, I have 
 often heard of you, and I am glad to meet you. Now let 
 me ask you a question. I have studied drawing as an 
 amateur for years. Sometimes artists have seen my work 
 and praised it. Now I wish to try my luck in color. I 
 can take a poor, worn-out farm and make it shine. This 
 is what I wish to know : Can I, with not much genius 
 and only a fair amount of ability, but a strong love for 
 art, can I, with faithful industry, strict temperance, 
 good management, and hard study, become a fair artist 
 and get an honorable living?" 
 
 <j O 
 
 " Yes, sir, I have no doubt of it," said Mr. Drew. " No 
 doubt at all, for the qualities you mention almost always 
 succeed and compel success." 
 
 "Then I A. ill try," said Roy, "and very faithfully too, 
 before I give it up. And now I will use that card and 
 call on Mr. Titcombe. " 
 
 Roy did so, and to his surprise he found the art school 
 in four large, high, connected rooms, and a dozen pupils 
 at work. Any amount of pictures, mostly in oil, a few 
 in india ink, sepia, crayon, and pastel. He was soon at 
 ease with the artist. 
 
 " Of course," said Mr. Titcombe, " almost any one who 
 loves art, with fair ability and hard work, can soon begin 
 to produce something that will sell, if you do not ask too 
 big a price. ' But art is long and time is fleeting,' and 
 to be a good artist is a life work. Your drawing will 
 help you. Before I went to painting I studied drawing. 
 I spent one whole winter," said Mr. T., " all my evenings
 
 18 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 and spare time, in trying my best to copy J. D. Harding's 
 lithograph work on trees." 
 
 "Now, just look here, Mr. Bartlett," as he opened 
 a laro'e folio near him. "Please examine these sheets, 
 
 O 
 
 title-page and all. One is my work, and the other is the 
 press which I copied. Tell me which is which." Roy 
 looked first at one and then at the other, then from one 
 to the other, again and again. Then, as Mr. Titcomb 
 regarded him with a half smile, Roy answered, " I think 
 the sheets in my right hand are the hand work." 
 
 " You are right," said Mr. Titcomb. 
 
 " But," said Roy, " it is the finest imitation of a litho- 
 graph title-page, and of tree drawing, that I ever saw. I 
 would not have believed it possible." 
 
 Roy engaged lessons. A dollar each for three hours. 
 Pay cash every time. Stop when he preferred to. So 
 Roy made a good friend and kept his independence. 
 
 " Have you looked into the art stores much ? " asked 
 Mr. T. 
 
 " Not much." 
 
 " Suppose you look into Child's and into Williams 
 & Everett's ; they always have fine pictures." 
 
 Roy thanked him, and continued his calls. He made 
 the pleasant acquaintance of Mr. A. A. Cliilds, and he 
 kept it long afterwards. He called at Williams & 
 Everett's. It was a treat. There happened to be a 
 large and fine collection on exhibition, and it was a rev- 
 elation. Specimens of the best American art. Bier- 
 stadt, T. Hill, T. Moran, De Haas, Bellows, Sontag, 
 Gerry, Geo. L. Brown, Champney, Shapleigh, Ordway, 
 and I don't know how many more. A kind word of en- 
 couragement from Mr. Williams completed his happiness
 
 ROY GOES TO BOSTON. 19 
 
 and his day's work. He had covered the ground faith- 
 fully, and found an affirmative answer. The five o'clock 
 train bore him home. He was still busy at thinking 
 of the day and what should come of it, when he ap- 
 proached his home. The whole family met him on the 
 piazza. 
 
 " I thought you would come, Roy," said Sam Ellet. 
 
 " We are all ready for you. Supper is on the table," 
 said Mrs. Bartlett. " I guess you are hungry. What 
 did you have for dinner? " 
 
 " I have not had any," said Roy. " I was so busy 
 that I did not think of it until it was time to take the 
 train." 
 
 A large dish of fried trout, with warm biscuit made 
 from New Hampshire wheat, and many other farm pro- 
 ducts, flanked by a pitcher of cider, amount to good 
 eating and drinking, and Roy paid his hearty respects to 
 it, for he needed it. 
 
 " You are awful good, Sammy," said Roy. 
 
 " Yes, I thought you would like some greased pins for 
 supper," said Sam. 
 
 " Yes, Sammy. But these brook trout are too good to 
 be called greased pins. The large ones we dissect, but 
 the little ones are brown and tender, and we eat them 
 bones and all. Mother can beat the world at cooking 
 fish and wild game." 
 
 " Yes. And everything else," said Sam. 
 
 " Stuffing," said Mrs. Bartlett. 
 
 "You are right," said Mr. Bartlett, "and of the finest 
 kind. The fact is we ought to count up our mercies and 
 our reasons for thankfulness, and be thankful accord- 
 ingly. Now, just think, there is no clearer, cooler,
 
 20 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 whiter, purer water than our old well. And there is a 
 living spring not far off. The farm yields more fuel 
 than we can use. Our apples and pears are in abun- 
 dance, and New Hampshire fruit far excels Western 
 fruit in flavor and eating quality. And see what biscuits 
 mother has made. No Western wheat ever had so good 
 a flavor. See these potatoes ! Fine, mealy, and of best 
 quality. Can anybody beat mother's butter and cheese ? 
 How about our pork and beef ? How about our lambs 
 and fatted calves ? How about our milk, eggs, and yel- 
 low-leg chickens? I tell you, boys, there is no better 
 place to live in than in New England. There is plenty 
 here." 
 
 " The winters are pretty tough," said Roy. 
 
 " Yes, I acknowledge that," said Mr. Bartlett. " But 
 take the evidence on the other side. Last year the 
 deaths in British India were twenty-three thousand by 
 poisonous snakes alone, to say nothing of wild animals. 
 Our winter saves all that. Nothing is safe from the 
 ravages of white ants. Our winter saves all that. Take, 
 for instance, the island of Singapore. Thirty miles long, 
 ten miles wide, and ten miles out at sea. Yet the loss 
 by its one city of a hundred thousand people is one life a 
 day, through the year, by tigers alone. But our winter 
 saves all that. We have no cholera, no Yellow Jack, 
 very little malaria, in fact I know of none. I think New 
 Hampshire folks have as much to be thankful for as any 
 people on earth ; you know, the Psalmist thought of His 
 loving kindness and tender mercy. Indeed, I think so 
 well of my native State that I wrote my opinion in a 
 poem not long ago. Perhaps you will^be pleased to hear 
 it. Now we have a little time after supper, and I will
 
 ROY GOES TO BOSTON. 21 
 
 read it to you, It won't take long, and need not hinder 
 mother very much. Here it is." And by the light 
 of the evening lamp, Mr. Bartlett read his tribute of 
 love to 
 
 "NEW HAMPSHIRE HILLS. 
 
 
 
 " Dedicated to all who are proud that they were born in the 
 Granite State. 
 
 " New Hampshire Hills, fond memory comes to me, 
 And bids me twine a loyal song for thee ; 
 Where sunshine falls and evening dew distils, 
 Where summer glory crowns New Jlampshire Hills. 
 
 " New Hampshire Hills, that catch the morn's first beams, 
 And linger, bright with evening's latest gleams ; 
 Sweet be his verse, and pure his thoughts who wills 
 To sing thy praises, O New- Hampshire Hills. 
 
 "New Hampshire Hills, I turn to thee with pride. 
 Have not thy children for thee lived and died ? 
 That, while the earth its destiny fulfils, 
 Freedom may reign upon New Hampshire Hills ? 
 
 "New Hampshire Hills, thy children proud and free 
 In every clime, on every land and sea, 
 While love and gratitude each true heart fills, 
 Unite to praise thee, O New Hampshire Hills. 
 
 " New Hampshire Hills, forever grand and true, 
 Forever towering to the heavenly blue ; 
 His patriot heart with new devotion thrills, 
 Who builds his altar on New Hampshire Hills. 
 
 " New Hampshire Hills, what summer pilgrims throng 
 Where health and beauty verify my song 
 Land of sweet waters, and of laughing rills, 
 O home of beauty bright New Hampshire Hills.
 
 22 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 " New Hampshire Hills, thy fields and forests wide 
 No tigers keep, no lurking dangers hide ; 
 No serpent stings ; there no malaria chills, 
 But health and safety crown New Hampshire Hills. 
 
 "New Hampshire Hills, thy children far and wide 
 Look back td' thee with high New Hampshire pride ; 
 No land so fair thine own place ever fills, 
 To win their love from thee, New Hampshire Hills. 
 
 " New Hampshire Hills, where'er thy children roam, 
 What good-cheer memories call them back to home ; 
 What loyal work a mother's heart instils, 
 What mother's love lights up New Hampshire Hills. 
 
 " New Hampshire Hills, where'er my feet shall stray, 
 Among thy pleasant scenes, or far away, 
 I turn to praise thee, and my spirit wills 
 My grateful song to thee, New Hampshire Hills. 
 
 "New Hampshire Hills, with love and Sabbath bell 
 Guard thou the dust of those I love so well, 
 Forevermore. Though death my own heart stills, 
 God bless my home, my dear New Hampshire Hills." * 
 
 When it was finished, Roy asked, " Can I have a copy, 
 father?" 
 
 " I want one, too," said Sam. 
 
 " And I will take the original," said Mrs. Bartlett. 
 
 " You have got him," he answered, " and I guess you 
 will all get copies later ; but," he added, " it is nine 
 o'clock, and I think we had better read." 
 
 The light-stand with the Bible and hymn book was 
 set forward. Mother Bartlett read the old hymn, 
 
 * This poem was read before the N. H. Club of Cambridge. Mass., 
 June, 1885.
 
 ROY GOES TO BOSTON. 23 
 
 " Thus far the Lord has led me on ; 
 Thus far his power prolongs my days : 
 And every evening shall make known 
 Some fresh memorial of his grace." 
 
 Then Mr. Bartlett read the one hundred and third 
 psalm. "Bless the Lord, O my soul, and all that is 
 within me bless his holy name." Then two of the four 
 knelt, while one poured out his soul to God, in the rich 
 offering of a thankful heart. How many times I have 
 heard it ! And blessing, peace, and health comes of it. 
 
 Then half an hour later, " tired Nature's sweet restorer, 
 balmy sleep" had conquered them all. Father and 
 mother in the great bedroom ; the boys upstairs ; Grimal- 
 kin, the great Malta cat, in the arm-chair ; the pelican, 
 Roy's fancy name for his mother's very knowing canary 
 bird, on his perch ; and Canis Major, the brown and 
 white Newfoundland dog, asleep with one eye open, on 
 a thick mat on the piazza. 
 
 When the moon at its full looked down upon it all, it 
 seemed to repeat the eternal promise. " Peace I give 
 you. My peace I leave with you; not as the world 
 giveth, give I unto you."
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 KOY GOES ON A FOOL'S ERRAND. 
 
 THE next morning was a June morning in all its glory. 
 About five o'clock there was a noise of opening doors, and 
 Canis Major came pitching upstairs to the boy's room, 
 tickled almost to death to see them. It was his usual 
 morning call, and a most effectual way of waking the 
 boys ; for he would be recognized ; he would not be sup- 
 pressed ; he would love them and kiss them, and the 
 shortest and sweetest way out of it was to let him ; as a 
 woman marries a man whom she wishes was a safer and 
 better fellow, just to get rid of him. But Canis Major 
 was safe and true, and he was welcome. And besides it 
 was milking time, and while Mother Bartlett fought a 
 duel with the cooking stove, and won it, too, the three 
 menfolks, each at the side of his chosen cow, began a solo, 
 ting, ting, with the streams of milk as they hit at the bot- 
 tom of each tin pail. It was a splendid success, this June 
 morning, " in the height of feed," and the blessing of 
 heaven, and the breath of the clover was in it. 
 
 The long procession of cows filed peacefully down the 
 lane, headed by "Speck," a beautiful Ayrshire, with 
 sharp horns, the leader and dominant power, in short, the 
 one that licked all the others. The procession ended 
 with Jerusha, a monster cow, the largest I ever saw, 
 who gave a tub full of milk, and was in abject fear of all 
 
 24
 
 EOY GOES ON A FOOL'S ERRAND. 25 
 
 the others, but on the most confiding terms with all man- 
 kind, and with no more fight iu her than there is in the 
 " Sermon on the Mount." These cows are portraits in 
 both physique and character. I have pictures of some of 
 them. The men strained the milk into the creamery, and 
 the horn tooted for breakfast. 
 
 " I declare," said Roy, " more trout and larger ones." 
 
 Sam grinned. 
 
 " Look out, Roy," said Mr. Bartlett, " Sam is getting 
 ahead of you." 
 
 " Sam is a daisy," said Roy. " He is a credit to the 
 family." 
 
 Sam was pleased, and what would he not have done 
 for Roy, or Uncle Bartlett, or Aunt Bartlett? Why! 
 We are taught even God himself loves the praise of his 
 saints, and why should not Sam go toward the kindly 
 light that was home, love, and blessing to him ? 
 
 As the meal was concluded, Canis Major let out a 
 single bark, not as one who gives warning of danger, but 
 as a notice that some one is coming. And so it was. 
 
 Mr. Aaron Hoskins, a farmer, well to do, with an only 
 child, a daughter eighteen years old, and she was a 
 schoolmate of Roy's. It was Mr. Hoskins. He had a 
 kind neighborly welcome. 
 
 " I guess I came in a good time," said he. 
 
 " Rather late," said Mr. Bartlett, " but there are a few 
 trout left. Now set up and have some ! " 
 
 " That is the blessing of having some boys," said 
 farmer Hoskins. " Now my boys are all girls, and only- 
 one at that, so I get no trout." 
 
 " Mother get a plate. There's a good lot left, and I 
 want Mr. Hoskins to taste these."
 
 26 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 He did try them, and to his satisfaction ; talking farm- 
 talk the while. 
 
 " Now a taste of this cider," said Mr. Bartlett. " You 
 know a fish swims three times. Once in water, once in 
 fat, once in cider. Then they won't hurt you." 
 
 It was a neighborly call and a picnic. 
 
 " I must go," said Mr. Hoskins. " I thank you all for 
 your kindness. Now, Roy," said he, " do you want to go 
 out and show me your cows, on my way home ?" 
 
 " I shall be pleased to," Roy answered. And they 
 went out. 
 
 Mr. Bartlett added, "Much obliged for this call. 
 Come again, neighbor, and come oftener." 
 
 No one said it, but all knew well enough that Neighbor 
 Hoskins wanted to talk to Roy about something besides 
 cows, and he did. They walked out toward the cattle. 
 
 "Oh, Roy, how your farm does improve. Mow it 
 most all with a machine, don't you ?" 
 
 " Yes sir, all of it. We made it possible last week." 
 
 " You are splendid farmers, you make the farm shine. 
 But it takes elbow grease to do it." 
 
 " Yes, sir," said Roy. " But it is better, cheaper, and 
 easier to improve a field, than to always mow it by 
 hand." 
 
 "Yes, Roy, I know it. But I have not the heart to do 
 anything. Now I will tell you my trouble, Roy. You 
 know Mary, and are always good and kind to us all : 
 Will Glance is always coming to see my Mary ; and she 
 is all the child I have. Will Glance steals and lies, he 
 gets drunk and chews and smokes and abuses his mother. 
 He denies it all to Mary, and she believes it all, like a 
 fool. And I know it is true, for good, honest people
 
 ROY GOES ON A FOOL'S ERRAND. 27 
 
 that I can trust have seen it, and seen my Mary with 
 him, and have come and warned me of it. One day I 
 went, when he was at my house, and saw his mother, and 
 she denied nothing, but wept as if she would die. Still 
 Mary will not give him up. She says if she cannot get 
 what she wants, she must take what she can get. He is 
 rather good-looking, or would be if he looked good, and 
 he is rather dressy. Mary says he will be steady enough 
 as soon as he is married, and that ' a reformed rake 
 always makes the best husband.' Oh, what a mean 
 proverb, and a terrible lie ! And it almost kills mother 
 and I. Now, Roy, you know what she is. You have 
 been to school with her, and are older than she is. Can't 
 you go and see her to-night, and tell her what you know 
 about Glance for you must know him ? " 
 
 " I do know him," said Roy, " and no good of him. 
 He is a boot-maker; makes good pay when he works, 
 fools away his money, and, as he is related to his em- 
 ployer, he does not get discharged. I am very sorry, Mr. 
 Hoskins, and I do not think she will listen to me, but I 
 will warn her of her danger, although such service com- 
 monly conies to no good. If you and Mrs. Hoskins will 
 be over here at eight o'clock, I will call at your house and 
 say a word to Mary." 
 
 Mr. Hoskins turned to his home with tears in his eyes, 
 and Roy turned to the house with a job on hand that he 
 did not relish. But he was determined that he would do 
 it to help his friend and neighbor. He was ill at ease all 
 day. His father regarded him quietly, but said nothing 
 about the call, while Sam Ellet gave him a few hard looks 
 that were bristling with interrogation points. 
 
 About eight o'clock Mr. and Mrs. Hoskins came over
 
 28 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 in the light wagon. Roy had seen them coming, and 
 had gone on his errand by a short cut across lots. 
 
 Mary Hoskins was at home, and answered his knock. 
 
 " Come in, Mr. Bartlett. You are quite a stranger." 
 
 " Busy times," said Roy. " Hoeing and getting ready 
 for haying." 
 
 " Oh, you have not been here since the snow flew." 
 
 " I acknowledge that ; I have not visited much any- 
 where, but to-night I called to say a word that you ought 
 to hear." 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 " Will Glance is not good enough for you, Mary." 
 
 " Oh, that is it, is it? Now it is all out. Now I am 
 enlightened. A woman has to do as she can. And if 
 Will Glance is not good enough for me, why didn't you 
 come yourself? You need not tell me you did not want 
 me. That is implied. Then it leaves a chance for Will 
 Glance. Do you know any hurt of him ? " 
 
 "Yes, Mary, I do. I have seen him drunk, yelling 
 and lashing a stable horse, which he drove almost to 
 death. And I know he has struck and kicked his mother. 
 Now, Mary, as a friend, I do hope you will not grieve 
 your parents and reap sorrow for yourself lifelong 
 sorrow by marrying William Glance." 
 
 " Well, Mr. Bartlett, I am obliged to you for the inter- 
 est you take in me all at once. Perhaps it will not be as 
 bad as you think. But a woman has to do as she can in 
 this world, and so, for want of a better man, I am en- 
 gaged to William Glance. Of course, it will make no 
 difference to you personally, Mr. Bartlett." 
 
 " Of course not," said Roy. " But I did want to help 
 you as a schoolmate and friend."
 
 ROY GOES ON A FOOL'S ERRAND. 29 
 
 " Very well, then," said she. " I have no favors to ask 
 of you. And as you have not been in this house for six 
 months past, I shall not cry if you do not come into it for 
 six months more." 
 
 Roy said he was sorry that his call would result in no 
 good, for he should always wish her well. 
 
 Then he kindly said, " Good night, Mary." 
 
 She gazed upon the floor. 
 
 Again, " Good-night, Mary." 
 
 No movement and no answer. Then Roy slowly and 
 sadly closed the door after him, and his footfalls faded 
 out in the silence of the evening. She said she should 
 not cry, but she did. She had gone to her room when 
 her parents returned, and in her own bed she wept until 
 the fountains were dry. I do not say why she wept. 
 You can think what you please. The next day she was 
 very pale and quiet, and a little later in the afternoon she 
 said to her mother, " I think I will walk out, and see if 
 it will cure my headache. I will try to be back to get 
 supper." 
 
 She did not get back so soon, and she saw Will Glance 
 and told him the whole story. He ground his teeth with 
 rage. He despised meddlers. He would get even. She 
 forbade it. 
 
 Roy had talked but little during the day, nor could he 
 see how he could be of any service to the Hoskins fam- 
 ily. His mother had nearly solved the problem. So at 
 supper she said to Roy, " It is a pity that Mary Hoskins 
 goes with that Will Glance." 
 
 " So it is," he answered. 
 
 " What does Mr. Hoskins say about it ? " 
 
 " Oh, he regrets it."
 
 30 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 " What does her mother say ? " 
 
 " Of course she does, too." 
 
 " Well, Roy, what can you do about it ? " 
 
 Roy looked square in his mother's face. 
 
 " Oh, you need not look strange. You have been stew- 
 ing and mulling about it ever since yesterday morning, 
 when you and Mr. Hoskins went out to see our cows. 
 Our cows, indeed. A two-legged heifer, I guess, was the 
 subject." 
 
 Roy laughed heartily. He could not help it. And 
 they all did. Mr. Bartlett said nothing. Sam ditto. On 
 the principle that when a mother takes a child in hand it 
 is safest and best for the father to sit on the fence and 
 avoid responsibility. 
 
 "Mother, I think we all have the right idea of Will 
 Glance, and that we are not likely to help the case any." 
 
 " You are right, Roy. Then will you please to let it 
 alone, or trouble will come of it." 
 
 And trouble did come of it.
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 EOT WALKS OUT. 
 
 ROY dismissed the subject from his mind, and after the 
 chores were done went out back of the house to look 
 around. He was in his slippers, and entertaining a quill 
 toothpick, both for use and to assist him in his medita- 
 tions. He was thinking that, whatever troubles others 
 had, he had none : for his life was as sweet and peaceful 
 as a pan of milk, when a tall, dark-complexioned man 
 sprang out from among the lilac bushes with a club, and 
 knocked him down. Roy was stunned. The stranger 
 jumped, and sat upon him, and with a curse he growled, 
 " There, I'll teach you to meddle with me. Now, when 
 you come to I'll pound you again." 
 
 With the weight upon him, Roy did not revive. Then 
 there came a queer, rushing sound, like the flight of birds, 
 but growing louder, and in a moment more a crashing 
 blow, and Will Glance went down under the fist of Sam 
 Ellet. Glance was confused, but soon rallied. Sam laid 
 him out again, and, catching his club, hit him on both 
 hands and across his nose with that. Then Sam straddled 
 him, and yelled, "Murder ! murder! Help! help! Mur- 
 der! murder!" The old folks were in the garden in 
 front of the house, and were not long in getting there. 
 They were just in season to see Canis Major make a big 
 grab into the seat of the villain's trousers, and hang to him. 
 It must have hurt his feelings, by the way he yelled. 
 
 31
 
 32 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Bartlett choked him off, and tied him 
 up; but it was a job. His eyes were like balls of fire. 
 
 The parents carried Roy into the house, sponged his 
 head, wiped away the blood, and found, to their joy, that 
 his skull was not broken. But it was a cruel wound on 
 his forehead. Their help revived him. Then Mr. Bart- 
 lett brought out a flat, greenish-glass bottle, with General 
 Harrison stamped on one side, poured out a few spoon- 
 fuls of nobody knows what, and made Roy drink it. 
 Then he said, "Now, mother, he will not faint; and you 
 can take care of him." Then he went out. Sam stood 
 a-straddle of the scamp, with the club, ready to strike. 
 Mr. Bartlett took him by the collar, and helped him up, 
 although he still held him fast. Glance cursed, and 
 swore he would kill Roy Bartlett. 
 
 "If you do," said Sam Ellett, " I will kill you. I will, 
 and I always keep my promises." 
 
 Glance was hurt some in several places, and his head 
 was addled and bruised. Roy came out of the house, 
 leaning on his mother's arm. 
 
 " Let him go," said Roy ; " he has not made anything 
 out of it, and I am alive." 
 
 Mr. Bartlett spoke. "William Glance, you are a 
 wicked man. But it is best that I should leave your 
 punishment to a higher power than I am. If you will 
 promise me solemnly that you will never molest my son, 
 or one of my family, or my property again, I will set you 
 free, and you may go. Otherwise I will unchain the dog, 
 and, when I can get him off of you, I will bind you, and 
 deliver you to the sheriff, at Dover jail." _ 
 
 Glance thought a moment. He was a fool, but he was 
 not an idiot ; so he gave the required promise, and they
 
 ROY WALKS OUT. 33 
 
 set him free. Canis Major roared, and tugged at his 
 chain, but did not get loose. If he had, Will Glance 
 would have been translated. They led the scamp out at 
 the front gate, and he limped slowly and painfully down 
 the road towards Dover, with his hands on the widest 
 part of his trousers. He had evidently been drinking, 
 and whether he remembered Lot's wife or not, he remem- 
 bered Sam Ellet and Canis Major. He did not look 
 back, and they all watched him out of sight, regardless 
 of consequences. His parents supported Roy to the sit- 
 ting-room. He uttered a mild protest, and soon he lay 
 at his length on the sofa. 
 
 " Now," said Mr. Bartlett, " tell me briefly how this 
 came to pass. Mr. Hoskins came to see you?" he 
 began. 
 
 " Yes, father, and he wanted me to speak to Mary 
 about Will Glance. I did not wish to, and I told him I 
 thought it would do no good. But I went. The visit 
 failed. She must have told Glance all about it; and you 
 know what he is. The first thing I knew I was struck. 
 Sam knows the rest." 
 
 " Sam," said Mr. Bartlett, " tell what you know." 
 
 "And tell it exactly as it is," added Mrs. Bartlett, 
 sternly. 
 
 Sam turned and looked at her. 
 
 " Aunt Bartlett," said he, " could I, or would I, tell 
 anything else ? I knocked over Will Glance, and saved 
 Roy, and I would give my life for him." 
 
 " I beg your pardon, my son," said she. " Sammy, I 
 was only too earnest. You are faithful and splendid." 
 
 Sam was mollified. "You see the work was done, and 
 I have often, when it was pleasant weather, gone up into
 
 34 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 the cupola of the barn, and was looking at everything in 
 sight, for you can see a long way from the cupola, 
 when I saw a man coming across the pasture, keeping 
 close to the wall, and under the trees, and looking sus- 
 piciously around. Soon I knew it was Will Glance. 
 Then you- may be sure I kept my eye on him ; and before 
 I knew it, he had a club, and, after watching awhile, he 
 saw Roy, and sprang upon him. I was in the cupola, and 
 barefoot, so he did not hear me coming. I made awful 
 flying leaps down, and I came upon him unawares and 
 gave him my fist, like the kick of a mule." 
 
 " You are a treasure, Sammy," said Mr. Bartlett. 
 
 " True-hearted and faithful," said Mrs. Bartlett. 
 
 " You are as good as a brother," said Roy. 
 
 Sam was proud; and when, a little later, Mr. Bartlett 
 came up to Sam arid gave him a small pasteboard box, he 
 wondered. Sam opened it, and saw, lying on a lock of 
 pink cotton, a new, bright, gold twenty-dollar piece. 
 Then Sam's heart overflowed. 
 
 Will Glance did not appear in public for a week. 
 
 On the third day of July, Farmer Hoskins rose early 
 in the morning, and as he was going to the barn he saw a 
 ladder at his daughter's window, and the window was 
 open. He guessed the truth. Mary was married to 
 Will Glance. A brief note told the story. The old 
 folks bore it as well as they could. On the afternoon of 
 the Fourth of July they came home. Glance said he 
 would use them right ; sorry he was poor. If Mr. Hos- 
 kins was willing, he would work for him, as his hired man, 
 for twenty dollars a mouth, he and his wife to board with 
 the family. 
 
 Mr. Hoskins could pay it well enough, and, rather than
 
 BOY WALKS OUT. 35 
 
 lose sight of Mary, the bargain was made. Mr. and Mrs. 
 "William Glance lived at the Hoskins farm. All the 
 neighbors were sorry for it. All wished them well, but 
 
 O v 
 
 no one had the hardihood to offer any congratulations. 
 New Hampshire farmers are plain folks, and not inclined 
 to be hypocritical. 
 
 Roy Bartlett lay on the sofa, and his mother petted 
 him and made much of him, and his father and Sam were 
 most devoted. But Roy was nobody's baby. On the 
 morning of the third of July he sat on the mowing ma- 
 chine, and mowed the dooi'yard and all that needed an 
 early clip, from the road all around the buildings. And 
 the place looked as smart as a boy that had had his hair 
 cut. Roy rested in the afternoon, but, on the morning 
 of the fourth, he tuned up the mowing machine for active 
 service the next day. 
 
 The next day the campaign began in good earnest. 
 Roy was better, and spoiling to get the hay when it was 
 at its best. Bright and early the rattle song of the mow- 
 ing machine was heard, and it sounded long and well. 
 Every foot of land had been examined with careful 
 eyes; the hollows had been raised, the knolls graded, 
 and now it was the poetry of motion, safe and efficient. 
 Not once did he get pitched a rod away, ahead of the 
 cutter, in spread-eagle style, into horrid danger. No. 
 But he rode a conqueror, through the vast army 
 of spears, until acres of grass lay around him, dry- 
 ing into tons of sweet hay. And never in his life will 
 he look nobler or handsomer, than he did that day. 
 His father and Sam cut the corners of the field, and, 
 great as was the work accomplished, it was easily done. 
 The day was hot, and the hay made well. After dinner,
 
 36 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 the horse-rake appeared, with old Tom, a horse who was 
 the perfection of all honest equines, and the hay was 
 raked. What a transformation ! At six o'clock the field 
 was covered with the tumbles of hay, all in order for the 
 night. Beautiful landscape ! How different from the 
 morning. Then, beautiful nature, and now still glori- 
 ously beautiful, but almost the despair of art is a haying 
 scene. As Emerson says : " Nature is various ; Nature is 
 intricate."
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 ROY PROVES HIMSELF A HERO. 
 
 DAY after day the fragrant hay came gayly to the 
 barn, excuse me, I did not intend to write poetry, but 
 the subject is so full of it that it came involuntarily. At 
 any rate, poetry or not, it is a fact. With ten days per- 
 fect hay weather, the best hay was nearly all in. It was 
 Friday evening, and the morrow promised to be not much 
 of a hay day, for clouds were rolling in, as if a break in 
 the hay weather might come soon. 
 
 " Roy," said Mr. Bartlett, " our English hay is almost 
 all in. I think we may take it a little easier, and not 
 mow to-morrow. That case that was left out to me as 
 referee, had better be attended to. I want you to take 
 the light wagon and go to Dover in the morning. Sam 
 may go with you. Go to the lawyer's office and get the 
 papers, with all the case and the evidence done up in one 
 snug bundle, and sealed. You sign it with date, day, and 
 hour, and let Sam sign it as a witness. Then go up the 
 Tollend road by the heath house, past Ezra Hayes's and to 
 Elisha Locke's, turn there, cross the bridge, go to the 
 Gonic, and from there to Rochester. Call on the lawyer 
 for the other side, get his case, evidence, and all his state- 
 ments, have it sealed, sign it the same as the other, and 
 let Sam witness that, too. Then bring the papers safely 
 to me. Perhaps a long, hateful, and expensive lawsuit 
 can be avoided ; and, although I have no personal inter- 
 
 37
 
 38 THE WILD AKTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 est in it, yet as it has been referred to me as an honest 
 man, I must do them all the good I can." 
 
 The next morning, Roy and Sam went on their errand. 
 It was cloudy in the morning, but soon " burnt off," and 
 was a fair, hot day. The boys knew nearly every farmer, 
 by name, at least, from Dover to Strafford Ridge. Roy 
 took his sketchbook with him, so that he might take an 
 outline of rock or tree, house or hill, if he chose to. It 
 was a pleasant summer ride. Past the old Betsey Coffin 
 place, Peter Cushing's, Nat Eaton's, Joseph Winkley's, 
 Ham, Hodgdon, Home, Fernald, Watson, the old Heath 
 House, with a convivial reputation, Ezra Hayes's, Cater, 
 Elisha Locke's, and so on to the Gonic. This is the short 
 for Squanamagonic, the barbarous old Indian name. 
 They accomplished their errand at Rochester, and started 
 on their return. When they got back to Locke's Mills, 
 Roy said, "Now, Sam, let us hitch the hoi-se here, for I 
 want to sketch the falls, the old saw-mill, and the pout- 
 hole." 
 
 "It is a beauty subject for a picture," said Sam. "I 
 hope you will get it." 
 
 The young men went a few rods down on the east side 
 of the river, then down the steep bank among the rocks 
 and trees, holding on carefully, for a slip might be dan- 
 gerous. So they climbed down to the water, then by 
 jumping from one rock to another, they at last stood on 
 the large flat rock about ten feet long and four feet wide, 
 which was a little above the water. Then they stood at 
 the deep foaming water of the pout-hole. There were 
 two young men already on the rock, both younger than 
 Roy, and one younger than Sam. The mist of the falls 
 fell in coolness around them, and, although the boiling
 
 ROY PROVES HIMSELF A HERO. 39 
 
 current looked dangerous, yet the older one was un- 
 dressed for a dive into the dark water. 
 
 " Not going into the pout-hole, McDuffie, are you ? " 
 
 " Yes, I am. I can swim like a duck, and you can't 
 drown me." 
 
 " Don't do it. I wouldn't risk it." said Roy. 
 
 " Oh, it is safe enough, I guess. I want a rock from 
 the bottom. About ten feet down, ain't it ? " 
 
 "Near that," said Roy. "But it is not safe. More 
 than one have been drowned in this rough water." Roy 
 took off his coat with the papers in it, and laid it on a 
 rock, safe and dry. Then he glanced at Sam. Sam was 
 wide awake, and appeared to understand. 
 
 " Sam," said Roy, " grab that fishing-pole." 
 
 He did. 
 
 " Good-by," said McDuffie. And he dove, head first, 
 into the dark water. They watched anxiously, but he 
 did not appear. 
 
 " Sam," said Roy, " go down on that rock and help me 
 out. Quick, or he is lost." 
 
 McDuffie had struck a sharp rock in the bottom, and 
 was stunned. He was drowning. An instant later, the 
 white of his body shone for a moment in a place where 
 the sun shone, and that instant Roy plunged into the 
 water after him. Roy caught him by his head, and struck 
 as strongly as he could, with the heavy body, and was 
 being rapidly drawn down the river when Sam's fishing- 
 pole reached him. A strong grasp with one hand, while 
 he had McDuffie's head under his arm, holding on with the 
 other a moment, while two lives were almost lost, and 
 then Sam grasped Roy's hand, and the other young man 
 had McDuffie, first by the hair, then by the arm ; then
 
 40 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 all three lifted him, scratched and bleeding, upon the hot 
 rock, and Roy climbed and was helped, painfully, after 
 him. 
 
 " Thank God," said Roy. 
 
 " Amen," said Sam. 
 
 They worked quickly, found a plank and laid it from 
 rock to rock, and got the senseless body quickly on a 
 piece of soft grass, which, of course was hot on such a 
 day. They held him head downward for an instant, and 
 they rolled him. They slapped his feet and hands, and 
 his back. They pressed his breast and made respiratory 
 movements, and soon were rewarded with a groan. 
 Then, after the best treatment that the boys could give, 
 they wiped him dry with their handkerchiefs and dressed 
 him. He was conscious, although bleeding from bruises 
 and scratches from the rocks. Then they supported him 
 to Roy' s wagon, and with one on each side of him, to 
 hold him. up, and Roy to drive, they got him home to his 
 father's house, sensible, but suffering. Sam told them 
 what Roy had done, and young McDuffie heard it and 
 beckoned to Roy. He came and put his hand upon the 
 sufferer's cheek ; then McDuffie took the hand and 
 kissed it. It was a full acknowledgment of everything. - 
 
 " But, Mr. Bartlett," said Mr. McDuffie, " you are all 
 wet through. Come in and get a dry suit, and stay with 
 us." 
 
 " No, I thank you," said Roy. " Sam and I will go 
 home. And the horse will do it in double-quick time." 
 
 "You have saved my son," said Mr. McDuffie. "We 
 can never repay you. I will see you soon." 
 
 " You are all welcome," said Roy. " Good-by, I 
 am glad to be of some service to you. I guess he
 
 KOY PROVES HIMSELF A HEKO. 41 
 
 won't dive into the old pout-hole again, when the water 
 is pouring over the dam." 
 
 Mr. McDuffie sent to the Gonic for a doctor who 
 patched the outside, and dosed the inside of young Mc- 
 Duffie, and prophesied that he would do well if he kept 
 away from the pout-hole. 
 
 " Do you think you will know enough to ? " asked his 
 mother. A decided nod was the answer. 
 
 Then Roy and Sam took a fast drive home. He was 
 wet and sodden, and the water quashed in his boots. It 
 was a wonder and astonishment to Mr. and Mrs. Bartlett, 
 but' it did not stop them until dry towels, dry clothing, 
 and warm drinks had been administered, until Roy was 
 as hot as a baked apple, and as red as a rooster. He 
 laughed heartily at the way his mother coddled him, and 
 his father looked at him as if he thought unutter- 
 able things. That night, when Mr. Bartlett gave thanks 
 to God for being delivered from dangers, seen and un- 
 seen, he did it with an unction. And the young hero 
 slept the sleep of the true-hearted, and came out as 
 bright as a button in the morning.
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE CHURCH WITH THE GOLDEN BOOSTER. 
 
 THE next day was Sunday. The Bartletts had no hay 
 out, and nothing to worry about. There was a quiet 
 hush about the day. Everything seemed to be different 
 from the other six days. It was quieter. Grimalkin 
 walked around as if she knew what day it was, and the 
 pelican sang with a Sunday kind of mildness. Even the 
 flies buzzed differently. I an not writing fiction. I 
 know that in such households there is a Sunday restraint 
 and rest upon everything. I have often felt it, and won- 
 dered if the day was not made of sacred material. The 
 house was locked up. Four people rode to Dover in the 
 family carryall, to the brick Orthodox church with the 
 large golden rooster 'on it. They sat in the Bartlett 
 pew. They came to worship. When the parson gave 
 out the morning hyrnn, 
 
 " Safely through another week 
 
 God has brought us on our way, 
 
 Let us now a blessing seek, 
 Waiting in his courts to-day. 
 
 Day of all the week the best, 
 
 Emblem of eternal rest," 
 
 then the Bartlett family seemed to find the voice of 
 thanksgiving and praise. Mr. Bartlett sung a strong 
 
 42
 
 THE CHURCH WITH THE GOLDEN ROOSTER. 43 
 
 bass, Roy was a good tenor, and Sam was learning well 
 on the bass also. Mrs. Bartlett was a good soprano and 
 an inspiration in church music. To-day there seemed 
 especial cause for thankful songs. All the large congre- 
 gation felt it too, and joined with the choir in the well- 
 known hymn. But, after the loyal prayer and giving of 
 thanks for all the mercies of life, the parson gave the 
 subject of his sermon. " By this we know what love is, 
 He gave Himself for us." Then it did seem as if the 
 parson knew all about it, and was bound to make this 
 service the perfection of all Sabbath completeness. And 
 the day was a rich one. 
 
 On the way home Sam remarked : " There is some 
 stability in a good evangelical church." 
 
 " Yes, indeed," said Mr. Bartlett, " I knew a man, Mr. 
 James Davis, who attended that church for twenty-four 
 years, and during that time he missed but one half day 
 from its Sunday service. After that his health failed, 
 and he was not able to attend so constantly. That is a 
 record for constancy. I have an old account-book con- 
 taining Mr. Davis's agreements with his men whom he 
 employed for the Dover Factory Company, dated 1825, 
 in which they agree to work for the D. M. Co., and find 
 the necessary carpenter's tools for so much a month, free 
 from expense of board or spirit to the company. Other 
 employers furnished liquor ; he would not. Good men 
 and good churches are never far apart. Thus Sam was 
 shown the right, and was made and treated as their 
 equal. Monday morning came fair and bright. The 
 grass was wet for it had rained during the night. Bright 
 and early, Canis Major came tumbling upstairs to call 
 the boys. They had the start of him, and the three
 
 44 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 .friends came down together. The chores on a large 
 farm are no small job to do, but with four strong people, 
 and extra help when they wanted it, they got along 
 nicely. And breakfast is always welcome. When the 
 morning meal was finished, Mrs. Bartlett said earnestly, 
 " Roy, I have two requests to make of you." 
 
 " Say on, mother." 
 
 " One is, keep out of other folk's love affairs, and the 
 other is, keep out of the Isinglass river or somebody will 
 lose a good man." 
 
 Roy laughed and said he would remember it, but would 
 try to do his duty. After breakfast the rattle of the 
 mowing machine began again. Once it sounded new 
 and incongruous, but now it is the most agricultural and 
 bucolic of sounds ; now it is quite as much an addition 
 to the music of nature as the staccato song of the yellow- 
 hammer. This time the great clover field yielded up its 
 sweetness. Not the oleanders of Palestine, not the 
 oranges of Florida, not the escholtzias of California, not 
 the rhododendrons of Pennsylvania, or the roses of Old 
 or New England, are any handsomer to me than a splen- 
 did field of red clover in the beauty of its bloom. And 
 the prince of the house of Bartlett rode a conqueror over 
 it all. It was eleven o'clock when the horn sounded ; 
 too early for dinner. First a single long wind of the 
 horn, then three short staccato toots. It was company 
 come. More short toots would have meant danger, and 
 would have brought them all in on the run. Roy came 
 first, and soon his father and Sam. It was Mr. McDufiie. 
 He greeted them very heartily, and said that Jean was 
 better. "Guess he has learned a lesson. But he will lie 
 on the sofa for a week and get some of the scratches and
 
 THE CHUECH WITH THE GOLDEN BOOSTER. 45 
 
 bruises off him. And my boy knows that Roy almost 
 lost his life in saving him, and he wants to do something 
 for Roy. Jean said that his funeral would have been 
 to-day if it had not been for Roy, and he did not want 
 to die yet. Now he is going to do this. About two 
 years ago his uncle gave him a hundred dollars for his 
 i name, and it has been in the Dover Savings Bank and 
 i gained something since. Jean says Roy must take it, 
 every cent. Give the interest over the hundred to Sam." 
 Mr. McDuffie laid the roll of bills and odd change in Roy's 
 lap. 
 
 Roy's color came in a moment. " No sir," said he 
 vehemently. " Not one cent will I take now or ever, 
 and no present of any kind. Do you want any, Sam ? " 
 
 " No, indeed," said Sam, " it would spoil all the good 
 of it." 
 
 " Now, Mr. McDuffie," continued Roy, " I only did my 
 duty. I am grateful to Jean and his father and mother 
 for their appreciation. And I know Sam is too. You 
 do this. Stay here to dinner ; then go to Dover before 
 the bank closes, return this money to the savings bank 
 again, every cent, and perhaps the interest will not be 
 broken. Then tell Jean if he wants to love me I shall 
 be glad to have him. Then he and all of you come and 
 visit us and we will visit you and be friends with you 
 all. Tell Jean when he does a kind, generous act to 
 some one else, to let me know it. When he adds to his 
 bank account, to let me know it. Tell him when any 
 great good comes to him, to let me know it ; and I hope 
 often to hear some good of him." 
 
 Mr. McDuffie mopped up his face, and some others 
 did. The dinner was eaten with thanksgiving and thank-
 
 46 , THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 fulness, and the money went back to Jean McDuffie's 
 account in the Dover Savings Bank. Jean soon recov- 
 ered. He was less headstrong and more faithful. The 
 boy that was with him said, that Jean got a pile of good 
 out of the Isinglass river. But he had a close shave for 
 his life. And that night the fragrant clover lay in 
 several hundred tumbles on its way, with extra help, to 
 its winter quarters in the barn. 
 
 Two days afterward the Bartlett family smiled when 
 they heard that Jean McDuffie's parents "had up a 
 note." That is to say, at the next Sunday morning ser- 
 vice, the Orthodox minister read a notice, saying, 
 " Brother Elisha McDuffie and his wife desire the church 
 to join them in returning thanks to Almighty God for 
 delivering their son and only child from a sudden and 
 dreadful death." And the parson did give thanks, and 
 the church did join, and meant it, too. It was a common 
 practise for thrifty families to ask the church to pray that 
 they might have special favors granted them at special 
 times. Whereat a quiet and suppressed smile would steal 
 over the faces of the world's people as some graceless one 
 would whisper " that makes the tenth." And often, very 
 often, from sadness and sorrow, I have heard their 
 requests come, " that the death of their beloved one 
 might be sanctified to their spiritual and everlasting 
 good." They learned and loved to bear each other's 
 burdens, coming and going, and, although the devil's chil- 
 dren think they have all the fun, there are many, many, 
 both earthly and heavenly blessings that they never 
 know. Indeed, I think they work the hardest, fare the 
 hardest, suffer most, and take the poorest pay all the 
 time.
 
 THE CHURCH WITH THE GOLDEN BOOSTER. 47 
 
 The haying went on. Every day the big loads went 
 tumbling into the deep bays or on the high scaffolds. 
 All the upland was in, and now they were cutting the 
 runs and meadows. But a little of it got wet. At noon 
 the clouds were rising, and the thunder growled in the 
 distance. Big thunder-heads piled up in the west, and 
 with almost human expression, seemed to war and battle 
 with each other. They got the hay up as fast as they 
 could, and some of it was housed. They put it in larger 
 bunches, and made it to shed water as much as possible. 
 Sam opened the gate that led from the pasture into the 
 lane, and the cows hurried up to the barn. Then, with 
 claps of thunder and blazes of lightning, they ran to the 
 house, not quite soon enough to escape all the shower. 
 An hour later the milking was done and the supper out 
 of the way. It seemed as if all the water in Bow pond, 
 three miles long, had got loose, and was pelting Strafford 
 County, and the crashing of the thunder and the blaze of 
 the lightning increased. 
 
 Mr. Bartlett spoke. " Now, mother, you sit on the 
 sofa. It is stuffed with feathers. Sam, you move your 
 chair out of the corner, but not in the centre. Roy, move 
 farther from Sam, so we may be scattered more if the 
 house gets struck." 
 
 Mr. Bartlett pumped two pails of water, and sat down 
 apart from the others. 
 
 "Are you well insured, father?" asked Roy. 
 
 " Yes, very well. Then what more can we do ? Noth- 
 ing. We have cared for all the stock, scattered apart, so 
 as not to be all killed at once if the lightning should 
 strike us. Now we may look on and enjoy what we can 
 of the fearful power of the storm."
 
 48 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 It was hours before there was any abatement, and 
 then one part seemed to follow the Cocheco River, 
 and the other the Bellamy, off toward the ocean. 
 And whoever had it was welcome to it. They had 
 had enough of it.
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 DULL WEATHER IN HAT TIME. 
 
 THE next day was no hay day. It was cloudy. Mr. 
 Bartlett did not feel like doing anything but haying, and 
 that could not be done. So they sat in the big kitchen 
 talking. 
 
 " Father," said Roy, " have you made your decision on 
 that referee case ? " 
 
 " Yes, I have." 
 
 " What do you get out of it?" 
 
 "I suppose I could charge a reasonable fee, but I shall 
 ask nothing. I have put my answer on the basis of truth 
 and justice, and they will value my decision more if I do 
 it for peace and right than if I do it for money. Here 
 comes Captain John Q. Hayes now after the papers." 
 
 He rode into the yard, and was soon in the sitting- 
 room. The papers were delivered, and the compensation 
 declined. Then Captain Hayes sat down, saying he 
 would sit and chat awhile. He had not made a call in a 
 long time, and he was welcomed. Roy went down and 
 drew a pitcher of rare old cider, which seemed, like Dim- 
 mesdale's love, to have a consecration of its own. It 
 was not neglected. 
 
 "Did you ever see such a rain ?" 
 
 "Not often," said Mr. Bartlett. 
 
 " Why," said Captain Hayes, " I should think the old 
 49
 
 50 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 Orthodox parson that lived near the Sudbury River, had 
 prayed for it. Did you ever hear the story ? " 
 
 " Please tell it," said Roy. 
 
 " You see, the old parson was a matter-of-fact man, and 
 believed in prayer. So when he prayed for a thing he 
 just meant it literally. One time there was an awful 
 drouth. Oh, ever so dry, and the country all drying up. 
 One Sunday morning he could stand it no longer. So lie 
 prayed, ' Oh, Lord, thou hast taught us to bring all our 
 wants to thee. We need rain. The crops are all drying 
 up, and everything is afire. Oh, send us rain, now. Not 
 a big thunder shower that will rip things and wash all the 
 taters out of the hills, but a regular drizzle-drozzle, 
 drizzle-drozzle, that will soak in and do us some good.' 
 Of course it rained. And it kept it up all the week. It 
 was enough ; but the parson did not feel at liberty to 
 interfere with the weather unless he had a grievance. 
 And the grievance came. Ha! ha! ha!" laughed the 
 old captain. " It rained all the next week, and the old 
 parson got enough of it. So he prayed again, ' Oh, Lord, 
 stop this rain. We have got enough of it, without you 
 intend to drown us. Some of the country is under 
 water, half our hay has gone down into the Concord 
 River, and the rest of it is as black as your hat.' Then, 
 they said, the rain stopped." 
 
 They were all amused at the captain's story, for he was 
 good at stories. Of course, nobody could vouch for the 
 truth of such good stories. 
 
 " Now I will tell you a true story," said Mr. Bartlett. 
 "Some years ago I happened to be in Cambridgeport, 
 Massachusetts. At that time, Rev. Joseph W. Parker 
 was pastor there, a man of dignity and scholarship, I
 
 DULL WEATHER IN HAY TIME. 51 
 
 think as near my ideal of perfection as a minister, as I 
 ever saw. One Wednesday evening when the bell 
 sounded, I went into the weekly prayer-meeting; It 
 had been terribly dry for a long time, and the air was 
 heavy with the smoke of forest fires. The pastor read 
 a short lesson, and, after a hymn he prayed, and this is 
 his prayer, nearly word for word ; I remember it distinctly. 
 O Lord ! Thou hast taught us to bring all our wants 
 
 o o 
 
 to thee. O Lord ! send the rain, the needed, welcome 
 rain. For the heavens are as brass, and the earth is 
 parched with fervent heat, and men and beasts are suffer- 
 ing. O Lord, send the rain ! O Lord, send the rain. 
 Then the breeze blew fresher into the windows, the thun- 
 der was heard, and in the last half of the one hour long 
 meeting, it rained splendidly, gloriously. Then Mr. 
 Parker, since Dr. Parker, in the fulness of his heart, 
 gave thanks. Lord, we thank thee for the rain. Thou 
 hast heard our prayer. We thank thee for the glorious, 
 welcome rain. When the meeting was over I stayed and 
 shook hands with him, and thanked him for praying for 
 rain. And I got my jacket wet going home. This is 
 exactly as it occurred." 
 
 Said Roy, " Captain, must we consider these things 
 sent in answer to our asking?" 
 
 "What does the book say?" he answered. " 'All good 
 and perfect gifts come down from the Father of lights,' 
 and it also says, ' In everything give thanks.' Now 
 whenever we get a good thing we know who to thank for 
 it, don't we ? It seems Elisha McDuffie did." 
 
 Roy was answered. Sam showed his ivories. Mr. and 
 Mrs. Bartlett enjoyed it. They always relished a good 
 truth, well put.
 
 52 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 " I heard a good story," said Sara, " a little while ago, 
 and it is strictly true. There was a farmer named Sher- 
 man who lived in Wayland, Mass. He had a piece of 
 corn near a piece of woods and the squirrels dug it up to 
 eat, so he carried out a large box trap, baited with corn. 
 He set it on the fence and fastened it, so it could not get 
 away. It remained a long time but caught no game. 
 One day he saw it sprung, but there was nothing in it, so 
 he left it. He saw it once in a While, but it was an old 
 trap and he let it stay out all summer, until the corn was 
 gathered. One day in the fall he thought he would carry 
 it home, and lo! it was too heavy. Soon bees came buz- 
 zing around his head, and he found his trap had a swarm 
 of bees in it and was full of honey. The bees went in 
 at the spindle-hole and filled the trap." 
 
 " A good story," said the old captain. " I have two 
 swarms at home now, that I found in the woods. I located 
 them in warm weather and felled the tree and sawed 
 them off in snapping cold weather, and set them upon my 
 bee stand. I know where there are two swarms now in 
 Greenhill woods, and I mean to get them as soon as the 
 weather is cold enough. I get a swarm or two, almost 
 every year. The fact is, that the man who lives in the 
 country can be a very sharp, wise man and get a great 
 deal out of his wisdom if he will, as there is always some- 
 thing new in the country." 
 
 The boys always enjoyed a call from Captain Hayes. 
 He was always entertaining. 
 
 Roy tried again for another story. "Captain, did you 
 ever know a witch ? " 
 
 " Yes, indeed, and been bewitched by them, time and 
 again, when I was of your age."
 
 DULL WEATHER IN HAY TIME. 53 
 
 Sara shouted. 
 
 " And I have not got beyond their influence yet," he 
 added, laughing. 
 
 " Tell us a witch story, captain." 
 
 " Do you want it, Sam ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir, please tell one." 
 
 Well, then ; up in Barrington, take the road that leads 
 through Fly Market, then up around by Jerry Kingman's 
 and Eliphalet Foss, over Muchdo hill, past Robert Stacy's 
 to Hardscrabble, and there on till you take the road that 
 leads over to the Leatherses, and when you are pretty 
 well on your way, you will pass an old cellar-hole. There 
 was where the old witch lived, and her name was Moll 
 Ellsworth. She lived alone, except a black cat without 
 a white hair on it. She planted her own garden, and 
 raised enough for her. She went out carding and weav- 
 ing. Sometimes she laid out the dead and watched all 
 night with them alone. She would take no money but 
 silver, and she always bit it when she took it, else it 
 would have worked harm to her, as a witch. Even 
 witches have their limits like other people, Everybody 
 was afraid of her, and so but few ever went into her 
 house. There used to be lights in her house at all times 
 of night, and some people said that Henry Tufts (see 
 Harper's Magazine, March, 1888, Vol. 76, page 605), 
 used to make it one of his hiding-places, and pay her well 
 for it, for no one would dare to look there for him, and 
 the sheriffs and constables always wanted him. Now Nick 
 Scruton used to live a little ways beyond her, and he 
 used to sauce her when he went by, and she scowled and 
 bit her thumb at him. And Scruton's horses were lame, 
 and his cows were gargety, and the milk was bloody, his
 
 54 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 wife was sick, his pigs died, and Scruton was just sure 
 that old Moll was at the bottom of it all. Then, as he 
 was coming home from Dover one day with too much 
 rum in him, he saw the old witch walking along the 
 road. He tried to scare her, by seeing how near he could 
 come to her, and not hit her. He rode too near and 
 knocked the old woman head over heels into the Canada 
 thistles. She got up awful mad, cursed him, and vowed 
 revenge. Then Scruton's chickens disappeared. His 
 dog died. His cat was found in the well, with bone's and 
 old boots, and one night when the cows came home, he 
 found a long brass pin sticking through the teat of one 
 of them. He had as much as he could do to pull it out 
 the cow kicked so. He got it out, but it took all his 
 strength to hold it. He told his wife to bring a teakettle 
 of boiling water, and to put a piece of silver and a leaf 
 out of the New Testament into it, and she did. Then 
 Nick Scruton, by main force, put the pin in it. Such a 
 blood-curdling screech as came out of that teakettle you 
 never heard, no, nor never will. The next morning the 
 old woman was found at her own door, badly scalded. 
 Soon she disappeared, cat and all. .Doctor Fernald said 
 she went ovei % to Lee to live with her brother. But some 
 folks said the devil flew away with her, some such night 
 as last night was, and if you don't believe the story, I can 
 take you up to Barrington and show you the cellar-hole. 
 
 "Do you believe the story, Captain?" asked Roy. 
 
 "Me? Yes. I believe it is about the biggest lie I ever 
 told, but that is all the kind you can have, if you want a 
 witch story. It must be fictitious. Ha! ha! ha! But 
 I have stayed too long. I shall not get home to dinner. 
 Good-by. Come up and see us."
 
 DULL WEATHER IN HAY TIME. 55 
 
 Now, if yon have never been present at a farmer's call, 
 or, it may be, that it was prolonged to a visit, you have, at 
 least, read one. Many a time, on a rainy or snowy day, 
 or of an evening, have I drawn the cider, got the apples, 
 cracked the nuts, and heard the stories of the Revolution, 
 the War of 1812, of ghosts, witches, fairies, enchantments, 
 hunting, fishing, Indians, cooking, bee hunts, farming, 
 woodcraft, and, goodness knows what, of the folk lore 
 of old Strafford County.
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 HUCKLEBEEEIES. 
 
 THE haying was done, and well done. Of course, a 
 good farmer is always on the .lookout to increase the 
 amount of food for house .and barn alike, in order to 
 increase the income of his farm. But Mr. Guy Bart- 
 lett liked a good variety of home comforts, and made 
 it a point to secure asparagus, tomatoes, and many others 
 of the vegetable kind, and the wild berries as well. So, 
 early in August, after breakfast, he said : " Now, boys, 
 your mother and I think it will be best to take a drive to 
 the heath, and pick some blueberries and huckleberries, to 
 dry for next winter. We can take a lunch with us, and 
 it will be a picnic to-day, and puddings and pies next 
 winter." 
 
 This suited Roy and Sam, and speedily brought old 
 Tom and the express wagon, with two seats in it, to the 
 door ; while luncheon, with pails and dippers galore, 
 speedily hid themselves under the seats, ready for use. 
 About four miles from the City Hall, in Dover, is the 
 Tibbett's farm, now called the Heath House, and for half 
 a mile beyond it, to Ezra Hayes's, is the birches. It is a 
 huckleberry swamp that, if you will reckon far enough 
 back, and charge enough for your fruit, has raised berries 
 enough to pay off the national debt. I like to keep right 
 down to hard-pan fact. Not every year are they a bo- 
 nanza, but this year they were. Roy drove off the road 
 
 56
 
 HUCKLEBERRIES. 57 
 
 in a winter path, for security against visitors. Old Tom 
 was made comfortable to leave, and then the picking 
 began. It was a sight to behold. 
 
 " There," said Mr. Bartlet, " I have seen most of the 
 fruits of the earth, growing in their native soil. But I 
 never, in my life, saw a finer natural fruit than these half- 
 high and high-bush blueberries, when the bushes are blue 
 with them, as these are." 
 
 They picked with a will, four of them. Sometimes 
 they were low and required stooping. Then, again, they 
 were from six to ten feet high, and often blue with ber- 
 ries. Then came a bush of black ones. Then, again, a 
 bush of purple choke berries, that were handsome to look 
 at, but useless to eat. Nature likes to show us what she 
 might have done, in order to show us how good she is. 
 And busy hands and plenty of berries gave a rich reward. 
 Often, Roy or Sam collected the berries, and bore them 
 to the wagon, and, with a kind word for Tom, returned 
 to picking. Mrs. Bartlett moved quietly to the next 
 bush, when, whirr ! went a large bird away from her feet 
 with a loud noise that startled her. She looked, and 
 there at her feet was a little home, a partridge's nest, 
 with ten beautiful dark speckled eggs in it. They were 
 all pleased to see it, and to look at it attentively. 
 
 " Come," said Mr. Bartlett, " let us all move away, and 
 pick elsewhere. The old lady will want to cover her 
 eggs again, and she has her rights in the world as well 
 as we." 
 
 It was done. A few minutes later, Sam stood beside a 
 large clump of bushes, picking industriously. In the mid- 
 dle of the clump was a birch tree, whose roots parted 
 like an old-fashioned light^stand, and it left a hollow un-
 
 58 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 derneath, and there, behold! in peace and safety was 
 another home, and in it sat a wild rabbit. Sam smiled, 
 and, motioning silence, he called the others just in time 
 to see puss scud out and away from the strangers. It 
 was a sensible wild home. It was up above the water, 
 sheltered from the rain, with several avenues of escape, 
 for those whom God has given no means of defence. It 
 is a pitiful story here, but they look at it differently, after 
 seeing how rabbits multiply in Australia. There they 
 are a calamity. 
 
 "Come," said Mr. Bartlett, "it is luncheon time." 
 
 It was spread on a nice shady spot of grass, near the 
 wagon, and old Tom quietly took his oats and watched 
 the proceedings. The boys were a little curious to know 
 what kind of a surprise Aunt Bartlett had prepared for 
 them. It was a good one. A stuffed fowl, bread and 
 butter, doughnuts and cheese, an apple turnover each, 
 and a bottle of cold coffee. 
 
 "This, with plenty of berries, is enough," said 
 Roy. 
 
 " Then enough is as good as a feast," said Mr. 
 Bartlett. 
 
 " It strikes me that this is a feast," said Sam. 
 
 " I am glad you like it," said Mrs. Bartlett. 
 
 So they sat or reclined, at their own sweet wills. They 
 made remarks, relevant and- irrelevant, and they voted it 
 a harvest, a picnic, and a red-letter day generally. They 
 told stories. They rested and listened to the voices of 
 the woods, as Thoreau listened. 
 
 " It is a revelation," said Mr. Bartlett ; " what wisdom 
 it is to make the best of everything, and to have a happy, 
 thankful time. Not to wrong or rip anybody, and to
 
 HUCKLEBERRIES. 59 
 
 keep sweet yourself. I remember Gail Hamilton puts it 
 most beautifully, in one of her essays. She says : ' Life 
 is a burden, but God has laid it upon us. Whatever you 
 make of it, that it will be to you. You may make it a 
 millstone around your neck, or a diadem upon your brow. 
 Take it up bravely, bear it on cheerfully. Lay it down 
 triumphantly.' It is a splendid sentiment. Ha ! what is 
 this, boys ? I have found a prize ; I think some one has 
 camped here before. It is a fine pocket-knife. It is 
 almost new, and evidently lost but a few days. I guess I 
 am about seventy-five cents or a dollar in, by finding this 
 nice knife." 
 
 "Good luck," said Sam. "Here, Aunt Bartlett has 
 found a partridge's nest, I have found a rabbit's form, 
 Uncle Bartlett has found a knife, and now, Roy, it is 
 your turn." 
 
 " Very well," said Roy, " I think I will find some more 
 berries." 
 
 They resumed picking, but did not need to work much 
 more. The pails were filled again, and Roy began to look 
 about him. As he stepped away to a heavily laden bush, 
 he saw something on the ground. He touched it with 
 his foot, and a merry smile spread over his face, as he 
 called to his mother : " Mother, come. I have found my 
 prize ! " 
 
 She came. They all did. And Roy, with a mischiev- 
 ous laugh, held up a woman's stockings, and er gar- 
 ters. " Evil to him who thinks evil of this," said he. 
 
 Said Mrs. Bartlett, " She was of good size, and tall ; 
 for these are long. And her feet were small. These are 
 hand-knit, and she was a splendid knitter. They are fine, 
 and first-class, and the elastics are tasty and costly. They
 
 60 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 have lain here only two or three days, only since day 
 before yesterday, when it was so hot. She took them off 
 for coolness, and lost them by going a few steps from 
 them. But, oh, it was risky to go to Dover without 
 them." 
 
 Sam looked at Roy in the queerest way, and chuckled 
 and laughed, to the amusement of them all. 
 
 Said Roy, " I guess I had better get out of this swamp, 
 for my luck is so peculiar for two months past that 
 heaven only knows what I shall run into next. Now, 
 mother, you please take charge of these articles. If 
 Carlyle had found them, he might have written another 
 * Sartor Resartus ' about them. Father is right in say- 
 ing, that one is always finding something new in the 
 country." 
 
 " This last beats them all," said Sam. "I have been 
 reading a Swedenborgian book lately. It tells of corre- 
 spondences. I think there is something in it. Aunt Bart- 
 lett has found a nest full of eggs. It means home and 
 plenty for her. I found a rabbit's form, which means 
 that I shall have a home and be a farmer. This suits me. 
 Uncle Bartlett has found a knife, which means that he 
 shall cut his own bread easy, and in abundance. But this 
 last find beats them all. It means that Roy shall have a 
 queen of his own, who is a woman to be proud of; and I 
 expect it." 
 
 " Thank you, Sammy ; and the same to you," said 
 Roy. 
 
 Often the remembrance of Roy's find brought a smile. 
 
 "Come, boys," said Mr. Bartlett, "if Roy has a super- 
 stition about this place, I think we will go home. We 
 have a fine lot of berries to-day; enough to black our
 
 HUCKLEBEIIEIES. 61 
 
 mouths up good several times." The team was hitched 
 up again, and, as the shadows lengthened, they rode 
 home just in time, for Aunt Bartlett to get supper, and 
 just in time to find the cows lowing in the lane for 
 admission to the barn.
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 THE HUNT FOB BEAUTY. 
 
 CANIS MAJOR had been left at home on guard, and told 
 to "look out for it." He had done his duty. No one 
 had been allowed to enter the dooryard. But on the 
 square top of the gate post lay a stone for a paper-weight, 
 and just in sight of every one who lifted the latch was an 
 envelope of a letter, and above it was written, so that it 
 was made to do duty as paper and signature, 
 
 " 1 called, and found Canis Major on guard. I leave kind 
 regards, and will call again soon. 
 
 " JOHN Q. HAYES." 
 
 " I think it is about that referee case," said Mr. Bart- 
 lett ; " so we will be at home for a few days, to meet our 
 caller." 
 
 It was their habit to look over their farm, and see what 
 permanent improvement was most needed to make work 
 easy and profitable, and to make the handsomest home 
 and pay the most of use and beauty. So when a very 
 dry time came, after haying, some low place, that had at 
 last gone dry, had the black loam removed, then the bed 
 was raised with stones and soil, with suitable drainage, 
 and then the dark loam was replaced over it all, and it 
 was fertilized and sown to grass again ; and, oh, you ought 
 to see the herds-grass grow 1 They wanted no eyesores 
 on their farm. 
 
 62
 
 THE HUNT FOR BEAUTY. 63 
 
 Said Mr. Bartlett, as he paused on the next improve- 
 ment, " Boys, life moves in circles. There is an old hymn' 
 which says, ' Thy days are one eternal round ; ' and it is 
 true. Work and harvest are at once cause and effect 
 forever. I was once travelling on a Mississippi steamer, 
 and a Southerner scraped acquaintance with me. He 
 asked as many questions as ever any Yankee did in the 
 same time, and he told me he was going down to New 
 Orleans to sell his cotton, to buy more niggers, to raise 
 more cotton to buy more niggers. So life is the same 
 treadmill." 
 
 " Yes," said Roy. " But we have more than the usual 
 amount planted ; we have made more than the usual 
 amount of improvements ; we can keep more stock, and 
 enrich the farm more. We are gaining every way. I 
 happen to know that Captain Hayes will be at an Ortho- 
 dox installation to-morrow ; so I move that we go on an 
 excursion to the summit of Blue Job." 
 
 "All right, Roy, we will go." 
 
 It was a beautiful September day. The chores were 
 done early. Then the light wagon, with Mr. and Mrs. 
 Bartlett, was soon followed by Roy and Sam, in another 
 light hitch. Whoever rides for pleasure, in a pleasant 
 time and in a pleasant place, will always find it, if they 
 are pilgrims of beauty, in the way they ought to be. 
 Even the desert is a succession of surprises, and often 
 teeming with life. These people had a good time, 
 for they took it with them. Up the road, passing Green 
 Hill, with its one tree near the summit, past Elisha 
 Locke's house and mills, through the Gonic and Rochester 
 to Merrill's Corner, in Farmington, and farther by a 
 crooked, well-known road, until their horses were left
 
 64 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 with friends ; then, with baskets in hand, the party was 
 slowly ascending the steep sides of Blue Job. Take it easy. 
 There is much to see. How the view extends as you 
 climb up. Not dangerous at all, but still it is a good 
 journey, and it pays well to take it. The summit was 
 reached, and then the view ! 
 
 Said Mr. Bartlett, "Now look! To the north is the 
 next range of hills, of which the Gunstock Mountain is 
 the prominent one, and just beyond it is Lake Winnepe- 
 saukee. Away to the northwest is the Western Kear- 
 sarge, whose summit is in Wilmot. Near it is Warner, 
 where lives Levi Bartlett, the compiler of the Bartlett 
 genealogy. West of us is the great Blue Hill, larger and 
 higher than Blue Job. South of us is all this beautiful 
 rolling country, with Strafford Ridge and the towns 
 below, extending away to the ocean. There, the three 
 pine-trees that locate Great Falls. Farther to the right 
 is Mount Agamenticus, and a beauty it is. The fact 
 is, I never feel the majesty of God, and the nobility of 
 man, as when I can see his wonderful works from some 
 mighty mountain top. 
 
 " ' Who loves not Nature suffers every need, 
 Who most enjoys it, he is blest indeed.' " 
 
 " Then you think," said Roy, " that our best loves are 
 cultivated." 
 
 "Yes, I do ; and our meaner loves as well. Such as the 
 loves of vice and dissipation." 
 
 " Then I suppose," added Roy, " that it becomes us to 
 choose the noblest loves and to reject all others." 
 
 "Certainly."
 
 THE HUNT FOR BEAUTY. 65 
 
 " Well," said Roy, " I feel now a strong love, not a par- 
 ticularly noble one, but it gains on me. Will you please 
 explain it, father ? " 
 
 " What is it, Roy ? " 
 
 " The love of my dinner." 
 
 " You always had it. Born so," said his mother. 
 
 " And you remember, mother, that it is your favorite 
 theory that a boy ' takes after ' his mother and a girl 
 after her father. So I came honestly by it." 
 
 Sam was much amused when Roy and his mother 
 sparred, and Roy usually came off best. 
 
 " Come, mother ; you will have no peace until you feed 
 your chickens." 
 
 It was done ; and while they feasted the inner man, the 
 eyes could wander nearly around the horizon, bounded 
 only by the hills of New Hampshire, from twenty to fifty 
 miles away. 
 
 " Aunt Bartlett is a commissary-general worth having," 
 said Sam Ellet. " She always keeps her army well sup- 
 plied and happy. This makes loyal and good soldiers." 
 
 " There is a theory," said Mr. Bartlett, " that it is not 
 good to use a soldier too well. He expects too much, and 
 it makes a molly-coddle of him." 
 
 " I think," said Roy, " that saying has very little truth 
 in it. Almost all evidence goes to show that men do 
 better if well used. A ' lean and hungry Cassius ' does 
 think too much, and his thoughts are not of the kind they 
 would be if he was better fed. But we have a feast of 
 body and mind both to-day. I do love the hills, and 
 especially the hills of my native State. To be able to 
 picture them in all their might and beauty is a joy in- 
 deed. I had rather be S. F. Smith, who wrote,
 
 66 THE WILD AKTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 ' I love thy rocks and rills, 
 Thy woods and templed hills ; 
 My heart with rapture thrills, 
 Like that above,' 
 
 in his beautiful hymn, and be, like him, the voice of 
 loyalty, praise, and patriotism through countless genera- 
 tions, than to be any president since Washington. The 
 poets outlive the historians, although frequently the poets 
 are the historians. Bayard Taylor has written in his 
 fine novel, ' Hannah Thurston,' of one of his characters, 
 'Nature had not given 1dm her highest gift, that of 
 expression.' When in the capitol, the forum, the pulpit, 
 as musician, author, actor, painter, or poet, it is one great 
 gift, partly given, partly acquired, and it makes a man a 
 king among men. In these times, a man who ministers 
 to the sense of beauty, ranks much higher than one who 
 ministers to the blessings of use." 
 
 " Jess so," said Sam. " And Roy has given his opinion 
 a splendid expression. But, for all that, I suppose that a 
 hundred people must work for use where one is demanded 
 as a minister of art, literature, or any form of beauty, and 
 so, although I will learn to appreciate nature and art, 
 books and beauty, I shall be content with the beauty that 
 lies in the greatest use, while I do what I can to feed the 
 world and keep from being hungry." 
 
 "Then it seems," said Mrs. Bartlett, "that we have a 
 prophet of use and one of beauty, besides an old man arid 
 woman not yet classified." 
 
 This made them laugh. 
 
 "That is not a good way of telling it," said Roy. 
 " What we really have is Lord and Lady Bartlett, both 
 alike prophets of use and beauty, and two young sprouts
 
 THE HUNT FOR BEAUTY. 67 
 
 who are trying to follow the example of their illustrious 
 predecessors." 
 
 " Roy," said his mother, "I should think you had been 
 to Blarney. If you ever do get in love with a woman, 
 she will have to surrender like Davy Crockett's coons. 
 They knew he was a sure shot, so they said, 'Don't 
 shoot, we will come down.' " 
 
 This turned the laugh on Roy. They walked around 
 the summit, and drank in the inspiration of the hills. 
 
 Said Mr. Bartlett, "I think if we were here in the 
 evening, when a full moon was rising, we should plainly 
 see a long white strip of silver light, which is the ocean. 
 I have seen it plainly from West Northwood, not far 
 from here, where the land is not as high as we are. It is 
 a beautiful sight. You would not think it possible to see 
 farther by moonlight than by day, but sometimes it is so. 
 Now, Roy, if you have that sketch done, we had better 
 bid good-by to the summit and return." 
 
 They did return, and by a road more direct, passing 
 through Barrington, at the eastern end of Ayer's pond, 
 and coming down by George McDaniel's and the old 
 Methodist meeting-house, on the road towards Dover. 
 It had been a good day. It had filled their minds with 
 bright, healthy pictures for time to come. A man's mind 
 wants to be furnished and ornamented as much as his 
 body. It had been a lesson in nature and art to Roy.
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 A LAWSUIT PREVENTED AND A FARMER'S VISIT. 
 
 THE next two days were bright September days. 
 
 "Hoy," asked Mr. Bartlett, " what ought we to do to- 
 day?" 
 
 " There is one job I should like to do before I go away. 
 There are two or three stones in the great field that I should 
 like to sink out of the way of plough or mowing machine 
 forever." 
 
 " It is a dangerous work, " said his father. 
 
 " Then I will conduct it so it will be safe," said Roy. 
 
 And he did. On the evening of the second day, the 
 stones that had projected above ground, and had always 
 been in the way, had quietly sunk beneath the surface, 
 away from the plough forever. It was a permanent 
 good. In the evening Sam read the papers; Mrs. 
 Bartlett did her part to make the evenings pleasant ; Roy 
 worked on his sketches, played the cabinet organ, or 
 read, and the evenings were pleasant at home. 
 
 The day following, it rained. They were in the ample 
 sitting-room. Soon Neighbor Hoskins called in, and he 
 was welcomed. Yes, his family were well; Mary was 
 well and Will Glance was living with them ; at present 
 he was steady, and working moderately. All hoped he 
 would do well. So they left it. Nobody rejoiced. A 
 carriage drove up. It was Captain John Q. Hayes. 
 Shake hands and hearty greetings all around.
 
 LAWSUIT PREVENTED AND A FARMER'S VISIT. 69 
 
 "Now," said he, "business first, and then I shall not 
 forget it. Mr. Bartlett, your opinion of how that prop- 
 erty should be divided and settled, is accepted by both 
 parties, as the fairest and best that can be done, with one 
 exception. You have left out the interest of the best 
 man in it. That is yourself ; they all say so. They have 
 signed an agreement, accordingly, provided that you ac- 
 cept fifty dollars for your services ; otherwise they won't 
 settle at all, and will act just as bad as they can. Each 
 party contributes half, so you see they look out for your 
 interest as well as you for theirs. Here is the money. I 
 am instructed not to take 'no' for an answer. Here, 
 please sign this receipt." 
 
 They all were pleased. 
 
 Said Mrs. Bartlett, " Now we can see which the con- 
 trary one is." 
 
 " All right, Captain. I will take it, but if they have 
 any trouble in settling, they must call on me again, and if 
 they do not settle kindly and peaceably, I must return 
 the money." And the receipt was signed. 
 
 "Did you catch many foxes last winter, Captain?" 
 asked Roy. 
 
 " Yes, several." 
 
 " How did you manage? " 
 
 " Ah ! you young folks want a story, do you ? Yes, I 
 catch foxes when I can, because they eat my poultry, and 
 occasionally steal a lamb. Besides when I do catch one, 
 in the right season, his pelt brings me a dollar and a half, 
 or more. So you see catching foxes helps farming both 
 ways. About forty rods in the rear of my barn is an old 
 oak stump. It is in about the middle of a small, open 
 pasture. I fed the sheep around that stump so as to
 
 70 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 have a lot of orts scattered around, to make it look kind 
 o' natural. Then when we killed a fowl, or had fresh 
 meat, I put the odds and ends near the old stump. The 
 foxes found it soon enough, so I set a smart, well-oiled 
 fox-trap at the stump, covered it up with hayseed, and 
 next morning I had a large he-fox. His skin sold for two 
 dollars. The next morning I had his mate. Then I 
 had nothing for a week. Then I put my trap down with 
 extra care, put the bait in a crevice of the stump 
 beyond the trap, and for three mornings in succession I 
 found the bait gone, the trap sprung and turned bottom 
 upward. Then I knew I had an awful long-headed old 
 fox to measure wits with. And here was the problem. 
 An Orthodox deacon playing a game of deceit with an old 
 fox, for his skin. So I set the trap bottom upwards, put 
 a few drops of anise around it, and left it. The next 
 morning I had him by his fore paw. The fool had turned 
 the trap, and then, supposing it safe, had trod on the 
 trencher and got caught. He was a splendid specimen, 
 of a rare kind. He was a silver-gray fox. I got fifteen 
 dollars for his skin. It was a beauty ! " 
 
 " Gracious ! " said Sam. 
 
 " Then I caught three young foxes, but well grown. I 
 got one dollar apiece for their skins. After that for a 
 month I got nothing. I put the bait around the sturnp, 
 but the foxes got the benefit of it. When I came to ex- 
 amine the tracks in a light snow, I found it was one 
 large fox, and some few hairs that he had scratched off 
 told that he was a black one. I wanted his pelt very 
 much, and I studied on it. One night I caught a mouse. 
 He was standing up straight and frozen stiff. I then set 
 the trap in a little hollow, ten feet away from the stum]) ;
 
 LAWSUIT PREVENTED AND A FARMER'S VISIT. 71 
 
 I fastened the chain to a spike driven into the frozen 
 ground. Then I covered the trap with a thin dark 
 brown paper, scattered the hayseed over it, and left the 
 frozen mouse fastened to the trencher. It looked alive ; 
 you would have been sure the mouse was just ready to 
 run. I found the next morning that the fox had looked 
 at it the same way, for he had run and put both paws on 
 the mouse to catch him, and so I had the fox firm and 
 fast by both fore paws. He was a fine black fox, the 
 only one I ever caught." 
 
 " It is a good thing," said Mr. Hoskins, " to have such 
 a Nirarod as you are, to clear out our foxes. It makes 
 poultry possible." 
 
 "Did you ever get young foxes?" asked Sara. 
 
 " Yes, indeed. We burned over a piece of land on Scru- 
 ton's plains, last summer, and we got four young foxes, 
 one litter about a quarter grown. They lived and did 
 well. We did not wish to keep them all, so we gave 
 away two of them. They were as affectionate as puppies 
 except when you gave them fresh meat ; especially 
 chicken. Then their eyes were like balls of fire un- 
 til the meat' was eaten; but in a moment after, they were 
 on their good behavior again, and, O, so glad to see you. 
 One night the shed door blew open, and the dog got in 
 and killed them both. That finished my foxes." 
 
 Said Roy, " Captain, I always like to hear older peo- 
 ple talk, for they have had a good experience, and know 
 something. I always learn something new and refresh- 
 ing. Now please tell me, Captain, did you ever see or 
 know of anything in your own personal experience, that 
 was clearly supernatural ? " 
 
 " Well, Roy, I doubt if there is or can be anything
 
 72 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 supernatural. All life, in the body or out, is natural. I 
 think you mean to ask me if I ever saw any work or 
 movement of living beings with no visible body. Yes, I 
 have known some things that I could not account for. I 
 had a boy once, who worked for me. He was steady, 
 tough, and well as any boy I ever saw. One day he was 
 hoeing in the corn with me, and a little brown bird came 
 and lit on him again and again. The boy could not 
 drive him away. The bird would keep close to him, and 
 did all day. It was his last day's work. He told his 
 mother of it, and she said sorrowfully that it was a sure 
 sign of trouble. He was buried in two weeks, of typhoid 
 fever. I do not know as there was any connection 
 between the bird and the fever, but I think of them to- 
 gether, always." 
 
 " Then," said Hoy, " although we may regard the story 
 as true, yet the inference is doubtful." 
 
 "Certainly. You can infer what you like." 
 
 " Now, please tell me, Captain, did you ever hear any- 
 thing of the same kind from reliable people whom you 
 could believe ? " 
 
 "I will tell you a story, Roy, and you can judge for 
 yourself. If I give you all the evidence and you make 
 up the verdict you cannot blame me. You have all 
 heard of old Aunt Debby Watkins, that lived over be- 
 yond Hick's Hill, on the road to the Gunket. Well, she 
 was an honest, God-fearing woman, and told the truth in 
 all else and why not in this ? And here is her story : 
 'Lige Glen lived a mile beyond her. His right name was 
 Elijah, and no man was less like the prophet Elijah than 
 'Lige Glen. He was drunken, ugly, profane, dishonest, 
 and dirty, outside and in. His children were neglected
 
 LAWSUIT PREVENTED AND A FARMER'S VISIT. 73 
 
 and abused. They all died young. People said, and 
 some were bad enough to know, that he had sold himself 
 to the devil for so much money, for, strange to say, 'Lige 
 Glen did nothing to make any money, but he always had 
 it. Pie did not toil or spin. If there was a black, gusty 
 night, 'Lige was always out wandering round. In a hard 
 gale or thunderstorm he was always gone, and his wife 
 left alone. People said he finished her, and I guess he 
 did. It is always said, if a man is sold unto sin, long 
 life is not for him, certainly not beyond the common age 
 of man. So, one foggy afternoon, late, a dark-complex- 
 ioned man called and asked Aunt Debby if she would go 
 down and watch with Glen. He was very sick, and she 
 took her Bible in her pocket, for safety and to read in, 
 and went to watch with the sick man. There was no one 
 in the house but 'Lige. There was a little fire in the old 
 fireplace, and plenty of wood handy. She put on a log, 
 and asked if she could do anything for the sufferer. He 
 asked not much, tasted little water, dozed a little, and 
 waked again about midnight. Aunt Debby was read- 
 ing her Bible by the light of one tallow candle, when she 
 was startled by seeing a monstrous big black dog push 
 open the door, go up to the bed, and begin to whisper in 
 'Lige Glen's ear. They talked in an unknown language, 
 for the old windows rattled, and the candle flared in the 
 wind. She could see the two horrible black heads to- 
 gether, and the dog seemed to be giving orders, while 
 Glen's eyes opened wider. But he seemed to have no 
 power to dispute a word, and the horrid dog or devil, or 
 whatever it was, put his nose into 'Lige's face, and stayed 
 as long as he liked. Aunt Debby had not power to lift a 
 finger. After a long time, he moved slowly away from
 
 74 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 the bed, out into the kitchen, and, by the noise, he 
 seemed to go down, down into the earth. After sitting a 
 long time, and seeing a light strip of sky in the east, she 
 rose and looked at the old long clock in the corner, then 
 lighted another candle and looked at 'Lige Glen. He was 
 dead and cold. I think this story is a fact," said Cap- 
 tain Hayes. "Now what do you make of it, Roy ? " 
 
 " I know nothing of it," said Roy. 
 
 " What do you, Sam ? " 
 
 " It sticks me," said Sam. 
 
 " Mr. Hoskins, what do you say ? " 
 
 " Looks fishy," said he. 
 
 Captain Hayes laughed. " Mr. Bartlett, you are good 
 as referee. What say you ?" 
 
 " I should need more evidence before I put in my 
 verdict." 
 
 " Mrs. Bartlett, what do you say ? " 
 
 " Say ? Why, I should put in an interrogation point 
 as long as from here to Durham, after such a story as 
 that." 
 
 " Well," said the Captain, " I have told the story as 
 she did, as she was a simple, truthful woman. Now, I 
 will tell my part of the story. Later, I was called, on be- 
 half of the town, to look over the farm and personal 
 property, and to appraise them, for 'Lige Glen left no 
 heirs. We found, to our astonishment, that in an under- 
 ground cellar which connected with the sheds was a lot 
 of counterfeiters' dies and moulds, with some unfinished 
 halves and Mexican dollars. In one corner was a lot of 
 old duds, well felted in with black hair, which told the 
 story of the nest of a large, short-haired black mas- 
 tiff. This accounted for the milk in the cocoanut. Soon
 
 LAWSUIT PREVENTED AND A FARMER'S VISIT. 75 
 
 after this the house and its contents were burned. Nev- 
 ertheless, I think 'Lige Glen sold himself to the devil. 
 Bad men always do. Come, Mr. Hoskins, it is your 
 turn." 
 
 " All right then. Did you ever hear old Jake Hodg- 
 man tell stories ? " 
 
 Captain Hayes said he had, for Jake had the reputa- 
 tion of being the biggest liar in Dover. 
 
 " Once," said Mr. Hoskins, " I asked him why he told 
 such wild stories. Says he, I will tell you. You know 
 my father had a small farm, and when apples were plenty 
 he had apples enough and to sell, and he made two or 
 three barrels of cider. The old man liked to tell large 
 stories of what his farm would do, but one year he had 
 only one barrel of cider. Along came old Doctor 
 Woodbury, one day, and my father was bragging to 
 him about what his farm would raise, and how much 
 cider it would make, when the doctor said he should like 
 to taste his cider. Father called to me, Jake, Jake, 
 go down cellar and get a pitcher of cider out of the cask 
 that is tapped in the third row. Said I, What do you 
 mean by that, father ? You know there is but one 
 barrel in the cellar, and that ain't full. Then draw it 
 out of that, he roared, and I drew the cider. But the 
 old man licked me like the devil for telling the truth, 
 and it broke me of it, so I have never told it since. 
 Whether this was truth or not, you can judge," said 
 Mr. Hoskins. " He always stuck to it that he never 
 told it ; but some of these wild romancers are very enter- 
 taining people." 
 
 Said Captain Hayes, rising, " It is time to go. We 
 have had a sociable time. ' Peace be unto you.' "
 
 76 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 " Please wait a moment," said Roy. " Sam, will you 
 please get some cider out of the third row ? but if there 
 is only one in the cellar, then get it out of that." 
 
 Sam did it with a wide smile. Each one moistened 
 his clay without for a moment suspecting that he was not 
 a temperance man. Guy Bartlett was fifty dollars richer 
 for honor and honesty, good reading and good judgment, 
 and the heirs of a large estate had found a peaceful set- 
 tlement in place of a long and expensive wrangle. 
 " Blessed are the peacemakers."
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF JIM CAMEL. 
 
 SEPTEMBER was passing away, and it was coming to be 
 well known among the many friends of the Bartlett 
 family that Roy was going to Boston in October. As 
 the evenings grew longer, they had more neighborly calls 
 from many who wanted to give him a kind word before 
 he went. So, almost every evening, the parlor and 
 sitting-room were both lighted, and callers came from 
 Garrison Hill, Dover, Knox Marsh, Littleworth, Tollend, 
 Madbury, or Barrington. It was almost an ovation. 
 Sometimes the evening ended with a " sing," and the old 
 family names of Hall, Wheeler, Flagg, Perkins, Young, 
 Kitteredge, Woodman, Twombly, Hayes, Wentworth, 
 and Waldron were well represented. Smart young fel- 
 lows and wide-awake girls, with plenty of fun and music. 
 One evening they had debated whether to sing or read 
 selections. They had decided on selections, and as it was 
 well known that Roy sometimes wrote very entertain- 
 ingly, it was voted that he must read some of his own 
 work. He complied by going to his room and return- 
 ing with a manuscript entitled, 
 
 The Adventures of Jim Camel in Amazonia. 
 
 About fifty years ago, there came to Green Hill a full- 
 sized, roughish-looking man, whom everybody knew as 
 Jim Camel. He stayed at the farms where he first came, 
 
 77
 
 78 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 working for low wages, if any, and getting food, shelter, 
 and home. There he lived until he was beginning to be 
 an old man and there he died and was buried. But he 
 was a remarkable man. I have heard people say he was 
 an awful liar, but that is not a fair statement for these 
 days. It would be better to say that Jim Camel was 
 possessed of an ornamental and prolific imagination. He 
 recounted the most elaborate fictions, as if he solemnly 
 believed every word he said. He had been a sailor. 
 Many of the tales he told of foreign lands were regular, 
 and did no violence to geography. Some were a little 
 mixed. When he had a large damp of cider or New 
 England rum, his stories were richer, but did not jibe quite 
 as well as usual. For instance; once when in that condi- 
 tion he told of being in a country, and seeing blackberries 
 very, very plenty. Each one was a mouthful, and, he 
 added, you know my mouth is not a small one. He said 
 he had a large, thick club, that he used as a cane to walk 
 with. This he tucked under his arm and for a long time 
 picked blackberries with both hands. Very busy he was 
 indeed not to notice a great black bear as big as a horse, 
 that was picking berries as fast as he was. The bear let 
 out a growl and Jim Camel was awake. He hit the bear 
 on his snout and the bear retreated. Jim followed up 
 and kept that club turning and whizzing in the air so fast 
 that you could not see the club at all, only a big blur 
 before the bear. Camel followed up and kept the bear 
 in full retreat until in about a quarter of an hour he drove 
 him into a big snowdrift and killed him. He saw no in- 
 consistency in such a story, but when he had a good 
 listener he often told new and wildly original yarns, for 
 their benefit alone.
 
 THE ADVENTURES OP JIM CAMEL. 79 
 
 We were talking of chopping cordwood, one day. 
 Pshaw! said ho, people around Green Hill don't know 
 what chopping is. You ought to have seen the chopping 
 I did on that voyage when I was cast away among the 
 Amazons, in South America. Holy Moses! trees twelve 
 to fifteen feet through, women twelve to fifteen feet high. 
 Ah ! that was a country ! Tell us the story of the whole 
 voyage, Jim. But Avait ; I'll get a mug of old cider out 
 of the heart of a barrel. There now, Jim, how's that. 
 Well, well, that's good. That'll thaw out a man's in'ards 
 so there won't be no icicles on his liver. How that old 
 fireplace does heat up. Guess the weather is moderating, 
 ain't it? The hearers laughed. Now I was just sayin' 
 it was a wonderful voyage. You see, the ship was a 
 large one and an old one, an' she carried a crew of forty 
 men ; you see it didn't need so many to work the vessel, 
 but the captain was half owner and he wanted men 
 enough to defend her if she got into a dangerous place. 
 I said the ship was an old one, and some of the men said 
 she was haunted, for she had been more than one voyage 
 catching blackbirds on the coast of Africa. That is 
 enough to haunt any ship and spile her luck. The cap- 
 tain's name was Keniston. I never heard his first name, 
 but I s'pose he had one. Some of the crew said the 
 night before the Mary Jane sailed, that the rats went 
 ashore all night long on the gangway plank, an' if I had 
 knowed it I would have gone ashore too. But I sailed 
 in the Mary Jane of Boston, with thirty-nine other good 
 men, all told. "We went along all right for a few days, 
 an' it was watch an' watch. We had our tin dipper of 
 black coffee, an' our sea-bread an' beef. Now an' then 
 we had a lobscouse, or a duff, or a dundy funk puddin'.
 
 80 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 But the captain was surly an' the mate was a hog an' 
 always ready to hit a man. The crew are allers apt to 
 follow a bad example. When we got into the horse 
 latitudes the gales came on, an' then it was, call all hands, 
 an' the ship rollin' bad. The foresail was an old one, an' 
 a puff of wind came, and away she went, split an' blown 
 away. Well, we fought it out but we lost the captain 
 an' two men overboard, so we got along without them. 
 We kept on our voyage for two weeks longer, over a 
 month in all, an' the old ship leaked so we had to keep 
 men at the pumps. An' she creaked an' groaned, so no 
 one could sleep aboard until finally she began to settle in 
 the water an' then we headed her for land that just hove 
 in sight to the west'ard, which proved to be some part 
 of South America. Still the ship kept settlin' lower. until 
 we found she was goin' down. We made a raft as well 
 as we could of spars, and, with the long boat, which we 
 loaded with water and provisions, we got away jest in 
 time to see her go down. There wa'n't nobody aboard 
 of her, but we heard some awful yells just as the ship 
 went down to see Davy Jones. Then we began to try to 
 get ashore. We would row a little by day and seem to 
 be just as far off from land the next morning. How hot 
 it was. Soon the provisions an' water failed. Then it 
 began to look serious. The sun rose up out of the ocean 
 like a great red ball of fire as it is. It grew smaller and 
 hotter as it came to its noonday, then it grew larger and 
 larger again, until it went under the ocean again, a great 
 red ball of fire at night. Food and water all gone. The 
 men sat on the raft in the hot sun an' glowered at each 
 other. Pretty soon it began to be whispered that some- 
 body had got to die to save the rest. Then they drew
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF JIM CAMEL. 81 
 
 lots and our number was one less. It seems kind o' bad 
 I know, but those that have tasted man say he is not so 
 bad eatin'. I didn't touch a dum mite of it. Tilings 
 kept growin' wuss an' wuss, until we had but five men 
 left. All went the same way, an' they were so weak they 
 could hardly walk. Then a breeze sprang up from the 
 cast'aixLan' the next mornin' there we were right in sight 
 
 O O 
 
 of hills an' woods an' palm trees an' rich vines, an' 
 pretty soon we were drifted into a beautiful cove, where 
 we heard voices an' shouts of laughter. Oh, such a sight 
 as bust on us. They were in a-swimmin, an' all women, 
 too. An' the beatermost thing was the size of 'em. 
 Why ! there were women there fifteen foot high, an' lots 
 of 'em twelve. Well, there was a few little gals, from 
 five to eight feet high. They frolicked an' laughed, an' 
 spattered one another. Their hair was long an' black an' 
 straight an' glossy, an' oh, the purtiest hair. Their com- 
 plexions was just a little golden bronze color, a good deal 
 harnsomer than white. Their teeth was white an' even 
 and when they smiled it was enough to set a sailor crazy. 
 You know that anything in petticoats is harnsome to a 
 sailor, but you have no idea what a difference it makes 
 without the petticoats. An' their forms. Oh, ah, I can't 
 describe 'em, it wouldn't be proper. 
 
 How they played and sported on the white sand that 
 looked like silver. But as soon as they saw us they 
 shrieked like any women and ran for their togs. A great 
 big drum was beat, and it wa'i^t five minutes before they 
 came march in' in real military ranks down to the water. 
 The captin, who was one of the tallest women, ordered 
 us to be brought ashore, when a corporal's guard at once 
 waded out to us, for the water wa'n't over ten feet deep
 
 82 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 and each one of the five took a man in her arms and 
 brought us all ashore. We was almost dead and they 
 knew it. We had not seen a man at all as yet. As we 
 were so weak we could not help ourselves. They had 
 their sweet wills with us. Their language was a mixture 
 of Spanish and bobolink. The captain asked a sharp 
 question of the next officer. I could not understand the 
 question, but I heard a good square no for an answer. 
 Then I saw the captain laugh, an' in a minute she called 
 to a magnificent woman soldier who had a spear eight 
 feet long, an' a battle axe. The captain gave her an 
 order. She laughed in a minute, and so did the whole 
 company. She took a big blanket ten feet square, like an 
 India rug, and took me right up in it. She walked off 
 about a dozen steps, each six feet long, I'll bet ye, into 
 an open door in the side of the cliff near. She closed the 
 door after her, for it was pitch dark. Dark as a black 
 cat. She held me kind o' easy, an' in a minute something 
 slid into my mouth as big as the end o' the pepper box, 
 an' it beat the world what a rush of rich victuals I got. 
 Yum, Yum ! you see I was hungry, holler clear down to 
 my heels. I must ha' got about two quarts I guess, an' the 
 supply runnin' a little lower, when I was shifted ends off, 
 quicker 'n a wink and then I had it right an' left. It 
 had a flavor of cocoanut, and I never had nothin' fit me 
 ekal to it. I just 'tended to my privileges right up to 
 the handle, whatever they were, when all at once they 
 got away from me an' m^ blanket was adjusted. She 
 opened the door and walked out with me with her pretty 
 mouth puckered up as if she was about to say pepper- 
 mint. Thcjn the captain looked me over, punched me in 
 the stumjack an' grinned, an' says, he's fuller than a tick.
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF JIM CAMEL. 83 
 
 Then the whole crowd laughed an' shouted an' moiled, 
 
 O O OO ' 
 
 so that I began to laugh myself. Well, sir, that woman 
 just took to me. She wanted to take me in where the 
 entertainment was every little while. If she had kept on 
 she would hav.e had me into the shape of a bell pear. 
 Very soon I was on my legs again, an' able to eat with 
 the best of them O them amazons were all good to me, 
 an' always giving me titbits when the others war'n't 
 lookin' The other four that were saved were oldish men, 
 old sea dogs, an' these amazons did not distress them- 
 selves about them. In about a month I began to pick 
 up their language real fast, an' just then the orders came 
 to leave the beautiful cove. They made a litter like a 
 palankeen, and it was "covered with the gayest cloth, an' 
 these women warriors just carried me as easy as open and 
 shet. They were about half naked, with sandals an' 
 fancy-colored skirts like highland kilts, an' short at both 
 ends. Every woman was as nice an' perticular about her 
 toilet, forty times as nice as a man. The trees were 
 often twelve an' fifteen foot through, an' oh, such beauty 
 vines, an' such grapes, an' fig trees, an' oranges, an' 
 lemons, an' mangoes, an' mangosteen. Oh, such flowers ! 
 They marched kind o' single file, and often they would 
 cut a flower three feet in diameter and use it for a sun- 
 shade until it wilted. These flowers were all colors, an' 
 it made the most gorjus procession I ever seen. Away 
 off you could see any number of palm trees, an' often 
 beyond an' across water, this beautiful country, the 
 immense valley, the coffee- bearing foothills, now and then 
 a feathery waterfall, and beyond it all, came up against 
 the blue sky, the awful Andes, with a big volcano right 
 in the middle among them. It was the biggest, harn- 
 somest sight I ever saw.
 
 84 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 The soldier that fed me had just lost her husband, an' 
 that was why she was in the army. She stuck to me 
 close and was dead gone smashed on me. I've often had 
 'em that way. She told me I must go to tlfe Capital to 
 see the queen. She had her pick of all the men in the 
 queendom, for she was going to marry the smartest one. 
 Now, ye see, that kind o' interested me. I knew the 
 other four could not take the place of a younger man. 
 But all this time I had not seen a man, an' I knew there 
 must be some somewhere, but where ? We were passing 
 lots o' houses, only one story high with a door eighteen feet 
 high, clear up to the eaves. Ye see, the women needed 
 such doors, they were so tall. Well, I looked into some 
 o' them houses and I'll be hanged if'there wasn't the men, 
 smaller than I was, tendin' babies and wash in' dishes. 
 It give me quite a turn. Then I began to laff an' I 
 laffed till I like to a died. But I got used to it. The 
 idea of matin' a woman fifteen feet high to a little runt 
 of a man five feet high. It hurt my feelin's. It is like 
 matin' a drone bee half an inch long, to a queen an inch 
 an' a half. But it kills the drone in a minute. Then 
 the build in's grew richer an' higher, an' the Capital was 
 the smashinest city, ever so much bigger than Boston. 
 Great domes all covered with gold, an' fancy-colored 
 minarets, an' palm trees among 'em all, an' bands o' 
 music with drums an' cymbals and reed instruments, all 
 blown by women. The fact is, the men were at home 
 keepin' house, and the women run the country. The 
 queen sent for me. She said she wanted the best man 
 for her husband, and, as she had tried the chopping test 
 she had found a man that beat all the others. Now if 
 I could outchop him I should be the happy man. Then
 
 THE ADVENTUKES OF JIM CAMEL. ' 85 
 
 I thought of the girl that had been so good to me at 
 first. Her name was Rumalia. I was afraid she would 
 take it hard. The queen's name was Amazette. Just' 
 twelve feet high, an' the handsomest woman I ever set 
 eyes on, an' oh, how she smiled on me. 
 
 Wai, the trial came. I don't allow a man to beat me 
 choppin'. The other feller was a smart one. There were 
 a plenty of axes. He took one that weighed about three 
 pounds, an' I took one that weighed six. Then I made 
 'em bring a bucket of water, an' I laid five more axes in 
 that. We began on a tree fifteen feet in diameter. Oh, 
 holy Moses, how the chips flew, chips two feet long. 
 Soon as my axe began to smoke, I knew I was starting 
 the temper of it an' I took another, an' laid this in the 
 water. If it didn't sizzle, I'm a liar. Well, sir, you can 
 believe it or not, I cut that tree in a little over an hour, 
 three quarters off before it fell my way, an' won the 
 queen. As soon as Rumalia saw the tree fall, she tied a big 
 stone around her neck, an' drowned herself in the lake. 
 Excuse me (Jim Camel brushed his hand over his eyes), 
 I ain't got over it yet. 
 
 Well, the queen sot the day for our weddin' and I 
 lived in a palace an' had the richest an' best of every- 
 thing. Talk about palaces and pearls an' parrots an' 
 peacocks an' palms. What do folks around Barrington 
 know about 'em. Mi^s Amazette kept an eye on me to 
 see that I wasn't too sweet on any of her officers. But I 
 hadn't the heart to do it, I was thinkin' of poor Rumalia, 
 that cut me up the worst. Just then an insurrection 
 broke out in a distant part of the queen's dominions. I 
 told the queen if she would postpone her wedding two 
 weeks, and give me an escort with my four men to the
 
 86 THE WILD AETIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 place where the trouble was, I could make peace as well 
 as chop big trees. So she did it. We journeyed several 
 days with great speed, until we came to the country. I 
 made a treaty of peace with them and they agreed to 
 serve the queen. Then I found a large steamer that ran 
 down a branch of the Amazon until it came to the main 
 river, and. took passage with my four men on board of 
 her. I sent a messenger to the queen, telling her that I 
 had pacified her subjects, bidding her good-by, and tell- 
 ing her not to wait for me. In three weeks we were in 
 Para, in five more in New York, five men of us, the 
 survivors of forty of the crew of the Boston ship, Mary 
 Jane. 
 
 This is Jim Camel's story, more or less faithfully told. 
 I should like to see it dramatized and put worthily upon 
 the stage. Joseph Cook says, When we come tc, Bos- 
 ton we expect a little rhetoric. When I go to the theatre 
 I want a little scenery. I should not end the play of Jim 
 Camel in Amazonia, with a stolen voyage to New York, 
 or Jim's lowly grave on the sunset slope of Green Hill. 
 I would start him off with the embarkation of the captain 
 and crevv, and the ill-omened disembarkation of the rats. 
 Then the chimes of the North church playing, view of Bos- 
 ton slightly glorified, Boston light and sunset over Boston, 
 Minot's light and moonlight at sea, big storm, captain over- 
 board, haunted ship, pantomime tricks, ghosts, dismasted 
 vessel, sunrise and sunset at sea, ship slowly sinking, raft 
 and long boat, the sun a ball of fire, despair, and death, 
 the glorious country of the Amazons, bathing scene judi- 
 ciously managed, recuperation, interesting soldiers, 
 flowery land, triumphal journey, men doing housework, 
 lady grenadiers, mighty distances, feathery palms, golden
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF JIM CAMEL. 87 
 
 domes, tall minarets, bright birds, leaping water-falls, 
 luxurious court, mighty Andes, irrepressible vojcano, bar- 
 baric music, richest of color, wealthiest of palaces, scenery 
 ad. lib., gracious, condescending queen, poor Rumalia, 
 chopping match, victory, Amazette won, grandeur and 
 gorgeousness, queen's entertainment, woman's kingdom 
 come, woman triumphant, men find their true vocation 
 and stay there, high old revel, triumphant suppression 
 of revolt, queen's gratitude to Jim Camel, saved the 
 queendoni, glorious wedding, honeymoon never ends, 
 Jim grows old gracefully, golden wedding, palace full of 
 Amazons, his own daughters of course, splendid manly 
 women, also sons, sweet, affectionate, womanly men. Too 
 sweet for anything. Oh, have the whole thing go off 
 like anniversary week in Boston. Little need of matter 
 of fact, but the widest latitude for the gorgeousness of 
 his own lush imagination. 
 
 Roy ceased reading. Jean McDuffie sat close before 
 him with a ripe smile all over his face. 
 
 Said Roy. " What do you think of Jim Camel, 
 Jean ? " 
 
 " Think? why I think it is splendid to the last degree, 
 but it is a little of Jim Camel and a great deal of some- 
 body else." 
 
 This reply brought down the house, for it was just what 
 they all thought. With many a kind word and especially 
 from Jean McDuffie, the company went home. As the 
 last team drove away from the house, Roy tarried at the 
 gate, and looked a moment at the house glorified in the 
 moonlight. His heart was full as he asked himself, 
 " What kind of a man ought I to be, with such apprecia- 
 tive friends, with such a welcome home, and with such a
 
 88 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 father and mother ! " It takes a lifetime to answer such 
 questions, and Roy went slowly into the house to rest, 
 but what was most unusual for him, his last hours at 
 home were pulling upon his heart so much as to make a 
 pain that almost banished sleep.
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 SORROW TURNED TO JOY. 
 
 THE weather was fair and pleasant the day that Roy 
 went to Boston. But it was rather a blue day at the 
 farm. Hereafter the home life was to be like the play of 
 Hamlet, with the young prince left out. With renewed 
 assurances of countless letters and often visits, Roy shook 
 hands with his father and kissed his mother, and Sam 
 drove with him to the station. 
 
 He landed at the Quincy House in Boston, fully re- 
 solved to take it easy, to be well employed, to make the 
 most of it and not to fret. Sam came back to the farm 
 as solemn as an owl. Mr. Bartlett did not talk much and 
 seemed to be musing and thinking considerably. Roy's 
 mother had her mouth firmly drawn up, as if she had a 
 large amount of suppressed feeling, which, by great 
 effort, she was fully determined to control if it killed her. 
 Long and dreary was the afternoon, and milking time was 
 more of a burden, because Roy was gone. Supper too. 
 There was enough and that which was good enough, but 
 somehow the questions were few and the answers were 
 short and not interesting. Noise was out of place. It 
 seemed as if Sunday had got loose again. 
 
 After supper Mr. Bartlett looked at the Dover En- 
 quirer, and Sam looked into the fire which shed a pleas- 
 ant glow from the open fireplace. Aunt Bartlett cleared 
 away tire tea-things. When the work was done, she sat 
 
 89
 
 90 THE WILD AKTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 <!own on the wide sofa, and the full weight of her desola- 
 tion came over her so strongly that she burst into tears. 
 ii.ie wept hard for a few minutes, with her face buried in 
 the great sofa pillow. Then, when her grief had found a 
 little vent, Mr. Bartlett arose and took down a large 
 roller towel, laying it across his easy chair. Mi's. Bart- 
 lett looked with one eye uncovered to see what he was 
 doim'. Sam was interested too. Then Mr. Bartlett 
 
 O 
 
 went into the kitchen and brought down the big dish-pan 
 that dishes were washed in, and set it down on the floor 
 before his chair. Mrs. Bartlett now watched him with 
 both eyes. She forgot to weep. Sam wondered. Had 
 Mr. Bartlett lost his mind ? Then he went into the 
 kitchen again, was gone a moment, pumped a little water 
 and came in, and after seeing the doors all shut sat 
 down with the roller towel on his knees, and the big 
 dish-pan between his feet. His two spectators looked on 
 in wonder and astonishment. Then, with a funny old 
 snort he made believe burst into tears. "Ah, Boo, Hoo, 
 Hoo. He is gone, mi bi es gone. Oh, Boo, Hoo, Hoo. 
 Roy has gone to Boston and we'll never see him again, at 
 all, at all. Ah wurra, wurra. Ah, Boo, Hoo, IIoo." And 
 he squeezed a large sponge which he held concealed in 
 his hand, into the big dish-pan. Mrs. Bartlett and Sam 
 screamed with laughter. Mr. Bartlett wiped his eyes on 
 the roller towel and cried again like a big bull calf. "Ah, 
 Boo, Hoo, Hoo. He's gone to Boston among cannibals. 
 He'll be bottled up for cologne water. He'll be hung an 
 drowned an' robbed an' murdered an' sold for a slave. 
 Ah, Boo, Hoo, Hoo, Hoo." Sam roared. Mrs. Bartlett 
 laughed \mtil the tears came. Not the briny. Then she 
 got up, kicked the dish-pan away, threw the big towel
 
 SORROW TURNED TO JOY. 91 
 
 after it, and the sponge after that, and in spite of his pre- 
 tended resistance, she put her arm around her husband's 
 neck, sat down in his lap and kissed him, saying : " At 
 any rate I have got you left, you old coon, and I am 
 going to keep you." It was nuts for Sam, and as good as 
 a play. 
 
 " Now," said Mr. Bartlett, " let us settle this thing 
 right here. I gave my consent for Roy to go. He is a 
 safe, manly young man. Do you wish him tied to a 
 woman's apron string all his life ? I travelled far and 
 wide before I was of his age. He will do well. Now, if 
 you will promise not to be sorry or grieve any more until 
 you have cause to grieve, then we will be pleasant and 
 happy just as he wishes us to be. But if you propose to 
 shed any more tears I will have the big dish-pan again." 
 
 There were no more tears shed and the remainder of 
 the evening was pleasant, as were the evenings after it. 
 
 " But," said he, " it is best that we make a rule to have 
 company one or two nights in a week. Then we will go 
 out some, we will read aloud some, play checkers or 
 something a little, if we wish to, and in general act as if 
 it was our duty and pleasure to keep sweet and thankful 
 just as much as it is to Be fed and clothed, and especially 
 as we have so much to be thankful for. We must make 
 life a joy and a thing of beauty, and we must keep Sam 
 as sweet as the heart of a June rose. 
 
 Sam showed his white ivories and laughed with both 
 mouth and eyes. 
 
 I do like to see old married people act as though mar- 
 riage was the birth, instead of the death, of love. Guy 
 Bartlett often pretended to court his wife over again, 
 and he called her, Miss Royal, her maiden name. Some-
 
 92 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 times she would play off for awhile, and give him no en- 
 couragement. Then it took more persuasion to bring her 
 to terms. This time after the dish-pan was put away, Sam 
 was looking to see what was coming next. Mr. Bartlett, 
 said, " And now, Miss Royal, if you remember, I was in 
 Cambridgeport some time ago and attended a silver wed- 
 ding there. I was invited to entertain the company, and 
 I did so by reading this poem to them. Shall I read it 
 to you and Sam ?" It was so ordered and read, 
 
 "THE SILVER WEDDING. 
 
 " Dear beloved : when we find 
 A pair to wedded life inclined, 
 'Tis right that they, of their own wills, 
 Should treat their friends, and pay their bills. 
 Now this young man, I'm glad to tell 
 Has known this maiden quite a spell ; 
 Has boarded with her, and I'll mention 
 Has paid her very marked attention. 
 
 " And more than that, 1 tis even said 
 They thought at one time they were wed ; 
 But lately, come to think about it, 
 We find them some inclined to doubt it. 
 The thing is now so long forgot, 
 They know not if it is, or not ; 
 And so, for fear such fact should grieve them, 
 We'll have them hitched before we leave them. 
 
 " Young man, I charge you solemnly, 
 If you know why this should not be, 
 Keep your mouth shut, and hold your yop ; 
 This wedding is not going to stop. 
 Hold up your head and make no noise ; 
 Set an example to your boys.
 
 SORROW TURNED TO JOY. 93 
 
 "Beloved young lady, can you stand 
 To wed this innocent young man 
 Take him with houses, lands, and purse 
 For better or perhaps for worse ? 
 Change both your single lives to double, 
 And bring him one end of his trouble ? 
 Then his you shall be all your life, 
 You I pronounce husband and wife. 
 
 Oh, happy couple, all goes well, 
 
 As merry as a married spell ; 
 Your home is warm ; your chamber light ; 
 You need no warming pan to-night. 
 There's silver music in the air ; 
 'Tis silver, silver everywhere ; 
 For hearts are warm, and home is bright, 
 And silver wishes come to-night. 
 The clouds that float along the blue, 
 Shall show their silver sides to you ; 
 Posterity shall bring its joys, 
 I promise you two glorious boys ; 
 Also two girls, sometime you'll mind them 
 Don't hurry, for the boys will find them. 
 Then pleasant years of life and care 
 Shall streak their silver in your hair. 
 The moon that glorifies the night, 
 Shall shed for you her silver light ; 
 When trouble comes, you each can share it ; 
 You only have to grin and bear it ; 
 While friends, on this your wedding-day, 
 Bring silver gifts to light the way. 
 Now may this pleasant day in June 
 Presage life's golden afternoon. 
 Long may you live, and prosper, too, 
 With loving hearts and friends all true. 
 And so may Heaven's best blessings fall, 
 So says each one. So say we all." 
 
 This seemed to please Mrs. Bartlett, for she immedi- 
 ately captured the manuscript, so that it should be put
 
 94 THE WILD ARTIST IK BOSTON. 
 
 with the large pile of others that Mr. Bartlett had written 
 for various occasions or publication. Grimalkin was 
 stretched comfortably in Mrs. Bartlett's lap, and Canis 
 Major lay on a rug on the floor in the firelight. It was a 
 beauty picture, and Roy would have said so. 
 
 "Now, Sam," said Mr. Bartlett, " it is your turn to 
 edify the company." 
 
 " You know that I have often investigated the attic in 
 search of something to read ; for there are few farm- 
 houses as well supplied as this, in reading matter, take 
 the books in the secretary and great book-case, all the 
 newspapers and magazines in the attic, and among it all, 
 I have had a good chance to read back numbers of the 
 Morning Star, Dover inquirer, New Hampshire States- 
 man, Manchester Mirror, lloston Cultivator, Belknap 
 Gazette, and I do not know how many more, besides old 
 books and papers away back for a hundred years. Now 
 a story conies to my mind that I liked very much. I 
 cannot tell where I got it. It is so old and so character- 
 istic of the Boston Yankee, that I remember it very 
 pleasantly. 
 
 Story of the Boy that was Born in Boston. 
 
 Many years ago, when Salem was a power in the land, 
 and the Bertrams did a large trade with Madagascar, and 
 brought Mocha coffee, and Java pepper, and spices, and 
 India and China goods, to Salem ; then Boston boys went 
 to Salem, sometimes to go to sea in Bertram's ships. 
 Often it was a long time before they were heard from, 
 even supposing they ever were heard from. 
 
 So after the war of 1812, when United States consuls 
 came to be settled in Asiatic ports, away up the Mediter-
 
 SORROW TURNED TO JOY. 95 
 
 ranean, under some of the Democratic Presidents, these 
 consuls had some odd experiences. One thing they often 
 did, was to assist distressed Americans to get home. 
 
 One day when a consul was taking his after-dinner nap, 
 lie heard a knock and rattle at his gate. The man spoke 
 to him in bad English, and said he wanted to see the con- 
 sul. I am the consul. Said the man, I am an American. 
 Oh, go away, you are no American ! I am, sir, I was 
 born in Boston. The consul opened the gate and let him. 
 in, but expected to prove easily that he was from any- 
 where but Boston. Yes, said the man, I was born in 
 Boston, and the last I knew of her, my mother lived 
 there. That was most thirty years ago. The consul 
 looked him over. A little short-legged chap, dirty and 
 sick looking. He would have looked pale if he could. 
 Where did you sail from ? Salem ; in one of Bertram's 
 ships, he answered. I have lived at cape of Good 
 Hope, Mauritius, an.d Tamatave. I have been to Antan- 
 anarivo, and seen the Queen of Madagascar. I have been 
 in Zanzibar, Mocha, Mecca, Medina, and Muscat. Of 
 course I speak Arabic, like an Arab, else I could not have 
 come out of Arabia alive. I have been in India and 
 China. I could not get into Japan, but I have been in 
 and around Africa and Asia all the time, and never been 
 home. Now I want to see Boston once more, although 
 there ain't a soul alive that would know me. It began to 
 look as if the man had told the truth. The consul 
 thought he would try him. What streets do you remem- 
 ber in Boston? Washington Street, Hanover Street, 
 and Ann Street. Yes, and what public buildings? 
 The State House. Yes, any public hall? He thought 
 hard, but in a moment said, Faneuil Hall, I remember
 
 96 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 that, plain. Can you remember what the weathervane 
 was, on Faneuil Hall ? ' He looked down and seemed to 
 be thinking just as tight as he could. He fairly put out all 
 his strength to remember. Then all at once he shouted, 
 Grasshopper, by thunder, I have not thought of it for 
 years and years. He was sent back to Boston, and bet- 
 ter still, he found his old mother alive' to welcome him. 
 
 " That is just such a story as I like," said Mrs. Bartlett. 
 " That is, I do not like to have a boy go away in silence, 
 for half a lifetime ; that is cruel and mean to his mother ; 
 but I am glad he got sent home in the way he did." 
 
 " Yes," said Sam, " and every Boston boy ought to re- 
 member that the State House is crowned by a pineapple, 
 and Faneuil Hall by a grasshopper."
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 ROY AT THE QUINCY HOUSE. 
 
 I DO not believe there is a city in the world that con- 
 tains within a radius of half a mile in each direction, 
 reckoning from Park Street Church as a centre, more 
 education, literature, art, beauty, music and song, or 
 more to amuse, entertain, and enjoy, than Boston. Not 
 in the same space, and very few in their whole space. 
 Many theatres of the best, the noblest churches, the 
 strongest missionary societies, State House, City Hall, 
 Athenaeum, Public Library, and many lesser libraries, cir- 
 culating libraries and bookstores ; the best of them all, 
 hook and art auctions, studios, and art-galleries, mission- 
 ary, historical, geological, and anatomical museums : and 
 every specialty that the wonder-SQeking brain can call for, 
 is almost sure to find its representative, from the plainest 
 cooking to the most elaborate designing that can be 
 wanted. 
 
 But first, Roy found what colors and brushes he 
 needed, and with little delay he was at work on his first 
 picture, in oil color. He did not hurry, but took the day 
 to cover his first canvas. He did not feel elated over it : 
 he felt small. He had a great respect for a palette of 
 color. Others said not so bad. Had seen worse. A lie 
 needs some foundation. Roy's picture had no foundation 
 for praise of any kind. He leaned it face to the wall to 
 dry, and walked out. He banished art from his mind, 
 
 97
 
 98 THE WILD AKTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 with exercise. He made up his mind to improve that 
 picture to-morrow, and he did it. When not painting, 
 he planned what to paint. It is a New Hampshire prov- 
 erb that when a job is well planned and begun, it is half 
 done. When Roy went to work, he knew what he 
 intended to do, and what to do while the first painting 
 was drying, until he wanted to take it up again. He did 
 not drizzle away his time, and he did not content himself 
 with having one little canvas only, and then wait for 
 days, for a slow color to dry. He had a stock of a few 
 canvases and panels, and in three or four days, one land- 
 scape picture of river, bridge, trees, and mountains, 
 twelve by eighteen, was done. It cut him a little to sell 
 pictures that he did not admire, but he was bound to do 
 it. He wanted them out of his sight. He did not tell 
 who painted them, they were by pupils ; and without 
 much difficulty, he took three dollars for the first one. 
 The second was better, and a dealer asked him to bring 
 in some occasionally. He began to visit studios, and to 
 get a little acquainted with the artists ; to hear art meth- 
 ods, and art criticisms. He read books of standard value. 
 One day he was in the Studio Building at an artist's exhi- 
 bition, with a friend. There were a few persons present. 
 His friend asked, " Where are you staying, Mr. Bartlett?" 
 
 "I am at the Quincy House yet, but I want to find a 
 quiet family with few or no other boarders, that will be 
 as much like my own home as possible. I should like 
 two meals there and I should be gone at noon. I do not 
 want it with common miscellaneous people, I had rather 
 wait longer." 
 
 A gentleman turned and looked a moment at Roy. 
 
 The artist said he did not know of such a chance, but
 
 ROY AT THE QtTTNCY HOUSE. 99 
 
 thought there were plenty who would be glad of him for 
 company. That evening, at the Quincy House a messen- 
 ger brought him a letter, thus, 
 
 " MR. ROY BARTLETT, I hear that you wish a room in a 
 
 suitable, quiet family. If you will call on me at No 
 
 street, perhaps I can put you in the way of getting it. 
 
 "Truly yours, 
 
 " MRS. PARNA WARREN." 
 
 The next morning he called on the artist to thank him 
 for so soon finding a chance for him, but to his surprise 
 the artist knew nothing about it. Then who did send the 
 letter or cause it to be sent. The letter looked honest. 
 Perhaps the writer would inform him. So he would call 
 and investigate. He did so. It was a good four-story 
 house, not new, high up on Beacon hill, and not far from 
 the State House. It was situated so as to give a good 
 outlook down a street, and the chambers looked over a 
 large extent of the cities and country around Boston. 
 He was ushered into the parlor. It was a very large one. 
 But in a moment more, a girl-servant opened a wide fold- 
 ing door, and showed the back parlor, sunshiny and 
 pleasant, and a lady sewing on some brilliant silks. She 
 was perhaps fifty years old, slightly gray hair in curls, 
 but with a clear fair complexion, red cheeks, and genuine 
 air of the most undoubted dignity and respectability. 
 
 Roy at once knew her to be a real lady. He said, " I 
 am Mr. Bartlett, I received a note from Mrs. Parna 
 Warren." 
 
 "Yes, sir. That is my name. Take a seat, sir. I sent 
 the note. A gentleman whom you do not know, and 
 who does not know you, having seen you but once, said
 
 100 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 he accidentally heard you say, that you wished to get a 
 room in a quiet family, like your own home." 
 
 " I do," said Roy. 
 
 "This gentleman was impressed with the candor of 
 your remarks, and with your looks, and told me of it. So 
 as he does not know you, to recommend you, if you will 
 answer my questions, perhaps I can be of service. What 
 is your name ? " 
 
 " Royal Bartlett." 
 
 " Where have you lived ? " 
 
 " At home in Strafford County in southern New Hamp- 
 shire, near Dover." 
 
 "How old?" 
 
 " Twenty-one." 
 
 " Well situated ? and did you leave at peace when you 
 came away?" 
 
 " I did ; in peace and love with the best father and 
 mother that ever a boy had. I am their only child. 
 They are good farmers and I was very pleasantly situated. 
 But I wanted to study art awhile, and see if it was best 
 to continue in it. It was hard leaving home, but I am 
 not far away and shall see them often." 
 
 "Are you a temperance man?" 
 
 "I think you will never object to my habits in that 
 respect ; undoubtedly alcohol has its uses as medicine, yet 
 a young man as healthy as I am never sick a day 
 has little need of medicine." 
 
 " How about tobacco ? " 
 
 " I never use it. I think a man is better, cleaner, 
 handsomer and sweeter, every way, without it than with 
 it. Of course many nice people use it, but they would 
 be nicer if they did not."
 
 BOY AT THE QUINCY HOUSE. 101 
 
 " Mr. Bartlett, I have two daughters. One is a teacher 
 in a public school, and the other teaches music. Would 
 breakfast and supper hours such as would be suitable to 
 them, be convenient to you ? " 
 
 "Just the thing." 
 
 " Now, Mr. Bartlett ; I and my daughters were all 
 born in Boston. My husband died when they were 
 young. We are comfortably situated, with an assured 
 income, that suffices for us. This house is mine. My 
 daughters need not work, but they prefer to earn some- 
 thing for themselves. If we are all pleased after trial, as 
 we have no man in the house, we should like to have you 
 with us for company. The price will be low, as we do 
 not need to do it for money alone." She named the 
 price. It was satisfactory. 
 
 " Now, one thing more. My girls like the society of 
 suitable men, as well as women. But they do not wish 
 gallantry, and they will not flirt." 
 
 Said Roy. " I am heartily glad of it. For I will not 
 flirt myself, neither will I give any woman cause to hate 
 me. I like ladies' society, when it is true and sensible." 
 
 " Now, Mr. Bartlett, let us see if the room will suit you." 
 
 It was in the fourth story, large, light, well-heated, and 
 with a splendid view. Nothing could be better. 
 
 " One thing more. My older daughter is Miss Emily 
 and my younger is Miss Sarah Warren. Perhaps you 
 had better call them Miss Emily and Miss Sarah, and to 
 them you will be Mr. Bartlett. You can come as soon 
 as you please." 
 
 Said Roy. " I think it will be this afternoon, and, Mrs. 
 Warren, please to speak of anything I can do to serve 
 you."
 
 102 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 Roy's call was a beauty. Although he bad much that 
 he liked at the homelike Quincy House, and was con- 
 stantly meeting New Hampshire people there, which 
 made it social for him, yet that afternoon saw him and 
 his trunks domiciled at the Warren homestead, on 
 Beacon hill. 
 
 Roy was well dressed, looking well, and feeling well. 
 At six o'clock the supper bell rang. Reader, you can call 
 it dinner if you like. This is a free country. I believe 
 Adam and Eve took dinner at noon, and Roy's ancestors 
 did ; furthermore, I do not believe there is a valid reason 
 for changing it now. He descended to the parlor and 
 was presented to the Misses Warren. They were fine 
 specimens of Boston girls. That is the superlative, for 
 this planet. Then Mrs. Warren led the way to the dining- 
 room, and took her place at the ladies' head of the table. 
 
 " Now," said she, " I have a problem. Here is a table, 
 and four persons to sit around it. Please tell me, Mr. 
 Bartlett, shall I let Miss Ernily sit opposite to me and 
 help us ? or would you like to ? " 
 
 Said Roy, " Mrs. Warren, put me right where you and 
 the ladies want me ; where I can do the most service." 
 
 " Do you mean it ? " 
 
 "Indeed, I do." 
 
 " Then, please, take the master's place, opposite me ; 
 and my daughters will sit each side." He did. 
 
 " Thank you, sir," said Miss Emily. 
 
 " I am heartily glad of it," said Miss Sarah. 
 
 That dinner er supper, I mean was a success. 
 Enough, and the best of everything. Roy fitted into his 
 new place at the man's head of the table, as if it was 
 always so. After supper a little time passed in getting
 
 KOY AT THE QUINCY HOUSE. 103 
 
 acquainted with the Warrens, in the parlors. Each was 
 glad to find that they all enjoyed pictures and books. 
 *Then came suggestions of reading certain authors, and 
 good times together, and Roy ascended to his sanctum. 
 
 A little later he stretched himself in his little bed, and 
 found ample length and width for five feet eleven, and 
 his mind ran over what he had accomplished, all in one 
 day. Then with heart and voice he answered, " Thank 
 God for it all." Then, in an instant, his thought 
 jumped seventy miles, to his home in New Hampshire, 
 and he added, "And God bless father, and God bless 
 mother, and God bless Sam, and all the horses, and cattle, 
 and pigs, and hens, and Canis Major, and Grimalkin, and 
 the pelican." "Why ! the whole thing had been done as 
 easy as rolling off a log. 
 
 And I might say of Roy, as the doctor was at last 
 obliged to, in Bayard Taylor's glorious novel, " The Story 
 of Kennet," when the doctor's daughter would not marry 
 Alf Barton, and would marry Gilbert Potter, " Thee was 
 led. Thee was led."
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 LIFE WITH SOME FLAVOR IN IT. 
 
 DURING the rebellion, when all the men were gone to 
 the war, in some families, life was stale, flat, and flavorless. 
 In one family, of a mother and three daughters, it was 
 very monotonous. One day the youngest girl was missed. 
 They hunted for her. Her mother found her in a sum- 
 mer house, in the garden, getting a little flavor out of a 
 stub of a cigar. 
 
 "Why! my daughter, what does this mean?" 
 
 "Oh, I am only trying to make it smell as though there 
 was a man somewhere round." 
 
 Before Roy came it must have been quiet at Mrs. War- 
 ren's. Three men living together are a menagerie. 
 There is a Spanish proverb, that a kiss without a mous- 
 tache, is like a spring chicken without salt. Women 
 only, living together, are a great loss of negative elec- 
 tricity, without the positive to make it enjoyable. 
 
 The quartette met at the breakfast table. Mrs. War- 
 ren was pleasant, motherly, and a queen of housekeepers. 
 The daughters were pleasant and helpful, while Roy 
 seemed to fit into the vacant chair like the benediction 
 after a long sermon. He helped quietly, quickly, and 
 easily. 
 
 After partaking of something, and time to pause and 
 consider had come, Roy said, " There are several ways of 
 doing things, especially eating, in a hurry, or at reason- 
 
 104
 
 LIFE WITH SOME FLAVOR IN IT. 105 
 
 able leisure ; in silence, or, after hunger ia appeased, now 
 and then some pleasant words. Which is the wisest 
 way?" 
 
 Said Mrs. Warren, "There is a proverb, 'Let your 
 victuals stop your mouth ; ' but I do not think it is a 
 good one. I like a good meal well attended to, and it is 
 often much improved by the pleasant things spoken of. 
 To eat and not to speak is prison-like and barbarous." 
 
 " I suppose," said Roy, " with the increase of printing, 
 the art of conversation has somewhat declined. But 
 perhaps not." 
 
 Miss Emily thought there was more discussion, on all 
 subjects, especially in Boston, than ever before. Even 
 women had taken the platform in great numbers. Miss 
 Sarah had seen it, had heard it, and had not been espe- 
 cially pleased with it. None of the ladies had. 
 
 Said Roy, " There is a lady lecturer who, on one occa- 
 sion, criticised the men severely. Some one asked her, 
 ' Do you hate a man ? ' ' That depends entirely upon the 
 man,' said she. It is one reason why I am here, that I 
 do not wish too much society of men. I get enough of 
 it in my business. It is another reason why I am here, 
 that you are willing to admit a suitable man here. But 
 it depends entirely upon the man. If a man goes to a 
 new home and gets all of light, comfort, and pleasure 
 that he can, and gives as little as he can for it to those he 
 is with, his selfishness and baseness will soon be apparent, 
 and spoil his welcome. On the other hand, if he is 
 helping, loving, and giving, and is willing to sacrifice a 
 little for others, he will be an acquisition. Therefore, if 
 you ladies need a brother's help, please call on me, and 
 see if I do not give it. I have always worked on the
 
 106 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 farm, I like it, and I am strong, and able to do it. 
 I may have to ask, as a privilege, some real work to do. 
 If a piece of furniture needs moving, or a nail to be 
 driven, a picture hung, or any trouble comes, by day or 
 night, when you need a man's help, you are welcome to 
 call on me. If your help all leave you, and you all get 
 sick at once, then, perhaps, I can show you whether my 
 mother taught me to keep house or not. I have 
 studied medicine and surgery enough to be of good use 
 to myself and others. A New Hampshire Yankee wants 
 to learn all he can of useful things, for he never can tell 
 what he will have to do before he dies." 
 
 The ladies laughed at the quaint wisdom, and said that 
 such habits ought to bring success through life. 
 
 " Mr. Bartlett," said Miss Emily, " we usually stay at 
 home on Thursday evening, as much as we can, and often 
 plan to have company. It is this evening. Our parlors 
 are very large ; indeed, they are one great drawing-room. 
 To-night, perhaps, three or four of the teachers in the 
 school with me may come in. No set entertainment at 
 all, but social chat and, perhaps, some literary talk or 
 select reading. Will you join us ?" 
 
 The invitation was accepted at once, and Roy was well 
 read enough to like it thoroughly. When the young man 
 took hold of his painting that day it seemed to go as if 
 it had a special impetus, and there began to be a little 
 satisfaction in the improved quality of his pictures. It 
 was a favorite quotation of Mr. Titcombe's, "Art is long, 
 nnd time is fleeting," and he believed that to be a good 
 artist is a life work. Roy found it true: to be a o- O od 
 
 O 
 
 judge of sculpture, statuary, oil paintings of all kinds, 
 engravings of all kinds, and books of enough kinds,
 
 LIFE WITH SOME FLAVOR IN IT. 107 
 
 requires a vast amount of reading and conversation with 
 others who knew more than he did. So each day was 
 full of pictures to study, books to consult or read, or work 
 to do. The evening brought company. Mr. Stacy, who 
 is a teacher, and his wife, who had been a teacher, and 
 three lady teachers, five in all ; these, with the quartette, 
 counted nine in the parlor. Mrs. Warren was with her 
 daughters in their enjoyments, and she was well educated, 
 and the best of company. Roy was presented to the new 
 comers, and, after listening awhile, he gradually joined in 
 the conversation. 
 
 They spoke of Robert Burns, read selections from him, 
 " Auld Lang Syne " and " Highland Mary." 
 
 Roy asked, " If Burns was living now, could he achieve 
 the fame that he won in his time?" 
 
 Some' thought yes, some thought doubtful. 
 
 Said Mr. Stacy, "Mr. Bartlett, please tell us what you 
 like best in Burns, which are his best poems, what you 
 like or dislike in the man, and what you think in general 
 about him." It was a nice way Mr. Stacy had of drawing 
 people out. Mr. Stacy was a fine talker, a good listener, 
 and a very agreeable, profitable companion. Some 
 teachers get these qualities. They still teach, uncon- 
 sciously, and do it most charmingly. 
 
 Roy answered, "What you ask in a sentence could 
 hardly be answered in a sermon. Robert Burns was a 
 wonderful man. Where was it ever done before, that a 
 ploughman could take the crabbed provincial dialect of 
 his own country and compel the world to sing and think 
 in it, as Burns did in 'Auld Lang Syne?' And to write 
 and spell it too. It is the anomaly of the world. But 
 it is the love and humanity, the honest heart that he
 
 108 THE WILD AETIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 mingled with the singing 'lilt' of his songs. No finer, 
 truer, nobler words were ever written than ' Highland 
 Mary.' I have heard Professor Blish recite * A Man's a 
 Man for a' that' most tellingly. Fcrgusson's Epitaph is 
 a tribute indeed. I arn sorry for Burns' 3 faults, for 
 his drunkenness and his animal coarseness. I am sorry 
 that, among all the songs of this life, that more of them 
 did not contain some promise of the life to come. I 
 know that he wrote 'To Mary in Heaven.' But there is 
 one of his poems that should have had another stanza; it is 
 'John Anderson, My Jo.' Miss Emily, if you will read 
 it, I will add a stanza of my own." She did so, and Roy 
 added, 
 
 " An' when we've slept together, John, 
 
 The sleep that all maun sleep, 
 And waked in that bright world, John, 
 
 Where all maun cease to weep ; 
 There, in that better world, John, 
 
 No sorrow may we know, 
 Or fear we e'er shall part again, 
 
 John Anderson, my Jo." 
 
 The listeners asked for a copy, which Roy repeated to 
 them as they wrote it. 
 
 Mrs. Warren asked : " Mr. Bartlett, have you been in 
 Boston much before? " 
 
 " Not very much ; only short visits." 
 
 " Now, please tell us what has made the most impres- 
 sion on you since you came to live here? What has 
 recurred to you oftenest, and made the most impression." 
 
 He answered: "One thing is apparent, the immense 
 interest that Boston takes in art, music, and amusements. 
 But that is not answering your questions. To do so I
 
 LIFE WITH SOME FLAVOR IN IT. 109 
 
 must tell you a story. A few days ago, just at dark, as it 
 began to show the lights plainly, I was in a West End 
 car, on Charles Street, going from Cambridge to Boyl- 
 ston Streets. A lady and little girl got in. The lady 
 was tall, handsome, and very well dressed ; everything in 
 the most perfect taste, as if she had the best common 
 sense, and also ample means. The little girl was dressed 
 with more ornament, and was evidently the only child. 
 And a most beautiful one she was. They sat in the rear 
 end of the car, opposite to me. Next to them was a 
 dear, motherly looking old lady. Next, a tall woman, in 
 deep mourning. Then a well-dressed man, with gold 
 jewelry, heavy and solid. He looked like an Englishman, 
 one used to command ; an old pirate, dogmatic, and per- 
 haps insufferable. Six of us in all. As soon as the 
 mother and child were seated, the child began to have a 
 frolic, which brought the sunniest smiles to the mother's 
 face. The child would laugh, catch its mother's hand, 
 and kiss it ; then insist upon the other hand, and kiss 
 that ; then take the mother easily by her nose and one 
 ear, holding her off at arm's length to look at her; then, 
 clasping her arms around the happy mother's neck, would 
 kiss her lips, her nose, her forehead, her ear, in a perfect 
 gale of childish love, laughter, and frolic. Every passen- 
 ger smiled in joy and sympathy. It continued until the 
 mother arose to leave the car at Boylston Street. There, 
 as the child was in her mother's arms, she turned to us 
 all, and, looking like the radiant angel that she was, she 
 spread her little arms, and said, in the sweetest voice, 
 'By! by!' The motherly looking woman said, 'God 
 bless you, dear ! ' The woman in mourning burst out 
 sobbing. The old pirate, in the corner, said, ' God bless
 
 110 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 her dear little heart. Of such is the kingdom of heaven,' 
 and my own heart smote me in the ribs, and tried to 
 choke me ; while my eyes clouded up for rain, until 
 everything looked misty. I have told the story exactly 
 as it was, time, place, characters, everything. It needed 
 no embellishment. If any one mentioned in it ever sees 
 it, I wish to give kindest, dearest regards to the motherly 
 old lady, my tender sympathy to the woman in mourning, 
 who had lost her loved one. I give my acknowledgments 
 to the old pirate in the corner, for I believe he was a 
 mellow-hearted old Christian. I hereby say, that the 
 thing that impressed me most, and recurred to me often- 
 est, is the blessing that God gave to that happy mother, 
 that holy love-feast, and the parting benediction of that 
 sweet little child." 
 
 Mrs. Warren silently gave her heartiest approval to the 
 story, and wiped it away with her handkerchief.
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 IT IS GOOD TO HAVE A MAN IN THE HOUSE. 
 
 ONE evening, after the company were gone, Roy took a 
 trip to the land of Nod, and it lasted until the time when, 
 if he had been at home, Canis Major would have come 
 pitching upstairs to greet him. It was near six o'clock. 
 As soon as he opened his chamber door a succession of 
 shrieks came from the room beneath his, which was occu- 
 pied by Miss Sarah Warren. They continued, dreadful 
 shrieks. The door was locked. It was the work of but 
 a moment, to throw his whole weight against it, and, 
 after a hard trial, to burst it in. Miss Sarah was hanging 
 by her hand to a high hook in her closet. She had 
 arisen, and, in her long night-dress, had attempted by 
 standing on a chair, to take down a dress from her ward- 
 robe. It was hitched. In trying to get it loose, a pointed 
 hook had gone inside of a loose gold ring, the chair had 
 tipped over and left her hanging by one finger. It was 
 awful torture. Roy seized her and lifted her up, but 
 could not get it free. Then .he held her up, and by 
 reaching up, although it cut and bruised his own fingers, 
 he tore the hook out of the wall, and lay Miss Sarah on 
 the bed in a dead faint. Then with much care, but strong 
 force, he took the treacherous hook out of her ring, and 
 went with flying leaps down the stairs for help. " Come 
 upstairs. Come quick. Sarah is hurt. Bring camphor 
 or ammonia." 
 
 Ill
 
 112 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 They came, and after chafing her hands and feet and 
 applying restoratives, she became conscious of her suffer- 
 ing. 
 
 " Now," said Roy, " I will go to my room and get a 
 small pair of cutting nippers that I have, and I will cut 
 off the ring, for her finger is too badly injured to take it 
 off any other way. Please get a dish of warmish water 
 and bandages, that. I may close the wound and care for it 
 until a doctor can be called." 
 
 The ring was cut off, the finger examined, and the bone 
 found not broken, although the flesh was badly torn and 
 bleeding, and the hand strained and bruised. Roy placed 
 the injured part in the right position, softened and re- 
 stored the bruises as well as he could, and then he did up 
 the finger and hand with a wet compress. When Roy 
 had given all needed help he went below, leaving Mrs. 
 Warren and Emily to complete her toilet. In a little 
 while they all came down to breakfast. Miss Sarah, 
 although she had a severe strain and a bad wound, was 
 still a young lady of fine courage. Oh, don't sniff at that, 
 reader. A woman will always have a tooth extracted 
 with better grit than a man, and any dentist will tell you 
 so. But if you had seen the thankfulness of Miss Sarah, 
 especially, and also of her mother and sister, you would 
 have thought that Roy had made a good beginning with 
 one of Boston's splendid daughters. Miss Sarah drank 
 her cup of coffee, and lay at ease, as much as the pain 
 would allow her to, upon the sofa, until the doctor came. 
 He uncovered the wound. "Who did up this wound?" 
 he asked. 
 
 " Mr. Bartlett, a gentleman who is here with us." 
 
 " This is all right. I don't see what you want of a
 
 IT IS GOOD TO HAVE A MAN IN THE HOUSE. 113 
 
 doctor while he is here." He gave directions. He 
 thought Miss Sarah would let her piano have a vacation 
 for a few weeks. She did. The doctor called once more, 
 and Mrs. Warren said, if any change came for the worse, 
 she would send for him. But morning and night, Mrs. 
 Warren said to Roy, "Now, doctor, will you examine the 
 wound of your patient." Roy did. He dressed it, soft- 
 ening and healing it with castile soap and easy rubbing, 
 and twice a day, half jokingly, consenting to be called 
 doctor, while he was doing a doctor's work. If Mr. Guy 
 Bartlett could have been invisible, and have seen how 
 much good Roy could do with his amateur studying of 
 medicine and surgery, he would have been pleased, and 
 he might have thought he was seeing the dawn of love. 
 If he had known what a woman Sarah Warren was, he 
 would have said, " I will risk my boy, if Mrs. Warren will 
 risk her girl." And he would have been safe. 
 
 These young people were splendid, perfect animals. And 
 more than that, the intellectual was equally fine. They 
 were well-read, had seen plays, and I shall not pretend that 
 they did not know the history of the Grand Old Passion. 
 And Roy did a dangerous thing. But he did it safely. 
 One kiss which might have been granted, one show of 
 devotion, one earnest expression of desire for full and 
 lifelong ownership, might have brought a splendid result. 
 But he kept within the limits of help only, and ceased 
 that when it was no longer needed. And so it came to 
 pass, that these young people lost neither their heads or 
 their hearts. I like a man that can hold his horses. The 
 business part of his obligation was paid promptly and 
 fully. After Miss Sarah had recovered and was able to 
 play again, it was a joy to hear her. Her piano was one
 
 114 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 of the best Henry F. Miller pianos, and was cared for by 
 Mr. Miller, from the warerooms. Consequently, it was 
 always at its best, and Miss Sarah's playing was a surprise 
 and a revelation to Roy. A little later, he found a pack- 
 age in his room, upon his dressing-case, addressed on the 
 wrapper only, "Dr. Royal Bartlett," on opening it he 
 found two large volumes, richly bound in full Turkey 
 morocco. They were "Rogers' Poems" and "Rogers' 
 Italy," in the richest style, and with Turner's illustrations. 
 Henry Ward Beecher once said, " I received a letter this 
 morning, written as elegantly as if it came from Boston." 
 On the inside leaf of each book was also written, and 
 quite as elegantly, " Mr. Royal Bartlett, a present from 
 Mrs. Parna Warren, Miss Emily Warren, Miss Sarah 
 Warren." It was a rich, tasteful, artistic, valuable, mag- 
 nificent present. Roy went downstairs to interview the 
 ladies. 
 
 He said, " Mrs. Warren, of course I am very grateful 
 for your magnificent present. It is just my taste, with 
 all those exquisite illustrations. But you give me too 
 expensive a present, by far. Those books cost no small 
 sum of money." 
 
 " Can you keep a secret ? " asked Mrs. Warren. 
 
 "lean." 
 
 " Then I will give you one, and mind you keep it. I 
 am glad to give you these books, and you need not worry 
 about what they cost, for I have not spent half of my in- 
 come any year, for these last ten years. Now are you 
 satisfied ? " 
 
 " I am," said Roy, " but I earnestly hope you will keep 
 it in safe places, fly no kites with it, and not put too 
 much of it in one place, like the farmer that put too
 
 IT IS GOOD TO HAVE A MAN IN THE HOUSE. 115 
 
 many eggs in one basket. In general, I hope you will 
 keep it, so it will be a blessing to you all, as long as you 
 live. Your secret pleases me." 
 
 All this time, which was not long, Roy had not been 
 unmindful of his home. He wrote satisfactory letters to 
 his home, but thought he would stay away until Thanks- 
 giving day. He had a kind invitation to go to church 
 with Mrs. Warren and her daughters. " What church 
 do you attend?" "Oh, we go to the West church and 
 hear dear old Dr. Bartol." It is a sign of a good church 
 and a good minister, where they talk so kindly as many 
 Boston families do about Rev. Dr. Bartol. I meet it 
 constantly. Roy said he would be glad to go soon, but 
 had promised his mother that he would go to Park 
 Street church, with friends who had already appropriated 
 him for two Sundays. And so Roy went to church and 
 heard Dr. Withrow, Dr. Bartol, Phillips Brooks, the 
 Tremont Temple pastor, and others. He did his level 
 best to paint better, in purer color, that would not fade 
 or turn green or black. He took his opera glass, which 
 was a good magnifier, to places where many oil paintings 
 were to be seen, and studied them from an easy seat in 
 the middle of the room. A very comfortable, enjoyable 
 way, that does not tire you to death. He used the public 
 library, and it helped him. He went to Harvard College 
 library and saw such books as the elephant folio, illus- 
 trated "Piranisi" that shows Roman antiquities, the 
 illustrated " Lepsius " on the Nile valley, the illustrated 
 " Dante," and magnificent folios where only a few copies 
 were printed, some by the first Napoleon, some by the 
 second Napoleon, called Napoleon III., and by the rich 
 and titled men of the world. Such books can only be
 
 116 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 seen in the great libraries of the world. He attended 
 strictly to his art education. He did not adopt a 
 theory, set up for a critic, pick up an ism, mount a 
 hobby, become a reformer, or a man with a mission. So 
 he was not remarkable in any way. And for this cause 
 he was a very remarkable man. I am afraid this state- 
 ment is a little mixed, but I do not see how I can im- 
 prove it.
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 EOY GOES HOME TO THANKSGIVING. 
 
 SOME years ago a governor of Mississippi wrote his 
 proclamation like this, " It is a custom to appoint a day 
 of thanksgiving. All things must have an author, and 
 it is usual to call that author God. Some think it is wise 
 to give thanks to him for the blessings we receive, and 
 ask for a continuance of them. Such a practice can do 
 no harm, and may do much good. I therefore appoint a 
 day of thanksgiving." Such things do not grow in Mass- 
 achusetts or New Hampshire. 
 
 All of the tribe of Bartlett that I ever met had got be- 
 yond their alphabet in revelation. When the train rolled 
 into the station at Dover, N. H., on Wednesday evening, 
 before the Thanksgiving that comes on Thursday, Roy 
 Bartlett was there, and was not long in getting a hearty 
 grip from Sam Ellet. If they had been brothers they 
 could not have been better friends. Old Tom was not 
 long in taking them home. 
 
 " The prodigal son has come home," said Sam. 
 
 " How is the wild artist ? " said his father, laughing, as 
 he shook him by the hand. 
 
 " The wild artist is all right, and glad to get home to 
 his father and mother." 
 
 Mother Bartlett greeted him with a smiling face, which 
 in a moment overflowed with grateful tears. It was a 
 happy home coming. Canis Major was wild with joy. 
 
 117
 
 118 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 Nothing would content him until Roy sat down and took 
 his big brown and white head and shoulders in his lap, 
 and let the dog kiss him to his heart's content. Grimal- 
 kin came purring around, and was soon in Roy's lap, and 
 while Roy laughed to see it all, the pelican tuned up and 
 sang its very best. Roy's welcome was complete. Then 
 the supper. Chicken pie and sweet-apple pudding, baked 
 in the brick oven, with warm biscuit from wheat grown 
 on the farm. 
 
 I once heard a city missionary ask a sailor what he 
 believed in. "I believe in good eating and drinking," 
 was the answer. It is the prevailing faith of the world ; 
 but in practice, only a few people ever know what good 
 living is. I have eaten the food as prepared by many 
 nationalities, and been in high or low places, but never 
 had better food than I have had in the Bartlett Home- 
 stead. Roy and Sam Ellet thought so to-night. The 
 thanks were given and every heart was uplifted. The 
 supper was enjoyed, and then and after, Roy was told 
 of all they could think of, that was news to him, from 
 Garrison Hill to Durham, and from Sawyer's mills to 
 Rochester. 
 
 Roy asked, "How is Will Glance doing?" 
 
 "Working some, but it is evident that he does not like 
 it, and I believe he is a dangerous man." said Mr. Bartlett. 
 
 " I have no confidence in him," said Sam. 
 
 "How is Jean Me Duffle doing?" 
 
 "Well as a man can. His father tells me he is making 
 some money by hauling lumber, and as he has his father's 
 team and all he can make, of course he can do well." 
 
 Roy was glad of it. 
 
 "Now, father, I expect to be here at home until next
 
 ROY GOES HOME TO THANKSGIVING. 119 
 
 Monday morning. This will give me Thanksgiving, two 
 others, and Sunday to go to church with you. You know 
 that children like stories, so Sam and I want one. Tell 
 us a New Hampshire Thanksgiving story. " 
 
 " Yes, sir," said Sam. 
 
 " Tell them about Frank Garland," said Mrs. Bartlett. 
 "That is a good story, and it comes straight enough to 
 be true. It is a good picture of the old times and the 
 old families." 
 
 Mr. Bartlett thought a moment, and then began 
 
 A Thanksgiving Story of the Olden Time. 
 
 MOST people like a real story. So do I, and what I 
 tell you, I know to be true myself, or have heard it from 
 good people. It can do no harm, for the family are all 
 gone, years ago. If you were in Dover and take the Tol- 
 lend road, up by Peter Cushing's, and the Heath House, 
 and through the birches where the huckleberries grow, 
 then instead of going to the right by Ezra Hayes's around 
 Green Hill, you keep to the left, on the old road that 
 goes over Green Hill, passing Jonathan Young's and the 
 George Wiggin farm, then half a mile beyond that, on 
 the right, you come to an old cellar hole, that was the 
 Garland Farm. A few rods beyond the cellar, just as you 
 begin to descend the hill, over the wall on the right, is 
 the family burial-ground. The house was a large one, 
 two stories high, with as many as twelve or fifteen rooms 
 in it. The fireplaces were large, and I think there were 
 as many as six in the house. The one in the kitchen was 
 nearly large enough to burn wood of sled length. The 
 house was well built, well clapboarded, but never painted. 
 The barn was a very long one, and I have seen it well
 
 120 THE WILD AKTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 filled with hay and cattle and large stacks of hay beside. 
 It was six and a half miles from Dover, which is a good 
 market. They raised a great deal of corn, hay, potatoes, 
 an immense quantity of apples, cider, and hogs, and no 
 end of produce. I have seen large flocks of geese, ducks, 
 guinea hens, calling go back, go back, turkeys, hens, and 
 chickens, and several peacocks. There always was a 
 cloud of doves around the buildings, and often I have 
 seen them feed the poultry. It was a sight to behold. A 
 large basket of shelled corn, and when they were called, 
 oh, what a scamper. The doves were not content to 
 catch the corn, that was scattered far and wide, but they 
 flew at once upon the basket and the man that held it, 
 and he was covered with doves. There were several 
 hundreds in that Babel of poultry. He soon scattered the 
 grain and fed the multitude. The farm had wild straw- 
 berries, raspberries, blackberries, and blueberries ; beside, 
 in the garden, currants, gooseberries, English cherries, and 
 plums in abundance. Then a plenty of grapes, and, last 
 but not least, the old button pear tree, more than two 
 feet through, very large and high, and altogether the 
 largest pear tree that I ever saw. One neighbor said he 
 had eaten its fruit for over seventy years, and he could 
 not remember, the time when it looked much younger 
 than it did then. It bore alternate years, and although 
 it would be hard to find pears over an inch in diameter, 
 yet they were very sweet, and I think its crop would be a 
 large cartful. The ground was well fertilized, so it grew 
 large and lived long. At last it grew hollow. Then the 
 ants moved into it and alas! it blew down. A better 
 servant, farmer never had. The children could not eat 
 much in pear time, they were so full of button pears.
 
 ROY GOES HOME TO THANKSGIVING. 121 
 
 Oh, you need not pity our ancestors much, after the Ind- 
 ians kept quiet, for I can hardly remember to tell of all 
 the good things they had. The Garland farm had horses, 
 three or four yoke of oxen, cows, and young cattle, and 
 plenty of sheep and lambs. The spinning wheel was often 
 whirring, and the linen wheel as well, and in the big, un- 
 finished garret were reels, swifts, warping bars, and a big 
 loom to make woollen cloth. Mr. Garland had about four 
 boys and two girls. As this is a Thanksgiving story, I 
 \vill say that they had all had an abundant supply of 
 Thanksgiving comforts. Those were stern times. Spare 
 the rod and spoil the child, was often heard, and children 
 had to suffer. Said Mr. Garland to the youngest boy, a 
 little past fourteen years old, Now, Frank, Thanksgiving 
 day is gone and it is almost bedtime. It is time to rake 
 Tip the fire, to keep all night. Go out and get a back-log 
 that will keep. It was nearly nine o'clock. The back-log 
 ought to have been in before dark, and it ought not to 
 have been left for the youngest to get. It is not best to 
 be too hard on the baby. It was bad management. Too 
 bad. Frank went to the door without his hat. It was 
 dark and cold, with some snow on tha ground. He tum- 
 bled around on the woodpile, but the big logs were frozen 
 down, and he could only get loose a little one, as big as 
 his leg. This he picked up and carried in. The old 
 man looked at it. He was mad. He jumped up, took 
 down a horsewhip which hung in a corner and hit Frank 
 a dozen cuts with it. Frank bit his lips and took it. 
 When the old man was done, Frank put on his coat and 
 mittens and heard his father's order. Now get a back-log, 
 not a toothpick. Frank went out. He stayed out just 
 seven years, until he was his own man and twenty-one
 
 122 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 years old. Then after dark on Thanksgiving evening he 
 came and looked in at the window of the Garland home. 
 The old man was there and the mother and most of the 
 children. Frank was a strapping big fellow, with strength 
 in his back and money in his pocket. He went to the 
 woodpile. He took the biggest log he could find, carried 
 it in and laid it down before his father, saying, Here, father, 
 here's your back-log. So it is, said the old ma'n. But I 
 have almost a mind to lick you again, for being gone so 
 long after it. You are not big enough, said Frank. No, 
 said his father, perhaps not. At any rate I do not wish 
 to try, for I have done it once too much already. Frank's 
 mother and sisters wept over him, his brothers greeted 
 him with welcome. His father showed that he was a 
 sinner, and as Frank had made money and saved a hand- 
 some sum, so the righteous son forgave the prodigal 
 father, and they lived happy ever after. The back-log 
 lasted several days. 
 
 The next morning Canis Major came upstairs in 
 double-quick time, and there was Roy, sure enough. 
 The hearty, loving dog almost turned himself wrong 
 side out with joy. Then the cattle had to be interviewed 
 and talked to and petted, the sheep fed, and all the stock 
 seen and spoken kindly to, even to the hogs, hens, tur- 
 keys, geese, and ducks. When all had been cared for, 
 and the breakfast enjoyed, they all sat in the large sitting- 
 room, with Canis Major keeping close watch of Roy to 
 see that he did not disappear again. Then thei'e was a 
 good time for Roy to tell of all that he had been doing 
 in Boston. He told them how Miss Sarah had got hung 
 up in her closet, how he had helped her down, how he 
 had played doctor, and also of his rich present.
 
 EOT GOES HOME TO THANKSGIVING. 123 
 
 " Ah ! " said Sam, " I guess it is coming." 
 
 " What ? " asked Roy. 
 
 "Some splendid woman to occupy those stockings." 
 
 Roy said, " He had not found her as yet, and had seen 
 no signs of her except the stockings." 
 
 Then Jean McDuffie rode into the yard. Roy and Sam 
 walked out with Jean. 
 
 " I wanted to see you," said Jean. " You wished to 
 hear of any good that might come to me. I have been 
 teaming this fall, and have laid up money. I have about 
 three hundred dollars in the Dover Savings Bank. I 
 have met a woman who is awful good to me, and I am 
 to her. Don't you speak of it, because I do not care to 
 have the world know my business before I know it my- 
 self. You know I can sing some. She is a fine singer 
 too, and we shall be married as soon as we can fix things 
 to our minds. Father wants me to bring her home to 
 live. She has saved considerably more than I have. So, 
 instead of being dead and buried, I am alive, happy, and 
 very thankful." 
 
 The young men congratulated him, and they were all 
 in a mood to appreciate the day. So the golden hours 
 passed on, with kind words from friends, a sermon in the 
 brick church with the golden rooster on it, and all of the 
 blessing of home and friends, and on Monday morning 
 Roy's visit was ended. Canis Major looked discouraged 
 enough. He watched Roy and Sam out of sight, and 
 was not comforted when Sam returned without Roy.
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 ROY AGAIN OCCUPIES BOSTON. 
 
 THE Warrens were glad to have their young man with 
 them again. And why should they not ? He was not a 
 reformer, ready to attack every one whose opinions dif- 
 fered a shade from his. He was not a growler at all. 
 He was not as full of dislikes as a herring is of bones. 
 His young life tasted good to him, and it was his, as it 
 may be almost every one's privilege, to make it so. Some 
 people can never see a brilliant butterfly without spoiling 
 to clutch it. And when they do, what have they? A ruined 
 butterfly and a dirty hand. He fitted into his place, in 
 the home life of the Warrens, better than if he had been 
 born into it, on the same principle that the average young 
 sprig is so devoted to another man's sister, and so care- 
 less of his own. But Koy would have been devoted to 
 his own. 
 
 The breakfasts were very pleasant, the suppers were a 
 reunion, and a joy to the corporeal, social, and intellectual 
 man. Mrs. Warren enjoyed life well. Miss Emily often 
 met, in her associations as teacher, many enjoyable 
 things; Miss Sarah was an enchantress with her piano. 
 The Thursday evening coterie often came together, and 
 then there was something entertaining. 
 
 Sam came to Boston for a week. Then Roy was kept 
 busy. Sometimes one or both of the young ladies went 
 
 124
 
 BOY AGAIN OCCUPIES BOSTON. 125 
 
 out with Sam. They rather liked the rosy young man 
 with the quiet manners. In one way or another, they 
 managed to keep him busy. They w r ent to church, to 
 the public library, to the Art Club, to the studios, to see 
 Edwin Booth, and to see Denman Thompson, in the Xew 
 Hampshire play. When the week was over, Sam was 
 thankful and satisfied. He was glad to go home and go 
 to work. There is some sense in such a visit. Have 
 your enjoyment, make it taste good, always be glad of it, 
 and stop when you get enough. 
 
 Then Roy bent all his energies to painting better pict- 
 ures. His expenses were light, and he sold enough to 
 pay his way, and more. One day he went into Leonard's 
 auction room. There were several pictures to be sold, 
 although it was not a regular picture sale. There were 
 four oil paintings sold together. They went for a small 
 sum, I think about a dollar apiece. When the buyer came 
 to examine them and get the dust off, they were found to 
 be signed pictures by an eminent French artist. A little 
 later the set was sold for six hundred dollars. Then 
 Roy began to look sharp at pictures, both for name and 
 quality. He looked at them in earnest. A little later, in 
 taking a walk, he saw a large German battle scene. It 
 was full of figures, and well done. They asked five dol- 
 lars for it. The frame was a good one, and that alone was 
 worth more. He bought it. Within a week he was offered 
 fifty for it, and sold it. A dealer bought it, and he sold 
 it for a large advance. I state a fact. But such things 
 do not often happen. But it does often happen that a 
 man who is wide awake, and knows the uses and values 
 of many things, can find a rich reward for his study. 
 Once Baron Humboldt was travelling in Siberia. He saw
 
 126 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 what was visible to his eyes alone. He called his attend- 
 ants. Said he, "There, in that mountain side, ought to 
 be found a most valuable plumbago mine. I see the 
 si'i-ns of it." They worked it, and found it. It is the 
 best plumbago mine in all the world, so far as I know, 
 the Alibert mine,-that gives the richest supply for Faber's 
 pencils. It is a mine of wealth for Russia. 
 
 But Roy worked the hardest to find some value in his 
 own pictures. He gained upon it. What we have to 
 learn in this world is an appalling work. To begin, all 
 jammed up to a jelly, with only the breath of life in you, 
 among entire strangers, that never saw you before, only 
 about a foot long, and, small as you are, to be considered 
 the biggest joke of the season, when you don't know the 
 taste of your own mother's milk, if she has any, from 
 castor oil ; with no sense or much feeling, and only the 
 least bit of a will of your own, which you inherit from 
 your mother, form a combination of circumstances 
 enough to take the gimp out of Mark Tapley. Roy 
 never thought of that, but he quietly kept on his work, 
 occupying a corner of Mr. Titcombe's studio. 
 
 The next June he exchanged Boston for the Bartlett 
 farm, until after haying. Mr. Titcombe took a sketching 
 tour of a week in Strafford County, with Roy. I have 
 some of the sketches that Mr. Titcombe made. Roy 
 painted pictures for his home. In that and later seasons 
 he sketched with Benjamin Champney at North Conway. 
 Roy loved the mountains as well as his father and 
 mother. Some of his excursions with them : They 
 went to Portsmouth, the Isles of Shoals, York Beach, Old 
 Orchard Beach, Mount Agamenticus, Garrison Hill, 
 Grand Monadnock, White Mountains, and other places,
 
 ROY AGAIN OCCUPIES BOSTON. 127 
 
 where, alone or with some good fellow of an artist, he 
 made careful sketches in oil, water, or pencil. 
 
 He lived with the Warrens except the third winter, 
 when they were in Europe. His pictures sold better, 
 and he laid up money. He painted some the second win- 
 ter with Mr. Champney. He joined the Art Club. He 
 sold a picture to Mr. S. R. Knights, real estate auctioneer, 
 and made a friend of him. 
 
 Not long after Mr. Knights called on him again. Said 
 he, " Mr. Bartlett, I have a brick house to sell to-morrow. 
 It is well mortgaged for half its value. The people wish 
 the mortgage to remain, as they do not need the money. 
 Now, Mr. Bartlett, there may be a chance for you to make 
 something. If it sells for less than a thousand dollars 
 over the mortgage, I wish you to buy it. If it brings 
 more let it go. If it comes to you, you cannot fail to 
 make from one to five thousand dollars on it. Do you 
 wish to try ? It is near Essex street and business is work- 
 ing that way. It is well let and the man wants a lease. 
 I will warrant you to make a good advance." 
 
 Roy went with Mr. Knights and saw the estate. The 
 next day, he bid a hundi'ed dollars over the mortgage, 
 and, although the auctioneer dwelt long for a better price, 
 Roy was the purchaser. He had money enough by him, 
 to pay. Within a week he was offered a thousand dollars 
 for his bargain. Then they asked him what he would 
 take. He did not say. He had several applications to 
 rent it. The firm who occupied it, wanted it at a thou- 
 sand dollars a year, if he would add two more stories with 
 front battlement walls and a flat roof. He told them 
 they could have it, rent free, for one year, by paying 
 taxes only, if they would add the two stories satisfacto-
 
 128 THE WILD AKTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 rily. They took it quickly and did well by it. At the 
 end of the year, Roy thought he owned six thousand 
 dollars in the estate. He told his father and mother 
 about it, and the Warrens also, but otherwise he kept his 
 own counsel. One day when it was quite rainy, Roy was 
 in the Athenanim. There was one gentleman there, look- 
 ing over the pictures. So Roy took a chair to have a 
 good look at Allston's " Belshazzar's Feast." He took 
 plenty of time and studied it. 
 
 Said the gentlenian, "What do you think of it?" 
 Roy looked up and saw a pleasant, middle-aged man. 
 Roy told him. They talked. Roy listened. They ana- 
 lyzed the pictures together. It was a pleasure to listen 
 to that man. He knew something. After half an hour 
 together, they paused before a small Fra Angelico. Roy 
 praised it. " Yes, it is good, but I have three better ones 
 by the same artist." Roy opened his eyes in astonish- 
 ment. 
 
 " Can I see them ? " asked Roy. 
 
 " Certainly, with pleasure." 
 
 " Where are they ? " 
 
 "On Beacon street, nearly opposite the Athenaeum." 
 
 "What is your name, please ?" 
 
 " Gardner Brewer." 
 
 He did see Mr. Brewer's pictures and had a standing 
 invitation to see them again, when he pleased. He made 
 a splendid friend. This is written exactly as it occurred. 
 It was a joy to see those splendid Fra Angelicos, Verboeck- 
 hovens and all Mr. Brewer's beautiful pictures. There 
 were also many models of the finest of the ruins of Greece 
 and Rome. In the Brewer fountain, on the common, 
 Boston will long cherish the name of Gardner Brewer.
 
 HOY AGAIN OCCUPIES BOSTON. 129 
 
 Roy thought to himself, what a splendid thing it is to be 
 rich, to own works of art, to keep them in order, that 
 people may see and enjoy them. What a blessing wealth 
 is, for rich and poor alike. 
 
 But Roy soon met a different kind of a customer. He 
 was walking out one day, and was attracted by a large 
 number of unset stones, in a broker's window. It was a 
 small place, but it contained several things of interest. 
 Second-hand pictures, books, watches and jewelry. The 
 proprietor Roy had seen before. There was a man about 
 forty-five years of age, with thin gray hair, and the gen- 
 eral nir of a reformer, an animal too often met with. 
 Although the proprietor replied not much, yet the man 
 ventilated his opinions very freely. 
 
 lie said, " Yes, sir. I assert that no man has a right 
 to amass property. Property is robbery. All you get 
 more than your equal share you rob from some one else. 
 The time is coming, and soon too, when the poor will 
 help themselves to all they want. Yes, sir, and yer cap- 
 italists' heads will fly like shelling peas." (Fact, word 
 for word.) And turning to Roy he demanded, " What do 
 you think of that, sir?" 
 
 Roy was not going to speak to or notice the anarchist. 
 But lie was appealed to, and it made him angry. His 
 eyes snapped, his color rose, he clenched his fists and an- 
 swered, " Think ? Why, I think you are the biggest 
 fool I ever saw in my life. You are crazy as Bedlam. 
 Wealth is the poor man's blessing, more than the rich 
 man's. If the wealth of the world was divided equally, 
 some reckon that each would have a poor hut and a hun- 
 dred dollars. There would be nothing bigger than a hut. 
 Boston would be a collection of mud huts. There would
 
 180 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 be no ships at sea, no railroads or any decent roads, no 
 decent houses ; no literature, for it takes capital to pub- 
 lish a book ; no art, for we should have to dig for subsist- 
 ence. Not a telegraph, or an electric or gas light. No 
 kerosene even, for it takes mighty capital to take it all 
 over the world and so wonderfully cheap. We should 
 all be a poor, helpless, hopeless, aimless, starving mass. 
 Oh, you gray-headed old fool, you know nothing at all. 
 Capital is the grain that Joseph saved in Egypt against 
 seven years of famine. Capital is your servant and help, 
 and mine and every one's. The clothes you have on, far 
 too good for you, would be out of your reach, for capital 
 makes them cheap. The watch you carry would never 
 be, but for capital. The flour from the West, the food 
 gathered from far and wide, the tea from China, the cof- 
 fee from Java, would be impossible but for capital. Why ! 
 we should not have a stage coach line or a baggage wagon, 
 and if our crops fail here, we might starve with plenty a 
 hundred miles away. But now Jay Gould is my servant 
 and he will carry me a short distance or a long one. All 
 rich men are a blessing and all capital is wealth, saved up 
 to help and bless mankind. Honor to the Astors. They 
 built much of New York. Honor to the Vanderbilts. 
 They built great steamships and railroads to carry food 
 for us all. Honor to Jay Gould. As soon as he touches 
 a railroad, it is at once a safer, better public servant to 
 carry a letter for me thousands of miles for two cents. 
 But the fool anarchist, that did not know enough to get a 
 dollar or to keep it, or to use one little talent wisely and 
 get a blessing out of that, had his talent taken from him, 
 and he was kicked into hell for his meanness. And it 
 served him ri^ht."
 
 BOY AGAIN OCCUPIES BOSTON. 131 
 
 Roy ceased. He had freed his mind, and he had ex- 
 pected a fight. The anarchist had not uttered a yip. 
 When Roy had done, the man said slowly, " I had not 
 thought of it that way," and he went slowly out. 
 
 Said the broker, " I am much obliged to you, Mr. 
 Bartlett. It is good missionary work. I hope that 
 skunk will not come here again." 
 
 " Yet," said Roy, "I feel as though I had been doing a 
 dirty act in talking with him. I shall have to go out on 
 the common where the wind blows, and have the contam- 
 ination taken away. Pshaw ! Capitalists' heads fly like 
 shelling peas? Still the wealth would remain, and capi- 
 tal represents all of God's blessing in life, and all that 
 makes life desirable, endurable, or possible." Roy walked 
 by the soldiers' monument on the common. He read the 
 inscription upon it, written by President Eliot of Harvard 
 University. If you wish to see a sample of as good Eng- 
 lish as ever was written, I recommend you to do the 
 same. Gradually he forgot his resentment against the 
 wretch, who could so ruffle such a quiet young gentleman 
 and splendid good fellow. In 1888, the man with the 
 one talent is acting like an awful fool, and I earnestly 
 hope he will get hurt, until he learns better.
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 WILL GLANCE HAS A DRUNK. 
 
 AFTER Roy had been in Boston a year, the neighbors 
 noticed that Will Glance drank more hard liquors. Mary 
 looked pale and anxious. Glance wanted to take loads 
 of produce to Dover, and keep the money. Mr. Hoskins 
 always paid him his twenty dollars a month, and he had 
 no board to pay. One day Mr. Hoskins had been to 
 market with potatoes. He had turned them in on ac- 
 count of groceries, and he had not much ready money 
 with him. Glance had overdrawn his pay considerably, 
 and must have had whiskey hidden in the barn some- 
 where, he smelt so strong of it, and was so ugly. Mary 
 was afraid of him. Mr. and Mrs. Hoskins did not con- 
 sider him safe. Sam Ellet had just come across the 
 fields to ask the price of potatoes. Then they would 
 know if it was best to dig them for the market. Glance 
 came up to Mr. Hoskins, with an oath, and demanded 
 money. 
 
 He was answered, "I do not owe you any. If I pay 
 you any you will spend it for liquor, and I will not pay 
 you any." 
 
 "Then," said Glance, crazy with anger and liquor, 
 " I will kill you both." He pulled out a large Colt's 
 revolver and fired at Mr. Hoskins's head. He missed. 
 The ball whizzed by his head, and the flash singed 
 
 132
 
 WILL GLANCE HAS A DRUNK. 133 
 
 his hair. But in an instant Sam Ellet had him by 
 the arm, and he and Mr. Hoskins tried to get the 
 pistol away from the crazy wretch. Then, at once 
 Sam clutched the barrel to keep himself and Mr. Hoskins 
 safe, and as he gave it a twist, it was discharged straight 
 into Will Glance's eye. He died instantly. The two 
 women saw it from the house, and came running. 
 
 They both said, " Oh, father, I am glad it is not you ! 
 Oh, Sam, I am glad it is not you ! " 
 
 " He shot himself," said Mr. Hoskins. 
 
 "Suicide," said Sam. 
 
 The Avoinen were told to go into the house, as it would 
 be necessary to call the coroner. After they were gone 
 Mr. Hoskins said, "Remember, Sarn, we tried to get 
 the pistol so he could not shoot himself, you know, 
 Sam." 
 
 " I know," said Sam. 
 
 "Remember, Sam, he shot the first time at me, and 
 then killed himself." 
 
 " Suicide," said Sam. 
 
 "Mind and tell it just right." 
 
 "Mr. Hoskins, I shall tell just as little as I can, and I 
 shall say suicide, sure." 
 
 " Now, Sam, you stay here and watch the body. S'ay 
 as little as possible to anybody. I will speak an earnest 
 word to the women folks in the house. Then I will jump 
 on a horse and go to Dover for a coroner. I will send 
 Mary over to Mr. Bartlett's for help." 
 
 Mr. Hoskins had gone. Mr. Bartlett came, and soon 
 after the coroner arid a doctor. 
 
 "Now, Mr. Hoskins, just tell how this happened." 
 
 Mr. Hoskins began. "Mr. Glance was quite intoxi-
 
 134 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 cated and very cross. Mr. Ellet here had just come over 
 and was asking the price of potatoes, with regard to dig- 
 ging theirs, when Mr. Glance came up to us and demand- 
 ed that I should pay him some money. I had already 
 overpaid him. He had twenty dollars a month besides 
 his living. I did not think it safe to give him any more 
 to buy whiskey with. So I refused. He at once swore 
 he would kill Mr. Ellet and me. He fired that large pis- 
 tol at my head, and just missed me. Then Sam and I 
 tried to take it from him, but he turned the pistol to 
 his own head and fired it." 
 
 It was a clear case of suicide. 
 
 The doctor said that the story was evidently true. 
 The coroner picked up the pistol from the dead man's 
 hand. Two barrels discharged. Correct. " Now, Mr. 
 Ellet, tell your story." 
 
 "It was just what Mr. Hoskins told," said Sam. "It 
 was just suicide. And what he wanted to do it for, I 
 don't see. If he had not been drunk he would not have 
 done it." 
 
 The coroner asked Mrs. Hoskins. She was too much 
 overcome ; she could only groan, and utter " Suicide." 
 
 Mary said the same, " Just suicide ; and why he did it 
 I cannot tell, for we all used him as well as we knew 
 how." 
 
 The coroner appeared to deliberate a moment. Then 
 he announced, that as there was nothing in doubt about 
 it, all the evidence went to show that the deed was done 
 with his own pistol, fired with his own hand ; there was 
 no need to summon a jury. He should instruct the 
 undertaker to report, that William Glance died by pre- 
 meditated suicide. It never was disputed.
 
 WILL GLANCE HAS A DKUNK. 135 
 
 The Hoskins family were too much affected to talk 
 much about it. Sam Ellet knew enough to keep his 
 mouth shut. He had good common-sense. Two days 
 later Will Glance was buried in a small, new lot in Pine 
 Hill Cemetery, in Dover. Mr. Hoskins told Sam, pri- 
 vately, that he would not bury his carcass in the Hoskins 
 lot, as he wanted to rest quietly there himself, by and by. 
 Will Glance's mother wept some for him, but she was the 
 only one ; and she wept more for what he might have 
 been, than what he was. Will Glance was his own worst 
 enemy. He did not live to see his son, born three months 
 later; but it brought a ray of light to the Hoskins farm, 
 where the shadows had been long and dark. Mr. Bart- 
 lett wrote his account to Roy. Sam wrote his. Sam's 
 was peculiar, and Roy got an impression that Sam had 
 adopted Talleyrand's theory, that language was a medium 
 for concealing ideas. The Dover newspapers told the story 
 as it was seen to be. So Roy got the different versions of 
 it, and made his own conclusions. He knew when to let 
 well enough alone. There was a feeling of relief wher- 
 ever Will Glance was known. His mother seemed less 
 anxious, went out more, and dressed better. Later it was 
 ascertained that she had over three thousand dollars, that 
 she had pretended was lost in settling her husband's 
 estate ; and she had been dressing poorly, and apparently 
 living on her brother, to keep the knowledge of any prop- 
 erty from her merciless, dissipated son. He had a plain 
 white marble stone, with his name, age, and date. Almost 
 as soon as the stone was set, some one had written the 
 old rhyme, redolent of Tom Paine, but adapted to the 
 occasion,
 
 136 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 "Fooi- Will Glance, here he lies, 
 Nobody laughs, nobody cries ; 
 Where he's gone, or how he fares, 
 Nobody knows, nobody cares. 
 One thing sart'in, that's a fack, 
 Nobody wants him to come back." 
 
 It was written with a heavy black-lead pencil, and no- 
 body rubbed it out. Death, is not so bad after all.
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 KOY TAKES A STUDIO. 
 
 AGAIN it was the first of October, three years after we 
 first met Roy Bartlett. In Lytlia Maria Child's impos- 
 sible, but very entertaining story of Hilda Silfverling, she 
 writes, " So the years went by, and the earth rolled on 
 bearing with it the Alps, and the Ancles, the bear, the 
 wolf, and the maiden." So it has borne the choice spirits 
 of my novel ; and even later, for most of them are 
 splendidly alive and smiling to-day. Roy painted a good 
 picture, and had often been asked to give lessons. So he 
 rented a good studio on Tremont Street. In movement 
 there is hope ; in stagnation there is none. He fitted it 
 up simply, with a little that he bought, and some superflu- 
 ous furniture that came from home. He hun- his 
 
 O 
 
 pictures, and they made a good show. His income from 
 his real estate venture would support him, with reason- 
 able economy. Then, if you had looked in the Transcript, 
 you might have seen for two months the announcement? 
 Mr. R. Bartlett will receive pupils in oil painting at his 
 studio, Mather Building, Tremont Street. Pupils came 
 at once, nearly all ladies. One of the old artists said he 
 had quite a harem. Although he was a clean, handsome 
 young man, with a love of a moustache, yet, strange to 
 say, he did not fool or flirt with women, or try to keep 
 them laughing. Every pupil that came must agree to 
 
 137
 
 138 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 work their best, and try to improve. Some took one 
 lesson a week, some two or three. It was not long before 
 he had twenty pupils. Pupils came forenoons. The 
 afternoon he had for work or company. Company was 
 invited every afternoon. He sold more pictures. One 
 afternoon there came a knock at his door; a young lady 
 wished to see his pictures. She was welcomed. He 
 spoke of a few of them, without specially looking at her, 
 when, happening to catch a reflection of her in the cheval 
 class, he was at once interested in his visitor. She was 
 
 <T5 ' 
 
 two inches taller than the Medicean Venus, and many 
 times more interesting. She looked remarkably good, 
 and was remarkably good-looking. Her ears were perfect, 
 and the delicate purity of her neck contrasted with the 
 richness of her golden-brown hair. Her hands were 
 perfect, Oh, rarest of beauties ! and there was no- 
 where about her a sign of slavery, mean thinking, or 
 coarse living. She asked the price of lessons. One 
 dollar each. She said she was living with her uncle, a 
 retired clergyman, who was steward of an estate, which 
 yielded him a living, and was likely to for some time to 
 come. The house they occupied was in Commonwealth 
 Avenue. She had painted some, and wished to improve 
 so that she could paint desirable pictures, and teach, if it 
 became necessary to make her own living. Roy said he 
 would help her all he could. It was a good thing for a 
 woman to have a means of support/ for often resources 
 failed, then she was not left helpless. Her name was 
 Miss Graham. She said the establishment that her uncle 
 has the care of is a large one. There is a fine house, well 
 furnished. There are some servants, that are to be cared 
 for and retained. There is a carriage, and horses that
 
 ROY TAKES A STUDIO. 139 
 
 are to be used, and a pew in church that may be occupied. 
 So, you see, since my uncle's voice failed, so he could not 
 preach, he has had the care of this estate, and it may 
 continue for some time longer. He gets a good living 
 out of it, and has saved something. He has no children, 
 and no heirs but me. I will send Fred, our servant, 
 here this afternoon, with my painting materials. Fred is 
 a light mulatto, as also is his wife. They are very faith- 
 ful, trusty friends, as well as servants. The establishment 
 pays them liberally. Fred's wife is Jenny. She is an 
 excellent dressmaker, so that saves us something. I 
 thought it best to tell you how I was situated. Here 
 is the money for twelve lessons. I am to carry the 
 receipt to my uncle. 
 
 Roy did not wish her to pay in advance, but she replied, 
 that the money was already provided, and if paid, can- 
 not be lost. Miss Graham selected a waterfall to copy, 
 and the interview was over. As she gave her parting 
 salutation, he had a good excuse for observing her criti- 
 cally. His pupils were gone and now he was alone in his 
 studio. He took an easy chair and mused, and this was 
 his thought. Another pupil and a good one. I am doing 
 well. That young lady is sure pay. All young ladies are. 
 She is safe, honest, careful, and intends to be efficient. 
 Too bad that she is poor. I hated to take her money. She 
 was well dressed but plain, still it was very pretty and very 
 becoming. Pure honest eyes. I hope her uncle and aunt 
 will save a dollar, so they will not have to depend upon 
 her. If she gets short of money I may be called upon by 
 myself, not her, to help her. Well, well. There are 
 some white souls in the world, thank heaven. Pity she 
 is an orphan. But let that go now, and perhaps good
 
 140 THE WILD AETIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 help may come by her uncle. When Roy had finished 
 his musing, he arose and put the room to rights, ready 
 for the morning campaign. Then a walk, which ended 
 at the house of Warren, and brought the wild artist to 
 the supper table, and the pleasant society of three ladies. 
 The supper was what it always was, abundance. Roy 
 helped the ladies, to such as they preferred, while each 
 gave assistance. 
 
 Said Mrs. Warren, " I like to have the first course all 
 on the table at once, where it is only a small number like 
 ours. Of course it would not be practicable in a large 
 family or at a hotel, where there were waiters. But here 
 we need not be obliged to let a servant choose our food 
 
 O 
 
 for us. There is more liberty, and we can have our choice 
 of fat or lean, rare or well done, all the time. Here we 
 can have just what suits." 
 
 Said Roy, " You have one custom that I like very 
 much. Your dinner always has its first course of soup. 
 If one has no appetite, soup will almost create one. 
 Something warm, perhaps high seasoned, like broth with 
 a little red pepper in it, will arouse a sleepy stomach, and 
 prepare the way for a fine meal. Once a prime minister 
 of England had invited four noble lords to dine with him. 
 They came on time. The minister sent word that he was 
 detained by an audience with the king. They waited. 
 Other messengers came. He was still detained. More 
 than two mortal hours passed and the dinner waited. 
 Then the speed of his carriage was heard and the minis- 
 ter came in. I know how you feel, said he. He gave a 
 servant an order, while the dinner was served, and he 
 mixed the five hungry men, a dose of something hot and 
 strong, which was immediately followed by a mullaga-
 
 ROY TAKES A STUDIO. 141 
 
 tawny soup. Then came the roast and the famine was 
 over. It was a splendid dinner. A man's best friend is 
 his stomach. It supplies the motive power and is the 
 boiler of the engine. A physician once said, a man ought 
 not to be conscious that he had a stomach." 
 
 Said Miss Emily, "I think men enjoy the pleasures of 
 food more than women." 
 
 "Yes," said Roy, "they have stronger appetites. 
 When a woman wants labor done she expects a man to 
 do it. He makes the roads, tills the land, builds and 
 runs the railroads, builds the houses, and of course, needs 
 a pile of fuel to sustain the wear and tear. So he 
 eats." 
 
 "But," said Miss Sarah, " women work." 
 
 " Most certainly. The men sustain the world and the 
 women sustain the men. For a general truth that is not 
 far out of the way." 
 
 Said Mrs. Warren, " I am glad, Mr. Bartlett, that you 
 do not take pleasure in saying spicy, paradoxical, and 
 cutting things about women." 
 
 Said he, " Indeed I do not, and how could I after all 
 the women I have ever known, and this almost without 
 exception. If they knew my opinion of them, as com- 
 pared with their nearest male friend, they would give me 
 credit for a most generous opinion. Of course, we are 
 all human. But where women have faults men have 
 vices. Women are provoking where men are villainous. 
 But all the women that I have known, have made it a joy 
 to do them a service, at least, where it can be done easily. 
 So if I find a nice young lady hanging upon a hook, it is 
 always a pleasure to me to help her down." 
 
 The ladies laughed at the application of Roy's theory.
 
 142 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 When the second course was served, Mrs. Warren 
 asked, "Mr. Bartlett, can you cook?" 
 
 "Oh, yes, meats generally, and vegetables. I have 
 made bread and some pastry, but not much. I think it 
 well for a man to be able to help at home, in case of an 
 emergency. In these days of uncertain servants, nobody 
 knows what may happen." Said Roy, "Let me tell you 
 something. Not long since I met one of my own teachers. 
 She never would tell her age. But she would tell that 
 her father died when she was fifteen years old, and a 
 little later she told in what year her father died. Some 
 rainy day I am going to get out my slate and pencil and 
 figure up her age." 
 
 They laughed, and the ladies said they should have to 
 look out for him. They adjourned to the parlor. It was 
 Thursday evening and company came. Mr. Stacy and 
 some lady teachers. They talked of subjects, not of per- 
 sons. That is gossip. Educated people prefer subjects. 
 It is abstract thought. 
 
 Said Mr. Stacy, "How is your art prospering, Mr. 
 Bartlett?" 
 
 "Very well, thank you. I am selling some pictures 
 and having a fair amount of pupils. Doing better than I 
 expected." 
 
 Said Mrs. Warren, "Are there not desirable people 
 among your artist friends and pupils, that you would like 
 to invite here ? " 
 
 " I have no doubt of it," he answered. 
 
 " Then please do. I have the room. My parlors are 
 very large, and I can stand the wear of the carpets and 
 furniture. Now, Mr. Bartlett, let us have a reception 
 twice a month, on Thursday evenings. You invite only
 
 ROY TAKES A STUDIO. 143 
 
 suitable people whom you know, and fill up the parlors. 
 We can stop if we do not like it. Sarah can play, Mr. 
 Bartlett and Mr. Stacy can read." 
 
 "I agree to it," said Roy. "But let us have no organ- 
 ization and no society with officers. Small societies con- 
 sume all their time doing unimportant business. Call it 
 simply the Art Coterie." 
 
 They all agreed, and the programme was left to Roy 
 and the Misses Warren. The company made sugges- 
 tions. They could have music, Shakespeare, literature, 
 song or story, sociable or sermon, and those who do not 
 like it, need not come again. It was agreed unanimously.
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 THE ART COTERIE IS LAUNCHED. 
 
 THE next morning Mr. Royal Bartlett descended from 
 the sacred precincts of Beacon hill, feeling light, airy, and 
 gay. He was conscious of a reasonable amount of green- 
 backs in his pocket, of plenty of the most agreeable work 
 to do, and an abundance of the best companionship to en- 
 joy. Father Taylor once said that he used to consider 
 Boston hill a little nearer heaven than any other place. 
 Here was Roy in Boston. He had not an enemy in the 
 world. The only one he ever had, a child of the devil, 
 who hated Roy without a cause, had ju^t shot himself 
 dead. It was out of Roy's mind. There were no outs 
 about his life. Plenty of friends, and most true. No 
 critics that he knew of. If any critic had sought to find 
 a case against him, that case would not have had a leg to 
 stand on. Make it too sweet? No, I do not. There are 
 plenty of white souls that walk in the light of God and 
 the love of man. I know plenty of them, and some of 
 them are coming into this book later. Take a look at 
 Roy as he takes his morning walk through the Public Gar- 
 den and across the Common. If you do not like him, go 
 down to the frog pond and drown yourself. Roy put the 
 finishing touches on a picture, and hung it high, out of 
 the reach of hands, where it might dry. Fred Annerly, 
 the mulatto, Miss Graham's servant, came with her easel, 
 
 144
 
 THE ART COTERIE IS LAUNCHED. 145 
 
 paint-box, and canvases. Fred was light for a mulatto, 
 and Roy thought he might be more white than colored. 
 He was very pleasant and gentlemanly. He and his wife 
 had been bom slaves, but they were free enough now. 
 Soon Miss Graham arrived. She placed her easel in 
 what Roy called fine light, and he said it might remain 
 there, and she could work at other times when she was 
 not taking her lesson, and no charge for it. A few direc- 
 tions were given as to what colors to use in the sky, how 
 to lay it in, and to call for help when she wanted it. Miss 
 Graham went to work. Other pupils came in. That 
 forenoon he had seven at once, all he wanted to attend to. 
 When it was near noon, Roy called their attention. He 
 said, "Ladies, I have something to tell you that may in- 
 terest you. There are a few of us that have met on alter- 
 nate Thursday evenings, for social entertainment. No 
 refreshments. No fancy dress and no expense. The lady 
 of the house has kindly asked me to invite my pupils and 
 friends. But they must be only .suitable people. I 
 should not dare to ask a man who was flavored with to- 
 bacco. First, I will begin with inviting all my pupils. 
 Each can take one other as escort, if necessary. We 
 have very large double parlors, really a fine large draw- 
 ing-room, a magnificent piano, a music teacher in the 
 house, and several talented readers and speakers who will 
 come. But all will be informal. No ceremony; just 
 simple and enjoyable. Now, ladies, will you come?" 
 
 They said " yes," every one. 
 
 " Please tell me who reads or recites. Who plays any 
 instrument ? Who sings ? " 
 
 " One lady read when she was needed. Miss Graham 
 played the piano, and had been known to sing."
 
 146 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 " Have you played much ? " asked Roy. 
 "Yes, considerably. I have had many piano lessons 
 from Mr. Petersilea, and lessons in singing from Mr. 
 Lyman Wheeler." 
 
 " Then I will risk you to sing," said Roy, " and it is 
 fortunate that I asked you. If you will bring a piece of 
 music, not too short or too long, a piece that you like 
 yourself, and also a song, it will be a splendid contribu- 
 tion, and we will all consider it a good beginning." 
 
 Miss Graham said she would remain longer, and paint 
 awhile in the afternoon. She did. When her day's 
 work was finished, Roy was satisfied that she had laid in 
 the picture so well, that he might have to scratch forward 
 or the pupil would be equal to the teacher. At any rate, 
 she could give lessons now, and would not be left help- 
 less in case her uncle should die or lose his stewardship. 
 That was a cause for thankfulness. Roy wanted a light 
 lunch, but he first made a call. High up in his own stu- 
 dio building was an artist, Mr. Frank Wilkie, a man past 
 thirty, a good painter, but a man who used strong stimu- 
 lants. Roy knocked at the dooi-. He heard a strong 
 voice say, "come in." Mr. Wilkie was seated in an old- 
 fashioned chair, and looking far from cheerful. " How 
 are you, Frank ? " 
 
 " All wrong. I should be well enough if I had any 
 luck. I have not taken a dollar for a week and I am all 
 r.un ashore. I should not tell every one, but I tell you, 
 Roy." 
 
 "Well," said Roy, "I can help a little. I was just 
 wanting a lesson from you and here is a dollar for it. I 
 will go out to lunch and you must go with me. Then we 
 will come back and I will take a canvas that I have and
 
 THE ART COTERIE IS LAUNCHED. 147 
 
 watch you while you paint, for an hour or two, you to tell 
 me your colors and methods, and I to sponge all the art I 
 can out of you, in a given time, and have the picture be- 
 side. Do you consent?" 
 
 " Yes," said Wilkie, " anything for a dinner, a dollar, 
 and to oblige Benson." 
 
 Roy led the way down to the Quincy Market, where 
 the eating-houses are, that keep the market-men so fat. 
 Places there where they do not live by bread alone, but 
 where they get the best the world affords, and oh, such 
 meat, the biggest, fattest, richest, tenderest, juiciest cuts. 
 And a man goes away plumb-full, although he was hollow 
 away down to his heels. Roy had not lived in Boston 
 for nothing, for when Sam Eilet had been in the city with 
 Roy, they had fully celebrated the three great feasts of 
 the Jews, namely : breakfast, dinner, and supper. So Roy 
 led the way to a light, pleasant room, up one flight, near 
 the market. 
 
 " Good morning, Mr. Blanchard. Can you give us two 
 nice tenderloin steaks, well done?" 
 
 "I can just do it, Mr. Bartlett." 
 
 It came. Then two cups of coffee with potatoes, warm 
 biscuit and butter, and condiments galore. It was a 
 great, big, wide steak, tender and juicy, and thick as your 
 foot. But that depends. It was enough for a man-o'- 
 war's-man, or one of Jim Camel's amazons. 
 
 " There," said Roy, " that ought to stay your stomach, 
 until you can get around to some hearty victuals." 
 
 That fancy seemed to chirk Wilkie up mightily, but it 
 did not spoil his appetite. Each attacked his steak in 
 less time than it takes to tell of it, and soon the relative 
 condition was the same as when the lion and the lamb
 
 148 THE WILD AETIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 lay down together : the lamb was inside the lion. " Have 
 a piece of pudding or pie ? " asked Roy. 
 
 "Yes, if you please. About next week, I guess. 
 Couldn't do it much sooner. Oliver W. H. says, 
 
 " Three courses are as good as ten. 
 If nature can subsist on three, 
 Thank heaven for three, amen." 
 
 Jess so, as William Warren says. But my experience 
 tells me that one course has the breath of life in it, if it is 
 good enough, and there is enough of it. So I make no 
 mistake, nor degrade these two artist gentlemen, by 
 making them stub along on one. Then by special request, 
 Mr. Wilkie painted in Roy's studio all the afternoon, 
 Roy gave him another dollar and they were both suited. 
 Frank Wilkie was a generous, improvident fellow. It is 
 good to be generous at times, but there is much to be said 
 on the other side. The generous man helps people gen- 
 erously, and he often needs to be helped generously in 
 return. But the mean man, the man that is not half 
 generous enough, wins. He always pays his debts, you 
 can come down on his property if he does not do it. He 
 must do it. The generous man can't and don't pay. He 
 lives freely. When he has anything he goes through it. 
 He has nothing and you can get nothing. When he has 
 a streak of luck, he treats a squad of non-combatants, to 
 a champagne supper, and then, when he is clean busted, 
 he blows up his wife because the milk bill is so large. 
 The generous man wants you to sign a note with him or 
 be his bondsman for a large sum. He says you won't have 
 it to pay. You can catch a bear real easy, but you need 
 plenty of help to let go of him. The mean man signs
 
 THE ART COTERIE IS LAUNCHED. 149 
 
 nothing, you can't get him to. The assessors hate him, 
 and he, very properly, returns the compliment. The gen- 
 erous man pays a poll-tax, when he can put it off no long- 
 er without going to jail. His wife looks shabby and is 
 worried about what will come next. The mean man's 
 wife has good clothes, heavy warm shawls and wraps, 
 and takes care of them. She has a house full of every- 
 thing, so she does not worry, or care a continental what 
 happens. The generous man's children ought to go to 
 school more, but they can't. The mean man's children 
 go enough, and they do not neglect their arithmetic, if 
 they do their grammar. If the mean man's "darter" 
 wants to take lessons in " ile paintin' " she can do it, and 
 you ought to see the pictiires. The generous man's wife, 
 oh, so sweet and beautiful when she was married, grows 
 lean and old before her time, she suffers and is neglected. 
 She dies all too soon and is buried in coarse gravel. She 
 has no gravestones. Her children are divided up among 
 people that do not want them. The mean man and his 
 wife both live to wear out several sets of store teeth. 
 Their children marry well-to-do folks in the vicinity, and 
 all do well. The mean man gets fat and his wife gets 
 fleshy. He has the phthisic and she the asthma. Both 
 live to be outrageously old, and die full of years and 
 things. Silver handles on their coffins a foot long. 
 Graves in yellow loam. They leave fifty dollars to 
 foreign missions. Gravestones six inches thick, of splendid 
 Italian marble, for the birds to roost on. I do not know 
 what becomes of the generous man. I think he runs 
 away with a medium, or something. He is always giving 
 himself away. You may not believe all this, but I do, I 
 almost think.
 
 150 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 The next day Roy had the chagrin to know that Frank 
 Wilkie was shut in his studio, drunk. It cut him up to 
 know that so good an artist could be such a fool. Roy 
 made some calls in the studios, and, as he was always 
 free to welcome others, so they smiled back at him. 
 Honey catches flies; vinegar is not so popular. There 
 was hardly a room in his building where he was not 
 known. A man cannot paint ten hours a day, except it 
 be on a house or fence, which commonly does not strain 
 his intellect very much. So an artist refreshes himself by 
 a call, and returns with fresh eyes for color, and more go 
 in his imagination. Besides, it is refreshing to know 
 what a gaby another artist is making of himself, in his 
 frantic efforts to be original. Oh, there is a comfort, one 
 way or another, either in the art in your own pictures, 
 or the want of it in another's. 
 
 Roy's pupils did well for him. They learned well. 
 Miss Graham worked several hours each day. Several 
 days in the week she helped Roy in caring for Lis pupils. 
 She brought him two pupils, that each paid him twelve 
 dollars in advance. If he wished to go out, she cared 
 for the studio, and taught the pupils. She "was an acqui- 
 sition. Her finished pictures increased in number. Fred 
 carried four home, which were disposed of. Roy con- 
 gratulated her. Her pictures were good. Then came 
 the evening of the Art Coterie. It was a fine evening. 
 Roy had invited many of the artists, but not Frank 
 Wilkie, or any like him. The rooms were well filled and 
 comfortable. There was an intermission, and all were 
 asked to change their seats, so as to have no wall-flowers. 
 Some were standing. 
 
 When Roy called the company to order, he said: "The
 
 THE ART COTERIE IS LAUNCHED. 151 
 
 lady of the house and her daughters have given me per- 
 mission to invite pupils and friends to an informal social 
 gathering. If the guests are pleased with this, there may 
 be others. There will be no bills to pay, and it is only 
 that we may be happier by entertaining and knowing 
 each other. There is plenty of talent here, and I have 
 arranged to call upon several. First, a musical selection 
 by Miss Sarah Warren." 
 
 It was splendidly done. One part strong and grand, 
 with all the power of the instrument ; another light, 
 airy, intricate, and sweet as the song of a bobolink. 
 Henry F. Miller was there, and heard his piano played as 
 he liked it, and Miss Sarah won a storm of applause. 
 What an addition an accomplishment is to a human 
 life. 
 
 Roy spoke again : " Ladies and gentlemen, in the old 
 convivial times, when they met together, each one was 
 expected to do what he could to entertain the company. 
 He might' tell a story, sing a song, or treat the company. 
 I will tell you a story. It is of ' The artist that lived at 
 Capri.' It is a story that Virgil Williams told me. 
 He knew the artist, and was with him a long time in 
 Italy." 
 
 There was an English squire, rich, aristocratic, and 
 with sons and daughters. The youngest son was 
 inclined to art. His father wanted him to go into the 
 army, the navy, or the church. He wanted neither. He 
 would not be a soldier, he hated a sea life, and he had no 
 call to the church. So he learned to paint from Nature. 
 He kept studying until he was a fine artist, and could sell 
 his pictures. He travelled in Scotland and Wales. Then 
 he went up the Rhine. He worked in Switzerland,
 
 152 THE WILD AETIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 making sketches and getting photographs and stereo- 
 scopics. Lastly he travelled the Cornische road, sketch- 
 ing faithfully until he came to Rome and Naples. He 
 painted in Loth cities. He met his fate in a beautiful 
 Italian girl. He was a handsome fellow, and the usual 
 result followed. They were married. He sold many 
 pictures, and made money. Then he took his wife and 
 went to England. He arrived in the afternoon at his 
 
 O 
 
 father's house. He introduced his wife to his father and 
 mother. His wife was well dressed, virtuous, honorable, 
 and very handsome. He took supper with the family, 
 and stayed all night. He breakfasted with the family. 
 After breakfast his father asked him to go into the garden 
 with him. They went, but did not go far. 
 
 Said his father, " I do not want that woman here. I 
 want you to take her away to-day. If you go to Australia, 
 I will allow you one hundred pounds a year; or you may go 
 to India, and I will allow you one hundred pounds a year; 
 or you may go and live on one of the islands up the Medi- 
 terranean, and I will allow you a hundred pounds a year; 
 either of these three, and a hundred a year; or you may 
 go to the devil and have nothing. But I want you to 
 leave here to-day, leave England soon, and take that 
 woman away from here at once. Now which will 
 YOU do?" 
 
 He answered, " I will live on one of the islands in the 
 Mediterranean." It was a savage piece of business ; but 
 "it is English, you know." 
 
 He left his home that forenoon, went to London, Paris, 
 Geneva, Rome, Naples. He took his time about it. 
 After looking about him well, and consulting his wife, for 
 she was prudent as well as handsome, and she had no
 
 THE ART COTEEIE IS LAUNCHED. 153 
 
 notion of losing five hundred dollars a year when she 
 could get it from the people who had used her so mean : 
 he bought, for a small sum, a nice house on the island 
 of Capri. He enlarged it, and made a villa of it, with 
 gardens around it. It is in a high and beautiful place, 
 with the most splendid views of Vesuvius, the coast, and 
 the sea. Virgil Williams stayed at his home and painted 
 with him. Everything is cheap at Capri, and he lived 
 like a nabob. His wife was as handsome as ever, and 
 much respected. Mr. Williams said the children of the 
 blond Englishman and the brunette Italian were as 
 beautiful as he ever saw. As he owned his own home, 
 he could entertain the best of company, and sell his pict- 
 ures before they were dry. He had boxes prepared, so 
 he could enclose them before the paint was set. He had 
 all the fine views of Vesuvius, Naples, Sorrento, and the 
 coast. Every one who had any money at all, was glad to 
 buy a souvenir of Capri and the artist. He also got 
 orders from England. 
 
 " And his bank account grew, 
 
 His good wife was true, 
 His children were splendid, as ever you knew ; 
 
 The climate was fine, 
 
 The scenery divine, 
 His garden with sweetest of flowers did shine ; 
 
 He lived happy and free, 
 
 And you never will see 
 Such a joy as the artist that lived at Capri." 
 
 Hoy made his best bow, and the general " stoop en 
 tumble " of the whole thing pleased the company hugely. 
 It was such a picture, so good a picture, and so many pict-
 
 154 THE WILD AKTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 ures. Alas ! that we shall not see Virgil Williams, or 
 hear his stories again here. 
 
 Roy announced a selection for the piano, by Miss 
 Graham. It was a surprise and every way a success. It 
 showed the finest taste and cultivation, and was well 
 approved. 
 
 A gentleman told another story: An artist was at 
 work, when a knock announced visitors. Ladies came in. 
 He showed them his pictures, and entertained his com- 
 pany. Above the line of paintings was a fine old en- 
 graving of the leaning tower of Pisa. One of the women 
 looked at it critically. Ah, said she, Minot's light? Yes, 
 marm, said the artist, as he turned away to hide his emo- 
 tion. Another anecdote, also a fact, the author vouches 
 for it. An artist was in a second-hand furniture store, 
 looking at stray pictures. Among others was a colored 
 chromo of the State Street massacre, with Crispus Attucks, 
 just falling, shot, in the foreground. The owner said, 
 buy that ; it is cheap. It is true, too. The real thing. 
 Real history. Corpus Christi was killed in State Street. 
 This will be news to most folks. The artist was much 
 affected by it. 
 
 The chairman called on Miss Graham for a song. 
 After- a short prelude she sang : 
 
 THE BIRD'S LOVE SONG. 
 
 " A bright bird of morning his love song was singing 
 To his mate, on their nest, in the leafy green spray ; 
 And he poured forth his joy in such melody ringing, 
 That my soul answered back all his beautiful lay. 
 Oh, sing, happy birdie ! Oh, beautiful birdie, 
 The echoes exultingly bear it along ; 
 Oh, sing, happy birdie, Oh, beautiful birdie, 
 For love is the joy of your beautiful song.
 
 THE AKT COTERIE IS LAUNCHED. 155 
 
 "Then blest be your sweet home, and peaceful your slumbers, 
 Where love builds your nest in the leafy green tree ; 
 Let love be the joy that inspires your blest numbers, 
 And sing it, sweet birdie, Oh, sing it to me. 
 Oh, sing, happy birdie, Oh, beautiful birdie, 
 The echoes exultingly bear it along ; 
 Oh, sing, happy birdie, Oh, beautiful birdie, 
 For love is the joy of your beautiful song. 
 
 " Then love, pretty birdie, and tell your true story; 
 And waft your sweet notes to the songsters above, 
 And mingle your songs with the angels in glory, 
 While heaven echoes back the sweet music of love. 
 Then sing, happy birdie, Oh, beautiful birdie, 
 The echoes exultingly bear it along ; 
 Oh, sing, happ3 r birdie, Oh, beautiful birdie,' 
 For love is the joy of your beautiful song." 
 
 Indeed, an English skylark could not have sung sweeter. 
 Miss Graham was rewarded as she should be. 
 
 After some select readings, Roy called for " Auld Lang 
 Syne." 
 
 Before it could be given, Mr. Cobb expressed his grati- 
 fication in a telling, witty speech, which took finely. 
 
 Roy said, " The notice of the Art Coterie will be posted 
 on my studio door. As there is a large delegation from 
 the Handel and Haydn society here, it follows that we 
 can sing. Miss Sarah Warren will please take the piano ; 
 Mr. Webb, the baton. Sing one double stanza, and repeat 
 if Mr. Webb orders it." They sang it gloriously. Miss 
 Warren put in a dainty interlude, and Webb led on. 
 When the full harmony of the glorious refrain, that 
 Jessie Brown heard at Lucknow, died away, there was 
 a clapping of a hundred pairs of hands, outside, in the 
 street. It was too much harmony to pass unnoticed.
 
 156 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 The Art Coterie broke up, the young men and maidens 
 paired off, and Mr. Bartlett was about to see if Miss 
 Graham had company home, when Fred Annerly appeared 
 at the door and asked for her. She came with another 
 lady, older than herself. Roy was introduced to her. 
 He saw their carriage near, and Fred Annerly acting as 
 footman. He assisted them in, and the evening was 
 done. The Warrens were well pleased, and so was every 
 one. The next day, Roy had no end of congratulations. 
 It was not long before he had more pupils. It never 
 rains but it pours. Miss Graham received Roy's most 
 hearty commendation. She seemed pleased. She was 
 good help to him in teaching his pupils, and somehow she 
 seemed to be a new white light in his life. But he did 
 not suspect what it was.
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 A DISTURBING ELEMENT. 
 
 MARY GLANCE, whom I shall call by her maiden name, 
 Mary Iloskins, lived quietly with her father and mother. 
 The family were well, but kept mostly at home. Mr. 
 Iloskins kept no help, so of course he could not do much 
 farming. Mary's boy was near two years old. At first 
 he was a thin, pale little fellow, and well he might be, for 
 he was the child of fury and fear. But as he grew, and 
 the disturbing prenatal influences lost their power in a 
 mother's love, he grew stronger and handsomer. He was 
 like his mother and her progenitors. Boys usually are. 
 He clung to her mostly, going but little even to Mary's 
 parents. His paternal grandmother came to see him and 
 tried to pet him, but he did not take to dark complexions 
 Little Walter was a good child and a comfort to his 
 mother. Mr. and Mrs. Bartlett called often at the Hos- 
 kins farm, and when they were out, Sam Ellet managed 
 to be at home, as major domo, and company for Canis 
 Major and Grimalkin. But the Bartletts were in love 
 with their home, and, as they had some company to come 
 in occasionally, Sam had some time to make calls, and he 
 used to neighbor with the Hoskiris family. He pitied 
 Mary for her sorrow, and the baby began to smile and 
 play with Sam. About twice a week he was there, and 
 the Hoskins family grew brighter under the sunshine of 
 
 157
 
 158 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 Sam's visits. After supper and the chores were done, he 
 remarked that lie would take a walk over to neighbor 
 Hoskins. When Sam came, the old folks chatted pleas- 
 antly a little while, but soon they went to bed. They 
 always insisted that bed was the safest place, in spite of 
 the ugly fact, that more people have died there, than any- 
 where else. Sam took the baby and frolicked with him. 
 Mary sat and sewed or knit, or did nothing, but smile at 
 the joy of baby and Sam. His visits became a necessity. 
 Baby expected him. He laughed and made a break for 
 Sam, as soon as he was inside the house. That which 
 began in pity and sympathy, became a comfort and a 
 healing. Although Sam was not conscious that he needed 
 to be restored or sustained particularly, yet somehow the 
 arrangement which had come spontaneously, was as much 
 a blessing to him. If you paid no attention to other 
 scripture, and remembered only that " pure religion and 
 undefined is, to, visit the widow and fatherless in their 
 affliction, and keep yourself unspotted from the world," 
 you would conclude that Sam Ellet was a very earnest 
 Christian. There is a pile of joy in doing your duty, and, 
 if you did but know it, it is very seldom that you have to 
 go against the grain, at all. So Sam's happiness grew. 
 
 The path across the fields, that led from the Bartlett 
 farm to the Hoskins farm, was well worn. They were 
 good neighbors to each other. It was night again. After 
 supper Sam said, I guess I will go over and have a socia- 
 ble with the baby again. He was at home at once, they 
 were so glad to see him. Mr. and Mrs. Hoskins were 
 pleasant and glad to have him there. Mary had a gratified 
 look as she resigned the boy to Sam. It was a pretty pict- 
 ure, that sitting-room, with the open fire-place, and the
 
 A DISTURBING ELEMENT. 159 
 
 dancing light is very fine, if you do not need a steadier 
 light, to read or work by. 
 
 " An 1 little fires shone all about the china on the dresser." 
 
 They told stories. They had some apples. Nice apples 
 too. The old folks were simple unconscious folks. That 
 is, maybe they were, and maybe they were still, quiet, 
 long-headed people, content to let things go, if they went 
 right, but to be counted on as a strong obstacle, if they 
 went wrong. 
 
 " Short-handed, heavy-armed a man that had been strong, 
 And might be dangerous still, if things went wrong." 
 
 At eight o'clock, Mr. Hoskins said, "Well, mother, I 
 think I will disappear in a general way as Mark Twain's 
 twin brother did." 
 
 Sam Ellet had read Sam Clemens's " Encounter with an 
 Interviewer," and it pleased him to hear it applied so pat. 
 Some New Hampshire farmers have a rich collection of 
 dry jokes. A few minutes later, a little squeak or two 
 told that farmer Hoskins had put himself in his little bed, 
 in the corner bedroom. 
 
 Then mother Hoskins arose, went and bolted the back 
 door, and said, " Now I guess I will go and see what has 
 become of father." 
 
 It was a sweet bit of hypocrisy. There are some 
 blessed little swindles in this world. Like the curl in a 
 pig's tail, of no commercial value whatever, but, oh, so 
 picturesque, and too sweet for anything. And when, 
 after two little whacks, and a rustle or two, a squeak of 
 the blessed old bedstead in the bedroom was faintly 
 heard, then Sam looked with a sly smile at Mary, as if to
 
 160 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 say : that is the most sensible thing they could possibly 
 do. Mary did not deny it. The baby was asleep. They 
 sat just easy distance apart, and in such a light as to see 
 each other to perfection. They talked of Roy and his 
 doings, of friends and neighbors, and Sam read some spicy 
 things he had cut from the papers. The hour was short 
 when the long clock in the corner, rang out nine, in its 
 silver chime. Sam said he must go. Don't hurry, said 
 Mary. 
 
 They walked to the front entry. The light was not so 
 strong as in the room, but they needed no hand-lamp. 
 They walked softly and slowly and Sa.m stopped in the 
 half-light, near the front door. He turned toward Mary, 
 and putting his hand on her rich dark brown hair, he 
 smoothed it- down, as if in pity and sympathy for her 
 troubles, and he kissed her. She did not say him nay. 
 That one kiss put ideas in his mind. It was a kiss of 
 help and friendship. But his heart gave a jump and 
 demanded its rights for more. His heart ruled. He 
 put his left arm around her neck and with his right hand 
 under her chin, \vhile she looked with great honest eyes 
 up into his face, and then he kissed her, for himself, and 
 for herself, and for love, and for luck, and for her father 
 and mother, and her distant relations, devotedly, raptur- 
 ously, gloriously. He kissed her for Christmas, Fourth 
 of July and Thanksgiving, and in a minute more he 
 would have kissed her for the world, the flesh, and the 
 De claration of Independence, but she cried out, oh, 
 Sammy, don't, you hurt me. You don't want to bring 
 trouble to me, do you, Sammy. No, said Sam, I'd die 
 first. Then don't kiss me any more to-night. You have 
 been good to me, and the baby loves you. To-night,
 
 A DISTURBING ELEMENT. 161 
 
 was a saving clause, and Sam saw it. She opened the 
 front door. Sam moved slowly out. Good-night, Sammy, 
 come again. He could only say, good-night, Mary, I will 
 come. It was all there was to say. He moved slowly 
 through the front yard toward the road. The door 
 slowly closed and Mary Hoskins went in, sat down in 
 the big rocking-chair, and stretched her feet out to her 
 full length, like one who stretches up after being long in 
 one position ; then with her lips pursed up she blew out 
 her breath as forcibly as a boy, and said, softly, to her- 
 self, whew ! what a siege. How Sammy did lose his 
 head. Ha! ha! ha! she laughed the demure little 
 witch Sam is a goner. He's gone. If I had made 
 him eat a bushel of Turkish love powders, he could have 
 had it no worse. Ha ! ha ! ha ! That is a good one, and 
 Sam is a daisy. Lucky I didn't lose my head though, 
 she continued, in soliloquy, and then she added with a 
 stern, set, severe face, and her fist doubled up as a 
 woman always doubles it, with the thumb on the end of 
 the four fingers, instead of in front of the middle finger, 
 as a man does, and she shook her fist at some imaginary 
 being in the air, and said sternly, and I won't lose my 
 head, Sammy. I won't lose my head, Sammy. I have 
 been a fool once, and that is enough. If I ever do marry 
 again, it will be to some good, pure, true, clean, smart 
 man, and it may be to you, Mr. Samuel Ellet, and she 
 smiled very sweetly, as she spoke to the imaginary Sam. 
 And she meant it. She was good enough for Sam Ellet 
 or anybody else. She lay back in the rocking-chair, with 
 her face wreathed in smiles, which played over her sweet 
 face, in the flickering fire-light, like heat lightning. The 
 clock struck again. She sprang up. My stars, it is
 
 162 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 eleven o'clock. Well, I don't care, Sam didn't stay 
 until eleven o'clock, so people can't talk about me. But 
 now I must go to bed. Wonder how Sammy is, I war- 
 rant lie is not asleep. She hit it just right ; a woman 
 always does. Sometimes. Mary went to bed beside 
 little Walter. But she had something in her mind, that 
 kept her thoroughly wide awake, and she thought and 
 smiled, and took long breaths occasionally, until the old 
 clock chimed twelve, as sweetly, but not as sadly as it 
 does at low twelve at the funeral of a master-Mason. 
 Then she said to herself, now this won't do, I am going 
 to sleep just as tight as I can. And she did. I find, 
 when a woman says no, she means it, occasionally.
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 SAM ELLET IN LOVE. 
 
 THERE is an old and very witty problem, and it is 
 this. "If an irresistible force comes in contact with an 
 immovable body, what will the result be?" The ques- 
 tion and answer are both full of wisdom, mixed with 
 very refreshing lunacy. The wisdom is not so much in 
 what you learn, as what you don't. The answer is just 
 these four words : " the devil to pay." This describes 
 the condition Sam Ellet was in, when Mury Hoskins 
 said, good-night, Sammy, come again, so sweetly. He 
 walked a few steps to the road, then he stopped, looked 
 down a moment, sighed, like a cow that has just lain 
 down, turned around, and looked at the house. It was 
 not very dark or very light. There was a little of the 
 old moon in the sky, and some light fleecy clouds. 
 There was a light in the Hoskins window. He took two 
 steps toward the house. He stopped again. He tried to 
 find a reason for going back. - He could not find one ; 
 no, not one, or a sign of one. So he sighed again, looked 
 east toward the Hoskins house, then west toward the 
 Bartlett farm. The most of this deliberation was in the 
 road. There were no teams passing, or he would surely 
 have got run over. By a great effort he turned his back 
 on Mary and went to the wall. He did not happen to 
 hit the bars as usual, but he did not care. He could 
 
 163
 
 164 THE WILD AKTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 straddle a wall, he could; and he did. He knocked 
 down some of the rocks and barked his shin. He was 
 over, anyway. He looked to see where he was, and 
 there was that big pair of bars within ten feet of him and 
 wide open. He laughed. It was very, very funny. I 
 don't care, said he, " The farthest way round is the near- 
 est way home." This is a New Hampshire proverb. It 
 is awful good for folks who go wool-gathering. Sam 
 kept on a rod or two, and Mary Hoskins's face was so 
 plainly in his mind that he stopped to gaze at it. He 
 stopped for some time. He sighed, then shook himself 
 and went on. Again he stopped and looked back at the 
 light he had just left. He gazed hard at it and seemed 
 to see Mary Hoskins inside, sitting and thinking kindly, 
 safely, and prudently of him. He walked on. He 
 wanted to go to Mary, but his duty led him home to 
 Bartlett's. So, still keeping his mind's eye on Mary, he 
 unconsciously split the difference, and wandered off into 
 the field. He stopped once or twice, that he might gaze 
 the harder at Mary, in his mind. Then he slowly moved 
 onward by guess. It was a poor guess. He had not 
 gone far before he was over shoes in a mudhole. The 
 cold water gave his blood a start. 
 
 He took the back track in an instant, with " I declare, 
 here I am in the Hoskins mudhole. Well, well, I am 
 almost a fool. It is the only water within half a mile." 
 So he wiped his shoes on the grass, and then went 
 straight to the path which led to the getting-over place 
 in the corner. It was easy enough now ; he could look 
 at Mary again. He did. He would just sit on the fence, 
 in the corner, and think big about Mary. Just as he got 
 into the dark corner, to step upon the fence, something
 
 SAM ELLET IN LOVE. 165 
 
 let out a blood-curdling yell, rushed by his legs with a 
 great rattling of the bushes, and ran yelping away. He nev- 
 er knew what it was, but concluded it was some lost dog, 
 and that he had not only disturbed his sleep, but had trod 
 upon his tail. Sam was startled as much as the dog was. 
 The course of his love did not run smooth a bit. So it 
 must be true. Sam sat upon the fence, and gave his 
 whole mind to Mary Hoskins. Probably she was running 
 a battery at her end of the line. Then he descended 
 from his roost, and dragging slowly his lengthening 
 chain, he kept on to the Bartlett farm. He hugged 
 Canis Major, and found some one to kiss him back. He 
 stopped. Right there before him, he could see her with 
 his eyes shut, was Mary Hoskins. The time passed on. 
 Sam did not move far, and Canis Major wondered what 
 had possessed Sam. Then he thought he would sit on 
 the new board fence, and think sitting, taking it easy. 
 He mounted it and began. He gazed in his mind at 
 Mary, her eyes, her hair, and was conscious that he was 
 sitting on a pain. It grew. Ah ! Mary was very attrac- 
 tive. The fence was a mean seat, but he could stand it, 
 I mean sit on it, to think of Mary Hoskins. Oh, good 
 gracious ! this fence ; but Mary's sweet face, and her 
 sweet invitation. Come again, of course I will. Oh, Great 
 Scott, it is terrific! What in thunder am I sitting on? 
 He jumped off and examined. It was a new, wany- 
 edged board, as sharp as a knife. He had almost cut a 
 gash a foot long. He rubbed the seat of war. He tried 
 to straighten up, and by attending to himself exclusively, 
 for a few minutes, he was able to see a light come into his 
 mind. It was Mary Hoskins. Sam had outdone Mary. 
 She was abed and asleep ; but he had no more exposition
 
 166 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 of sleep than if he was having a tooth pulled. The small 
 hours came on. 
 
 Sam took a big look at Mary, by faith, and went into 
 the house. He took an allopathic dose of that element 
 that killed so many in the great rain, and went up to bed. 
 He straightened out and closed his eyes. A heavenly 
 cloud came over him, and right in the centre of its celes- 
 tial brightness was Mary Hoskins, looking ineffable sweet- 
 ness at Sam Ellet. But, with a feather-bed under him, 
 hot blood racing in his veins, and Mary Hoskins in his 
 mind, he was soon hotter than a baked apple. He stood 
 it as lonsj as he could, then he rolled over to the cool 
 
 O ' 
 
 side, to let it cool off. Then Mary came to the fore 
 again, and in a few minutes he almost sizzled. He tried 
 it cornerwise, but it began with hot spots in it, and ended 
 by being hot all the way. He sat up awhile, and by 
 shortening his interviews with Mary, he got asleep. 
 Even then he went it all over again. First, he would 
 walk out, worshipping Mary. Then Ke got in the 
 Hoskins mudhole ; then the old boy jumped out with a 
 yelp, and ran off ki-yi-ing ; then Mary beamed on him 
 high up in the sky, much like the moon, much like Mary. 
 She came nearer. The room,, of course, grew lighter; 
 she smiled ; she looked Oh, so good ! Oh, she was com- 
 ing! Yes, she rushed into his arms, and was kissing him 
 for all he was worth, an immense sum. He waked up. 
 He was being kissed, but it was Canis Major. It was 
 morning, and cow time. Sam had had a poor night. 
 He got up ; took a big drink of water ; laved his red 
 cheeks and hot hands ; and went to milking. 
 
 Mr. Bartlett was already there. Sam sat down by 
 Jerusha, and in an instant his mind was fired with Mary
 
 SAM ELLET IN LOVE. 167 
 
 Hoskins. Yes, dear Mary. Jerusha looked around to 
 see why he did not milk, if he was going to. Sam turned 
 away from Mary, and attended to Jerusha. Ting, ting, 
 ting ting, went the alternate streams of milk into the 
 pail, and soon Jerusha had yielded up her sweetness, like 
 a four-legged saint, as she was. Then he came to Dolly. 
 Dolly was a tall, proud young cow, that it was very hard 
 to convince that it was right for men to handle her. She 
 had been a queen in some previous state of existence. 
 She never allowed one to scratch her head. She had 
 learned that she must be milked, but she allowed no fool- 
 ing. This is a portrait : Proud, airy, sleek, graceful, 
 lady-like, a bovine queen ; she knew her rights, and was 
 one of the best of cows. Sam sat down by her side to 
 milk her, but sweet Mary Hoskins came into his mind, 
 and he sat still, and gazed at her. Dolly would not stand 
 it, and she up with her foot, and kicked him over. Sam 
 landed in the debris. He got sadly and slowly up, not 
 much hurt, but not so nice as he was. Poor Sam. He 
 was hard used. 
 
 Mr. Bartlett saw it all, for he knew what ailed Sam, 
 and being behind the cows, he laughed inside, as if he 
 would die. His old diaphragm jumped up and down, un- 
 til he sweat. But he made no sound. He and his wife 
 had kept an eye on Sam all the time. Sam milked Dolly 
 and others, and the job was done. They went to break- 
 fast. Mr. Bartlett helped Sam ; but soon Sam's head 
 went forward, as if he was taking a big look at some- 
 thing. He was. It was Mary Hoskins. He ate some- 
 thing, but not much. He saw signs and wonders ; had 
 visions without number ; and right in the middle of every 
 one of them was Mary Hoskins. He forgot his pie.
 
 168 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 Now, what condition can a Yankee be in, who can forget 
 his pie ? He walked out. He stopped, and looked down. 
 There was no flavor in anything but Mary Hoskins. 
 
 Those two old coots, Mr. and Mrs. Bartlett, watched 
 him slyly, and were just ready to die with laughter. 
 They knew how he felt, for they had had the same com- 
 plaint. Sam worked a little between the visions. Noth- 
 ing was right. His food did not interest him. His 
 clothes did not fit him. Nothing ever would again but 
 Mary Hoskins. Just before milking time, Sam straight- 
 ened up, smote his right leg and said firmly, I'll do it, by 
 thunder. He had been with Sam Weller. He got new 
 strength from his decision, did his chores creditably, and 
 ate a little supper. Then he shaved, put on his pretties, 
 and went forth to meet the shadowy future, without fear 
 and with a manly heart. The baby was glad to see him. 
 Mary was handsomer than ever. 
 
 The old folks put themselves away in ordinary, very 
 early. It was queer how much rest they did need. 
 
 Sam kept his vow. He began : " I have come over 
 here to-night, to ask you to marry me. Will you, 
 Mary?" 
 
 " How about the baby, Sammy ? " 
 
 " I want him too." 
 
 "Do you truly, Sammy?" 
 
 " Yes, I do. I will do my best for both of you as long 
 as I live." 
 
 "Then I will, Sammy. But I'll ask father." She 
 opened the bedroom door a little. "Father, are you 
 awake ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 "Father, Sammy wants to marry me."
 
 SAM ELLET IN LOVE. 169 
 
 "Well, why don't he?" 
 
 Sam smiled. So did Mary. 
 
 "Are you willing, father?" 
 
 " Yes, I am. Sam Ellet is good enough for you or any- 
 body else." 
 
 Sam blossomed. He was happy. 
 
 "Are you willing, mother?" 
 
 " Yes, dear, and God bless you both." 
 
 Sam's happiness had come, and the old folks were not 
 long behind it, for they got up, dressed themselves, and 
 came out to talk it over. 
 
 Sam said he would try to hire a place or get Mr. Bart- 
 lett to suggest some way they could make a beginning, 
 but Mr. Hoskins cut him short. " Why, Sam. Come 
 and live with us. This farm needs you. I will give you 
 your living and half or more of all we sell off. We can 
 keep more stock and raise three times as much crops. 
 Come at once, Sammy." 
 
 " I will if Mary is willing." 
 
 " You may," said Mary. 
 
 It was decided that the wedding should be on the 
 second Sunday evening, at five o'clock. Sam was as quiet 
 as a lamb. He told them that he should make the old 
 farm shine. He did.
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 SAM AND MARY. 
 
 THE next morning Sam had a hard job to do. He had 
 nearly finished his breakfast, and had scarcely known 
 what he was eating, the subject in his mind had so occu- 
 pied him. Then he told it. He began : " Uncle and 
 Aunt Bartlett, I am sorry to say I must leave you. And 
 it breaks me all up. You have been so kind and good to 
 me. But I have been getting over head and ears in love 
 with Mary Hoskins. It seemed the only thing to do. I 
 have asked her to marry me, and she will. The old folks 
 want me to live with them. They will give us a living 
 and half that is sold from the farm. It is a good chance. 
 There is no chance for any quarrel, for Mary is an only 
 child. We are to be married a week from next Sunday 
 evening, at five o'clock." 
 
 "Sam," said Mr. Bartlett, "you have done well. I 
 knew what was coming. Mother and I have been laugh- 
 ing about it for a week. We are glad of your luck. It 
 is a good job, well done. Mary will m:;ke you a good 
 wife. She is about your age. Mr. and Mrs. Hoskins 
 will both help you." 
 
 Said Mrs. Bartlett, "Yes, Sam. We rejoice with you. 
 You don't need to say good-by, we shall see you so often. 
 If you get hungry, Sammy, come over and get some of 
 iny cookies. Father," she continued, " what are we going 
 to do for Sam ? " 
 
 170
 
 SAM AND MARY. 171 
 
 " Oh, something nice, I guess. Suppose we give him 
 Lady Fly." 
 
 Lady Fly was a beautiful half Jersey cow, kind and 
 gentle, that loved to be petted, and was one of Sam's 
 favorites. Mr. Bartlett said he was awful sorry to have 
 Sam go, but the sorrow was all turned to joy, it was such 
 a blessing to Sam. And again, the Hoskins farm joined 
 the Bartlett farm, and Sam would be only over the fence, 
 away. 
 
 A day later, Roy received this letter, 
 
 DEAR ROY, You will be surprised at the news I shall tell 
 you. I am engaged to Mary Hoskins, and am going to be mar- 
 ried a week from Sunday evening, at five o'clock. If you can 
 come and see your friend off, I shall be glad to do as much for 
 you. We shall live with Mr. and Mrs. Hoskins, and he wants 
 me to make the farm shine, which I can easily do. It is a good 
 home and a good situation. You know that I can save my 
 money. I know it is young to be married at twenty-one, but 
 it came to me so forcibly, that I thought it best. I shall be at 
 the usual train on Saturday to see who is there. 
 Ever your friend, 
 
 SAMUEL ELLET. 
 
 Roy was not as much surprised as Sam thought, for he 
 had heard from his mother. Roy remembered how Sam 
 had saved him from Will Glance, and he went out and 
 bought him a black walnut chamber set and also had a 
 good-sized oil painting framed for him, for a wedding pres- 
 ent. When he went home to the Warrens' that night, he 
 told them the story of Sam's good fortune and the story 
 of Will Glance, which interested them much. Before 
 Roy went, the Misses Warren gave him a package, in 
 trust for Sam, containing a quantity of silver spoons. 
 Mr. Bartlett paid Sam all his wages, and on the Saturday
 
 172 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 before the day, Mr. Bartlett and his wife told Sara to stay 
 in the kitchen and keep house, until they returned. This 
 caused him some apprehension, as the diplomatic relations 
 were becoming somewhat strained already. When, a 
 little later, they came from the barn leading Lady Fly, 
 with brass balls on her horns and the end of each horn 
 decorated with a bow of white ribbon, then Sam's heart 
 gave a big jump and danced Hi, Betty Martin, until the 
 tears came in his eyes. They led Lady Fly over to the 
 Hoskins farm, a good home for her" and her descendants. 
 Saturday night brought Roy, sure enough, and Sam 
 had already got his presents, which had been much ad- 
 mired at the Hoskins farm. When Roy greeted Sam with 
 a cheery word and a hearty grasp, there was a toad in 
 Sam's throat, that almost strangled him. He soon got his 
 wind, and said he should have to get married often to get 
 Roy home. That night Mary did not see Sam. The 
 Bartletts had him. And every one had the same feeling, 
 that, to take a poor, little, frail, half-nourished boy, too 
 young to help himself, and no help but the God of the 
 widow and the fatherless, and educate that boy fairly, 
 make him healthy and strong, and grow a great, big, 
 clean, white soul in him, loving and beloved, giving and 
 hoping for nothing again, and have him turn out as well 
 as Sam Ellet, was indeed a triumph for them all. Some 
 people glorify everything they touch. They had their 
 supper. Somehow they could not talk much, although 
 they had a quiet evening together. The fact is, the 
 whole family were feeling very mellow; and when, a lit- 
 tle later, Mr. Bartlett read a psalm of thanksgiving, and 
 prayed for them all by name, it seemed as if help must 
 come of it.
 
 SAM AND MARY. 173 
 
 The Hoskins family had a late breakfast, and a three 
 o'clock dinner on Sunday. Mr. Hoskins had provided a 
 huge wedding cake, so they could nibble that for supper. 
 The Orthodox minister and his wife from Dover came 
 up. The Bartletts were there, Mr. Hoskins's brother from 
 Barrington, and some relatives, Elisha McDuffie and his 
 wife, and Jean and his lady. There were no tears and 
 no fears. All were glad of it. Mary and Sam" were a 
 handsome, well-mated couple as you often see. Ail hour 
 later the guests departed, and Mr. and Mrs. Iloskins took 
 little Walter and went to Barrington for a three-days 
 visit, leaving Mr. and Mrs. Samuel Ellet to keep house 
 as best they could, and investigate one of the problems 
 that Solomon pretended he could never understand. 
 
 The whole thing had been a perfect success. It went 
 up like a sky-rocket, like Dr. Marigold's entertainment. 
 
 The next day, Mr. Guy Bartlett brought home another 
 boy, to see if he could stock him up with body and soul, 
 victuals and driuk, education and principles.
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 DR. A. C. SMITH AT THE ART COTERIE. 
 
 ROY was considered a rising artist. He kept his word, 
 was especially faithful to his pupils, and he did not ruck 
 or provoke his brother or sister artists with useless caustic v 
 criticism. He was of the opinion that people learn more 
 by the praise of beauty, than the condemnation of the 
 want of it. And so am I. Roy had declined to take 
 money from Miss Graham for lessons, she was so much 
 help to him. This she would not consent to. Her uncle 
 was allowed all he needed for family expenses, and her 
 lessons were a part of it. They finally settled it by Miss 
 Graham's proposition to take the studio with him, and 
 pay half the rent. It was forty dollars a month ; twenty 
 for each. She was to get all the lessons she needed from 
 him, and help teach his pupils for the practice it gave 
 her. Inasmuch as the money came from a great estate, 
 Roy consented, and Miss Graham had a studio of her 
 own. The studio was not open evenings at all, Miss 
 Graham never having been there, and Roy being so well 
 situated for companionship, and with such easy chairs, 
 papers, magazines, and Mrs. Warren's library, that he 
 kept much at home. Roy was saving his money as much 
 as possible to clear his real estate. He hoped to do it in 
 a little over a year. He still had a good sum in the 
 Dover Savings Bank, which he had never drawn upon. 
 It was a favorite story with him about the Englishman 
 
 174 
 
 vu,f
 
 DR. A. C. SMITH AT THE ART COTERIE. 175 
 
 who wished to hire a coachman. The Englishman adver- 
 tised for a man suitable to drive his coach. Three men 
 came. He asked the first one how near he could drive 
 to a precipice, and do it safely. He thought he could 
 drive within a foot. He asked the second. He thought 
 he could drive within six inches. He asked the third, 
 a canny Scot, who answered, if I ever drive your coach, 
 I shall keep as far from a precipice as I can. And the 
 Scot became the coachman. It will do for a story. But 
 all wisdom is not contained in one statement, scripture, 
 sermon, song, or sentiment any more than all beauty is 
 contained in one scene or picture. 
 
 The night for the meeting of the Art Coterie had 
 come. The Warrens had often called at Roy's studio, 
 and of course had made the pleasant acquaintance of 
 Miss Graham. They seemed to take to each other at 
 once. When the Art Coterie was discussed, they seemed 
 to have a confidential understanding with Miss Graham, 
 which Roy felt was more than he ever possessed. 
 
 The studio door bore the name " R. Bartlett, Land- 
 scape Artist." Underneath it, in smaller letters, " Miss 
 Graham." For two days past the door had borne this 
 additional legend : " The Art Coterie will meet on Thurs- 
 day evening, at the usual hour and place. Per order." 
 
 If there is anything that has exerted a permanent 
 influence upon the human race, an influence that has 
 not yet entirely died out, it is curiosity. You ought to 
 have seen the people stop and read that notice. The 
 expression of their faces was. Wai, neow, wot in thunder 
 is that? I do not say that any one in Boston ever said 
 such a thing, but I do say that all but the initiated went 
 oil with an interrogation point in their minds, higher
 
 176 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 than Bunker Hill monument. The eventful evening 
 came. When Miss Graham came Roy did not know. 
 Miss Emily said she was upstairs with Miss Sarah, and 
 was all right. The great double parlors and hall and all 
 available rooms were plum-full. 
 
 Roy took a prominent position, and began : " Ladies 
 and gentlemen, the Art Coterie has grown so fast that I 
 hardly recognized it. Remember, it is entirely informal, 
 and its entertainments are unique and entirely original. 
 I am happy to tell you that I have some one here with 
 me, but not in this room, where he can hear me, or he 
 would be too modest to allow me to say what I shall say. 
 The ladies have inveigled him away for a moment, so 
 that I can tell you about my friend, Doctor Alvah C. 
 Smith, whom I consider about the pleasantest, most 
 entertaining, and accomplished man and the best com- 
 pany that I ever knew. Of course he comes here to 
 entertain us only after much solicitation, for he is as 
 modest as he is accomplished. He is a regularly educated 
 physician, but he chose to teach. He has taught in the 
 grammar schools of Cambridgeport, for more than twenty- 
 five years. He is a fine scholar. He is teacher of the 
 guitar. He plays the organ and piano. . He plays and 
 teaches the fife, flute, and piccolo. He can drum exqui- 
 sitely. He can make the old violin talk, and tell more of 
 the old hornpipes and queer old music than you ever 
 heard. He knows more 
 
 " Quips and cranks and wanton wiles, 
 Nods and becks and wreathed smiles," 
 
 than the whole of us, more jokes, problems, stories, and 
 songs than anybody. Don't any one dare to criticise it,
 
 DR. A. C. SMITH AT THE AET COTERIE. 177 
 
 but give your whole mind to it, as Mark TVain did 
 to the interviewer. Banish dull care, lay right back and 
 smile when the time comes." 
 
 This was the keynote to enjoyment. 
 
 The Misses Warren escorted the doctor to the chair, 
 and Miss Emily said: "My friends, I now have the 
 pleasure of introducing my old and valued friend, Doctor 
 Smith, who has consented to entertain us this evening." 
 
 They cheered him so heartily that he saw some one had 
 been talking. He rose, bowed, and said : " If you are 
 disappointed in your entertainment, you can blame Mr. 
 Bartlett. He is a New Hampshire man, like myself. He 
 did it. Does any one happen to have a guitar in his 
 vest pocket ? " 
 
 It came, having been "tuned and put in order behind 
 the scenes. Without prelude he began to sing with the 
 guitar, " Happy are we to-night, boys," and a sweet inter- 
 lude. Then the old-fashioned song, sung in old-fashioned 
 style, "Betsy Baker." They laughed. He played a mili- 
 tary inarch. It was grand. How they listened. In an 
 instant the guitar changed to a wild fantasia on the flute, 
 which was slyly handed him by Miss Sarah Warren. It 
 was a beauty, and before they knew it, he was giving 
 them the interlude on the piccolo. He finished the inter- 
 lude away up in the clouds somewhere. Then he sat 
 back and rested, smiling pleasantly, while the audience 
 made long continued and hearty acknowledgments. 
 
 The doctor said, "Excuse me, my friends, I'm dry." 
 He said it dryly. " I must have a glass of cider." He 
 held out an imaginary bottle in his right hand, and an 
 imaginary tumbler in his left. Then he made an imag- 
 inary pull on the cork, which came out with a loud pop.
 
 178 THE WILD AKTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 He made believe spill some, and the imaginary cider 
 gurgled loudly into the tumbler. He held it up, canted 
 his head on one side, and looked at it smiling. Then, 
 with wide open eyes, and the greatest gusto, with much 
 noise about it, he took the imaginary long drink. He 
 leaned back. He breathed out a huge, long breath, 
 with Ah !" h ! h ! and a strong blow, then saying, in a big 
 voice, "That's good cider; give me another." It was 
 done so hugely and ponderously, that they screamed with 
 laughter. It was just fun. He called for the drum. It 
 was brought. It had been previously and slyly put in 
 order in the back cellar. It was loaded for bear. It 
 was a fine drum, such as is used by a military drum-corps. 
 
 Miss Emily said, "Now, doctor, please wake us up 
 with the drum ; we shall all go to sleep." 
 
 He took the drumsticks. " Want to be waked up, 
 eh ? " He began a double-trouble fantasia on the drum, 
 enough to split your ears. Then he changed, and if you 
 never heard a first-class drummer drum, you can have no 
 idea of the grace, rhythm, and expression of flim, flam, 
 and flammadiddle, that he put into that blessed drum. 
 All at once he stopped, as if scared, exclaiming, " Hark ! 
 the soldiers are coming." In an instant he whistled, 
 making it sound afar off, but coming nearer, and louder, 
 making it sound like fife and drum approaching, playing 
 " The girl I left behind me." It was a fine illusion. The 
 sound grew, until it was present, even passing the house, 
 and feet were tramping the time, in simulated march. 
 Then Roy clapped his hands to cheer the soldiers, while 
 the Misses , Warren waved their handkerchiefs to them, 
 and the audience took the cue like fire. The doctor 
 whistled and drummed furiously, and the tramp, the
 
 DE. A. C. SMITH AT THE ART COTERIE. 179 
 
 cheers, and Roy's command, " Shoulder arms ! " liked to 
 killed them. It was realistic beyond all reality. Then 
 Roy and the Misses Warren, just as the uproar lulled a 
 bit, waved their hands for hush; the soldiers passed on, 
 the distance increased, the tramp grew fainter, the "Girl 
 I left behind me " went farther off, the drum came down 
 to a far-off sound, and all the imaginary pageant faded 
 away. 
 
 The doctor called again. "Hark!" holding up his 
 hand in command, when they were almost painfully still, 
 he said in a low voice, and with a solemn face, ruy 
 friends, a funeral is coming. It is a Lancer. Then the 
 imaginary fife whistled Pleyel's Hymn, and the muffled 
 drum came nearer, nearer, nearer. It was passing the 
 house. Oh, the solemn muffled drum. They held their 
 breaths and it had passed on, going farther, farther, 
 farther away, until it died out in the distance. Two or 
 three of the ladies really shed a few tears, like Job 
 Trotter's latest effort, real water. Then, in an instant, 
 when they were discovered, and laughed at, they laughed 
 as hearty as anybody. "Oh, man, thou pendulum be- 
 tween a smile and a tear." 
 
 The doctor rested, and Miss Sarah Warren played a 
 selection upon the piano. I need not say what her 
 reception was. The violin came to the doctor. He 
 gave selections from an opera, then changing to the old 
 hornpipes and dances of fifty or a hundred years ago, he 
 played ever so many pieces, better than you ever heard 
 them. Said he, now I will make the baby cry. He did 
 it. It was a dolorous howl but ridiculously natural. 
 When the big baby had cried enough, the doctor told 
 him to go to sleep ; the imaginary baby said, " I can't
 
 180 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 help it," on the fiddle. Dr. Smith allowed the audience 
 to call for old airs, and he knew them almost all. He 
 played that old fiddle the author owns it now with 
 a scamper of variations from the bridge to the nut. Roy 
 called for an old song. It was perhaps never written 
 before, and no one knows how old it is. The song is 
 remembered entire by one who loves the doctor. It is 
 given here, not from any literary merit, but as a speci- 
 men of the olden time, and as it was prettily and wittily 
 sung by Dr. Smith. It is called, 
 
 "CASTLE OVER LYNN." 
 
 THE YOUNG MAN SINGS. 
 
 " Young man, are you going to Lynn, 
 
 Castle over Lynn, castle lonely ? 
 Give my love to the maid therein. 
 
 Keedle oh, keedle oh, tally oh, tally oh, 
 
 Castle over Lynn, castle lonely. 
 
 " Tell her to buy one yard of cloth, 
 
 Castle over Lynn, castle lonely. 
 And tell her to make me a shirt thereof, 
 
 Keedle oh, keedle oh, tally oh, tally oh, 
 
 Castle over Lynn, castle lonely. 
 
 " Tell her to sew it up without any seam, 
 
 Castle over Lynn, castle lonely, 
 And never to take one stitch therein, 
 
 Keedle oh, keedle oh, tally oh. tally oh, 
 
 Castle over Lynn, castle lonely. 
 
 " Tell her to wash it out in a dry well, ' 
 
 Castle over Lynn, castle lonely, 
 Where water never sprung and rain never fell, 
 Keedle oh, keedle oh, tally oh, tally oh, 
 
 Castle over Lynn, castle lonely.
 
 DR. A. C. SMITH AT THE ART COTERIE. 181 
 
 " Tell her to hang it out on a dry thorn, 
 
 Castle over Lynn, castle lonely, 
 That never bore a leaf since Adam was born, - 
 
 Keedle oh, keedle oh, tally oh, tally oh, 
 Castle over Lynn, castle lonely. 
 
 " Tell her when she will the shirt provide, 
 
 Castle over Lynn, castle lonely, 
 To bring it up to me and she shall be my bride, 
 Keedle oh, keedle oh, tally oh, tally oh, 
 
 Castle over Lynn, castle lonely." 
 
 THEN THE MAID SINGS. 
 
 " Young man, are you going to Cape Ann, 
 
 Castle over Lynn, castle lonely ? 
 Then give my love to that same young man, 
 Keedle oh, keedle oh, tally oh, tally oh, 
 
 Castle over Lynn, castle lonely. 
 
 " Tell him to buy an acre of land, 
 
 Castle over Lynn, castle lonely, 
 Between the salt water and the sea sand, 
 Keedle oh, keedle oh, tally oh, tally oh, 
 
 Castle over Lynn, castle lonely. 
 
 " Tell him to plough it with a hog's horn, 
 
 Castle over Lynn, castle lonely, 
 And sow it all down with one peppercorn, 
 Keedle oh, keedle oh, tally oh, tally oh, 
 
 Castle over Lynn, castle lonely. 
 
 " Tell him to reap it with one penknife, 
 
 Castle over Lynn, castle lonely, 
 And cart it all in with two little mice, 
 
 Keedle oh, keedle oh, tally oh, tally oh, 
 
 Castle over Lynn, castle lonely. 
 
 " Tell him to thrash it out with a goose-quill, 
 
 Castle over Lynn, castle lonely, 
 And winnow it up into one egg-shell,
 
 182 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 Keedle oh, keedle oh, tally oh, tally oh, 
 Castle over Lynn, castle lonely. 
 
 " Tell him when he has done his work, 
 
 Castle over Lynn, castle lonely, 
 To bring it up to me, and he shall have his shirt 
 
 Keedle oh, keedle oh, tally oh, tally oh, 
 Castle over Lynn, castle lonely." 
 
 The oddity of the old song pleased them. The doctor 
 got it when he was a boy. Miss Emily handed him the 
 fife while Miss Sarah had the drum at her side in real 
 military fashion, ready to mark time. The doctor said, 
 Soldiers, our company is full and we are ordered to the 
 war. Massachusetts expects every man to do his duty. 
 Forward! March! It was Yankee Doodle, played as 
 few have ever heard it, with the step kept by the doctor, 
 the Misses Warren, and Roy. Miss Sarah had practised 
 slyly on the drum and surprised them all. The audience 
 caught on, and they all marched triumphantly off to the 
 war, almost. Then the doctor practised a few capers and 
 quaint old tunes, coming back to " The girl I left behind 
 rne." He next sang a song, accompanying himself on 
 his " bay window," his capacious vest. It was witty in 
 word, funny in conceit, and jolly, musical, and rhythmi- 
 cal all through. The "rocket cheer" was called for. 
 Roy said some knew it, and all would after one trial. 
 Nobody ever forgets it. There was a low clapping of 
 hands. The doctor made a racket, cried out, look out ! 
 and began a terrible hissing of the rocket going up. It 
 grew fainter away up in the sky, for the doctor was a fine 
 ventriloquist. Then it burst in the air and at the sight 
 of imaginary stars they breathed out Oo ! Oo ! Oo ! Then 
 the second far-off explosion came, with imaginary ser-
 
 DR. A. C. SMITH AT THE ART COTERIE. 183 
 
 pents in the air, and all Boston Common breathed out 
 Ah, h, h, h. Then clapping again. They all knew it 
 now. They tried it again and again, and it was done. 
 The responses came in a voice of thunder. Nor was it 
 confined to the house, for the crowd outside prolonged 
 the cheering vociferously. Then the drum rolled again 
 smartly, and Forward! March! in a field-officer style and 
 the whole audience tramped the time through Yankee 
 Doodle. 
 
 Said the doctor, " Mrs. Warren, what do you keep that 
 dog shut up, barking all the evening, for?" 
 
 They had not heard it before, but now they did. 
 There it was in a room not far off. Bow, bow, bow. 
 He barked louder. It was another of the doctor's illu- 
 sions. He called, Rats ! and a rat squeaked. The women 
 shrieked and jumped, showing signs of standing on chairs, 
 holding their dress about their feet. Soon they laughed. 
 Sold again. 
 
 Said the doctor, " The last selection which these friends 
 have called for is, ' Old King Coyne.' " Now this piece 
 is full of acting. When he spoke of a thing he acted it. 
 It was a real play on an imaginary fiddle or a real beat of 
 an imaginary drum, on his "bay window." He imitated 
 every motion. So this was a busy piece to sing. When 
 the women yowl out in the last stanza, it scares them 
 dreadfully, and they all hurry through most comically. 
 Words can hardly reproduce it. Here is the text : 
 
 "OLD KING COYNE. 
 
 " Old King Coyne he called for his wine, 
 And he called for his fiddlers three ; 
 And every fiddler could fiddle well, 
 For a very fine fiddle had he.
 
 184 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 'Twas a Yankee doodle tweedle, said the fiddler. 
 O ne'er was a maid in old Scotland 
 Could play such tunes as these. 
 
 " Old King Coyne he called for his wine, 
 And he called for his drummers three ; 
 And every drummer could drum well, 
 For a very fine drum had he. 
 'Twas a rubadub dub, said the drummer, 
 And a Yankee doodle tweedle, said tne fiddler. 
 O ne'er was a maid in old Scotland 
 Could play such tunes as these. 
 
 " Old King Coyne he called for his wine, 
 And he called for his fif ers three ; t 
 And every fifer could fife well, 
 For a very fine fife had he. 
 'Twas a rootle tootle tootle, said the fifers, 
 And a rubadub dub, said the drummer, 
 And a Yankee doodle tweedle, said the fiddler. 
 O ne'er was a maid in old Scotland 
 Could play such tunes as these. 
 
 " Old King Coyne he called for his wine, 
 And he called for his harpers three ; 
 And every harper could harp well, 
 For a very fine hai-p had he. 
 'Twas a plim plim plim, said the harper, 
 And a rootle tootle tootle, said the fifer, 
 And a rubadub dub, said the drummer, 
 And a Yankee doodle tweedle, said the fiddler. 
 O ne'er was a maid in old Scotland 
 Could play such tunes as these. 
 
 " Old King Coyne he called for his wine, 
 And he called for his barbel's three ; 
 And every barber could shave well, 
 For a very fine razor had he. 
 'Twas a hold away your snout, said the barber, 
 And a plim plim plim, said the harper,
 
 DE. A. C. SMITH AT THE AKT COTEEfE. 185 
 
 And a rootle tootle tootle, said the fifer, 
 And a rubadub dub, said the drummer, 
 And a Yankee doodle tweedle, said the fiddler. 
 O ne'er was a maid in old Scotland 
 Could play such tunes as these. 
 
 " Old King Coyne he called for his wine, 
 And he called for his farmers three ; 
 And every farmer could team well, 
 For a very fine team had he. 
 
 'Twas Hish ! Haw buck, ye divil, said the farmer, 
 And a hold away your snout, said the barber, 
 And a plim plim plim, said the harper, 
 And a rootle tootle tootle, said the fifer, 
 And a rubadub dub, said the di'ummer, 
 And a Yankee doodle tweedle, said the fiddler. 
 O ne'er was a maid in old Scotland 
 Could play such tunes as these. 
 
 " Old King Coyne he called for his wine, 
 And he called for his ministers three ; 
 And every minister could pray well, 
 For a very fine prayer had he. 
 'Twas a Lord 'a' massy on us, said the ministers, 
 And Hish ! Haw buck, ye divil, said the farmer, 
 And a hold away your snout, said the barber, 
 And a plim plim plim, said the harper, 
 And a rootle tootle tootle, said the fifer, 
 And a rubadub dub, said the drummer, 
 And a Yankee doodle tweedle, said the fiddler. 
 O ne'er was a maid in old Scotland 
 Could play such tunes as these. 
 
 " Old King Coyne he called for his wine, 
 And he called for his sailors three ; 
 And every sailor could swear well, 
 For a very fine oath had he. 
 'Twas, O blarne your eyes, said the sailor, 
 Lord 'a' massy on us, said the ministers,
 
 186 THE WILD AKTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 And Hish! Haw buck, ye divil, said the farmer, 
 
 And a hold away your snout, said the barber, 
 
 And a plim plim plim, said the harper, 
 
 And a rootle tootle tootle, said the lifer, 
 
 And a rubadub dub, said the drummer, 
 
 And a Yankee doodle tweedle, said the fiddler. 
 
 O ne'er was a maid in old Scotland 
 
 Could play such tunes as these. 
 
 " Old King Coyne he called for his wine, 
 And he called for his women three ; 
 And eA T ery woman could scold well, 
 For a very fine clack had she. 
 'Twas Yaah ! yaah ! yaah ! said the women (this scares 
 
 them all), 
 
 O blame your eyes, said the sailors, 
 O Lord 'a' massy on us, said the ministers, 
 O Hish ! Haw buck, ye divil, said the farmer, 
 And a hold away your snout, said the barber, 
 And a plim plim plim, said the harper, 
 And a rootle tootle tootle, said the fifers, 
 And a rubadub dub, said the drummer, 
 And a Yankee doodle tweedle, said the fiddler. 
 O ne'er was a maid in old Scotland 
 Could play such tunes as these." 
 
 The clack of the women had scared them ridiculously. 
 His imitations were very funny. There was one old fel* 
 low there that no one ever had known to laugh. But he 
 let out a Haw ! Haw ! Haw ! that caught like an 
 epidemic. The Coterie had heard the oddest, queerest 
 entertainment in life. I cannot begin to do it justice, on 
 paper. Many who read this, will begin and read with a 
 smile, Avhich will cloud up to tears, and they will end at 
 Dr. Smith's grave, in the cemetery at Reading, Mass. It 
 is a break to put it in here. 
 
 The doctor said at the close, " I thank you, friends. I
 
 DE. A. C. SMITH AT THE ART COTEEIE. 187 
 
 have never had an audience who were more in sympathy 
 with me. A little fun is good. The rocket cheer, the 
 way you do it, is grand. If anybody says that artists 
 are not sympathetic and appreciative, I shall go for 
 them." He bowed. Roy called for a vote of thanks. It 
 was given with a will. Now, Miss Sarah Warren, please 
 take the piano, and we will sing 
 
 " Over the mountain wave, 
 See where they come ! " 
 
 Copies were furnished : the simple song was grandly 
 sung. There were many fine singers present, some from 
 several choirs, well known in Boston, and as the last 
 notes died away, there came to each a feeling, O how 
 much comfort there is in common accomplishments, when 
 so magnificently done. Theodore Parker once said, 
 " You strike flint and steel together, and you get fire. 
 You strike two pieces of ice together, and you get noth- 
 ing but cold splinters."
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 
 
 EOT COMES TO GRIEF. 
 
 ROY sat in his studio and thought over the situation. 
 He thought whether he ought to be satisfied with his 
 progress as an artist, or not. He had not really gained a 
 large sura in three years or more, beside all his previous 
 study in art. Still, by taking his real estate venture into 
 the account, with some other sources of advantage, he had 
 done well. He had about a thousand dollars in the Dover 
 Savings Bank and had not drawn a dollar. He felt that 
 to be an anchor of safety, if he should break a leg, or get 
 a snowslide that smashed him down, or get an acute 
 sickness, or get sued, or see a sure chance to make a pile 
 at a small risk, when he might need a few hundred dol- 
 lars in a hurry. Oh, he was cautious, Roy was. Tom, 
 Dick and Harry did not know that he had means. So he 
 was not teased to death, to cast it into the bottomless pit, 
 by lending it to irresponsible persons. His parents knew 
 all about it, and all his affairs. Miss Graham knew some, 
 and Roy knew her to be prudent and safe. His pupils 
 were many and good pay. Yes, he was satisfied with 
 what he had done and he wanted to do more. 
 
 Miss Graham painted well. Not quite as well as he, 
 but too well to have any need of paying him for lessons. 
 She was gaining all the time. So was he. Hardly a 
 week passed that one of them did not take one or two 
 
 188
 
 ROY COMES TO GRIEF. 189 
 
 lessons from some fine artist in Boston. They learned 
 what colors were safe, what were changeable, what would 
 fade, and what were solid and permanent. There is a 
 great deal of treacherous color for sale. Sometimes it 
 was a lesson from Mr. S. L. Gerry, or Mr. Benjamin 
 Champney, or Mr. A. T. Bricher, or Mr. J. M. Stone, or 
 Mr. J. W. A. Scott, or Mr. J. J. Enneking, or Mr. C. F. 
 Pierce in cattle or sheep, or Mr. E. L. Caster in portrait. 
 As they always paid cash, and did as they would be done 
 by, in criticism, they were welcome everywhere. I know 
 of no place where the golden rule is so much needed as 
 in art criticism. It was good medicine for Roy that Miss 
 Graham was there. Although he was awake, yet he had 
 to keep his eyes open tight, or like many a boy in a spell- 
 ing class, he would have had the chagrin of seeing a little 
 woman walk right in ahead of him. He had no idea of 
 that, so he kept gaining, often producing a picture that 
 was a surprise to himself and to her. 
 
 I said he was sitting, thinking. When a wide-awake 
 Yankee sits squarely down and makes a business of think- 
 ing, something ought to come of it. He spoke. " Miss 
 Graham," said he, "I have quite a lot of pictures on 
 hand. They gain on me. What luck ought I to have, if 
 I sell my pictures at auction ? " 
 
 Miss Graham thought a moment and replied, " You 
 ought to have good success. But I cannot advise you, 
 whether you will or not. I will help you all I can. It 
 may amount to something, or not." 
 
 Roy said he would look it up, and he thought he would 
 have the sale, and risk it. 
 
 He reported the process to Miss Graham, step by step. 
 He laid out fifty pictures, from six by eight inches in
 
 190 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 size, to one pair thirty by fifty. McLondon's commission 
 was eleven per cent. Roy would have to frame them all 
 and the pictures would have to be sold with the frames. 
 Roy would have the bill for the advertising and catalogue 
 to pay. McLondon wrote the advertisements, and for 
 several days, they were in half a dozen papers. The pict- 
 ures were hung and on exhibition four days. The sale 
 was to be on Thursday, at two o'clock. The number that 
 examined the collection was good. Some of Roy's pupils 
 were in to look, and they reported that the criticism was 
 kindly. 
 
 The pictures seemed to be well liked, and several peo- 
 ple were there who seemed to be looking to buy. Some 
 of them had taken the names and numbers on cards and 
 slips. It looked rather favorable. More than this, some 
 one had caused to be inserted in the Transcript, a notice 
 containing one very mild criticism, and considerable hon- 
 est, judicious praise of this artist's work, and of this sale 
 especially. Roy wondered who had paid for it. It must 
 have been paid for. He asked the Warrens, and they 
 said squarely they did not know. He asked Miss Graham 
 but she said she could not help him any. He thought it 
 might be Gardner Brewer or S. R. Knights, but he did 
 not find out .that it was. He reckoned that if he could 
 only realize ten dollars each on fifty pictures, that would 
 be five hundred dollars and he ouo-ht to do that above all 
 
 O 
 
 expenses. Why ! There were two that ought to bring a 
 hundred each with the frame, easily. There were twenty 
 that might bring fifty each. It looked sure every way. 
 He expected but little and it might be a bonanza. Roy 
 had cleaned and varnished every picture that needed it, 
 and Miss Graham had helped splendidly. She was one
 
 KOY COMES TO GRIEF. 191 
 
 of those faithful souls that follow out the wisdom of 
 Charles Dickens's speech, which he made at a visit to a 
 school, at his last visit to the United States. "Boys, do 
 all the good you can, and make no fuss about it." It is 
 Bible boiled down to a diamond solid. Roy's pictures 
 were well framed. He had about a dozen on hand in the 
 studio. The remainder he had made to order. They 
 were all good gold frames, though some of them were not 
 very heavy." He got them of a frame-maker, and at a 
 satisfactory rate. The day of sale came. McLondon 
 sold furniture in a part of the large auction rooms, until 
 two o'clock, the hour of the pictui'e sale. Still he kept 
 on selling furniture. There was quite a crowd present. 
 At ten minutes past two some one asked the auctioneer, 
 "When do you sell the pictures?" Very soon, he said. 
 Here is a small lot of furniture to be closed out, and then 
 come the pictures. He kept on selling furniture. Roy 
 was conscious of being defrauded. Twenty minutes 
 passed. Some began to leave. The public is an animal 
 that won't bear being fooled with. Whoever tries it 
 is apt to find out their mistake. Still selling furniture at 
 half past two. Strangers shot angry glances at McLon- 
 don. At a quarter of three he desisted and announced : 
 " And now, ladies and gentlemen, we sell the pictures." 
 Half the audience were gone. Others felt that it would 
 be spiting the auctioneer not to bid at all, and they did 
 not bid. The pictures went low, often less than the price 
 of the frames. Roy was present at the sale. There was 
 to be no limit on anything whatever. Miss Graham was 
 there also. She was pale and without a smile. As soon 
 as she saw the pictures begin to sell below the price of 
 the frames, she began to bid. She knew the value of
 
 192 THE WILD AKTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 every frame. If a frame was not a new one she allowed 
 it to go for less. Roy took his punishment like a man. 
 There were not over fifty people present, and three or 
 four of these were Irish second-hand furniture dealers, 
 who only bought at half the price of the frames. The 
 sale went on. Miss Graham had bought eight pictures. 
 The second-hand dealers looked hard at her. Thirty pict- 
 ures had been sold. Said McLondon to Miss Graham, 
 "Lady, are you bidding in pictures for Mr. Bartlett?" 
 "No, sir, indeed I am not. I am buying these pictures 
 to sell again. I can easily get five times what I pay for 
 them. The money is all ready to pay for them, sir, as 
 soon as the sale is done." 
 
 The sale went on at about the price of the frames. 
 Miss Graham bought in all, twenty pictures. The frames 
 were all new, the most tasty patterns, and in most cases 
 the pictures were Roy's most careful studies. The two 
 that were thirty by fifty inches, came to Miss Graham, at 
 twelve and fourteen dollars each. Her bill was two hun- 
 dred dollars. It was less than the cost of the frames. 
 Bad as the sale was, she had saved him a hundred dol- 
 lars. She went not to the studio again that day. Just 
 at night, a furniture team from the West bay came to 
 McLondon's auction room, called for Miss Graham's bill, 
 paid the two hundred dollai-s, and took the pictures. 
 The frames had been hard used. One of the smaller 
 pictures had a long scratch across it. One had a corner 
 dented into it, that made a dimple enough to spoil it, 
 and one of the thirty by fifty sizes had a slit in it six 
 inches long. The whole thing was enough to make 
 angels weep, and Satan tear his hair. The pictures all 
 went, and well they might at the price.
 
 KOY COMES TO GKTEF. 193 
 
 Roy called at the counting-room. Melowney, McLon- 
 don's clerk, told him to call next Thursday morning, and 
 he would get his money. It took about a week to make 
 up the account. At any rate, it is good to give a victim 
 a week to let his expectations evaporate, and bring him 
 into a more receptive condition, and glad to get anything 
 'whatever. Reader, I am writing a realistic novel. The 
 fact is, that this is just as it happened, and is real, with 
 no " istic" or novel about it. I have seen it worse than I 
 have written it. I know just what I am talking about. 
 I know just as true, kind, honest auctioneers, as good 
 men as are in the world, and most useful. And I have 
 met some that the devil Avould blush to own as an ac- 
 quaintance. I have known an artist take many thousand 
 dollars for a two-days sale of pictures, fifty pictures each 
 day. I have known a fair artist have far worse usage 
 than Roy Bartlett, both in the management and the re- 
 sult. 
 
 The next day Roy was in his studio on time. He was, 
 if anything, a little better dressed, a little handsomer, 
 quite as smiling, and, what he did not often do except on 
 coterie night or festive occasions, he had a bouquet on his 
 coat, carnation pinks. He was a daisy. He might have 
 been a lady-killer, but the fact that he presides in this 
 book, is assurance that he was not. 
 
 Miss Graham came at nine. She was just her own 
 pleasant, smiling, sweet self, or perhaps a shaving more 
 so. I can say no better than that. It is the superlative 
 degree before they develop wings. They were glad to 
 see each other again. The time since yesterday seemed 
 long. They were glad it was over. Now for work. 
 
 Said Roy, " Miss Graham, I wish to go out to make a
 
 194 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 call. I shall be gone only a few minutes. If pupils come 
 in, please to look out for them until I return." 
 
 He went out. He called upon a young lawyer in 
 School Street, a Mr. Edric Lyman, whom he had known 
 in Dover. Roy stated the facts concerning the sale, and 
 all about it. He asked if he had any remedy. The law- 
 yer thought a moment, and answered. You had better 
 not consider whether you need a remedy, or not, until 
 you get a settlement with McLondon. Don't sign a re- 
 ceipt in full of all demands. But I do not think McLon- 
 don will offer you one. He will offer you a statement 
 of the result, with a balance due you which you can sign 
 a receipt for. When you get your money, call again. 
 Roy went to work. Pupils were well cared for, and good 
 results came from that forenoon's work. Miss Graham 
 had a little lunch with her, and took it quietly in her 
 corner. Roy went out to lunch. 
 
 While he was gone, a man came in and asked per- 
 mission to see the pictures. Miss Graham said Mr. 
 Bartlett had none done. She had a few. She showed 
 them. One was a good landscape. He asked the price. 
 She had done her best on it. She would sell it for 
 twenty dollars. He handed her a new twenty-dollar 
 bill, took the picture, would not have it done up, and 
 went away. 
 
 Another knock on the door. Miss Graham answered 
 it. A man inquired for Mr. Bartlett, the man that 
 paints picters. He was gone out, but would be in again 
 soon. Be you his wife? Miss Graham's face fairly 
 blazed, she blushed so. But she answered with dignity, 
 No, sir. He is no relation of mine whatever. I am his 
 pupil. I beg your pardon, marm, I meant no offence.
 
 ROY COMES TO GBIEF. 195 
 
 Just then Mr. Bartlett came in and saw the man, and 
 Miss Graham went to her easel. 
 
 He said, "I bought one of them picters of yourn. My 
 wife used to paint some before we were married, an' she 
 wants a mate to the one I bought. It is twenty by thirty. 
 I'm a teamster. I dunno nothin' about picters, but I like 
 'em well enough, and I can afford one or two for such a 
 woman as mine. Will you paint a mate to it, same size, 
 some subject suitable for a mate to it?" 
 
 "Yes," said Roy. 
 
 "When'll ye have it done?" 
 
 " In two weeks." 
 
 "All right. Same price as the other, of course?" 
 
 Said Roy, "What was that?" 
 
 " Ten dollars." 
 
 "Not by considerable. The frame cost fifteen." 
 
 " Wai, that's queer," said the teamster. " Pooty queer 
 for a man to have two prices for his pictures." 
 
 Said Roy, " Those pictures were put in that auction 
 room with the expectation that they would realize from 
 four to eight times as much as they brought. It was your 
 luck to get one. But I do not believe that you will ever, 
 in your life, get a picture of mine, which I can easily sell 
 for thirty dollars, and a frame which I paid fifteen for, 
 forty-five dollars in all, for ten dollars. I will give you 
 twenty dollars for your picture and frame." 
 
 The man reflected a moment, then said, " Wai, it is so, 
 come to look at it, ain't it ? Then you must have lost 
 some money yesterday." 
 
 " I did," said Roy. 
 
 "Wai, it is too bad. I'm sorry. What would ye 
 charge for a good mate to the one I had ? "
 
 196 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 Said Roy, "I can get the frame made for you at cost, 
 fifteen dollars, as it is not a very heavy one. I will 
 paint you the picture for thirty more, and give you a good 
 mate for yours. Don't do it if you do not want to, or if 
 you cannot afford it." 
 
 Said the man, " Wai, now, I shall jest do it. Here's 
 my card. Please have the picter and frame ready in two 
 weeks from to-day. An' say, you must need money. I 
 vow, here's yer forty-five dollars. Now give me a good 
 one." Then, turning to Miss Graham, he said, " Lady, I 
 hope you won't notice my rough ways. I don't mean to 
 be rough to any of God's creaturs, leastways to a 
 woman." 
 
 " You are very kind," said Miss Graham. 
 
 He was gone. 
 
 "Thank God for a man ! " said Roy. 
 
 "Amen! " said Miss Graham, smiling. 
 
 The teamster got his picture, and it suited him and his 
 wife. It was not the last that he bought for himself, or 
 sold for Hoy either. "Luck for both of us," said Miss 
 Graham. 
 
 "What?" he asked. 
 
 Then she showed her twenty-dollar bill, and told of 
 the sale she had made. It was Roy's turn to be pleased. 
 
 " Now," said Roy, " it is my turn to talk to you. You 
 saved me money on my sale, or give-away, as McLondon 
 managed it. You paid two hundred dollars in cash, for 
 pictures and frames. I will take them all of you, and pay 
 you the cash, if you will allow me to. You must have 
 borrowed the money to pay for them, and it must make 
 you cruelly short. Shall I send for them?" 
 
 She answered : " You need not worry at all about
 
 ROY COMES TO GEIEF. 197 
 
 my being short of money, for I have something from my 
 uncle every month. I have sold pictures for good priceSj 
 and I had the money to pay for all -I bought. You can 
 take any one, any time you can sell it, and return just 
 what it cost me, and no more. But had you not better 
 select the best subjects, paint slowly and carefully some 
 new pictures, and let the old ones go by? I am willing 
 to keep them. I want some of them to hang in the 
 house. My uncle will charge them to the estate, and I 
 shall be paid for them at a profit." 
 
 Roy concluded to let them remain. He also concluded 
 that Miss Graham had the best of common-sense, was a 
 good manager, and would always do the best that could 
 be done. 
 
 He got his account of the sale from McLondon. It 
 was thus : 
 
 50 pictures sold on account of R. Bartlett . . 500.20 
 
 Advertising, per bills 49.90 
 
 Commission, 11 per cent 55.02 
 
 200 fancy linen catalogues . . . . 65.28 
 
 170.20 170.20 
 
 Cash paid R. Bartlett 330.00 
 
 Roy signed a receipt to that statement, took his check 
 and a copy of the statement to Edric Lyman's office, in 
 School Street. The lawyer looked hard at it, but did not 
 keep Roy waiting, to show his own importance, the intri- 
 cacy of the case, or the general ponderosity of the law. 
 He took a little time to consider it, and went into it, like 
 a sharp, wide-awake "New Hampshire Yankee, as he was. 
 
 He spoke : " Mr. Bartlett, you have been used badly.
 
 198 THE WILD ARTIST IX BOSTON. 
 
 Swindled outrageously. Still an auction sale of pictures 
 is a chance for an accident. But your sale was put off 
 three quarters of an hour, until your audience, that you 
 had paid heavily for, had largely gone, and the remainder 
 nettled, and made cross, so they would not buy. You 
 ought to have substantial damages, but you cannot get 
 them. I have had an experience with McLondon before. 
 He is slippery. You cannot hold him. lie has no real 
 estate. Plis wife has. She has a bank account. You 
 cannot even tell him your opinion of him. It is a right- 
 eous opinion. He would sue you. He might collect. 
 You have real estate. I read the deed in the registry. 
 You can collect nothing in my opinion. I will give you 
 Peter Parley's prescription for the gout, ' Grin and bear 
 it.' I am sorry I cannot be of real comfort and redress 
 to you, for I know you have been swindled. Hereafter 
 take care and look out who you deal with." 
 
 Roy took out his pocket-book. "How much is to 
 pay, sir?" 
 
 " Nothing whatever. You have paid too much, now. 
 When you want advice call in. If it is legal advice that 
 saves or collects money or value for you, I will make 
 a moderate charge for it. Otherwise make me a social 
 call, ask me any questions on law or anything else and I 
 shall be glad to answer free. That is the way I do busi- 
 ness, and make friends and money. If you see any one 
 wronged or robbed of their just rights, send them to me, 
 and I will make the best fight I can for them, whether I 
 get paid or not." 
 
 Roy thanked him, and said he would do it. He did, 
 faithfully. He went back and told the story to Miss 
 Graham.
 
 ROY COMES TO GEIEF. 199 
 
 She said, "It seems to me you have met another 
 whole-souled man." 
 
 " Yes," said Roy, "he is. Thank God for an honest 
 lawyer." 
 
 Miss Graham took his name and address for possible 
 future use. 
 
 Roy had his figures now. His frames for his fifty pict- 
 ures, including a fair valuation on some not quite new, 
 made the amount just six hundred dollars. He received 
 from McLondon just three hundred and thirty. So he 
 had sunk just two hundred arid seventy dollars in cash 
 and given away fifty pictures for nothing. He was at 
 least a thousand dollars out. Miss Graham asked if he 
 had money to provide for it. She had disposed of some 
 of those she had bought and he could have a hundred 
 dollars as well as not. She should not use it. He said 
 no. He was greatly obliged, but could get along, and 
 by industry should soon get over his loss, while the ex- 
 perience was worth money to him. He never should for- 
 get it. 
 
 The next morning two new pupils came, both ladies. 
 They paid for twelve lessons in advance. Miss Graham 
 chanced to know them. She knew them to be suitable 
 people, and they at once received their invitation to the 
 Art Coterie. It was partly what they came for. There 
 were eight pupils at work in the studio beside Miss 
 Graham and Roy. There was a knock on the door. 
 Roy opened it. A well dressed man of medium height 
 was there. He had on a nice silk hat, plenty of jewelry, 
 and the general air of a man of substance. He spoke 
 loudly. "I want to see Bartlett, that sold the calamity 
 pictures at McLondon's."
 
 200 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 Roy answered, " I am Mr. Bartlett." 
 
 " Well, sir, I bought a picture there for an oil painting. 
 It was on your catalogue as an oil painting, number fif- 
 teen. It is no oil painting at all, sir, only a cheap chromo. 
 I consider you a fraud, a swindler, and a scoundrel." 
 He raised his voice high and loud so that all Roy's pupils 
 heard him, and many others in the building. Roy was 
 angry. He was strongly tempted to smash his face, and ' 
 he could have done it, and not much harm come of it, 
 but the Bartlett brains prevailed, and he did not. 
 " Where is your picture, sii ? " " At my house. It is a 
 chromo. My wife says it is, and she has painted some. 
 She knows it." 
 
 Says Roy, " Now please give me your address. I will 
 send a messenger to your house and if you have suffered 
 any wrong or loss by me, I will make it good." 
 
 The man gave his name and habitation. 
 
 " Where is your place of business, sir ? If it is nearer 
 than your home on Columbus Avenue, I can send you 
 word there." 
 
 He reflected a moment, and then gave Roy his place of 
 business. It was a firm well situated and doing well. 
 Roy stepped inside the studio again. He said to the 
 ladies present : " Ladies, there is not the slightest ground 
 for this outrage. Miss Graham will remember number 
 fifteen on my catalogue. He bought it for less than the 
 price of the frame. Of course no artist i-n Boston or else- 
 where ever sells a chromo for an oil painting. Miss 
 Graham, will you please write in ink, the date, the hour 
 of the day, the names of the pupils present, with their 
 addresses, and keep it as your property. I may need it." 
 
 Then Roy went out, and called on Lawyer Lyinan
 
 ROY COMES TO GRIEF. 201 
 
 again. He was in. Roy told his story and the lawyer 
 laughed heartily. He said, " If folks did not make fools 
 of themselves, what would we poor lawyers do!" Roy 
 could not come to laugh at it yet. He was too much 
 provoked. 
 
 " Seriously, Mr. Bartlett, I do not think you can 
 collect much, if anything from him, for calling you 
 names, unless you can prove that you have sustained real 
 loss therefrom. Now if you can prove that your pupils 
 left you, or other veal loss came to you, then you can 
 force him to pay. But I guess I can get you some satis- 
 faction if I do not get you much money. Mr. Bartlett, 
 'where do you get your artist's materials?" 
 
 " At F. C. Hastings & Co.'s sometimes, and sometimes 
 at C. J. Edmands's." 
 
 Lawyer Lyman took the man's address and would re- 
 port to Roy. He got one of the clerks from the artist's 
 materials store to go with him at once to the man's 
 house, in Columbus Avenue. The wife was at home. 
 The picture was shown. It was taken from the frame. 
 The clerk looked at it and smiled. Said he, " This is a 
 Winsor and Newton canvas. I covered it myself. The 
 picture is signed by Roy Bartlett. It is a beautiful 
 dainty signature. It is not a chromo. It is a fine oil 
 painting, worth about twenty-five dollars or more. The 
 frame must have cost eight or ten." 
 
 The lawyer held the picture up to the light, saying, 
 " See, lady, see the brush marks. See the linen canvas. 
 See the store mark on the stretcher, are you satisfied ? " 
 
 " Yes, I am. But it looked so smooth and shiny, I 
 thought it was too good to be an oil painting. I am 
 sorry, I declare."
 
 202 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 " Yes," said Lawyer Lyman, " it is very bad. I will 
 give fifteen dollars for what he bought for six. It is a 
 view in Dover, New Hampshire. I know the place. 
 And your husband went to that large building, and be- 
 fore many witnesses, and in the presence of several 
 ladies who live in and about Commonwealth Avenue, 
 he in a very loud voice denounced the artist as a fraud, 
 a swindler, and a scoundrel. I have long known this 
 artist as a gentleman, the soul of honor, incapable of 
 a wrong act. Now here is my card. I am Mr. Bartlett's 
 lawyer. If your husband comes to my office before ten 
 o'clock to-morrow morning, he can settle. Mr. Bartlett 
 does not propose to submit to such an outrage. If he 
 does not come I am ordered to bring a suit at once, and 
 the whole outrage will be in the newspapers. There are 
 twenty or more witnesses. That is all. He cannot af- 
 ford to let such awful blunders as that go before a 
 jury." 
 
 The woman was pale and trembling. She had been 
 the cause of it. The lawyer went back to his office. He 
 asked the clerk to remain on the corner, in a store, a few 
 minutes, and see if a woman left the house. He got 
 back to Lyman's office almost as soon as he did, and re- 
 ported that the woman went out.- In a little over an 
 hour the man came in to the lawyer's office, looking rather 
 sober. He began, " You were at my house about that 
 chromo, er, oil painting I mean." 
 
 " Yes, sir, I was. Take a seat, sir. That chromo is a 
 fine, carefully studied oil painting, a view in Dover, near 
 Mr. Bartlett's homestead. The Bartletts are a high-toned, 
 wealthy family, with a great deal of pride, and a good 
 record to back it up. They are descended from Josiah
 
 ROY COMES TO GRIEF. 203 
 
 Bavtlett, the first governor of New Hampshire. I took 
 the clerk up to the house, to identify the canvas it was 
 painted on. Mr. Bartlett did not want you swindled, and 
 does not propose to bear the name of a rascal or scoun- 
 drel. How that story would look in the papers. How it 
 would sound, that you bought a fine oil painting and did 
 not know it from a chromo. Living in Columbus Avenue 
 too. Ha, ha, ha! you would be the laughing-stock of 
 Boston. It would be remembered against your children. 
 Of course, you cannot approve your action now, and you 
 cannot afford to let it get out." 
 
 The man was pale, his hands trembled, his lips were 
 gripped together and he could hardly articulate. He 
 managed to ask, "What will settle it and keep it from 
 getting out?" 
 
 " Will you settle ? " asked the lawyer. 
 
 " Yes, if I can. My wife wants me to." 
 
 Said the lawyer, "Now I don't think Mr. Bartlett 
 wants to take your money for nothing. He is not that 
 kind. You are well situated in life, paying several thou- 
 sand dollars tax and living in your own house in Colum- 
 bus Avenue. Am I right?" He bowed, and visions of 
 big money, going out from him to the lawyer, floated be- 
 fore his mind's eye. "Now," said the lawyer, "I think I 
 can manage this thing easily for you, and honorably for 
 Mr. Bartlett. There need be no suit. I should not be 
 surprised if you were an honorable, upright man. Only 
 you made a bad mistake. But you come honorably to 
 me, at once, and offer reparation. These pupils and wit- 
 nesses can be told that it all came by a mistake, that you 
 have apologized, and got acquainted with Mr. Bartlett, 
 that you have fallen in love with his pictures and have
 
 204 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 given him an order for two nice ones, and no suit and no 
 damages to pay." 
 
 "Can you manage it?" asked the man. 
 
 "I will try it, and I rather think so," said the lawyer. 
 "If you say so I will make this proposition. You write 
 an apology, directed to Mr. Bartlett, saying it all came 
 through a mistake. Don't for heaven's sake explain the 
 mistake, or people will never get done laughing at you. 
 Then say, please find enclosed two hundred dollars, for 
 which please paint me a pair of landscapes, of such size 
 as you can afford to, without frames, for the money. Pay 
 the money to me, and I will give you a receipt for the 
 money, for him. Also pay me ten dollars for my trouble. 
 Mr. Bartlett will get the two hundred solid. If he does 
 not consent, I will at once return the two hundred to 
 you, but keep the ten." 
 
 " I will do it," said he, " and you let me know at once. 
 Say, you must let me know at once, right off, now. I 
 will wait. I can't go home until it is settled. My poor 
 wife won't sleep a wink to-night, and of course that 
 means me too." 
 
 That lawyer wanted to roar. He could hardly hold in. 
 But he did. They always do. He said it was too bad 
 for such nice folks to make such a mistake. Then Edric 
 Lyman wrote the apology, and the order for the pictures. 
 The man signed it and gave the lawyer two new one- 
 hundred-dollar bills and a ten. 
 
 "Now," said the lawyer, "you wait here, and I'll see 
 if I can find a night's sleep for you and your wife." He 
 stated the case. Roy laughed. His anger was gone. 
 He did not wish to keep the happy couple awake. " How 
 much of the two hundred comes to you, Mr. Lyman?"
 
 ROY COMES TO GRIEF. 205 
 
 " Not a cent. I got ten dollars from our worthy friend. 
 Do you settle ? " 
 
 "Yes," said Roy. 
 
 "Then," said Lawyer Lyman, " I consider you are just 
 two good orders in. I have got ten dollars to pay rne for 
 holding in, when I wanted to laugh. I also consider that 
 you can afford to paint me quite a picture as a present." 
 
 " So do I," said Roy, " and I'll do it." He did. 
 
 The lawyer returned and the man's trouble was over. 
 He was grateful. He was invited to call again, socially, 
 or on business. The lawyer told him that he wished that 
 all would settle their legal wrongs as honorably and 
 promptly as he had. When the man left, he felt a some- 
 thing like a warm spot in his heart, as if he had parted 
 with a dear friend, and that friend was Edric Lyman the 
 lawyer. But it is not every lawyer that can do that. 
 This man's wife had made a bad mistake. She had done 
 what a woman often does, verdict first, evidence later. 
 She had denounced a good picture too quick, and sent a 
 good but impressible man off, loaded for bear. He had 
 made a fool of himself, and paid the bill like a little man. 
 The lawyer had made his share. Oh, I guess it was well 
 enough, and as near God's justice as we shall ever get 
 among men, whose ways are so unequal. Roy asked 
 Miss Graham if she considered he had been hard on the 
 man. She said no, at once. Easy enough, perhaps too 
 easy.
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 GLOKIOUS BOSTON. 
 
 ROY walked out upon the Common with Miss Graham, to 
 the soldiers' monument. They were pleased and amused 
 at the way the money had come in since the sale. I sup- 
 pose there is no name to call it by, except a sale. When 
 they reached the monument, Roy turned toward his 
 home on Beacon Hill. He was inclined to laugh at the 
 way the two law cases had turned out. The three ladies 
 at home were much amused at some of Roy's expe- 
 riences which he told them, leaving out the names. 
 These suppers were very pleasant. Mrs. Warren was 
 about fifty, and she refused to grow old. So she was as 
 full of fun as a girl, and with a great deal more sense in 
 it. There is a saying that a man is as young as he feels, 
 and a woman as old as she looks, but like all sweeping as- 
 sertions, it binds nothing, and leaves us all to look as 
 young as we can, and feel as young as we may. 
 
 Said Roy, "It is astonishing how some peoplu love 
 Boston." 
 
 "How can they help it?" asked Miss Emily. 
 
 "How would it do to let the Art Coterie glorify 
 Boston, at our next meeting?" 
 
 The ladies approved of it. They were all born in 
 Boston. 
 
 Roy said "he was not, but he liked Boston very much. 
 206
 
 GLORIOUS BOSTON. 207 
 
 He had met so many pleasant things, and so many true, 
 splendid people, that it seemed to him there could be no 
 city in the world more justly loved than Boston." 
 
 So it was ordered that the next Art Coterie should be 
 Boston night. Miss Graham approved. When the 
 artists and pupils were told, the idea seemed to take im- 
 mensely. Whatever joy many people find in other cities, 
 they keep their love for Boston. 
 
 Roy's studio door bore the usual Art Coterie notice, 
 for three days. During those three days, his pupils were 
 thicker than Indians. They averaged ten a day. He 
 had to laugh, but it kept him and Miss Graham busy. 
 The Thursday evening came. The rooms were full and 
 everything was lovely. The iron namesake of the bird 
 that saved Rome was suspended high. Obscure joke. 
 When the company was seated, Mrs. Warren was ob- 
 served sitting in a good corner beside a fine-looking gen- 
 tleman about her own age, and they were having a most 
 sociable time. Her daughters looked triumphant at each 
 other. 
 
 Roy called the meeting to order. He said, "My 
 friends, I welcome you here again, in the name of Lady 
 Warren and her daughters. Our coterie has all the lat- 
 itude that it needs, and any subject that the powers 
 select is in order. To-night we have the most inter- 
 esting subject in the whole world, 'Glorious Boston.' 
 It is usual to divide a sermon into several heads. That 
 rule will never apply to Boston, which is incapable of 
 being divided. It can be added to, without limit. So 
 we must consider it all at once. I heard a man who was 
 coming to make a speech in Boston, say that he tried all 
 the way to lay out some remarks to make, when he got
 
 208 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 here. He was utterly unable to do it, and come to get 
 here, he found the reason. The city itself never was 
 laid out. Now a man that could say that, ought to be 
 laid out himself. There is a proverb in New Hampshire, 
 that you die a fool if you do not see Boston. Who says 
 she is not loyal? I do not intend to speak of the history 
 of the past. The schoolboys know that. I do not need 
 to tell of the present. We can all see it. But I should 
 like to tell you of the future, and of the forces that will 
 in all probability operate forever upon Boston. So the 
 theme of to-night will take the form of Prophecy, Story, 
 Poem, Song, and Congratulation. I did intend to speak 
 of it myself, but I have had the rare good fortune to 
 bring to you the sound of more than mortal voice, and to 
 secure the opinion of one who, many years ago, loved and 
 lived in Boston. For years and years he has been an 
 inhabitant of the land of immortals ; yet knowing, loving, 
 and watching over Boston. He is old and wise now, and 
 makes no more mistakes. He has kindly consented to 
 give us a 
 
 " Sure Prophecy of Boston. 
 
 "I now have the pleasure of presenting to you, an 
 older inhabitant than you ever saw. Mr. Peter Rugg, 
 who once lived at the North end of Boston." 
 
 He did look old. His face was fair; his hair was 
 white like his long beard, white as snow. He was dressed 
 in the style of Georgius Secundus. He looked about two 
 centuries old. He was a noble, commanding figure, or 
 man, or spirit, or whatever he was. He received instant 
 attention, .and when the room was almost painfully still, 
 he began in a voice at first tremulous, Avhich at once be- 
 came magnetic, firm, rich, and strong.
 
 GLORIOUS BOSTON. 209 
 
 My children, I come to you from that home which 
 seems so far, and is yet so near. I take the old form 
 which I lived in, and cherished. But a spirit does not 
 grow old and worn out. O, no, my friends, we are up to 
 the times. We know what is done, and can see much 
 more that may, can, ought, and will be done. Else how 
 can we keep you in all your ways, lest you dash your foot 
 against a stone? I always loved Boston. She is an 
 eternal city. No city on earth has more to make it per- 
 manent, than Boston. Few, very few, have near as much. 
 She is a mighty gateway, in the highway of nations 
 around the world. 
 
 Beginning at Eastport, there is no especial natural 
 site until you reach Portland. That can easily be 
 burned by war vessels from the sea. The same is true 
 of Portsmouth. Boston is much safer and better de- 
 fended, naturally. There is no more until you reach 
 New York. Boston is by nature a strong city. No city 
 in all the world has so many .advantages, by nature, as 
 Boston has for her children. Unlike our Southern cities 
 it is not built on alluvial soil. Its foundation is hard 
 and solid. Its rivers are permanent, and do not change 
 their banks. The islands in the harbor are rocky and 
 immovable. Our harbor is a good and safe one. The 
 entrance to it is narrow, and well defended. Boston is 
 situated in the toe-calk of a mighty horseshoe, for eter- 
 nal luck. It is about a hundred miles around on the 
 South Shore to Cape Cod. It is a hundred miles around 
 on the North shore, and more if you count it. Oh, the 
 handsomest rocky islands, green fields, pretty bays, 
 sandy beaches, lighthouses, cities, towns, villages, hotels, 
 summer houses, sparkling waters, tides enough to keep
 
 210 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 them sweet, bright ocean, staving billows, vessels of all 
 kinds, oh, more beauty than any city can show this side 
 the New Jerusalem. The site of Boston will not wash 
 away. Her hills will always stand sentinels around her. 
 Her beautiful West bay is a water park fairer than 
 Venice ever knew. All the bright cities around her rise 
 up and call her blessed. What drives in summer. 
 What sleighing in winter. None can be better. No 
 stagnant waters like Marseilles and Mediterranean ports. 
 No earthquakes like San Francisco and Charleston. No 
 malaria. No cholera. No yellow fever. No fleas. No 
 chigos. No dykes like Holland. No little sewer of a 
 river like the Thames or Seine. No inland city like 
 Paris or Milan. No winter like St. Petersburg. No 
 heats like India. No tigers. No serpents. No white 
 ants to eat your house down. No centipedes or taran- 
 tulas. No volcanoes to shake your house down or burn 
 it. No London fog. No Bergen rain. No Texel wind. 
 No Denver dust. No Dakota blizzard. No Texas 
 grasshoppers. No Egyptian ophthalmia. No overflow- 
 ing of the Nile. No washing away of the Mississippi. 
 No, my children. None of these. 
 
 When God made the ocean he said : " Thus far shalt 
 thou come, and no farther. Hither shall thy proud 
 waves be stayed." Internal water courses are very in- 
 constant, and depend upon the rainfall. Boston is 
 largely beyond all evil influences, a perrnament city, a 
 beautiful queen city. The ocean comes to its feet, bring- 
 ing tribute from all the world. It has a healthy fertile 
 state, country, and great nation of near seventy millions, 
 the smartest, freest, most progressive nation on earth, 
 behind it, and Europe, Asia, and Africa before it. Oh, it
 
 GLORIOUS BOSTON. 211 
 
 is a mighty gateway, for all the world to pass through. 
 And they will pass through it. Mankind are increasing 
 in the world. The sails, the rides, the drives around 
 Boston, are a continual surprise, from the Fells to Frank- 
 lin Park. Even the ocean is a beauty, and from afar can 
 be seen the beautiful city that we love, with the sunlight 
 reflected from her golden crown. Now here, my chil- 
 dren, is the prophecy. Other cities shall decline and 
 die like the cities of old. Boston shall live and grow 
 grandly, gloriously. She shall have few misfortunes, few 
 calamities. She shall be wise and prudent. She shall be 
 loving and giving as now. She shall be Christian, hoping 
 and trusting, an honor to God, and a blessing to all man- 
 kind. She shall grow beautifully, continually. And, 
 my children, this shall continue, until the angel shall 
 stand, with one foot upon the sea, and the other upon 
 the land, and shall swear by him who liveth forever, that 
 time shall be no more. So shall it be done to glorious 
 old Boston. My children, farewell. 
 
 He disappeared behind a curtain. He spoke solemnly 
 and impressively, as if he believed all he had said, grow- 
 ing more so, unto the end. It was listened to with 
 almost breathless attention. Whoever he was, he had 
 held them spell-bound to the close. They seemed to 
 regret, when he had finished his words, so earnest and 
 loyal, and they seemed most of all to sorrow, that they 
 should see his face no more. This is Peter Rugg's last 
 visit to Boston. Then Roy called for short stories about 
 Boston. 
 
 A gentleman said : Not long since, two of us from 
 Boston were in Philadelphia. We wished to see Benja- 
 min West's large picture of " Christ healing the sick."
 
 212 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 It was in the insane asylum, at West Philadelphia. We 
 went there. The matron admitted us and showed us 
 the establishment as well as the picture, most politely. 
 We expressed our thanks for her kindness. She asked, 
 " Are you English people ? " I answered by asking if we 
 were different from Philadelphians. " Yes, sir, you are." 
 "In what?" "In your language and pronunciation." 
 "Is it as good as Philadelphians'?" "Yes, sir, better, 
 much better. In fact I think it is the best I ever heard." 
 " Thank you, lady. We are from Boston." " Ah, that 
 accounts for it," said she, and she added, " I was raised 
 in Philadelphia." 
 
 Another arose He said, there is a lady artist here, 
 who makes fine crayon portraits, and fine as they are, 
 they are no finer than her loyalty to Boston. Here is a 
 favorite story of hers. There is a man, who married a 
 Boston Avoman. She died. He was inconsolable, as well 
 he might be. He sought a medium and called her up. 
 He asked her how she was and if she was glad to be 
 there. She answei-ed that she was getting along mid- 
 dling well. Said he, are you not in heaven ? Oh, yes, I 
 am in heaven. Well, are you not perfectly happy ? Oh, 
 I get along very well, but it is not Boston, was the 
 answer. Miss White's story brought down the house. 
 
 A young artist arose, and said he liked Boston as well 
 as any one, but he lately heard of a sad thing that had 
 happened. He asked if he might tell it. 
 
 Roy said it was a pity to cast a gloom over so happy an 
 audience, but as he had excited their curiosity perhaps he 
 had better tell it. 
 
 Said he, It is a case where a gentleman artist caused a 
 young lady artist to suffer capital punishment. He had
 
 GLORIOUS BOSTON. 213 
 
 been acquainted with her a long time. He had waited 
 upon her, and showed her very pleasant attention. She was 
 gratified. He invited her to his studio, a fine upper room 
 in his dwelling. I have been in it, and it is a beauty. Un- 
 suspiciously he conducted her upstairs. She admired the 
 room, the light, the pictures, and the artist. Of course 
 she did not tell him this last. It was time to go. She 
 leaned against the dressing-case, apparently to arrange 
 her bonnet, but in reality she secreted a fine, valuable oil 
 painting, of a flock of geese, painted on a mahogany 
 panel. She hid it under her cloak. I am sorry to say it 
 of a Boston woman, but she did. She did it illegally, 
 feloniously, surreptitiously, and with more or less malice 
 aforethought. They descended the stairs, talking pleas- 
 antly, until they came to the large vestibule. They were 
 alone. Suddenly she took the picture from under her 
 cloak, and, handing it to him, she said : There, do, dear, 
 take it. It is so goort I could not help wanting it. He 
 was aroused in a moment. Said he, in a stern voice, Oh 
 this is dreadful ! You shall suffer capital punishment for 
 this. He caught her and held her fast. There was a 
 little scream, a slight concussion, and all was over. They 
 are going to be married next week. He sat down. 
 
 That young chap had done it. As Mr. Toots says : " It 
 is not so much what he says, as the way he says it, that 
 gives me an agreeable feeling of warmth, all up my back." 
 Other stories were told. 
 
 Roy spoke, My friends, I wish there was a Boston 
 Opera. J do not mean an opera in Boston, for that we 
 have often, I mean an opera which shall contain Boston 
 scenes, ideas, songs, stories, sayings, jokes, and fun. It 
 would be all the better with Boston celebrities. Put in
 
 214 THE WILD AETIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 " March to Boston " sure, and Yankee tunes. Have a 
 procession, military, brass band, and the airiest drum- 
 major in the city. Drum and fife. Have models, paste- 
 board if you want to, borne aloft, of State House, Bunker 
 Hill Monument, Soldiers' Monument, Old South, New 
 South, Trinity, Faneuil Hall, City Hall, Equitable Build- 
 ing, giant pot of beans, brown bread, big crackers, State 
 House codfish, that the aristocracy be not neglected, 
 Member from Cranberry Centre, and Hannah Partridge. 
 Alarms of fire. Fourth of July. O hold me while I 
 faint away. If made good, it would run a thousand and 
 one nights. The audience approved. 
 
 Another gentleman arose, and said he would tell them 
 a vigorous story of 
 
 " The Boston Centaur? 
 
 He was a Boston man, well situated, from one of the 
 oldest families. He traced his ancestry away back into 
 the dark ages. He was a graduate of Harvard, six feet 
 high, a fine athlete, a man of fine taste in literature and 
 art, and a man of bravery and honor. He liked to ride 
 horseback. He knew he was handsome, and as he rode 
 he was a picture to gaze upon. His mount was usually 
 a bay stallion. Why should he not show his shape, and 
 get the life that comes from horseback riding? Theodore 
 Parker said the outside of a horse is good for the inside 
 of a man. So one day this centaur was riding up Wash- 
 ington Street, near the Transcript office. He passed a 
 truck team whose driver had a long whip. It was an 
 unlucky piece of devilment, that prompted the teamster 
 to hit the stallion a cut with his whip. He sprang 
 forward, almost throwing his rider, who saw the blow and
 
 GLORIOUS BOSTON. 215 
 
 Inter found the welt on the horse. He reined him in, by 
 mig'it and strength, and, turning around, he rode back 
 and demanded of that teamster, in the best of English, 
 "What did you strike my horse for?" " I didn't strike 
 yer hoss." " You did strike my horse." " You lie ! " 
 and he added a huge double oath, that reflected upon the 
 horseman's mother. The centaur rode on a little, turned 
 into Avon Street, dismounted, asked a gentleman near, 
 " Sir, will you hold my horse a few minutes, as a favor of 
 the most valuable kind? It is a case of life and death." 
 "I will, sir," was the answer. The centaur went out, 
 and saw the teamster coming. He jumped upon the rear 
 of that team, ran lightly up over the load, and, drawing 
 a light, tough cowhide, he cowhided that teamster until 
 he roared for mercy. 
 
 You ought to have seen the Art Coterie then. The 
 house shook. Everybody was frantic with applause. 
 The man had brought them all solid, and most impres- 
 sively up to the climax, and carried the Coterie by storm. 
 
 Then he said, " This horseman Avas the manliest of 
 men. Now I have almost told you his middle name." 
 
 The evening was getting along. Roy arose, and read 
 the poem of 
 
 THE DISCONTENTED BOSTONIAN. 
 
 " THERE was a man in Boston, a native Boston boy, 
 Rich, airy, handsome, bright, well read, with plenty to enjoy, 
 And he grew discontented, chose to travel off apace 
 To see if he could find somewhere a nicer, sweeter place ; 
 Says he : If I don't like it, I'm not obliged to stay. 
 He bought a strong and splendid trunk, and journeyed on his 
 wav.
 
 216 THE WILD AKTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 " He went straight to Chicago, and vastly pleased was he, 
 At supper time the waiter brought a cockroach in his tea ; 
 The drummers huddled 'round him, to sell him each did try, 
 They did not understand a man that did not want to buy. 
 Says he : This place is much too smart, I do not care to stay, 
 And so he packed his trunk for luck and journeyed on his way. 
 
 " He journeyed to Dakota, where the emigration goes. 
 
 A blizzard caught him on the fly, and froze his ears and nose ; 
 
 The snow came down Spitzbergen drifts on all the prairies 
 
 wide, 
 
 But he had splendid Boston grit, or else he would have died. 
 Then when the road was opened an hour he did not stay ; 
 As he had not unpacked his trunk, he journeyed on his way. 
 
 " Ah, Denver is the place you want, the speculators cry. 
 
 The ridgepole of the continent. O how is this for high ; 
 
 The wind came up and blew great guns, O how the dust did fly. 
 
 Says he : I'm in a hurry, friends, and not prepared to buy ; 
 
 Just wait a bit till I come back, for now I cannot stay. 
 
 He quickly checked his trunk again, and journeyed on his way. 
 
 " He went to Sacramento. Ah, this handsome place will do, 
 He took a drink of water and it waxed him through and 
 
 through, 
 
 Says he : For active physic this water here is prime ; 
 Physic is good, but 'tis not well to take it all the time. 
 I like your pretty city, but I guess I will not stay. 
 Counting the scratches on his trunk, he journeyed on his way. 
 
 " He went to San Francisco, where the sun shines not in vain, 
 And nature shows her force as strong when she sends down 
 
 the rain. 
 
 He tried to think he liked it, but its power made him frown ; 
 The fog came on and choked him up, an earthquake shook him 
 
 down. 
 
 Says he : My friends, I've got to go, I have not time to stay. 
 When baggage smashers smote his trunk, he journeyed on his 
 
 way.
 
 GLORIOUS BOSTON. 217 
 
 " Down to Los Angeles he went, a country hard to beat, 
 Where fleas adore a Boston man, so nice and fresh and sweet ; 
 They picnicked on him all the time, at every step he made, 
 Abed and up, in coat and boots, and breeches I'm afraid. 
 So to secure what might be left, he could no longer stay, 
 And so he scratched, and packed his trunk, and journeyed on 
 his way. 
 
 " He laid off at San Diego. What heat was all around, 
 
 His blood did almost sizzle, he almost melted down. 
 
 Says he : Some folks may like this, tastes differ so, you see, 
 
 I know a city farther east that's good enough for me. 
 
 He bought another ticket, glad any price to pay, 
 
 To take him and his well worn trunk, to journey on his way. 
 
 " He stopped again in Texas, to see what fate would bring, 
 'Twos drought, or floods, or grasshoppers, or some infernal 
 
 thing, 
 
 Texas vicissitudes are large, in such a monster state, 
 A quart of something that you like, a bushel that 3 r ou hate. 
 As he was not obliged to come, he was not bound to stay, 
 That blessed trunk he took once more, and journeyed on his 
 
 way. 
 
 " He went to New Orleans, among the Pelicans to stay, 
 Drank Mississippi water and the mischief was to pay. 
 They said : You soon get used to it, 'tis quite a job to try; 
 When you are well acclimated, you're safe without you die. 
 Fever and ague shook him loose, he could no longer stay ; 
 Weary, he took his battered trunk and journeyed on his way. 
 
 " Over to Florida he went. Pine trees and sandy ground, 
 Where alligators, oranges, and rattle-snakes abound ; 
 Mosquitoes are gallinippers there, their quality is prime, 
 They bit him quick, they bit him hard, they bit him all the 
 
 time. 
 
 And when an ague chill set in, the mischief was to pay, 
 And begging them to spare that trunk, he journeyed on his 
 
 way.
 
 218 THE WILD AKTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 " Northward he took his weary way, in seai-ch of rest and ease, 
 Where Charleston's shadows hide away beneath palmetto trees ; 
 He saw Fort Sumter's battered wall and sadly shook his head, 
 But not to mourn secession's doom or sigh for slavery dead ; 
 When a great earthquake shook him loose. For more than 
 
 double pay 
 He saved that trunk on board the cars, and journeyed on his 
 
 way. 
 
 " He stayed again at Washington, our capital to see ; 
 
 He found the distances so grand, a weary man was he. 
 
 Folks asked : What office do you want ? What office want ? he 
 
 cried, 
 I want no office. Then they laughed. For sure they thought 
 
 he lied. 
 
 Says he : 'Tis very lonesome here, I will no longer stay ; 
 He took his poor, hard-looking trunk, and journeyed on his 
 
 way. 
 
 ' ' He went to Philadelphia, great city of our land, 
 They did not speak our language quite, though he could under- 
 stand. 
 
 He tried to smile and like it, but ended with a sigh : 
 Great city of the checkerboard, I fear I'm going to die ; 
 I'm stuck full of right angles, although I trTed to stay. 
 He cobbled up his poor smashed trunk, and journeyed on his 
 way. 
 
 " He went to New York city. Ah, this is grand, says he, 
 This Brooklyn bridge, this Central Park, Statue of Liberty. 
 He saw it all in such a whirl he had not time to think ; 
 He kept it up by day and night, he could not sleep a wink. 
 Says he : Yes, this is awful, I'd almost like to stay. 
 He tied a clothes line round his trunk and journeyed on his 
 way. 
 
 " When Boston's golden dome arose, his heart was tried and 
 
 true, 
 Says he : My luck is found at last, O glory Hallelu.
 
 GLORIOUS BOSTON. 219 
 
 I've wandered far away from home, returning, fancy free. 
 Hail, Boston, queen of heart and home, just good enough for 
 
 me, 
 Hail, luck and love ; Hail, food and drink ; Hail, joy with which 
 
 to stay. 
 No more fool's paradise for me, or journey on my way. 
 
 " And now he lives in Boston, so happy all the while ; 
 
 He walks upon the common with a beatific smile ; 
 
 He looks in the batrachian lake, and in it sees his face, 
 
 No more a tired wanderer, bereft of joy and grace. 
 
 With no more worlds to conquer, no higher joy to know. 
 
 If he could start for heaven to-day, I doubt if he would go." 
 
 There appeared to be no one asleep during the reading 
 of this. 
 
 Another story was told. Said he, There is always 
 something new to be seen in Boston : the exhibitions, the 
 meetings, the art stores, the galleries, the studios, O some- 
 thing all the time. I remember once, when calling upon 
 some of my artist friends, I was in the studio building. 
 
 I was talking in a corridor, when a friend came by and 
 said, " Call on me next, and I will show you a wonderful 
 sight, a sight that you will never see again." Very soon 
 I went. Near his studio door he had a fine telescope 
 set, and he invited me to see the transit of Venus. It 
 was a thrilling sight. To see that little base-ball looking 
 planet, passing clear as noonday across the face of the 
 sun, and showing the awful distances of the sky, better 
 than I ever saw it before, was a thing to happen only 
 once in a lifetime, and for which I shall always be grate- 
 ful to the man who is at once engraver, artist, portrait- 
 painter, and generous good fellow Mr. D. T. Kendrick. 
 
 Said Roy, " Now it is near time to close. Let us sing 
 the Boston Song."
 
 220 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 It was distributed on slips. Miss Sarah Warren took 
 the piano, and a dozen vocalists, who were not strangers 
 to the public, gathered around her. I give the words of 
 the solo and chorus. 
 
 THE BOSTON SONG. 
 
 " There is a handsome city, reflected in the sea, 
 Upon a noble river, that pours its waters free ; 
 Her regal beauties rising around her golden dome, 
 And Boston proudly sits a queen with royal welcome home. 
 CHORUS O roll away, roll away, Atlantic waves are rolling 
 
 Up to the city of the golden dome, 
 O roll away, roll away, ages onward rolling, 
 Proud old Boston gives us welcome home. 
 
 " The sun lights up her harbor, sweet islands down the bay ; 
 No fairer scene he shines upon in all his longest day, 
 And east and west, o'er hill and wave, new beauty doth 
 
 enfold, 
 To glorify his setting in a sea of molten gold. CHORUS. 
 
 " And history stands ready her brightest page to fill, 
 The story of the Pilgrims, the fight of Bunker Hill, 
 And deeds of daring sailors, and patriots tried and true, 
 And soldiers, O we bless them all, our boys that wore the 
 blue. CHORUS. 
 
 "With learning, wit, and culture, with science and with art, 
 With all good works of mercy old Boston does her part. 
 When sorrow or misfortune falls, in near or distant lands, 
 Her blessing flies with winged feet and open heart and 
 hands. CHORUS. 
 
 '' Then hail, eternal city, sure founded on a rock, 
 Thy granite harbors, forts, and walls, thy granite Pilgrim 
 
 stock, 
 
 Thou queen of peace and plenty, what harm can thee befall ? 
 Refreshment of the nations, as they travel round the ball. 
 
 CHORUS.
 
 GLOKIOTTS BOSTON. 221 
 
 " Now join we to salute her, and let the cannon roar, 
 We cheer, praise her, love her as our fathers did before. 
 For justice, right, and honor we keep our flag unfurled, 
 A beauty and a beacon to the nations round the world. 
 CHORUS." 
 
 They made the most of the rattling song and chorus, 
 and the crowd outside shared in the effect. 
 
 Roy again called attention. He said, " Now, in conclu- 
 sion, we will listen to our hostess, by whose kindness our 
 coterie is possible." 
 
 Mrs. Warren arose. She was richly dressed, and Roy 
 did not know before that she was so handsome. When 
 the noble lords and ladies of England await the cominsr 
 
 o O 
 
 of their queen, an equerry makes the announcement. 
 The queen is coming ; ladies bare their shoulders in the 
 presence of royalty. Mrs. Warren had worn a mantle, 
 very handsome, but now, as she arose, it fell upon her 
 chair and showed full dress, suitable for the queen's 
 drawing-room ; a bouquet of appropriate flowers at her 
 side, her hair crinkled a little, and yet showing her fine 
 forehead, and a cluster of white light diamonds upon her 
 bosom, that saw the light only on the most festive occa- 
 sions. That dear old witch had fairly taken them all. 
 The daughters looked at each other in triumph. 
 
 When the welcome was lulled, she said, " We are 
 pleased to see you all so happy. The Art Coterie pays us 
 well, as an investment. But I have a story to tell you. 
 When I was a little girl, going to school here in Boston, 
 there was a little boy in the same classes with me. He 
 was about my size, and we went through the schools to- 
 gether. Sometimes one was higher in the class, some- 
 times the other. We have always known and respected
 
 222 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 each other, and have always called each other by our 
 given name. So we have never grown old, and we are 
 still boy and girl together. He took a Franklin medal, 
 and wears it to-night. He has had many honors, and 
 deserved them all. He has done much for Boston, and 
 will do all he can. And you do not know with what 
 pleasure I introduce my schoolmate to you to-night, as the 
 mayor of Boston." 
 
 Mrs. Warren had designed to make a sensation, and 
 she had just done it. She was a long-headed woman. It 
 was an ovation and a reception. The mayor did not 
 make much of a speech. He was so broken up, he said, 
 he could not. He had enjoyed one of the happiest even- 
 ings of his life. Yet somehow it had pulled upon his 
 heart. He had tried to do all the good he could to 
 Boston and everybody, and if there was any good in him, 
 it was because he had known such loyal and true hearts, 
 such white souls as Mrs. Parna Warren and her daughters. 
 White handkerchiefs were moistened, and the Boston 
 night was in memory, a thing of beauty, and a joy for- 
 ever.
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 A FRIEND IN NEED. 
 
 ROY attended to his pupils, and painted pictures 
 besides. He made them just as good as he could. He 
 was doing better than he expected. About once a mouth 
 he went home to his parents, and a fine change it was to 
 him, the two or three days he had with them. The 
 home bond was strong. Miss Graham was in the studio 
 four of five days in each week, sometimes only forenoons, 
 and then, again, she was there until four or later. Roy 
 took a walk every morning when the weather was fine, 
 on the way to the studio. One morning he was walking 
 briskly past the head of Hanover Street. Something 
 jumped against him, and upon him, and, although a young 
 Irishman pulled upon the chain, and shouted, O come 
 off! still he did not give up jumping upon or towards 
 Roy. He looked again. It was Canis Major ! There 
 he was, muzzled, and being dragged off by a young 
 Irishman. In an instant he sprang, caught the chain, and 
 held on. 
 
 " Leggo my dog ! Leggo my dog ! " 
 
 "You lie. It is not your dog. It is my dog," said 
 Roy. 
 
 The man gave Roy a kick on the shin, and Roy re- 
 turned the compliment by a big blow on the nose, that 
 blooded his face. For a wonder, a policeman came along 
 
 223
 
 224 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 just in time to see the kick and the blow. He took the 
 man by the collar. Right is usually with the best dressed 
 man. Poverty and crime roost together. The policeman 
 had not formulated that, but he usually acted on it. 
 Both held to the chain and the dog. 
 
 "What is it?" asked the policeman of the Irishman. 
 
 " This divil warnts to stale me dog." 
 
 " How long have you had the dog?" 
 
 "'Bout foore months." 
 
 " Where did you get him ? " 
 
 " Bort him." 
 
 "What did you pay?" 
 
 " Twenty-foive dollars." 
 
 He turned to Roy. "Is the dog yours ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Can you prove it ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 "How long have you had him ?" 
 
 " Five years. Since he was a pup." 
 
 "Who bought him?" 
 
 "My father. But the bill was made out to me ; so he 
 is my dog." 
 
 Then, turning to the man, he asked, " What is your 
 name ? " 
 
 " Maginnis." 
 
 The policeman laughed. He took Roy's card, and told 
 him to take the dog, and have him at the police court at 
 nine o'clock the next day. " Maginnis, you be there, and 
 prove that the dog is yours, and you can take him." 
 
 Just then a friend came along, and went with Roy to 
 the studio. If ever there was a loving, thankful heart, it 
 was Canis Major. Roy sent out for Lawyer Lyman. He
 
 A FBIEND IN NEED, 225 
 
 came. He knew the dog. He asked, " What evidence 
 have you that the dog is yours? Any photographs?" 
 
 " O yes, several good ones, and stereoscopic pictures of 
 the home. Can is Major comes into them all. They all 
 have the date, and the photographer's name at Dover. 
 Also I have painted him in oil, with the date each time." 
 
 " I guess you will do." 
 
 Said Roy, " I wish you would call at the Quincy House 
 and telegraph to my father, that I have Canis Major, and 
 for him to come to my studio in the first train to-morrow 
 morning. He will come." 
 
 " What value do you put on the dog? " 
 
 " Oh, no money value. He is not for sale at any price. 
 I would as soon think of selling my guardian angel." 
 
 The dog was next cared for. Roy petted him and 
 loved him to his heart's content. Canis Major paid his 
 respects to a pound of beefsteak and a drink. Miss Gra- 
 ham was presented to him, and he took to her at once. 
 Roy sent word to Mrs. Warren about it, and said he 
 should not be at home at night, but would sleep on the 
 sofa in the studio, to be company for Canis Major. And 
 would they send down his supper, and a few bits for his 
 poor friend? I leave you to judge whether they did or 
 not. No, I'll tell you. After supper, which was like the 
 play of Hamlet with Hamlet left out, Mrs. Warren and 
 her daughters came down to see Canis Major, and fell in 
 love with him. It was a picnic for him every way. He 
 had not been long from home, and was not much changed. 
 He was a large brown and white_Newfoundland. He was 
 well petted. Roy could not be prevailed upon to take 
 him out. The next day Mr. Bartlett surprised Canis 
 Major, and had his welcome. They all went to the police
 
 226 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 court, but the enemy did not put in an appearance. It 
 was too dangerous. Mr. Bartlett took the dog home by 
 the noon train for Dover. Roy saw them safely into the 
 baggage car, and Mr. Bartlett, with the chain on the dog, 
 seated comfortably with Canis Major's head in his lap. 
 lie did not see the malicious, ugly eyes that watched him 
 from behind a bunch of feather dusters, the father of the 
 Irish American that had given his name as Maginnis. 
 But they were there, and watched the whole proceedings. 
 
 Roy went into Lawyer Lyman's office. " give me 
 two dollars, unless you think it is too much." 
 
 " Not a bit." 
 
 Said the lawyer, "I did not quite think they would 
 appear, but sometimes such people will, and swear you 
 right out of court." , 
 
 "How is that?" 
 
 " O courts go *by the mass and quality of evidence. 
 If a rascal can bring evidence enough he can win his 
 case in spite of all the righteousness in the world. Law 
 is one thing, justice is sometimes another. Not long since 
 I had the facts in a horse case. There was a horse-dealer 
 who got his living by buying horses, fixing them up a 
 little, and selling them at a profit. Inasmuch as a horse 
 adds the price of his board every day to his cost, he soon 
 eats his own head off, without you use him. This man 
 was sharp, and with no more conscience than a man- 
 eating tiger. A young man rode a horse into his yard. 
 He had a light bridle, but no saddle. It was a young, 
 pretty, medium-sized horse. The man said he had been 
 selling sewing-machines. He had sold out. He had sold 
 his wagon and harness. The firm had appointed him to 
 take charge of the wareroom in Boston, and he wanted
 
 A FRIEND IN NEED. 227 
 
 an offer for the horse. The horse-dealer had his own 
 ideas of buying a hoive on a stranger's word, and said so. 
 He did not want to buy the horse any way, and it was not 
 safe for him to be out selling a horse that way. If he 
 wanted twenty dollars for him he could leave him. 
 
 " Horse-dealer took a bill of the horse dated a year 
 ago, the sum stated in it being a hundred dollars. Man 
 signed it, took his money and vanished. The horse was 
 kept in a tight stall, out of sight of visitors. He was 
 driven out at night and proved from his speed to be 
 worth from two to three hundred dollars. Not long 
 after, a man was talking horse with him, and looking 
 over his eight or nine horses. Said he lived a few miles 
 away, in the next town, and wanted to buy. After a lit- 
 tle criticism on the horses he saw, horse-dealer showed 
 the horse in the close stall. The man recognized him at 
 once, as his own horse, which had been stolen from his 
 pasture, the night before the horse-dealer bought him. 
 The owner of the horse made no sign of what he had dis- 
 covered, but went to a country lawyer, an oldish man, 
 and rather slow. He brought suit for the horse. The 
 owner, the plaintiff, was in court himself, his wife, and 
 his two sons. Four people all swore point-blank, that 
 they had raised the horse, and the old mare, the horse's 
 mother, was outside, hitched to the fence. They might 
 go and see her. Nobody went. 
 
 "Then the defendent came. He had a dozen witnesses. 
 They all swore that horse-dealer had owned that horse 
 over a year. Horse-dealer showed his bill of the horse. 
 He did not doubt that the horse was like the farmer's. 
 It was a common kind of horse; but there was his bill, 
 and he had bought the horse low, only a hundred dollars,
 
 228 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 over a year ago. He had doctored him up some, and 
 now he was all 1'ight, and worth double. He could not 
 afford to pay for plaintiff's mistakes. So horse-dealer 
 euchred the man out of his own horse, and stuck him 
 with a large bill of costs. This story is a fact, every 
 word. I heard the story from the lawyers, and later, 
 horse-dealer told it to me himself, laughing heartily." 
 
 Roy went back to his studio again, reflecting on the 
 glorious uncertainty of the law. So the winter days 
 came and went, with pupils to teach, pictures to paint, 
 some of which sold at art stores, and some to Roy's 
 customers. Roy invited the man who had called him 
 bad names, and given him an order, under pressure, to 
 come with his wife and see how they liked his pictures. 
 He did come. The man had a painful look, as if he was 
 under restraint. Soon he began : " Mr. Bartlett, can you 
 ever forget how I treated you ?" 
 
 " Yes, sir," answered Roy, " I can, and I do. And I 
 ask you to forget it, and never refer to it again, either of 
 you. Now please, not another word, ever, for each will 
 find the other better than he thought. Look at these 
 pictures." 
 
 Roy placed them in a good light. They were de- 
 lighted. They praised everything. Soon Roy had them 
 at ease and they had a nice call. Roy asked if they had 
 heard of the Art Coterie. Yes, they had. Lawyer 
 Lyman had called upon him, and had told him that Mr. 
 Bartlett wanted him to see his pictures. Then Mr. 
 Lyman told him about the Art Coterie. Roy said he 
 should be glad to have them come, and that was what 
 pleased them most. The man fell in love with a nice 
 panel picture of Champney's fall and paid him thirty
 
 A FEIEND IN NEED. 229 
 
 dollars for it. The happy couple departed, smiling clear 
 around their faces. Roy sat down and for a while was 
 content to do nothing but smile, and feel tickled at the 
 way the squall had cleared up. 
 
 One day Roy and Miss Graham were quietly at work 
 in the studio. There was a crying and scratching at the 
 door, then a terrible cry. 
 
 Miss Graham said, " O go, there is some one in dis- 
 tress." 
 
 Roy opened the door, and, with a suffering cry, in 
 came Canis Major. Roy could hardly believe his own 
 eyes. The dog came up, licked Roy's hand, and then 
 his hinder parts swung around, and he fell upon the floor. 
 He had a collar on, and had evidently broken his chain, 
 as a piece of it hung to his neck. He was lean and ex- 
 hausted. He had many bruises and sores, and his neck, 
 under the collar, was raw and bleeding. 
 
 " O, my poor friend, my poor friend ! " said Roy. 
 
 " Let us do something at once," said Miss Graham. 
 " He is evidently starving." 
 
 Roy folded up an afghan, and covering it with papers, 
 because the dog was bleeding, he cut the collar from his 
 neck with many a kind word, which Canis Major ac- 
 knowledged with a little wag of his tail, and soon the 
 sufferer was lying more at his ease. Roy went out and 
 got a pound of beefsteak. Canis Major was too far gone 
 to touch it. 
 
 "Get him some milk and warm it," said Miss Graham. 
 
 Roy got a quart can of milk, and soon had some in a 
 tin pail warming on the radiator. Then Canis Major got 
 up on his fore paws and lapped a little of it. Later he 
 took more, and the quantity was increased, and before
 
 230 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 night he took little pieces of beefsteak. But after he 
 came, there was no more work done that day by Roy or 
 Miss Graham. 
 
 Roy sent for Mr. Lyman. He came. 
 
 He said : " Qf all persistent dog-stealers, these are the 
 worst that I have met. This dog has some value, and 
 would sell for anywhere from twenty-five to a hundred 
 dollars or more." 
 
 Said Roy : " I believe in government and law. I also 
 believe in punishing the man that stole this dog and 
 abused him so. If the rascal is smart enough to cheat 
 justice, I believe I am justified in punishing him myself." 
 
 " That is what I think," said the lawyer. 
 
 " Can you help me to do it ? " asked Roy. 
 
 "Yes. I think so, but it will be at some expense." 
 
 "Go ahead then, and call on me for any sum from ten 
 to fifty dollars." 
 
 " I will do it," said he ; " and if I do not hit him some- 
 where, I will ask nothing for myself. Give me ten to 
 begin with." 
 
 Roy gave it to him. He said, when he had anything 
 to report he would call. Miss Graham bore a message to 
 the Warrens, and they all came, bringing Roy and Canis 
 Major no end of comforts, even to a custard for Canis 
 Major. The dog knew them, and came to see each one 
 and to kiss the hand that caressed him. Then he stag- 
 gered back to his afghan and lay down. It was truly a 
 visit of condolence. Roy stayed in the studio all wight, 
 ami Canis Major slept beside the sofa on which Roy lay. 
 
 Somebody says : " The more I know of men, the more 
 I respect dogs." Roy wrote home and said he had Canis 
 Major, but he would not be well enough to go home for
 
 A FRIEND IN NEED. 231 
 
 a week. Edric Lyman sauntered from his office in School 
 Street, through Court Square and along Court Street 
 with a problem in his mind of how to find the man who 
 stole the dog. There were not many who would do it, 
 as far away as Dover. He was a professional criminal, 
 and either English or Irish. He looked at the hats in 
 Taylor's hat store, on the corner of Hanover Street. Ah, 
 there was the policeman that helped Roy before. The 
 lawyer greeted him kindly. Soon he asked if he ever 
 found out who Maginnis was, that had Roy's dog. 
 
 " Yis, sor, I have, an' he's a bad lot. There are two 
 of them, father and son. They pretend to sell a few 
 baskets of coal and kindlin's, an' they will stale anything, 
 from a dog to a meetin'-house. The old man is not very 
 old, and pretends to sell feather dusters. But it is only 
 a chance to go around and find where to steal. They are 
 the worst enemies the police have." 
 
 Then the lawyer told the officer the rest of the dog 
 story and asked him to call at the studio, and see the dog. 
 He did later, and had sympathy for him. The next day 
 he asked the officer if he was situated so that he could 
 get any one who was down on these people, to go and 
 punish the younger one. They both had the same name, 
 Slian Rines. 
 
 " Will ye kape it to yerself ? " 
 
 " Yes, Mr. Officer. Neither of us will ever know any- 
 thing about it." 
 
 " Correct," said the officer. " I know several who hate 
 them like the devil. I can help you." 
 
 Said the lawyer, " Here is the proposition that I do not 
 make, and you*do not hear. You get somebody that is 
 able to do it, to go and give him a pounding that he won't
 
 232 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 get over in a long time. Don't kill him, but hurt him bad. 
 If we can't have justice without a vigilance committee, 
 let us have it with. Here is a five-dollar bill for the man 
 that does it. When it is done let me know, and I will 
 give you another for yourself." 
 
 I am sorry to say this was against the law, but I told 
 you this story was in the actual, and it is history. A 
 little later, but within a week, Shan Rines had a caller, 
 just at dusk. He was a stout man with his neck done up 
 in a brown handkerchief. His eyes were visible. They 
 walked out into the shed. 
 
 "Wot's the matter with yer?" asked Shan. 
 
 " Neralgy. Got it bad." He asked, " Is the old man 
 round?" 
 
 "No." The stranger leaned on his thick stick. He 
 was lame. 
 
 " See that cat," said he. 
 
 Shan Rines turned to look at the cat and he got a clip 
 that straightened him. Both hands were stamped on. 
 The thick muscles that he sat on, were clubbed into jelly. 
 One knee .pan was split. Both ears twisted, his nose 
 spoiled, teeth knocked out. He was clubbed, kicked, and 
 bruised all over, and all of it was done before he knew it. 
 For a month he was the sickest chicken that ever was. As 
 soon as the job was done, the neckwear came off, the 
 avenger called at the door of the house, and Mrs. Rines 
 came to the door. Says he, " Wot's ever got Shan ? He's 
 out in the shed fainted away." 
 
 " I guess he's been a-fightin'." 
 
 "Shall I go for a doctor?" 
 
 The woman let out a yell and Shan had help. They 
 reported it to the police and the police grinned. The
 
 A FRIEND IN NEED. 233 
 
 neighbors were very sorry, but laughed inside. And 
 everybody that loves justice at all, was glad of it. Later, 
 both of them went behind the bars for burglary. The 
 Herald had an item. The policeman got his five doll:n>. 
 Lawyer Lynian called on Roy and showed the Herald 
 item. He had no report to make, except that justice had 
 been done, a little irregularly perhaps, but still nothing 
 more than what was foreordained, from the foundation of 
 the world, and an orthodox man ought not to kick at 
 that. Roy saw the joke, and was amused at the applica- 
 tion of the doctrine. 
 
 " How much ? " 
 
 "Oh, give me two more, and never tell the story." 
 
 It was done. 
 
 Said Roy, " I once thought I never should need a law- 
 yer in my life. I never was going to sue anybody, 
 or have anybody sue me. But I find it is not for me to 
 say whether I shall have a lawsuit or not. All the world 
 has the answering of that question." 
 
 "Right, sir," said Edric Lyman. "And among all the 
 old proverbs, sayings, and chunks of wisdom that have 
 come down to us, there is one which says : ' Keep my 
 purse from the lawyer, my body from the doctor, and my 
 soul from the devil.' Generally, if a man kept the first 
 two of these impossibilities, he would surely find the 
 third. No, sir, we cannot live without law and lawyers. 
 Now let me give you a better sentiment. Keep on the 
 best of terms with a good lawyer, doctor, and pastor : 
 with your wife, children, and conscience." 
 
 Roy laughed, " How if a man has not got any wife ? " 
 
 " Oh, you will mend of that later." 
 
 " I hope so," said Roy.
 
 \ 
 
 234 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 Said Lawyer Lyman, " If you want legal advice on that 
 or any other subject, you kpow where my office is," and 
 he went out. 
 
 Canis Major slept in the studio the first night, with 
 Roy. The second he went to Mrs. Warren's and was in 
 Roy's chamber. He behaved perfectly and made friends 
 like his master. The next day there were pupils and he 
 wanted to be at Roy's side all the time. It was too much. 
 It took the attention of pupils, and proved, as it always 
 does, that a studio is a poor place for a dog. Roy loved 
 Canis Major dearly, and I grieve to say it, Canis Major 
 loved him, and depended upon him so, and stuck to him 
 so closely, that, splendid as it was, it was a burden. So 
 on the next Saturday afternoon, Roy rode in the baggage 
 car, with Canis Major. Ned Foss, Mr. Bartlett's new 
 boy, was there with a team, and the home was happy 
 once more with Roy and Canis Major. Then Mr. Bart- 
 lett had accommodations for the dog to sleep in the shed, 
 under lock and key, and he went to Boston no more. 
 Roy called upon Sam and had a royal welcome. They 
 were all happy. Roy found his father and mother sitting 
 up for him, when he got home, it being a little later than 
 their usual bed-time ; the hymn was read, the psalm of 
 thanksgiving also, and then the master of the house gave 
 thanks to God for all his mercies, especially for the return 
 of his dear son and his faithful dog.
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 IN THE STUDIO. 
 
 BEFORE nine one morning Miss Graham and Roy came 
 to the studio. Roy said he did not feel much like work 
 and she said the same. He said, " Miss Graham, you have 
 your name on the door with no initial. Yet once or 
 twice, you have had a letter come directed to Miss Mary 
 Graham, else I should not have known your first name. 
 Mary is a beautiful name, that everybody loves in earth 
 and heaven. May I call you by your first name?" He 
 asked it very pleasantly. 
 
 She looked as though it was a doubtful matter for a 
 moment, then she answered. " Let me first give you the 
 reasons to base an answer on, and you may answer. If 
 you alone were to have the privilege, I should say yes, at 
 once. But if you do, others will. The artists, the pupils, 
 and the errand boy will also. You remember that smart 
 girl, Miss Lockwood. She is bright, pretty, pert, and 
 smart. But she is not to blame. You remember, once 
 when you gave her some instruction, she looked up in 
 your face and said, ' Er which?' It almost spoilt the 
 gravity of the class. She is eA'idently the only girl in a 
 family of rough boys. She knows no better. Now if 
 you and others do, the next time I meet her in the street, 
 she will greet me with, Hello, Mary. And I should not 
 like it. I believe in humility and I am not what is called 
 
 235
 
 236 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 'stuck up.' When her majesty's mother died, she wept; 
 and among other reasons for sorrow, it was that she had 
 lost the last friend who had the right to call her by her 
 given name. Some people do not care either way. I do. 
 My people have been people of dignity and substance. 
 It is a sacred right, seldom acquired and not transferable. 
 If no one could use it but you, Mr. Bartlett, it might do. 
 But even then I had rather address you as Mr. Bartlett 
 than by any other name. I should honor you more. Now 
 what is the answer ? " 
 
 Said he, "The answer is that 'she who must be 
 obeyed' shall be obeyed. And hereafter let no man de- 
 ride a woman's reason, for you, Miss Graham, have given 
 me the best of reasons. If any cheap people dared to 
 use your first name, I should resent it. Now, Miss Gra-^ 
 ham, let us go out and see the pictures in the galleries." 
 
 They called at B. S. Moulton's in Hanover street, and 
 at J. Eastman Chase's. They came back to the studio 
 and found Roy's father and mother waiting for them. It 
 was their first visit together. Miss Graham was iritro 
 duced, and they were glad to know her. She said she 
 did not feel like work and would go home. Mrs. Bart- 
 lett objected. She wanted to know Miss Graham, that 
 she had heard sfc much about. 
 
 " Have you heard much about me?" 
 
 " Yes, dear, a great deal. And always that you are 
 helping Roy, and doing a great deal of good to every 
 body." 
 
 "Thank you." 
 
 "Now, Roy," said his mother, " we are going home in 
 the five o'clock train. Let us stay right here and visit 
 you all the time. And, Miss Graham, stay too. By and
 
 IN THE STUDIO. 237 
 
 by Roy may go out and get some crackers and cheese, 
 or some little thing, to keep us from getting faint. Then 
 we can have a good long visit here all day. Ned will 
 meet us at half-past seven to-night, when the train comes 
 into Dover." 
 
 It was so ordered, and Miss Graham agreed to take 
 lunch in the studio with them. 
 
 Said Roy, "Now I leave you for a few minutes to 
 speak for our lunch. You can get acquainted with Miss 
 Graham." Roy went down to North Market street again. 
 "Good morning, Mr. Blanchard, I have company to-day, 
 and they will be at my room. I want something good 
 enough for my father and mother to eat. Can you take 
 a tray or box and send me up four tenderloin steaks, as 
 good as market-men ever get ? " 
 
 "Yes, sir, I can. They are all ready to put upon the 
 gridiron." 
 
 " Good enough," said Roy. " You know where my 
 room is ? " 
 
 "I do. You know I was there to see your pictures." 
 
 " Here is a card for the messenger. And here is the 
 order. Four tenderloin steaks, well done, good mashed 
 potato, two slices each of graham bread, celery, a quart 
 can of coffee, sweet, and milk. I have plates, knives, 
 forks, cups, saucers, salt and pepper." 
 
 " All right, Mr. Bartlett, it shall be done and up there 
 a little before twelve o'clock." 
 
 Roy went back and his visit began. He had an ac- 
 count of Canis Major, and of how content he was to stay 
 in the shed, in a good warm bed of his own, away from 
 danger. Miss Graham was seated beside Mrs. Bartlett 
 and they seemed to like each other well. Roy told them
 
 238 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 of the "Warrens, and all of his doings in art and the Art 
 Coterie. 
 
 Said Roy, "You did not eat much breakfast this 
 morning ? " 
 
 " No, we had not time or appetite, we were so full of 
 coming here. If we get a little lunch we shall do well 
 enough until we get home and then we shall feast again." 
 
 " Well," said Roy, " I guess Boston will honor my 
 father and mother enough to give them a good dinner. 
 Let us set the table. I have dishes enough for a lunch, 
 so I can have one here, when I choose to send out for it, 
 or get it myself." 
 
 The lunch came on time and they were just surprised. 
 Blanchard's steaks were as good as the queen could get. 
 The coffee was perfection, and there was all they could 
 manage, in one course. Miss Graham thought it was the 
 best she ever had, although her uncle had orders to live 
 on the best he could buy. That Bohemian lunch was a 
 change and a surprise, something unique and to be re- 
 membered, as long as they lived. They invited Miss 
 Graham to visit them in the spring, and Roy said he 
 should ask her to make it the week that Whitsunday 
 came in, so as to see New Hampshire when the apple 
 trees are in full bloom. 
 
 When the time was up, the parents were escorted to 
 the station, and the artists had found a day of vacation 
 and a change. The next day there were pupils. It was 
 a busy forenoon. If there is anything on earth that is 
 entitled to respect, it is a palette of color. Without art, 
 the poor tortured color becomes mud. With art, it has 
 possibilities of all beauty. Some people have not much 
 more idea of beauty than a horse. I was travelling
 
 IN THE STUDIO. 239 
 
 among the White Mountains once, and stopped at a 
 house to get a drink from their well in the yard. The 
 view was of the very finest. I looked at it long and 
 lovingly. A girl of fourteen came near. I said, "You 
 have a splendid view of the mountains here." 
 
 " Yes," she said, " view enough for them that like it." 
 
 "Don't you like the mountains?" 
 
 "No, I don't; I hate 'em." 
 
 And from the way her eyes snapped, I knew that she 
 meant it. 
 
 Said I, " Have you ever been on the mountains ? " 
 
 " Yes, I have , an' it is the meanest, most misable 
 place in the whole world. I wish I could never see 
 another mountain as long as I live. I hate 'em." 
 
 Just then a four-years-old boy came along. He was 
 a bright, pretty, well dressed boy, perhaps the girl's little 
 brother. Said I, "Have you been on the mountains?" 
 
 He looked at me, and answered, " Do you think I am 
 a fool?" 
 
 I have recorded it word for word. My companion was 
 much amused by it. It was Mr. Lucas Baker, artist, late 
 of the Massachusetts Normal Art School, now teaching 
 in New York. I never was so completely shut up in my 
 life. It was funny enough to last a fortnight. These 
 were no poor people. But they had a knowledge of the 
 mountains, as rocky, barren deserts, with possibilities of 
 bears and wild beasts, and a place whence people returned 
 tired and exhausted, and often wounded and bleeding. 
 What to eat has often to be learned, what to admire more 
 so. So these by no means foolish people had their own 
 idea of the mountains. So people have their ideas 
 of art.
 
 2-10 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 Roy's pupils were getting a start in the right direction. 
 After they were gone, the afternoon was more at leisure. 
 Two artists called. They were neighbors, and were wel- 
 come. They looked over the pictures, gnve him reason- 
 able praise, and Miss Graham also, and did not score 
 them down with caustic criticism. It is a good way, to 
 enjoy a thing for what it is, and not sting the author to 
 death for what it is not. v 
 
 A gentleman and lady called. They were admitted, 
 and at once Roy gave his artist friends an illustrated 
 book to keep them busy, while he attended to the visitors^ 
 They were a good-looking pair, evidently well situated, 
 and not very long married. The man spoke but little. 
 There was that in his manner which seemed to say, Now 
 I am the escort, and you have nobody to please but my 
 wife. You take me in my own business, and I know 
 my rights, and want them. He introduced them, say- 
 ing : " We are Mr. and Mrs. Quince. Mrs. Quince wishes 
 to take lessons in painting." 
 
 The lady opened. " Yes, Mr. Bartlctt, I have long 
 heard of you and your success in teaching, and I have 
 seen your pictures at the Art Club and in the galleries. 
 The elegance of the foliage, the buttery richness of fore- 
 ground, the mysterious art of the perspective, and the 
 general chiaroscuro, compel one to remain and enjoy the 
 subtle beauty of your landscapes, until one almost forgets 
 it is art, and not Nature in her happiest mood. O 
 Mr. Bartlett, what a delight it must be to paint as 
 you do." 
 
 Mr. Bartlett bowed ; her husband looked resigned. 
 
 " When can I come for a lesson ? " 
 
 " With the class, Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays,
 
 IN THE STUDIO. 241 
 
 at one dollar each lesson. Single lessons, on other days, 
 one dollar and a half." 
 
 She answered, " I think I can come better on Tuesdays 
 and Thursdays than other days. I will send my servant 
 with easel and color box before next Tuesday." She 
 looked at the pictures, and talked most elaborately. At 
 last she swam, to the door. Then, with a smile which 
 was the consummation of all graciousness, an obeisance 
 which was the combined result of all our highest refine- 
 ments, and a nod from her husband, and Mr. and Mrs. 
 Quince were gone. This is a portrait. 
 
 Roy came in after seeing them going downstairs. 
 There was an amused smile upon Miss Graham's face, 
 and a broad grin upon each man. Roy took a fan 
 and sat down, saying, "I ain't well. Suthin's come 
 over me." 
 
 He fanned a little, and they all laughed heartily. 
 
 Said George, " O we poor artists have a tough time. I 
 often get an avalanche of the richest and most ornamental 
 language slung at me, until I am stuck full of it ; and it 
 is a positive relief when some low-down comes in and 
 says something unparliamentary. It is an awful respon- 
 sibility that a poor artist has, to be obliged to skirmish 
 round in art for his bread and butter, and to be in mortal 
 fear of an attack of the dictionary." 
 
 Said Roy : " When will people learn the beauty of 
 simplicity ; that beauty when unadorned is adorned the 
 most. When will they learn that the simplest lan- 
 guage is the best. That 
 
 " ' You see a woman simply drest, 
 You see that woman at her best.'
 
 242 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 Of course, a dress may be ever so rich, and still have the 
 element of simplicity in it. Even a glass of water is 
 better in a large, plain tumbler than in a little, fussed-up 
 one." 
 
 " Yes," said Frank. " I like a plain, unfigured tumbler 
 best ; but I do not choose a cheap, five-cent one. I want 
 a good one. The fact is, that almost all truth is only 
 part truth, and not of universal application. Nature is 
 plain to severity, and she is ornamental and intricate 
 beyond all expression. She has a plain sky, and soon she 
 changes it to a mackerel sky that no one can paint. She 
 has a plain moonlight, and changes that, and hangs out 
 all the stars in the sky. She has a plain field of grass, 
 and the next one is starred with daisies that no man can 
 number. She has a calm sea, and in an hour it is beating 
 its waves upon the shore, in the despair of art. Arid so 
 I like plain things that I like, and I like a reasonable 
 amount of filigree and ornament." 
 
 Said George : " That seems to give you all the lati- 
 tude you want." 
 
 "Jess so, as William "Warren says, and I like plenty 
 of sea room. I do not mean to admire any artist's pict- 
 ure because it is the fashion to do so. Of course, no 
 one can get to be the fashion in a great city, without 
 being a good artist. But there are, many times, pictures 
 that pass for more than they are worth." 
 
 " Whose, for instance ? " asked Miss Graham. 
 
 " Corot's." 
 
 " I think so," said she. 
 
 " Still there is art in them," said Frank. " I attended 
 a sale of a popular artist. His pictures brought from 
 fifty, to several thousand dollars each. I since saw a
 
 IN THE STUDIO. 243 
 
 large picture of his that was appraised at twenty thou- 
 sand dollars, put up at auction and offered to be sold, if 
 any one would start it at ten thousand dollars. No one 
 offered to start it at ten thousand but after waiting a 
 moment for an offer, a man offered to start it at six 
 thousand. The offer was not taken and the picture with- 
 drawn. "Well, at this sale, there was one picture, about 
 twelve by eighteen inches in size, entitled on the cata- 
 logue, ' Donkey Approaching a River.' I think it sold 
 for a hundred dollars. It was a poor specimen of this 
 artist's work. After the sale a messenger carne for it. 
 He had the bill receipted. They looked among the pict- 
 ures and at last found it. They got it up in a good 
 light. I was there and saw it. They laughed over it. 
 Said the messenger : ' Are you sure this is a donkey ap- 
 proaching a river?' 'Oh, yes, this is it.' Then be kind 
 enough to tell me which is the donkey, and which the 
 river. They pretended to debate which was which. At 
 last one man said he had found out how it was. Said 
 he, pointing to the road, that led to the river : ' This is 
 the river, and the donkey is the man that paid a hundred 
 dollars for the picture.' This seemed to strike the 
 crowd very cheerfully. But this artist, whom I have not 
 named, did often get some very wonderful effects in his 
 work." 
 
 Said Roy : " Now we have talked art, let us have a 
 story. Mr. George, please tell us the story of the happi- 
 est day you have had, this last summer." 
 
 George looked up with a queer smile. Said he, 
 "You've just hit it. It is a leading question. But you 
 are such a good fellow, I am going to tell you the 
 story of
 
 244 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 " The Artist's Happiest Day ! " 
 
 I was busy most of the summer in Boston. I only got 
 away a little, and, as I had good orders, I made big 
 money by filling them. There was a young lady whom I 
 have known for some time, and, as she was not going 
 away much, I proposed. Oh, you did, said Frank. Yes, 
 I proposed that as we were two poor " onfortnits " that 
 did not go to Saratoga or Newport, I thought we might 
 go to Nantasket for a day.- She agreed. I told her I, 
 would be commissary and provide. Only she had better 
 bring a light waterproof, in case of weather. I could 
 take them in my pocket or satchel. I asked her for them, 
 when I met her, but she had them safe and ready for 
 use when wanted. I like to help a woman, and I also 
 like to have a woman have the will to help herself. 
 Then she is able to do it, if obliged to. We went down 
 in an early boat, the Rose Standish. I had a hand-bag 
 slung at my side, and not at all in the way. Oh, the 
 morning was bright, and just the right temperature. 
 The lady was interested and agreeable. We intended to 
 have a happy time, and there was not a jar or bit of fric- 
 tion, all day. We walked slowly up the beach toward 
 Boston Light. We took our time and sat and rested 
 when we wanted to. I had two or three books, and I 
 read selections. She asked for my books and read me 
 selections that I did not know of. There is no end to 
 the possibilities of a Boston girl. 
 
 Miss Graham said : " Thank you, sir," which pleased 
 them all. 
 
 I took some pencil sketches, and ourselves in them as 
 figures, walking down the beach. We walked slowly
 
 IN THE STUDIO. 245 
 
 down the beach to the cliff at the southern en^. It was 
 noon. We went upon the high ground where M-e could 
 see the whole length of the beach, and south by Minot's 
 Light and beyond. We had the whole Atlantic before 
 us. It was a smooth, pleasant, grassy spot, where we 
 sat down. I have it well marked. I said I was hungry, 
 and asked her if she could get along on crackers and 
 cheese. Oh, yes, well enough. I opened my commissary 
 department, and took out a small paper bag with six 
 crackers and a piece of cheese. I spread it out on a 
 large napkin, and the napkin on a paper. I asked her if 
 she could live on that until we got home. Oh, yes 
 indeed, besides I have two apples in my pocket, and she 
 laid them out on the napkin. Well, said I, I am not so 
 easily suited as you are. I am going to have something 
 decent for dinner. Then I took out a quarter box of 
 Philippe and Canaud sardines, a lemon, two boiled eggs, 
 two good slices of cold corned beef, two of bread and 
 butter, two chunks of pound cake, a piece easily divided 
 of wedding cake, a pint of cracked English walnuts, a 
 pint of Japan tea sweetened, and some candy, two china 
 plates and two silver cups. By Jove, you ought to have 
 heard her laugh. We both had Nantasket appetites, 
 and that is something phenomenal. We took our time 
 about it, and I think we were through a little before two. 
 That dinner had disappeared like dew before the sun. 
 The air was just perfect, and the ocean as calm as in 
 Landseer's picture of peace. We waited, we reclined on 
 the grass, we rested. We voted it the perfection of all 
 days, a summer vacation in itself. A thought which had 
 long been in my mind, was present all day. I said : Then 
 the day is a satisfactory one to you, Annie ? Yes, it is.
 
 246 THE WILD AKTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 I am glad to hear you say so, Annie, I am always happy 
 when I am with you. Are you ? she asked. Yes, I am. 
 I am glad of it, said she. Then said I, why should we 
 not be one, and be together always? It has long been in 
 my mind to ask you, and now I must. Will you, Annie ? 
 I will do my best for you always. There was no one in 
 sight. I spread the umbrella and kissed her tears away. 
 The promise is not yet fulfilled, but will be soon. The 
 afternoon had sped away, and we took the six o'clock 
 boat for home. As we sailed toward Boston, we saw our 
 city, dressed in the golden glory of the setting sun. 
 Apart from the day, and what we had promised, it was 
 the most golden sea that we sailed in, and the effect of 
 the luminous air over Boston, and a sky with small, but 
 most brilliant clouds floating over all, fitly closed the 
 pleasantest day of my last summer, as well as the happi- 
 est, most blessed day of my life. Mister George re- 
 ceived the congratulations of the three listeners, and 
 thanks for his most interesting story. 
 
 Said Roy, "O it is the old, sweet story, as old as 
 Eden, and as new as the last love that has come to bless 
 mankind. It is the Grand Old Passion that makes the 
 world go round. So may it come to all of us."
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 HAIL TO* THE CHIEF. 
 
 FOR three days Roy's studio door had borne a notice, 
 saying : The Art Coterie will entertain itself on Thurs- 
 day evening, at the usual time and place, perhaps, to see 
 a vision of the man whom our country most delights to 
 honor. People looked and wondered. Good artists had 
 the tableau in charge. Miss Graham could keep a secret. 
 The evening was pleasant, and the company was the size 
 of the house. Miss Graham gave a selection upon the 
 piano, and it was worthy of the applause it received. 
 Then Roy called upon the veracious author of this book, 
 to edify the company. Mr. Wiggin came forward with 
 his heart and a lozenge in his mouth, but both went 
 down, a moment later, and have not been heard of since. 
 He began : Members of the Art Coterie, your chairman 
 has introduced me in just the right way. I always get 
 laughed at, every time I try it. This time I have all the 
 latitude I wish. I cannot treat so large a company. You 
 would not wish me to sing a song. I do not know how 
 to make an entertaining speech, good enough for you, and 
 therefore I must do that which most people like, tell 
 stories. They will be true ones. How common it is to 
 hear people called crank or fool. It has sometimes been 
 my privilege to be so honored. It was written long ago, 
 that he that increaseth knowledge, increaseth sorrow. It 
 
 247
 
 248 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 is a half truth at best. The more a man knows of litera- 
 ture, the more he can enjoy of the stores of rich thought 
 of others. The more he knows of what is 'good in art, 
 the more beauty he can see in Art and Nature too. This 
 is a double blessing. Nature is like the sun, and Art is 
 like the moon, which reflects her light. We give thanks 
 for both. It has been my business to make some Art 
 goods, and I like to know as much of the use, construc- 
 tion, and value of what I see, as I can. If I go to an 
 auction sale, I look about me, and sometimes I find a 
 thing of use or beauty that is desirable. Once, however, 
 I attended a sale, and acted very ridiculously, without 
 being conscious of it at all. It was a large sale at 
 Leonard's, of portraits and other pictures, partly the re- 
 mains of Ransom's estate. He had long made portraits 
 in Boston, and had left some unfinished pictures. Some 
 were portraits of old women, homely enough to stop a 
 clock. Nobody would bid. I went up and scratched on 
 one side of the pictures. If the result was satisfactory, I 
 bid twenty-five cents. It was struck off to me. The 
 next, the same, and so on for ten pictures. Then I shook 
 my head, instead of nodding assent. Well, how much? 
 asked Joseph Leonard. Ten cents. It was mine. The 
 crowd laughed. It was a very funny auction. I did not 
 want the pictures at all, but I could use them at the price 
 I was paying for them. The sale went on. Mr. Leonard 
 started them at twenty-five cents each, and a nod from 
 me accepted them. A few I took at ten cents. Every 
 time a picture came to me, they were merry over it. 
 There were some awful old virgins among them. When 
 the sale was done, I had about seventy pictures, and I 
 said to Mr. Leonard : I will send an expressman for them
 
 HAIL TO THE CHIEF. 249 
 
 this afternoon, so please have them together. If there 
 are any which others have bid off, that are not called for, 
 put them in with mine, at the price I bid, and, I added, 
 I don't see what anybody but me wants of such pictures. 
 The crowd laughed uproariously. All right, said Mr. 
 Joseph Leonard. I went out and got my lunch. It was 
 a pleasant day, and I was as quiet in my mind as a pan of 
 milk. 
 
 Perhaps I had better say, right here, that I have no 
 crazy blood in me. I can trace my ancestry back 
 through good people, as far as any one I know. So I 
 am not a luniac. I know you never heard that word be- 
 fore. Perhaps I had better explain and qualify a little. 
 My mother-in-law had a cousin who was rather flighty. 
 But I never could see that it affected my sanity. Here 
 you can smile. So I persist in feeling perfectly sane at 
 the bottom. Bunchy and full of the old boy, of course, 
 but still more or less sane. 
 
 Here a friend of Mr. Wiggin, who had been on jolly 
 excursions with him, let out a Haw, Haw, Haw, which 
 became epidemic in the audience. 
 
 Mr. Wiggin resumed : Then I went along toward home. 
 I called in at the artist's materials store of Mr. F. C. 
 Hastings & Co. At the desk sat Mr. George Hastings. 
 Said he, " Have you been to Leonard's auction this morn- 
 ing?" "I have." "What do you suppose I heard of 
 you just now, Mr. Wiggin ? " "I do not know ; some- 
 thing pleasant, I presume." " Shall I tell you ? " asked 
 Mr. Hastings. " Certainly, I should be pleased to know." 
 "Well, sir," said he, "there was a man in here just now, 
 and he had come from Leonard's auction. He said he 
 had seen the biggest fool that he had ever seen in his life.
 
 250 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 A man perfectly crazy. And his name was Wiggin. He 
 stood beside the auctioneer, and bought a large lot of hor- 
 rible old portraits and pictures, that nobody would bid 
 on. Everything that no one would start at any price, he 
 would take for twenty-five cents, except that once in a 
 while, he would only bid ten cents. O he was an awful 
 fool, clean crazy." I laughed, I had to. Said I, " Well, 
 Mr. Hastings, what did you tell him?" "I told him I 
 knew a Mr. Wiggin who makes goods for us, and he was 
 a long way from being crazy. In fact I told him that Mr. 
 Wiggin knew what he was buying." "I think you are 
 right, Mr. Hastings. Those old portraits were on extra 
 frames that I had made for a dollar apiece, and under 
 each worthless portrait was an extra heavy, clean canvas, 
 making them worth two dollars each, beside the 
 portrait. And some of the portraits are good. If I can- 
 not get a dime out of that hour at Leonard's, then I mis- 
 take. But I was the only man in the room that knew the 
 value that was covered up under those portraits." "I 
 knew it was all right," said Mr. George Hastings, " and I 
 told him so." It is a good thing for a man to know his 
 own value. It is w.ritten, " What shall a man give in ex- 
 change for his soul?" Now, if it is wise to know one's 
 own value, it is wise to increase one's own value. This 
 the artist does, as he improves in his work. Let him be 
 very sure of what he can do, and not overestimate him- 
 self. 
 
 There were three brothers in Philadelphia, artists and 
 good fellows all. One was a photographer, and O the 
 beautiful, picturesque stereoscopic views he has made, 
 some of which I have copies of. One of the brothers 
 went to England. He made fiue oil studies of the old
 
 HAIL TO THE CHIEF. 251 
 
 castles, ruins, and whatever was best material for him. I 
 visited him in his studio in Philadelphia, after his return 
 from Europe. Here is the story that he told. 
 
 The American Artist in London. 
 
 One day I went to the National Gallery in London. I 
 took my time about it, and looked over all the pictures. 
 I saw some being copied. I asked the janitor if it was 
 allowed to copy any pictures. Yes, sir. You can copy 
 hany picture 'ere. I told him I would like to copy "Tur- 
 ner's Shipwreck." I got the size of the canvas, and told 
 him I would send canvas and easel in the morning, as soon 
 as the gallery was open, and I would make it right with 
 him if he would care for them. This he agreed to do. 
 Then he went back to some men he had been talking 
 with, and I heard him say, 'Ere's a Hamerican wot's a- 
 goin' to copy " Turner's Shipwreck." Isn't it 'igh ? They 
 all laughed. The next morning my easel 'and canvas 
 were on time, and I was ready soon after the gallery was 
 open. It was a good day. The janitor was having many 
 callers, and he told them all. They laughed and had no 
 end of fun of it. The presumption of these Hamericans 
 was 'orrible. I took a large palette and put on a pile of 
 color. I took my coat off. I got two or three measures 
 and then put a large patch of color right into the middle 
 of the canvas. They were immensely amused. There 
 were from six to twenty persons watching me all the 
 time. Soon there was a large piece of canvas covered. 
 Then I laid on my color to stay, and the picture began to 
 grow. As fast as I put the color on, it was "Turner's 
 Shipwreck." It was like it, and it was just as good. 
 They laughed no more. They tiptoed around me. They
 
 252 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 looked through their hands. They did not cease to 
 watch me. I did not see them at all, but I observed 
 them all. I worked the best I knew, and I was satisfied 
 with what I was doing. I knew their eyes were on me 
 for criticism, and I gave them no chance. The janitor 
 asked if I needed anything. No, I was all right. I must 
 cover my canvas to-day. It ought not to be over a day's 
 work to copy such a picture as that. He looked dismayed 
 and I wanted to laugh, but I kept busy. One man asked 
 if the picture was for sale. No, I did not wish to sell it. 
 So I kept on. A little later, a fine-looking gentleman 
 came up and praised my copy. In a few minutes more, 
 he gave me an invitation to dine with him. I declined. 
 When the light began to fail in the afternoon, my copy 
 was done, and I had five invitations to dinner. The 
 artist farther continued. Now all I have said is only on 
 my assertion. But here on this wall is another copy of 
 "Turner's Shipwreck," just a quarter of the size of the 
 original. You can judge by this, whether my full-size 
 copy was good for anything or not. 
 
 I gave my verdict, at once, that it was a wonderful, 
 splendid copy. And I hereby add that the artist, Mr. 
 Thomas Moran, is a splendid artist and good fellow, and 
 the hour that I passed in his studio was most entertaining. 
 His pictures are often in chromo. I have his photograph 
 coming in with the Philadelphia Art Club. If there is 
 anything I do admire, it is to see a man that knows some- 
 thing. I had a visit of several days in Philadelphia, and 
 a good time in them all. I almost always do have a good 
 time, for I keep them on hand, ready made, like an enter- 
 prising hardware firm that I once knew. They circum- 
 vented frozen ground by keeping post-holes, ready dug, 
 for sale.
 
 HAIL TO THE CHIEF. 253 
 
 The, Story of the Nun and the Artist. 
 
 The scene changes to a studio in Ohio. The artist was 
 at work, one day, when a knock came on his door. He 
 admitted a short, stout, clean-shaven man, who had on a 
 Roman collar, and was a Roman Catholic priest. He 
 looked at the pictures and talked of art. He asked the 
 artist if he ever repaired pictures. Yes, often. He had 
 studied with a figure painter and often had figure pieces 
 to repair and varnish. The priest engaged the artist to 
 go to an institution, a home of Sisters of Chanty, and look 
 at a large picture of the " Annunciation " in the recep- 
 tion room. He went there, examined the picture, and 
 reported that it could be made as good as new, but it 
 would take four or five visits to finish it, as the browns 
 had cracked so badly in the bottom of the picture. The 
 price was satisfactory. The picture was taken from the 
 frame and the artist began his work. Two or three nuns 
 came and looked at him as he painted. He was a fine 
 looking and appearing young man, and a good artist. 
 The lady superior was engaged with company, and after 
 the other nuns had gone out, one remained to look at 
 him. She was about twenty-four years old, tall and 
 handsome. He spoke to her. Do you like pictures? 
 Speak low, she said, the walls have ears. Yes, I do, very 
 much. They conversed in a low tone. He looked at 
 her, and what he saw in her face prompted him to ask, 
 Are you happy here and glad to stay ? She shook her 
 head sadly. Do you wish to get away? I do. I was 
 prevailed upon to come, and I have been sorry ever since. 
 He said, I expect to come here again next Thursday. Try 
 to come in and see me paint, and I will talk with you
 
 254 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 again about it. I shall be glad to serve you, for you have 
 impressed me very much. Thank you, sir, she said. Yes, 
 very much, he added. More than any woman I ever saw. 
 Ladies and gentlemen, I am telling this story exactly as 
 the artist himself told it to me. She went out of the room. 
 He removed the loose crackly browns of the corner which 
 were peeled up all ready to rattle off. Then he laid it in 
 strong of umber, burnt sienna and ochre, leaving out the 
 asphaltum which had made it crack. He left the picture 
 one good stage towards stability. The lady superior 
 came in. She asked if any one had been in the room. 
 Yes, madam. Two or three people had looked in or 
 passed through the room. There, said he, I will try to 
 come again next Thursday, and advance it another stage. 
 He picked up his color box and retired, leaving two peo- 
 ple to think much of his next visit. 
 
 They say love laughs at locksmiths, and will go where 
 it is sent in spite of bolts and bars. Certain it is, the 
 nun had a picture in her mind, and it was not the " An- 
 nunciation," which she cared nothing about, but it was 
 the honest young artist who had told her that rare and 
 inspiring story, that she had impressed him more than 
 any one, of all the daughters of Eve. And he painted 
 and mused, and he sighed, and he painted. 
 
 The next Thursday brought him to the home of the 
 Sisters of Charity. The lady superior met him and he 
 was soon at his work. As it was reception day, she was 
 soon busy with other visitors, who were entertained in 
 the sitting-room or chapel, library or embroidery room. 
 An hour elapsed and the artist's work was well advanced 
 for the day. He feared he should not see the face he 
 was so much interested in, when the door softly opened,
 
 HAIL TO THE CHIEF. 255 
 
 and she was at his side. He shook her hand warmly. 
 She said she was afraid she should not get a chance to 
 slip in and see him. The artist was glad to welcome hei-, 
 and he told her she was in his thoughts all the time, 
 since he had seen her, a week before. She said she was 
 glad of it. If she failed to see him the next Thursday, it 
 would be because she was too closely watched, and could 
 not come. She would see him if she could possibly. He 
 hoped so. Now, said she, I must go. He looked at her 
 as only a lover can, and they kissed each other. It was 
 a sure thing after that. She was gone. He left his 
 work well advanced, so as to be ready for the higher 
 lights after drying a week. He went away, but he left 
 his heart behind him. There was another in that great 
 building, in the same condition. For two people it was 
 a long, uninteresting week. Nothing had any flavor to 
 it. Neither one had anything they wanted, or wanted 
 what they had. Mr. Mantalini said, " My life is one 
 demd horrid grind." I suppose it is not too much to 
 say, that all who love beauty are susceptible people. It 
 follows that all susceptible people are likely to fall in 
 love. When they do fall in love, the Grand Old Passion 
 possesses them to the exclusion of everything else. It is 
 an awful condition to be in, and yet, I suppose those are 
 the most truly unfortunate who have never loved at all. 
 It is a nebulous kind of a paradox. Even Solomon, 
 himself, a man of large experience, pretended he could 
 never understand it. A woman may possibly be excused 
 for not loving, because she, like Hannah Partridge, never 
 had the chance. But a man, that is like an egg, so full 
 of himself that he has no room for any one else, is en- 
 titled to the full benefit of my opinion. An old bachelor
 
 256 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 always reminds me of a mule, whom Sunset Cox has so 
 happily described as " an animal without pride of ances- 
 try, or hope of posterity." The nun and the artist were 
 not that kind of people. They were willing to follow 
 the example of the old gardener and his wife, whom we 
 are all obliged to acknowledge as our ancestors. 
 
 The week went by on leaden wings, but at last it went, 
 and Thursday came. The artist was ready to work upon 
 the picture. There was a glass window on the back side 
 of the room. It was transom-like, high up, and always 
 closed. He spread out his colors and worked upon the 
 picture. Visitors came and the lady superior was 
 away with them. After a little time, the door softly 
 opened, and his nun came in, softly closing the door 
 after her. In an instant she was in his arms, and was 
 getting such a kiss as but there was a knock on the 
 glass window, in the back part of the room. She turned 
 pale, and almost fell to the floor, as the door opened, and 
 the lady superior, with a scowl upon her face, took her 
 by the arm, and led her from the room. 
 
 The superior soon returned, with pen, ink, and paper, 
 saying, you need not touch the picture again. Make out 
 your bill and receipt it. He did so without a word. 
 She paid the money, opened the door for him, and in a 
 moment it was locked behind him. He consulted a law- 
 yer. The lawyer could see no daylight. He went to a 
 sheriff, but he had no authority to enter the abode of 
 peaceful people. He went to the governor and stated 
 the case. The governor wished him well, but could see 
 no chance whatever to help him. The artist had money 
 but had no claim on any one to demand help. He did 
 not even know the nun's name. What became of the
 
 HAIL TO THE CHIEF. 257 
 
 woman he did not know. I could not comfort him, and 
 I do not extenuate the crime of those who forbid mar- 
 riage, in the face of the New Testament, which approves it. 
 
 I have told you the story just as the artist told it to 
 me. I believe it fully. I think a bad promise is better 
 broken than kept. I think that the son who said he 
 would go to work in his father's vineyard, and went not, 
 was a bad lot ; I think the second one, who repented and 
 went, did better. I think that Catherine Von Bora, who 
 broke her vows as a nun, to marry Martin Luther, did 
 right. The wrong was in the foolTsh, wicked vow of 
 celibacy. It is as wicked and hurtful as to stick one arm 
 up straight until it hardens there, as the fools do in India. 
 
 Thus far I have told three stories. Now let us have a 
 more playful one. It is a story of 
 
 Apollo in Boston. 
 
 There is now, to-day in Boston, a young artist, 
 quite a talented one, who is, like many others of his class, 
 a daisy. Six feet high, fine form, handsome hands, clear 
 complexion, dark hair, a moustache that is Cupid's bow in 
 shape, red lips, splendid dark eyes, an Apollo in his own 
 right, and strongly threatened with beauty all over. If he 
 was the Marquis of Westminster's son, what a swath he 
 would cut. If anything can surpass the way he plays the 
 piano it is the way he plays the banjo. And he might be 
 a lady-killer just as easy as rolling off a log. But he is 
 not, and, on the contrary, he is the pink of propriety, 
 and as safe as your grandmother. If I was the most 
 modest, blushing young lady in the world I would not 
 hesitate to be alone with him, he is so safe. I would risk 
 the casualties. He has such an air, and a twist about
 
 258 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 him, and he can entertain friends, particularly ladies, 
 just elegantly. O I tell you he is one of the gayest, 
 airiest, of all the mortal gods that inspire our modern 
 Olympus. Of course I mean Boston. Any one ought to 
 know that. So I call on him, make him come and sup 
 with me, make him talk, and put him through his paces, 
 as Artemus his "amoosin' kangaroo." Somebody says, 
 Every rich family in New York keeps a tame clergyman. 
 I have a number of tame artists, and most refreshing 
 people they are. Well, one morning this Apollo, junior, 
 which is not far from his real name anyway, had arisen 
 from his beautiful couch, no levity, please, it is actual 
 fact, he had taken his bath, had dressed himself, as he 
 always did, to look as if he had just come out of the 
 upper drawer. Here I must digress again, and say, that 
 Boston has a large percentage of this class, who are in 
 striking contrast to some people who always look as if 
 they had slept in the ash barrel. Apollo, junior, came 
 sweetly down to breakfast. Sweet is no name for it. 
 Everything about him was as sweet as a wrinkle in a fat 
 baby's neck. Breakfast, I said. Now if any part of 
 your life has been unfortunate, I beg you not to associate 
 any coarse " grub " with this breakfast. No fried liver 
 smothered in onions about this. Not much. Apollo 
 junior would not touch it. No. He took some very 
 nice, delicious biscuits, such as are evolved by the Boston 
 cooking schools, a little delicate meat, one or two bulbs 
 of the Solanum tuberosum, and a cup or two of male- 
 berry coffee, such as Cleopatra refreshed Marc Antony 
 with. Apollo junior would no more have touched female 
 berry coffee than he would have put Prussian blue in a 
 picture. He believed in the eternal fitness of things, and 
 so do I.
 
 HAIL TO THE CHIEF. 259 
 
 4 
 
 So he had his breakfast, and was walking down Tre- 
 mont Street, in that state of body and mind that the 
 truly elegant Boston man loves to be. The smile upon 
 his face was like the sunshine upon the sweet waters of 
 the Batrachian Lake upon the Common. It was a cool 
 morning. A tramp met him. The tramp was poor, 
 ragged, dirty, pitiful, cold, shivering, and hungry. He 
 was the antipodes of Apollo junior, in all things. He 
 was very, very cold, you see. He had slept, or tried to, 
 in a cattle car, with a slat bottom. Apollo was moved to 
 pity, like old Grimes, and the tramp was moved to beg. 
 O give me ten cents to buy something to eat, I am 
 dreadful cold and hungry. Said Apollo : My friend, I 
 will give you some money upon one condition } if you 
 will solemnly promise me that you will give ten cents for 
 a good stiff drink of whiskey, I will give you twenty 
 five cents. If ever I saw a man that needed warming 
 you do. Will you promise? Ye-e-e-s, I will, truly, said 
 the tramp, shivering. He got the money, and took a 
 bee-line for a saloon. The recording angel stood and 
 chewed his pen for some time before he knew which side 
 of the book to enter it. Finally he laughed. I'll do it, 
 says he; and he wrote Apollo junior, credit, by cash paid 
 the kingdom of heaven, twenty-five cents. A gift of pity 
 and love. He called the wretch " my friend." If some 
 folks I know of had known it, they would have been 
 madder than wet hens. My stories are done. 
 
 Roy Bartlett announced, that it was hoped there would 
 be a visit of a spirit of might and power, that they might 
 see, once in their lives, one whom we all delight to 
 honor.
 
 260 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 * 
 There was a dark curtain across the rear end of the 
 
 parlors. 
 
 Said Roy, " It is usual, when we wish to get an audi- 
 ence into harmony and sympathy, to sing. This brings 
 us to be all of one mind, and is supposed to make it easy 
 for the spirit to appear. Now please sing that grand 
 piece, Keller's American Hymn. All please join who 
 have the gift of song. Miss Sarah Warren, please take 
 the piano." 
 
 It was done. Of all noble songs, I like that hymn, and 
 then they sung it with the spirit and the understanding 
 also. The windows were open, and when it was done, 
 they heard the applause from a large company outside. 
 It was just fun for Mrs. Warren and her daughters. The 
 applause came floating in like a sixth sense, or as the 
 smell of gunpowder did, when the great peace jubilee in 
 Boston sang the national hymns, with anvil and cannon 
 accompaniment. Oh, that mighty tide of song. God 
 bless P. S. Gil more for that. 
 
 Then Roy said, " Now Miss Emily Warren will read a 
 poem by John Pierpont, and sung once, On the twenty- 
 second of February, in the Old South Church. It is 
 Pierpont's ' Washington.' " In perfect stillness, with 
 the lights turning a little lower, she read the poem be- 
 ginning, 
 
 " To Thee, beneath whose eye 
 Each circling century 
 Obedient rolls." 
 
 When she came to the stanza, 
 
 " There like an angel form, 
 
 Sent down to still the storm, 
 
 Stood Washington.
 
 HAIL TO THE CHIEF. 261 
 
 Clouds broke and rolled away, 
 Foes fled in pale dismay, 
 Wreathed were his brows with bay, 
 When war was done," 
 
 then, the piano being muffled, by laying a large, lady's 
 cloud, or hood, upon the strings (a trick which if done 
 rightly is a revelation), and a snare drum, also muffled, 
 and deftly played by Miss Sarah Warren, and the instru- 
 ments were ready. The lights were very low. 
 
 Said Roy, " The Continental army is coming. Wash- 
 ington has taken command at Cambridge." 
 
 Yes, he is coming. There was a rustle of feet and afar 
 off was heard the piano and drum and the tramp of the 
 time-keeping soldiers coming nearer, nearer, nearer. It 
 was a fine illusion. It came near. Halt was ordered, 
 and the music ceased. The front door opened and rus- 
 tling and tramping seemed as if important visitors had 
 come. Earnest words were spoken. Has he come ? 
 Yes, it is he. He has come. They are here. Oh, it is 
 a sight for a lifetime. Shall we see him ? Perhaps, I 
 hope so. The room was perfectly dark and still. Then a 
 strong, solemn voice recited this adjuration, 
 
 " Hail, chieftain from the home above, 
 Come from the land of light and love ; 
 Come to us from thine own blest place, 
 Let us once more behold thy face, 
 Thou, who didst lead our armies on 
 Till liberty and peace were won. 
 Chosen of God and heaven-sent, 
 Our leader, patriot, president. 
 Once more receive the homage due 
 A mighty nation pays to you.
 
 262 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 Receive the praise so gladly given, 
 Welcome to God, and saints in heaven. 
 Come thou from home that saints inherit, 
 Come bless our sight, inspiring spirit, 
 We love thee, wait to meet thee here, 
 Great Washington, appear ! appear ! " 
 
 The piano struck softly a few bars of " My country, 'tis 
 of thee." The drum rolled and the centre of the curtain 
 was shot with light. The light at first was white. In a 
 minute it was. changed to blue, in another it was roseate. 
 Then the curtain parted in the middle and showed two 
 large, rich, silk, American flags, parted, and in a beauti- 
 ful alcove sat General Washington himself. The parlors 
 were dark, the alcove was light. It was a sight for 
 a lifetime. The illusion was so good they did not 
 think to criticise. Whispers were heard. One woman 
 really asked : Is it Washington ? What is it ? Is he 
 alive ? No, it is wax. No, it is not. I saw him wink. 
 And so, hungry eves looked at that tableau. Whoever it 
 was, played his part well, and looked our idea of Wash- 
 ington to perfection, like Gilbert Stuart's picture. He 
 sat still. O what dignity ami conscious power. The 
 arch of evergreen, above all, the flags, the alcove lighted 
 from invisible lamps. The drapery and lace curtain in 
 the rear, the exquisite hothouse flowers. O, these 
 ladies and artists had not studied art for nothing, and 
 they did not lack for a dollar, if they needed it. Mrs. 
 Warren blossomed. She was a girl again. 
 
 Said Roy, "Now we will have, 'Hail to the chief.' 
 After which this illusion will change, and pass away, for- 
 ever. If this is not Washington himself, you will never 
 get a better likeness until you see him. Look at the fine
 
 HAIL TO THE CHIEF. 263 
 
 ruddy color which Gilbert Stuart has twiddled into the 
 cheeks of his portrait, and the hair and expression I have 
 often admired in this gentleman. And they are more 
 like Washington than any one I ever met." 
 
 Then, with bull's-eye lamps enough to see the score, 
 with Miss Graham at the piano and Miss Sarah Warren 
 with little taps and rolls of the drum, they sang that 
 glorious song of The Wizard of the North, 
 
 " Plail to the chief who in triumph advances, 
 Honored and blest be the evergreen pine, 
 
 Long may the tree in his banner that glances, 
 Flourish, the shelter and grace of our line." 
 
 O it is so good I can hardly refrain from putting it all 
 in. And those magnificent sopranos, with an abundant 
 support of choir singers and instruments, made such a 
 triumphant song, as I never heard surpassed. They sang 
 the whole four stanzas, repeating only the last line of each. 
 Then the gas was turned on and the gentleman arose. 
 
 Roy spoke, " Friends, the vision has passed. I now 
 have the pleasure of introducing to you a gentleman who 
 looks like Washington, and is like him in noble and 
 kindly character. He has been long and well known in 
 Cambridge, both in business and the city government. 
 He is the founder of the New Hampshire Club of Cam- 
 bridge, and its first president. He is as popular and as 
 worthy in his sphere, as Washington was in his. At any 
 rate, a great many people love him, and so do I, and I 
 gladly present to you Mr. Francis L. Chapman of Cam- 
 bridge." 
 
 To say he had a greeting, is useless. He was known to 
 several, and he had as much welcome, for his own sake,
 
 264 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 as for the great commander. Many were presented by 
 name, and would persist in calling him General Wash- 
 ington. 
 
 It is a matter of history, how clean the streets of Jeru- 
 salem were once, when every man did his best to keep it 
 clean before his own house. It is a matter of astonish- 
 ment, how much enthusiasm there is in a society, where 
 they all let themselves out to help all they can, and to en- 
 joy it, whether or no. Churches, make a note of this ; 
 this the Art Coterie did. They did their best to make it 
 good. They all owned it, and owed it allegiance. They 
 smacked their lips, and made it taste good without criti- 
 cism. If they had gone to a theatre or church festival, 
 and paid a long price for admission, I am afraid their 
 noses would have gone up into the air, like so many art 
 critics'. 
 
 Roy said, " It is getting late. Let us sing ' Auld Lang 
 Syne.' " 
 
 A gentleman jumped up and said, "I was at a late 
 meeting of the New Hampshire Club in Cambridge, and 
 the company would not let Mr. Chapman off, until he 
 sang an old song, that used to give the firemen a chance 
 to come in on the chorus. Mr. Chapman is a member of 
 the old fire department, before the days of steam fire en- 
 gines, and there is so much love and good-will among the 
 ex-members, that they make him sing the old song as 
 they used to, and all the boys come in on a roaring cho- 
 rus. I move that we request Mr. Chapman to sing 
 ' Lowlands Low.' " 
 
 Roy put it to vote, and the answer was a unanimous 
 Aye." They all laughed. 
 
 Mr. Chapman said he had sometimes been elected to
 
 HAIL TO THE CHIEF. 265 
 
 office, "but never went in by a handsomer majority. He 
 was no musician, and did not claim to sing ; but the boys 
 wanted a jolly chorus, and the old sea-song helped them 
 to sing the chorus. The New Hampshire Club had 
 ordered it, and he would give it to the Art Coterie if they 
 would only come in strong on the chorus. The song is 
 as old as the ocean, more or less, and here it is : 
 
 THE LOWLANDS. 
 
 % 
 " OI have a ship in the North countree, 
 
 And she goes by the name of the Bold Galatee ; 
 But I fear she will be taken by some Turkish gallee, 
 As she sails along the lowlands. 
 CHORUS Lowlands low, 
 
 As she sails along the lowlands low. 
 
 " Then up steps the boy, and to his master said, 
 "What will you give to me if I'll go and destroy ? 
 O I will give you gold, and I will give you store, 
 And you shall have my daughter dear, when you return on 
 
 shore, 
 
 If you'll sink her in the lowlands. 
 CIIOKUS Lowlands low, 
 
 If you'll sink her in the lowlands low. 
 
 " Then this boy he bent his best and away swam he ; 
 Swam till he came to the Turkish gallee. 
 This boy he bent his best and away swam he ; 
 Swam till he came to the Turkish gallee, 
 As she sailed along the lowlands. 
 CHORUS Lowlands low, 
 
 As she sailed along the lowlands low. 
 
 " Now this boy he had an auger that bored two holes at once, 
 Now this boy he had an auger that bored two holes at once ; 
 While some were playing cards and some were playing dice,
 
 266 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 He let the water in and dazzled all their eyes ; 
 And he sank them in the lowlands. 
 CHORUS Lowlands low, 
 
 And he sank them in the lowlands low. 
 
 " Then this boy he bent his best and away, away swam he; 
 Swam till he came to his own ship's side, 
 Dear master, pick me up, for I'm drifting with the tide, 
 And I'm sinking in the lowlands. 
 CHORUS Lowlands low, 
 
 And I'm sinking in the lowlands low. 
 
 " I will not pick you up, his master he replied, 
 I will kill you, I will shoot you, I will send you down the tide, 
 And I'll sink you in the lowlands. 
 CHOUUS Lowlands low, 
 
 And I'll sink you in the lowlands low. 
 
 " Then this boy swam around all on the larboard side, 
 Then this boy swam around all on the larboard side ; 
 Dear shipmates, pick me up, for I'm drifting with the tide, 
 For I'm sinking in the lowlands. 
 CHORUS Lowlands low, 
 
 For I'm sinking in the lowlands low. 
 
 " Then the shipmates picked him up all on the larboard side ; 
 They laid him on the deck, where he soon revived ; 
 And then they called the captain unto the larboard side, 
 And they chucked him overboard, with a fair wind and tide, 
 And they sank him in the lowlands. 
 CHORUS Lowlands low, 
 
 And they sank him in the lowlands low. 
 
 "Now this boy he won gold and silver bright, 
 Now this boy he won gold and silver bright, 
 Now this boy he won gold and silver bright, 
 Likewise his master's daughter, to be his heart's delight, 
 As he sailed along the lowlands. 
 CHORUS Lowlands low, 
 
 As he sailed along; the lowlands low.
 
 HAIL TO THE CHIEF. 267 
 
 " Come weigh up your anchor all to the bow, 
 Through this wide ocean we have to plough, 
 Through this wide ocean we have to plough, 
 Till we get her off the lowlands. 
 CHORUS Lowlands low, 
 
 Till we get her off the lowlands low." 
 
 To say the Art Coterie sang, was no name for it. 
 Those splendid sopranos outdid themselves. When the 
 chorus struck the " Lowlands low," it was immense. 
 
 The basses sung in a voice like a fog-horn. Nobody 
 said it was or was not classical music, but some of them 
 said Beacon Hill never heard the like, or anything they 
 relished so well. Ask any one of the company to-day, 
 and they will laugh. The crowd outside joined in, and 
 it is even said that away down the harbor, the scnlpins 
 came to the surface to listen, and even the sea-serpent 
 put in an appearance, off Apple Island. This I cannot 
 vouch for, as I wish to be entirely circumstantial and 
 avoid even the appearance of exaggeration. But I do 
 know Mr. Frank Chapman sang the old sea-song, and we 
 enjoyed it hugely, even though it is flavored with 
 tragedy, even as the rhyme of the Nancy Bell. How- 
 ever, none laid it to heart, and we all went home happy, 
 even as happy as a pair of twins.
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 ROY DINES OUT. 
 
 THE next day Roy was at the studio, bright and early. 
 Miss Graham was there not long after. There was 
 plenty of fun among those who sang at the Coterie. 
 Everybody was as pleasant as a basket of chips. A New 
 Hampshire proverb. Miss Graham brought Roy a note. 
 It read : 
 
 MR. ROYAL BARTLETT, Dear Sir, You are kindly invited 
 to dine with us this evening at six o'clock. Truly yours, 
 
 WILSON GRAHAM. 
 
 It was from Miss Graham's uncle. Mr. and Mrs Gra- 
 ham had often been in the studio, where they had met 
 Mrs. Warren and her daughters. They were all agree- 
 able people, and had been often in the studio and at the 
 Coterie. 
 
 Roy said : "Miss Graham, I am glad to receive your 
 uncle's kind invitation, which I shall have to answer." 
 
 " You are welcome, sir," said she, " and you need not 
 send an answer, but just go across 'the Common with me, 
 when we are through work. I told my uncle, I thought 
 you would come, and they will take it for granted." 
 
 " Ah," said Roy, " your uncle has good fortune. It is 
 real luck for a disabled clergyman, to have an estate all 
 furnished, to care for, with an income and a good living." 
 
 268
 
 KOY DINES OFT. 269 
 
 " Yes," she said, " I am glad uncle is so well provided 
 for. But the estate he cares for, constantly increases 
 under his management, so he really earns a great deal 
 more than he costs the estate, by his judicious invest- 
 ments. He has taken the earnings and bought land in 
 New York, that he has built business blocks upon, so 
 that the owner can see the estate grow largely every 
 year. He has never lost the estate a dollar, and he has 
 gained it many thousands." 
 
 " Ah, yes," said Roy : " honesty and stability of char- 
 acter are a double blessing. They help everybody. I 
 am thankful that, since his voice became weak, he has 
 such a chance to show the sterling gold of his character. 
 A faithful Christian minister deserves that the world shall 
 use him well. Some people never see any one situated 
 as he is, without feeling envious, and wishing all the 
 blessing was theirs ; but I never feel that way. I never 
 expect more than a competence, and I am fully prepared 
 to be happy and thankful with that. I have a good time 
 all the time, now, and I hope he will long enjoy the trust 
 that is laid upon him. Of course, that means you too, 
 Miss Graham." 
 
 " Thank you, sir," she answered. 
 
 There came' a knock at the door. Roy admitted the 
 visitors. It was the man who had called Roy a bad 
 name. His wife came too. They had their pictures 
 hung up and liked them ever so much. He was one of 
 those men who when they have done a wrong, and have 
 seen it, can never do too much to repair it. So he told 
 Roy that he had an offer for his house, of far more than 
 it cost him, with all the furniture, and also the pictures. 
 He said he was on his way down town to close the bar-
 
 270 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 gain and should want some more pictures. Would Mr. 
 Bartlett take a commission for some more ? 
 
 " Certainly." 
 
 " Then as soon as the trade was made sure, he would 
 call and give his order. He thought it was all right now 
 as a thousand dollars had been paid, and the papers 
 drawn; but if Mr. Bartlett would allow his wife to re- 
 main there, he would slip into Mr. Lyman's office and 
 complete the trade." 
 
 He did. He was gone about half an hour, and came 
 back with the whole amount deposited in the bank. 
 
 "It was sure, surer than certain," he said, and, he 
 added, " as I do not own a house, or pictures in it, and 
 also, as the pictures helped very much to sell the house, 
 here is a check for five hundred dollars. Mr. Bartlett, 
 you please take that check, and paint me what pictures 
 you can afford to for it. If you can give me one thirty 
 by fifty and others smaller, say four or five in all, all 
 right. And do what you can afford to, without the 
 frames. As fast as you get them done send them where 
 the last were framed and let me know. And here is a 
 check for one hundred ; will Miss Graham paint me a pair 
 of upright waterfalls for that ? " 
 
 She would. 
 
 " Miss Graham, please choose some of the pretty water- 
 falls in the White Mountains." 
 
 It was so ordered, and the pay was sure ; indeed, they 
 had it already. Roy said he would do his best to please 
 such a customer, and do it at once. " He never neg- 
 lected a friend," he said, " and always tried faithfully to 
 do as he would be done by. Would he and his wife look in, 
 in a week, and see how the pictures were coming along ? "
 
 ROY DINES OUT. 271 
 
 They would. 
 
 " And would they be at the next Art Coterie ? Some- 
 thing nice was brewing. They would be notified." 
 
 The call was over, and these people had done a very 
 graceful thing. They had proved, out and out, that they 
 did not think Roy was a scoundrel, for the man had 
 trusted him with five hundred dollars, with permission to 
 pay it in such quantity and quality as he pleased. Truly 
 Roy had not seen such faith, even in Israel. But he had 
 found it in Boston. He went along, and sat down beside 
 Miss Graham. They smiled at each other. 
 
 Said he, " Surely, goodness and mercy shall follow 
 me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the house 
 of the Lord forever." 
 
 He said it solemnly and reverently, and he was thor- 
 oughly glad Miss Graham had a check for a hundred, and 
 he wished it was for five instead. She deserved it. He 
 was glad Miss Graham had some luck come to her through 
 being in the studio with him, and he hoped more would 
 come, for she had helped him ; and if it had not been for 
 her, his auction sale would have been a calamity indeed. 
 Roy said he intended to keep that five hundred whole, so 
 as to pay it on the mortgage of his real estate. 
 
 It would not be long before that would be clear. 
 
 Roy said he hoped Miss Graham would begin a savings- 
 bank account, if she had not already done so. She 
 thanked him, and said she had money laid away, so if she 
 wanted a hundred dollars she could get it. She laughed. 
 She said she was quite a capitalist, in her way. She did 
 not waste any money. 
 
 They had a rush of pupils that day. Young men had 
 lessons by themselves; but the busy day was when every
 
 272 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 mother's son of them were women. I hope I have not 
 dropped a word wrong. It is written that Moses was a 
 proper child. I never was. I always relish some comical 
 irregularity. Henry Clay buttered his watermelon. 
 Sydney Smith was once drinking water, and he said, " O, 
 that this were a sin, just to give it a relish." The water 
 was lost, but the bright saying has tickled the fancy of 
 millions, even until now. There came a knock. It was 
 the postman. Here is the note. 
 
 MR. BARTLETT, Dear Sir, I have sold the pair of pictures 
 I bought of you. If you have on hand, or will paint another, 
 same size, same price, or about that, of a pleasant subject, I 
 will take them. Truly yours, 
 
 B. S. MOULTON. 
 
 He passed the note for Miss Graham to read, and 
 added, " You furnish one of them, and have half the pay." 
 She thanked him. 
 
 It was a cheerful day. Fred Annerly, Miss Graham's 
 servant, called at the door. Eoy sent word back by him 
 that the invitation to dinner was accepted. Miss Graham 
 said he need not write It, as they did not make ceremony 
 with him. In the afternoon he went to Mrs. Warren's 
 to tell her he should not be at home to supper. He was 
 going to dine out. Yes, I know there is a discrepancy, 
 but I like it. Then Roy went through those toilet mys- 
 teries which are past all understanding, and came down to 
 Mrs. Warren for inspection. He passed muster elegantly. 
 On his way back to the studio he mounted a buttonhole 
 bouquet, moss rosebud and sweet-scented geranium leaf, 
 and then, I do declare, he looked good enough to eat. 
 Miss Graham cast him a look that gave him quite a turn.
 
 ROY DINES OUT. 273 
 
 There are a few men, and more women, who remind rne 
 of the little child's prayer : " O Lord, bless me, and give 
 me a new heart. Lord bless brothers and sisters, and 
 give them a new heart. Lord bless papa, and give him a 
 new heart. And Lord bless mamma, and you needn't 
 give her any new heart ; she's all right now." 
 
 They took their way across the Common, over the 
 bridge in the Public Garden, that the critics suffered such 
 agony about, but, alas ! it did not kill them, then past 
 the mighty bronze equestrian statue of Washington, and 
 to the home of Wilson Graham. Fred Annerly admitted 
 them. It was a splendid house. The centre of it was 
 the large and elegantly furnished reception room they 
 were in. Looking out of it, in front was the parlor. 
 Here were pictures worth looking at, in all the rooms. 
 Among the artists represented were Claude, Gains- 
 borough, Sir Thomas Lawrence, Verboeckhoven, Meisso- 
 nier, Turner, Bierstadt, Heade, Kensett, Bricher, B. 
 Champney, S. L. Gerry, Brackett, Hunt, Church, T. Mo- 
 ran, Virgil Williams ; and Roy was surprised, as well as 
 pleased, to find two out of his own sale, that Miss Gra- 
 ham had bought. They were hung in a good light. 
 
 Mr. Graham and his wife had taken Roy in hand as 
 soon as he came in, which gave Miss Graham a chance to 
 slip upstairs, and even up toilet matters. A woman 
 will not let a man crow over her, if she can help it. It 
 was easy for Miss Graham to be good-looking, for she 
 always looked good ; because she was good. Another 
 advantage she had, Jenny Annerly, Fred's wife, was a 
 fine dressmaker ; and with her help in rny lady's chamber 
 Miss Graham soon came down, looking O so sweet that 
 Roy's gizzard got another twist. It served him right.
 
 274 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 He had not seen her in full bloom before. 
 
 Roy said, "Mr. and Mrs. Graham, and Miss Graham, I 
 am very greatly obliged, to you for hanging my pictures 
 in such good company. I am afraid you have used me 
 too well." 
 
 " I think not," said Mr. Graham. " Your pictures are 
 good work. You have studied with Mr. Gerry some, and 
 have caught a little of the charm in which he idealizes a 
 picture. If you do not go to Europe and learn the broad 
 crude way that some paint there, you have a fine future 
 before you, in art. Are you doing as well as you ought 
 to expect, Mr. Bartlett?" 
 
 " Yes, sir, better. Especially since the sale, which was 
 bought experience." 
 
 "I am glad of it. Now let us go to the dining-room 
 and see what they have for us. As our party is small, 
 Mrs. Graham and I will lead the way, and the next couple 
 forms of itself." When they were seated at the table, it 
 was Mr. and Mrs. Graham as opposites and Roy and Miss 
 Graham also. Mr. Graham gave thanks. 
 
 Roy said, " Ah, you arrange as Mrs. Warren does. She 
 has a quartette, only in that case three are ladies." 
 
 " Yes," said Mrs. Graham. " Our family is small, only 
 three of us. Although we often have company. Mr. 
 Graham often meets some of his clerical friends, or college 
 chums, and then we are social. But no one ever need 
 be lonesome in Boston. It is so compact together, and 
 is in such endless variety, that all can be amused, in- 
 structed, or interested. It was one of the glories of Jeru- 
 salem, when in her grandeur, that she was builded as a 
 city that was compact together, but Jerusalem in her 
 palmiest days never saw the time when she had a quarter
 
 KOY DINES OUT. 275 
 
 part of the things to interest one that Boston has to- 
 day." 
 
 " Well done, aunty," said Miss Graham. " That is the 
 longest and best speech you ever made." 
 
 " I don't care," said she. " I am a Boston girl and I 
 know whereof I speak." 
 
 The first course had been soup. 
 
 " Do you like turkey, Mr. Bartlett ? " asked Mr. Gra- 
 ham. 
 
 "Indeed I do. I think it ought to be our national 
 bird, instead of the eagle. An eagle is a tyrant and vil- 
 lain in his life and useless in his death. A turkey is a 
 harmless good citizen in his life and a feast for good 
 Christians in his death." 
 
 " Then," said Mr. Graham, " you will like this one, for 
 it is a large and fine hen turkey as I ever saw." 
 
 Said Roy, " I never heard but one criticism on turkey 
 in my life." 
 
 " What was that ? " 
 
 " A man of large appetite once said : ' A turkey is the 
 most uncomfortable bird in the world. It is rather too 
 much for one, and not enough for two.' " 
 
 The dinner was a social one. Each tried to see how 
 much he could do for the others, and Fred and Jenny 
 waited upon them, as if they were trying to do all they 
 could, also, to supply their wants. And they were spoken 
 to in such a considerate pleasant way that it seemed like 
 a realization of what was once spoken, " Hereafter I call 
 you not servants, but friends." 
 
 Roy had seen it in his own home and he was glad to 
 find it here. They had an abundant dinner, everything 
 at its best, and took an hour for it. Then they went up
 
 276 . THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 to the reception room, aud up another flight of massive 
 mahogany stairs, to a very large front room, the drawing- 
 room. A low bookcase of heavy carved black walnut 
 was on the whole length of the west side of the room, 
 while upon it were bronzes, reproductions of famous 
 buildings, the Temple of the Sun at Baalbec, the temple at 
 Jerusalem, the Temple of the Sybil at Tivoli, the Parthe- 
 non, the Napoleon column, Michael Angelo's Moses, the 
 statue of the Nile, the statue of Ocean, the pilgrim statue 
 of Faith, and I don't know what. The cases were filled 
 with books of the best, and at their best. The pictures 
 were large and splendid. There was nothing there that 
 said, I am here for show, but all said, here is a good and 
 valuable thing, that you may appreciate and enjoy. It 
 was the richest and best furnished room that 'Roy had 
 ever been in. Of course Roy knew temples and palaces, 
 without and within, and he knew what was in Europe 
 and Asia, better than half that had been there. And why 
 not? He was familiar with the stereoscope, and had a 
 thousand views of his own. He had seen many thou- 
 sands. He knew the palaces of Europe much better than 
 many who have been there. But here were so many 
 points of interest he was charmed at once. 
 
 "Now," said he, "before we srt down let us walk 
 around the room and see how many of the models and 
 bronzes I can name." 
 
 Mr. Graham was curious to know. He went slowly 
 around, giving the right name and history to every one, 
 except one, which he was not quite sure of. He thought 
 it must be the Alexander column at St. Petersburg, but 
 he was not sure of it as he had never seen a photograph 
 of it. It was a correct guess. Mr. Graham was
 
 ROY DINES OUT. 277 
 
 Very few can do it. Mr. and Mrs. Graham had been in 
 Europe, but Miss Graham had not. 
 
 " And so you like stereoscopics ? " 
 
 " Yes indeed, I do," said Roy. 
 
 " I am glad of it, Mr. Bartlett. Sometime we will 
 have a quiet evening with the stereoscopics. This estate 
 contains some fine pictures in glass and paper. We will 
 have a chat to-night, but later we will travel in the ster- 
 eoscope, and enjoy foreign parts without going out of 
 Boston." 
 
 Said Roy, " With good company, this drawing-room is 
 the perfection of comfort. There is beauty wherever you 
 look, but no fashion or style that is trying to assert itself. 
 No angular Eastlake style that is trying to be in fashion. 
 Comfort and beauty in perfection, and suggestions of that 
 which the world has praised and admired for ages." 
 
 Said Mr. Graham, "Do you enjoy life, Mr. Bartlett?" 
 
 "Yes, sir, I do. I am in perfect health, fairly situated, 
 have no friend in any sorrow or trouble, and I have noth- 
 ing to worry me. I remember the injunction, ' Rejoice, 
 O young man, in the days of thy youth,' and I do not for- 
 get the remainder of the injunction. Of course I can 
 never be situated as you are here, but I think I shall get 
 as much blessing and cause for thankfulness in life, as 
 almost any one you will see." 
 
 "What church do you attend, Mr. Bartlett?" 
 
 " The Orthodox. I like the old name. I go to Park 
 St., except that I often go to hear Phillips Brooks, 
 Doctor Bartol, and others, who give me a good quality 
 and variety of instruction. What was your denomi- 
 nation, Mr. Graham, before you gave up your pastorate ? " 
 
 Mr. Graham smiled, "O the old Puritan faith, the
 
 278 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 New Testament in practice. There are some little 
 variations in our evangelical churches, but they are near 
 enough alike to work together and love each other if 
 they will." 
 
 Said Roy, "Just see how nicely we four people are 
 seated. What a nice picture it would make, looking 
 either way." 
 
 Miss Graham said, " Yes, these social home scenes are 
 always attractive." 
 
 Mr. Graham asked, " Have you studied medical books 
 any, Mr. Bartlett ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir, I read several hours each day, and I often 
 choose a medical book. I should be a good nurse, and 
 I could play doctor, in the absence of a better man." 
 
 " What is your favorite school ? " 
 
 " I suppose the allopathic, but perhaps the modified 
 allopathic, or the eclectic, perhaps." 
 
 "How about the homeopathic ? " 
 
 " Well, Mr. Graham, I do not believe there is enough 
 of it to amount to a distinct system. Of course I do not 
 object, if any one chooses to use it. Many nice people 
 will have no other. Oliver Wendell Holmes once 
 brought down the house with this exhaustive statement, 
 ' Homoeopathy has long been encysted, and is carried as 
 quietly on the body politic, as an old wen.' I heard him 
 say it. I have no prejudices against it, but if anybody 
 recommends homoeopathic medicine to me, I always think 
 what occurred to a friend of mine. I know the man 
 well, and I know he told the truth. He had not been 
 feeling well, and had some rheumatism. He consulted a 
 homoeopathic physician, a good man, whom I also know. 
 He put up quite a large bottle of sugar pellets, which he
 
 ROY DINES OUT. 279 
 
 was to take, four at a time, three times a day. The 
 patient stayed at home, and was company for his grand- 
 son, a boy of about three years. He took out his pellets, 
 and set the bottle down on the table. The medicine had 
 little taste or smell. It melted in his mouth and was 
 gone down the red lane. He mused a little and queried 
 in his mind, if so little cause could have much effect. It 
 seemed queer, so small an atom, on so large a man. All 
 at once he remembered that he was watching the boy. 
 It was poor vigilance. The boy had been suspiciously 
 still, and lo, he had just eaten the last one of that lot of 
 pellets. The old man was scared, but he did not run. 
 The boy was all right. The old man did watch him now, 
 for a change of color, or a sign of pain, or some sign of 
 result. And the result was, there was no result. The 
 boy played all the afternoon. Nothing came of it, except 
 that the old man was much improved by laughing at the 
 loss of his medicine. And since then, when I hear of the 
 blessed little pellets, I think of the boy and the picnic he 
 had of them. However, I think that homoeopathic 
 patients are not often hurt by too much medicine, which 
 is more than I can say of some other practice. So it is 
 certainly a negative good, and sometimes it may be a 
 positive." 
 
 " You are not very belligerent, Mr. Bartlett." 
 
 " Why should I be? I should gain nothing by it, and 
 be in a worse condition to learn wisdom, than if I was a 
 strong partisan. So I fight no windmills." 
 
 "I wish more people thought so," said Mrs. Graham. 
 
 " Come, Mary," said Mr. Graham, " please to give us a 
 song." 
 
 "What will it be, uncle?"
 
 280 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 " O let it be ray favorite, ' The Maid of Dundee,' and 
 another that you like yourself." 
 
 The large Chickering piano gave them a beautiful prel- 
 ude, and Mary Graham sang, O so sweetly. It was a 
 ripple of sweetest melody. I have heard her sing it, and 
 never heard a song that I liked better. Then she played 
 a selection. It was followed by " Homeward Bound," as 
 played by Prof. E. L. Gurney, of Cambridge, and it was 
 full of wonderful variations. She ended the theme by 
 singing the majestic hymn 
 
 " Out on the dark heaving ocean we glide. 
 We're homeward bound, homeward bound." 
 
 It was an uplifting song, and when the last sweet notes 
 died away, the clock chimed the hour of ten. 
 
 Roy said, " Mr. and Mrs. Graham, it is time to go. I 
 am obliged to you for one of the pleasantest evenings of 
 my life." 
 
 " I am glad of it," Mr. Graham answered. " We 
 hope to have you here again soon." 
 
 Miss Graham honored the going guest, and he bade her 
 good-night at the door. The night was cold. Roy cast 
 his eyes up at the house, as he went toward Beacon Hill. 
 " I declare, that is a beauty," said he to himself. " O it 
 is past all belief, how beautiful is beauty, and cleanliness, 
 and love, and song, and Christian living, and hoping, and 
 aspiring. Mr. and Mrs. Graham are as fine people as I 
 ever met. Why, I don't see but what they are as good 
 as my father and mother, and that is good enough. And 
 Miss Graham is a very talented and accomplished young 
 lady. To play with such phrasing and expression, and 
 to sing with such feeling. Well, well, well, and to paint
 
 HOY DINES OUT. 281 
 
 so well too. It is rare to find one accomplishment that is 
 really good enough to entertain you, but here is a 
 woman with three. If she has human faults I have not 
 seen them in an acquaintance of several months. Well, 
 well, well. There are some white folks in this world, surely. 
 And the Warrens, too, blessed people. Yes, yes. There 
 is a heaven, and even here it is begun. And there is a 
 hell, too, to put dog-stealers in, and they are already in 
 it, and it is in them, or they would not steal Canis Major. 
 Well, well, well, I am blest." 
 
 Now, reader, don't you think he was ? I do.
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 A CASE AT LAW. 
 
 THE days went pleasantly along with Roy Bartlett. 
 As soon as the studio was open, one day, there came a 
 knock on the door. It was Edric Lyman, Roy's lawyer, 
 about Roy's age. It was a pleasant meeting. 
 
 " How is business, Mr. Lyman ?" 
 
 "Very good. Mr. Bartlett, I had a queer thing hap- 
 pen yesterday. Have you time to hear it?" 
 
 " Certainly. I can paint any time and all the time. 
 So if something happens to you, that I ought to hear, 
 please tell me." 
 
 " Some days ago, one morning, as soon as I got into 
 my office, there came a man whom I had known as a real 
 estate agent. He looked all around, and, seeing I was 
 apparently alone, he sat down. Want a case ? said he. 
 
 " Yes, sir, lawyers always want cases." 
 
 " There is a mortgage," said he, producing it ; " it bears 
 the signature of Eli Bertram. It is his own signature, I 
 saw him sign it. It is for ten thousand dollars. The 
 property is worth about fifteen. So it is sate. I do not 
 wish to foreclose it. It is recorded all right and no one 
 can find any irregularity about it. I will discharge the 
 mortgage for a little less than the face value, and I might 
 reduce it to one-half rather than fight it. But I should 
 not want to. Here is his address. See if he will settle 
 and what he will pay. I will look in every morning. If 
 
 282
 
 A CASE AT LAW. 283 
 
 you have not heard anything, shake your head and I will 
 go out. If he has been in, beckon with your finger and 
 I will come." 
 
 " Yes, sir. Now please tell me, who does this mortgage 
 run to?" 
 
 "Me, Solomon Shavin." 
 
 "Well, Mr. Shavin, what objection will he bring to 
 paying this mortgage ?" 
 
 " He will say he never made a mortgage, never signed 
 a mortgage, never got the money." 
 
 " What shall you say ? " 
 
 " I shall show his real signature, his seal, and his ac- 
 knowledgment of the deed, before a justice of the peace 
 who happens to be my clerk. There is also another wit- 
 ness. Oh, I have got him strong. He can't get away." 
 
 " Was the money paid to him by a bank check ? " 
 
 "Xo. It will be proved that the money was paid, 
 a part in cash, and a part in settlement of an old claim 
 which I had against him." 
 
 " Did he acknowledge this claim ? " 
 
 " Yes, er, no, he didn't really, you know, and there is 
 where he will stick. But I can prove that I paid him a 
 large sum of money, which I really did, you know, that 
 is, it was a large sum to look at, and my clerk will swear 
 it was a large roll of bills. But really, the bills were 
 mostly small ones." 
 
 " Now, Mr. Shavin, you have not told me the whole 
 story. How can a doctor cure a patient when there is 
 something the matter and the patient won't tell? He 
 can do nothing. Neither can I. You must tell me 
 everything, then I may be able to help you get your 
 money."
 
 284 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 " All right, I guess I must. I'll begin away back. If 
 you help me to collect this money, I will pay you ten per 
 cent, of it, and it will make you rich. Will you do it ? " 
 
 " Of course I will, if it is all right," I answered. 
 
 " Bet yer life it is all right. I've got it strong," said he. 
 " Now listen. Many years ago, there was a vacant lot 
 of land at the South End. There was a large mortgage 
 put on it. I knew the land well, and played on it when 
 I was a boy. The mortgagee was a friend of my father. 
 This man was cast away at sea, and, as he had no heirs, 
 it never was paid or discharged. My brother died a spell 
 ago, and left me that mortgage, and the old note that 
 never was paid. So you see it is very valuable." 
 
 " See here, Mr. Shavin, you made that mortgage, didn't 
 you? you copied it out of the Suffolk registry, didn't 
 you ? word for word, on old paper of course ? " 
 
 " Wai, if you must know, I did, an' you can bet it is 
 on old paper, for both mortgage and note are on paper cut 
 out of one of old Billy Gray's account books. You 
 can't hoot me down on that. Not much." 
 
 " I see," said I, " you have it strong. Did you make 
 the mortgage exact?" 
 
 " Yes, I did. Every word. And the note is in all the 
 old-fashioned spelling. Oh, I have any amount of old 
 papers to go to." 
 
 " How about the ink ? " 
 
 "Wai now, I am all right there. I just made my ink 
 out of an old resate of logwood, nutgalls, old nails and 
 vinegar, and it is just yaller with age. So I have a big 
 and solid claim to land that has big blocks on it now. I 
 told Eli Bertram that I had a claim on his land, and my 
 clerk heard me."
 
 A CASE AT LAW. 285 
 
 "What did he say?" 
 
 " He said he had heard of me before. He owns a part 
 of the land. I went on his piece and did a little damage, 
 for which he demanded a small sum. I told him to call 
 and get his money. He came. I told him my pens were 
 poor. I like a goose quill. I made a bill for twenty-five 
 I dollars due him, fixed it in a little frame I had, to make 
 'it lay flat, and he signed it, or thought he did. There 
 was a crease just above his signature and when that bill 
 was taken off, there was his signature to this mortgage 
 due in three months, for ten thousand dollars. The con- 
 sideration is twenty-five dollars in cash, and a release of 
 my old mortgage on his real estate. My two clerks are 
 witnesses. They get a dime when I win. Don't you 
 think I have got Jhim ?" 
 
 I told him it looked so, decidedly. 
 
 " Well, well, well ! " said Roy, " I shall give up." 
 
 " Don't give up yet," said the lawyer, " for the best is 
 to come." 
 
 " Now you see," said Mr. Shavin, " my brother was a 
 bachelor. I looked out that his will was all right forme, 
 for he hadn't much, and I started this thing some time 
 ago. I let him have money to carry him through, on 
 condition that he assigned these papers to me, and willed 
 everything to me. He did it easy enough. The note 
 was assigned by the mortgagee to him, and now it is 
 
 O / 
 
 legally and honestly mine. The mortgage is sound, and 
 the interest is very large. The best part of it is, Mrs. 
 Parna Warren and her daughters own a part of the 
 land, with big stores on it, and they are rich, and I can 
 just make them settle." 
 
 Roy jumped when the Warrens were mentioned.
 
 286 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 " Mr. Shavin continued," said the lawyer, " But Eli 
 Bertram is old and failing, and can't live long. If you 
 scare him a little, and tell him his memory is poor, he 
 will settle. That will establish a precedent, and the 
 others who own the mortgaged land will come down 
 easy. The old mortgage and the note have been carried 
 in my pocket, to make them look old. They have had 
 tea stains on them, and iron rust. I have them in my 
 safe, and they are just the honestest-lookin' old docki- 
 ments you ever did see. Now when will you write to 
 Eli Bertram and start toward your ten per cent. ? You 
 can take the money yourself, and pay me mine. Then 
 you will be safe and run no risk. I think they will all 
 pay without a suit." 
 
 " Then that is your case, Mr. Shavin. If I understand 
 you right, the old mortgage is a real one, in the registry. 
 So it makes little difference whether your copy is real or 
 not. The old note was assigned to your brother, or 
 appears so, and was willed to you, and Eli Bertram's 
 mortgage is based upon that. It is really three forgeries, 
 when we are all alone by ourselves." 
 
 "Yes, but don't speak so loud," said Mr. Shavin. 
 
 " Well, Mr. Shavin, I don't want your case." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 " Because I don't want that kind of cases." 
 
 " Won't you if I pay you a bigger per cent. ?" 
 
 " No, sir. If you would give me the whole business I 
 would burn it. I don't get money that way." 
 
 Mr. Shavin looked as though he had met a setback. 
 
 " Wai, I'm sorry, an' mebby I sha'n't do it." He went 
 away. I got up and opened the window, for the air 
 seemed poisoned. I stepped to my closet, only four feet
 
 A CASE AT LAW. 287 
 
 away, where my typewriter and copyist girl happened to 
 be, and I said, " Miss Carter, did you get my signal ? " 
 
 I did." 
 
 "Did you hear that?" 
 
 "I did, every word." 
 
 What do you think of it ? " 
 
 "I am almost ashamed of mankind." 
 
 " Will you take pen and ink, and sit down and write, 
 day, hour, and minute, a correct statement, as you can 
 remember, of the whole interview. Did you see him 
 plainly?" 
 
 " I did, sir. And I know him well besides. He 
 brought in claims against my father's estate, that my 
 mother always said were false. But he got his money." 
 
 "Mr. Bartlett, yesterday I had a call from another 
 man, and who do you suppose it was ? Well, sir, it was 
 old Eli Bertram." 
 
 "Was it?" said Roy. " Good, good enough." 
 
 " Yes, it was," said Edric Lyman. " I touched a spring 
 but don't you tell of it that called Miss Carter 
 where she could hear the interview. He began : ' Are you 
 Edric Lyman?' 'lam.' 'Mr. Lyman, I am the victim of 
 a damnable conspiracy.' ' I know it,' said I. You ought 
 to have seen his eyes open. 'You know it? How do 
 you know it?' 'If you are my client, Mr. Bertram, you 
 will find out later. But not now. I assure you, I know 
 it, and all about it.' ' Can you help me, Mr. Lyman? and 
 will you serve me honestly and faithfully if I pay you 
 well for it?' 'I will, sir, and to your satisfaction, both in 
 the work and the pay also, if I serve you at all.' That 
 pleased the old man. He had got a lawyer's letter, and 
 of course it was from a shyster of a lawyer. He had
 
 288 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 read the rascally demand, and had gone to an honest 
 friend for advice. Now, Mr. Bartlett, who, among all the 
 sons of Adam, do you suppose it was that sent Eli Ber- 
 tram to me, as an honest lawyer? Well, Mr. Bartlett, it 
 was the man who called you bad names, settled it like a 
 man, and then came back and gave you five hundred dol- 
 lars for more pictures." 
 
 "I declare, I am surprised again," said Roy. 
 
 They both laughed heartily at the luck. 
 
 " The next thing to do, Mr. Bartlett, is to see Mrs. 
 Warren and her daughters, and the other occupants of 
 the mortgaged land, to find out whether they wish to be 
 my clients or not. The case is mine now. I own it. 
 I can crush the whole villany, and the man who 
 did it ; but I doubt if another man can. You keep your 
 own counsel, Mr. Bartlett. Speak a good word for me 
 to the Warrens, and I can save them many thousands of 
 dollars. I know it is irregular, after you know a man's 
 case, but I should be a scoundrel myself if I do not stop 
 this villany. But I am taking too much of your time. 
 I must call on Mrs. Parna Warren. I thought it would 
 not do to keep any of this from you, as it came remotely 
 by you. I also thought it would not do to visit the War- 
 rens without letting you know it." 
 
 " Mr. Bartlett, I wish to ask you a leading question." 
 
 " Go on," said Roy. 
 
 " Mr. Bartlett, are you paying especial attention to Miss 
 Sarah Warren ? " 
 
 " No, Mr. Lyman, I am not, and I never did. But I 
 regard her as a friend, and a very amiable and accom- 
 plished young lady." 
 
 " Thank you, sir. That gives some one else a chance."
 
 A CASE AT LAW. 289 
 
 "I wish you good luck," said Roy. 
 
 "Thank you again." 
 
 Mr. Lyman went to call on Mrs. Warren. Roy sent a 
 note, saying it would be pleasant to him if Mr. Edric 
 Lyman was invited to their six o'clock dinner. The 
 case was stated to Mrs. Warren. She was surprised, but 
 would consider it. It would be agreeable to Mr. Bartlett 
 to have his friend dine with them, and Mrs. Warren 
 joined in the invitation. The invitation was accepted, 
 and Edric Lyman said in his heart, bless Roy Bartlett for 
 that. He has done me a good turn at once. I do not 
 need to say that the dinner was a good one. The War- 
 rens always had something to eat. Miss Emily was good 
 at conversation, and Sarah was vivacious and splendidly 
 musical. Mr. Lyman had met them often on coterie 
 nights, and they seemed like old acquaintances. You let 
 people laugh together, and they will soon be acquainted. 
 It was settled that Mr. Lyman should consult with Mrs. 
 Warren's lawyer. Then they went to the drawing-room 
 for music. During the evening, Edric found time to say 
 to Miss Sarah Warren that he had been worshipping her 
 at a distance for a long time, and might he call on her 
 sometimes, and get better acquainted ? Will you be real 
 good and desirable ? she asked, with a smile. Yes, I will, 
 truly. I will always do my best to please you. She 
 made just a little comical bow, and he whispered, O 
 thank you ; I will try to deserve it. Then there were two 
 more young folks, each with a bright, beautiful, new idea 
 in their minds, both willing to keep the new command- 
 ment. When Edric Lyman had gone, and Roy had 
 ascended to what he funnily called his boudoir, Mrs. 
 Warren was alone with her daughters. Sjhe had a spice
 
 290 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 of mischief in her. She said, "Did you have a nice 
 confab with Mr. Lyraan, Sarah?" 
 
 "Yes, mother. Your daughters can never come up to 
 what their mother used to be. But they will do their 
 best." 
 
 " Yes, you seemed to be doing very well, Sarah. That 
 was a most gracious bow you gave him. I should not be 
 surprised if something came of it." 
 
 " All things are possible," said Miss Sarah. " But our 
 mother has made such an elegant married woman, that 
 it is to be hoped that her daughters will follow the ex- 
 ample of their illustrious predecessor." 
 
 Mrs. Warren had not made much by trying to poke 
 fun at Miss Sarah. 
 
 Sam Tamper was the lawyer that had taken the case 
 for Solomon Shavin. Whether Shavin had told the 
 whole story as he had to Edric Lyman, I do not know. 
 But as I think he had not, this gives Sam Tamper the bene- 
 fit of a large doubt. He was known as a sharp lawyer, 
 who would take any case, right or wrong, but perhaps he 
 would not disbar himself by any suicidal villany like this. 
 Mrs. Warren got a letter and a demand for a settlement 
 from Sam Tamper. She at once sent it to Edric Lyman. 
 He, in turn, called on Mrs. Warren's old lawyer, and 
 showed the letter. The old lawyer was one of those old 
 settlers, that believe in themselves, faithful to his clients, 
 honest as lawyers go, slow, a man of property, family, and 
 position. He would take no suggestions from a young 
 lawyer until he was obliged to. He read the letter, and 
 said he did not believe any one was going to run away 
 with Mrs. Warren's estate. He thought not. He looked 
 up through his glasses, and beamed all his magnetic eyes 
 at Edric Lyman.
 
 A CASE AT LAW. 291 
 
 "That depends something upon me," said Edric 
 Lyman. 
 
 The old man's back was up in a minute. He was often 
 called to suppress young lawyers. If, like a butting goat, 
 who was driven off with brick-bats and clubs, and got the 
 worst of it, even though vanquished, he could argue still. 
 Said he, " And do you think that you, a boy, although 
 admitted to the bar, are the only man in God's world 
 that can win a case?" 
 
 Edric Lyman laughed a mischievous little laugh. Said 
 he, " Mr. Strong, if you and I were to fight two cases 
 alike, with just the same evidence, you would un- 
 doubtedly win best, from your fine position at the bar, 
 and with your large experience. But if AVC had two dan- 
 gennis cases, and your enemy had all the evidence he 
 wanted, right and wrong, and you had none, and, if I 
 have my case with all the evidence I want, together with 
 a full admission of all the perjury and forgery in it, before 
 a good witness, then who would win ? " 
 
 "Is that so?" asked Lawver Strong. 
 
 v O 
 
 " Yes, sir, that is just so. I have such evidence that 
 Solomon Shavin will not dare to attack Mrs. Parna War- 
 ren or Eli Bertram, and, by the way, I have Eli Bertram's 
 case now, and seven other occupants of this mortgaged 
 land. They are all my clients now, and I think I can say, 
 I am absolutely sure, that if Solomon Shavin does fight 
 these cases I can win for all my clients, and send him to 
 state prison for life. But I have no idea he will do any- 
 thing, but surrender, when he finds he is surrounded. 
 Now, Mr. Strong, Solomon has a strong case. He has 
 the original mortgage and note, or what looks like it ; all 
 the witnesses he wants, and the whole business legally
 
 292 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 willed to him by his brother. The chain is very strong 
 and apparently complete. If I had not the whole thing 
 confessed, with a witness, I could not hope to win the 
 case, and even now, it must be very well managed to win. 
 Still, with what I know, I think I can add collateral evi- 
 dence enough to win a vindication. So I need your help, 
 Mr. Strong. There are parts of this case that I wish to 
 manage in my own way. If you will see Sam Tamper, 
 and get copies of the mortgage and note, and a copy of 
 Eli Bertram's mortgage to Solomon Shaviri, so that I 
 do not appear in it at all, and not let any one know that 
 I am in the case, I will work on it in another direction, 
 to as good purpose. Don't let Sam Tamper or Solo- 
 mon Shavin know that I am in the case at all, or it will 
 spoil all." 
 
 Mr. Strong had been deferred to, kowtowed to, molli- 
 fied, soft-sawdered, and more than all convinced. An 
 old lawyer likes taffy as well as a girl, and they will 
 take a bushel of it. So Lawyer Strong concluded to be 
 gracious. If he had an idea that Edric Lyman was lead- 
 ing him, he would have kicked like a steer. But Edric 
 Lyman was leading him. 
 
 Lawyer Strong called on Sam Tamper, and was taken 
 to the office of Solomon Shavin, as Mrs. Warren's attor- 
 ney. It was his right to see the mortgage and note. It 
 was shown. It was old and looked honest. 
 
 " Have any of the others offered to settle ? " asked Mr. 
 Strong. 
 
 " Yes, sir. Eli Bertram did, but he is sick of it now. 
 These old men change their minds as well as young 
 ones." 
 
 Mr. Strong looked carefully through his glasses, at the
 
 A CASE AT LAW. 293 
 
 mortgage note, and Solomon Shavin looked at him. Mr. 
 Strong spoke slowly, " I do not know what Mrs. Warren 
 will say to this, if she has to lose a part of her estate. 
 But a mortgage is a mortgage. What part of this land 
 does her estate cover ? " 
 
 " About half of it," said Shavin. 
 
 " It will be quite a bill if she has to pay it." 
 
 Solomon Shavin nodded. 
 
 "It seems to be complete," says Mr. Strong. "I 
 should like a photograph of the note to show Mrs. War- 
 ren. It will not cost me much, and I will think it over 
 in my office. It will not do to surrender too quick. I 
 will send my son with a photographer here. I wish you 
 would quietly figure up what you will settle for, and send 
 it to me by mail. Xow make it low and save bother. 
 Just state for what sum you will release your claim on 
 Mrs. Warren's estate. It did not cost you anything, and 
 you had better take, a part than risk all. A good run is 
 better than a bad fight. I shall have a job with Mrs. 
 Warren and she may want to fight it any way. You 
 never can tell just what a Avoman will do, or a man either, 
 for that matter. Now make it low." 
 
 Mr. Strong was gone. He had done well. He was an 
 old fox. Solomon Shavin smiled, rubbed his pockets, and 
 almost felt the shekels pouring into them. The photo- 
 graph was taken, both of the note and the mortgage. 
 Shavin sent his terms, what he would release Mrs. 
 Warren's estate for. It was lower than Edric Lyman 
 Bad thought. 
 
 Mr. Lyman had a young friend who was studying law 
 in another office. He went to him. He asked him if he 
 did not wish to take some lessons in the manufacture of
 
 294 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 paper, and its age. He said, " I will give you the money. 
 I wish you to go to some one familiar with old paper, 
 who can tell about when and where it was made. Pay 
 him a dollar for a lesson. Most any one will do it for 
 that. Take several lessons and read up on it. You 
 make a collection of old writing paper, with the date, as 
 well as you can, and the maker's name. Get facts and 
 record them. Get thirty or forty kinds. It will do you 
 good. Then take your collection to Solomon Shavin, and 
 give him a dollar or two, for a lesson or two. He has 
 one of old Billy Gray's account books. Don't let him 
 know you know it. Get a sight of it if you can. Then 
 if you can borrow that old book, bring it to me. I wish 
 to see it. Don't for the world let him or any one know 
 that you are doing anything but studying up on paper. 
 If you succeed in borrowing the book, or if you can buy 
 a leaf out of it for a dollar or two, and get Solomon 
 Shavin to write on it, that it is a leaf out of old Billy Gray's 
 account book, that will do as well. Then I will give you 
 ten dollars for the leaf out of the old account book. 
 Now mind your eye, and don't scatter." 
 
 The young man was a sharp one, with fun in him. He 
 looked up in a comical way, and said, " Do you see any 
 chickens about me?' Treat a poor boy 'spectable if he am 
 brack." 
 
 " You will do," said Edric Lyman. " Now put it 
 through as fast as you can. Here is a V, to start on." 
 
 Four days later, the student called with about fifty 
 different kinds of old papers, mostly notes, deeds, and 
 legal documents. Also a page out of old Billy Gray's 
 account book, endorsed as such, by Solomon Shavin. It 
 was wanted as a souvenir and a specimen. It cost a dol-
 
 A CASE AT LAW. 295 
 
 lar. It was a nice bit of evidence. Edric Lyraan 
 allowed him to retain a quarter of the leaf, told him to 
 record the getting of it, in his diary, and gave him. ten 
 dollars. Both were pleased. Then Lawyer Lyman 
 called on Lawyer Strong. He told the old man what he 
 had done. Furthermore, he had gone away back in the 
 Suffolk registry of deeds, and had actually found the 
 original mortgage, which had never been taken from the 
 registry by the mortgagee. 
 
 Lawyer Strong laughed. Said he, "Do yon always 
 have such strong evidence in your cases?" 
 
 "I do not take any case that is against right and jus- 
 tice." 
 
 "That is a splendid sentiment, Mr. Lyman. You 
 ought to have success in this life and the next." 
 
 " Thank you, Mr. Strong. I hope to have your ap- 
 proval always." 
 
 O an old goose will take a pile of stuffing. 
 
 " Then," said Lawyer Lyman, " I am all ready to sit 
 down on Solomon Shavin. Suppose you invite him to 
 call here at your office, at nine to-morrow morning, and 
 bring the mortgage and note with him. You do the 
 talking. He is already threatening Eli Bertram strongly. 
 You state the case. You can show the leaf from old 
 Billy Gray's account book. I shall tell him that I am 
 paying attention to one of the Misses Warren, and don't 
 propose to see her robbed if I can help it. Then I shall 
 demand the note, the mortgage that he cooked up, and the 
 discharge of Eli Bertram's mortgage, and Eli Bertram's 
 note, which is also a forgery. Then you, Mr. Strong, 
 ought to demand about five hundred dollars damages to 
 you, for conspiracy. After I come in, I will have an
 
 296 THE WILD AKTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 officer at your door, for contingencies, and a blank writ 
 on my desk. Then it is either settle or state prison." 
 
 It was done. Solomon Shavin was scared almost to 
 death. The finding of the old mortgage in the registry, 
 and the leaf out of old Billy Gray's account book, con- 
 vinced him that his cause was lost. He paid Mr. Strong 
 five hundred dollars for damages, upon condition that the 
 false mortgage and note, and all evidences of his crime, 
 be burned in the grate, then and there. He signed a 
 discharge of Eli Bertram's mortgage, and gave up the 
 forged note, which was burned. Then the scoundrel de- 
 parted. Edric Lyman asked Mr. Strong what part of 
 the money he would take. 
 
 " O give me a hundred, and keep the balance your- 
 self." It was done. 
 
 Said Mr. Strong, " Mr. Lyman, I congratulate you on 
 the way you have managed this case. It is a credit to 
 you. You will stand high in our profession. You will 
 never want a good word from me." 
 
 Edric Lyman thanked him, and went out with four 
 hundred dollars in his pocket. He showed a splendid set 
 of teeth under his moustache, he smiled so sunnily 
 as he said to himself, " I captured that old egotist, hook 
 and line, bob and sinker. Cast thy taffy upon the 
 waters, and thou shalt receive it again, after many days." 
 He went into his office and sat at his desk. He touched 
 a spring with his foot, and Miss Carter came to him. He 
 said, "Miss Carter Old Solomon Shavin went after 
 wool, and came back shorn. Please accept fifty dollars 
 extra pay, for the help you were to me in my office, and 
 for general faithfulness." She blossomed. Eli Bertram 
 set the price for Edric Lyman's faithfulness. It was lib'
 
 A CASE AT LAW. 297 
 
 eral. All the other occupants paid fairly. It was cheap, 
 indeed, for them, for it saved thousands, and made a 
 handsome sum for Edric Lyman. 
 
 Then he called on Mrs. Warren and announced that it 
 was all settled forever. She asked for her bill. He 
 would bring it the next time he dined there. It was a 
 cheeky proposition, but Edric Lyman was a lawyer. Be- 
 sides he was fast acquiring rights in Mrs. Warren's house. 
 Whoever heard of a modest lawyer? If such a thing 
 could be, he would never be heard of. I mean nothin^ 
 
 ' O 
 
 invidious. Had not this man thwarted crime, protected 
 the innocent, and saved many thousands of dollars, all 
 for a very moderate sum ? What profession can do as 
 much ? 
 
 " Then," said Mrs. Warren, " please dine with us this 
 evening, and let us have it out." 
 
 They did dine together, and they had a good time. 
 Before they left the table, Edric Lyman gave them a true 
 and careful statement of old Sliavin's villany, and of the 
 big money he was offered to win the case. And, said he, 
 " I think I could have won the case, and have got twenty 
 per cent, or more for doing it. But I told my mother, I 
 would never take a case that I could not ask God's bless- 
 ing upon ; and I will not, however profitable. I never had 
 a case I was more rejoiced to win than this one. I have 
 made a friend of Eli Bertram, and he says he will put me 
 in his will. Never mind that. But let us be thankful 
 that right is triumphant, and rascality punished a little. 
 Now, Mrs. Warren, here is your bill." It read, 
 
 "Mrs. Parna Warren, Miss Emily Warren, Miss Sarah War- 
 ren, undivided estate, to Edric Lyman, attorney at law, debtor, 
 For le^al services against the claims of Solomon Shavin.
 
 298 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 Sum unstated, but very large. It is paid in full to this date, 
 by the kind regards of the aforesaid Mrs. Warren and her 
 daughters. 
 
 " EDRIC LYMAN, Attorney at law. 
 
 " Witness : JONATHAN STRONG, Attorney at law." 
 
 Edric gave her the bill. She was surprised indeed. 
 She had expected to pay a large sum. She urged. No, 
 never. Not a cent. Then she came around the table 
 and kissed him. 
 
 " My turn next," said Roy. Sure enough it was. The 
 ladies laughed heartily. 
 
 Said Edric, " I will wait a moment and see if any other 
 lady is taken that way," and you ought to have heard 
 them laugh. 
 
 The daughters arose and ran upstairs to the drawing- 
 room, followed by the gentlemen, who were not in any 
 state of dejection. It was a happy evening. Music and 
 song, poem and story. It was ten o'clock before they 
 knew it. Perhaps I ought to have said that Edric Lyman 
 was a fine-looking fellow. Pleasant, kindly, and wide 
 awake. First, one took Mrs. Warren's bill, and analyzed 
 it, then another. It was very interesting. Roy Bartlett 
 was glad that it had come to them by their acquaintance 
 with him. It was time to go. 
 
 Said Edric Lyman, " Miss Sarah, if you will escort me 
 to the door I will go home. Good night, dears," he said, 
 and bowed. 
 
 Miss Sarah opened the door for him, they passed through 
 and he closed it. They were in the hall. His hat was in 
 his hand, he whispered a word in her ear, there was a 
 slight explosion, and, " good night, dear," and Edric 
 Lyman went home as gay as a lark. He was not much
 
 A CASE AT LAW. 299 
 
 of a stranger in Mrs. "Warren's house after that. He took 
 to Sarah Warren as naturally as chickens do to corn, or 
 robins do to cherries. He went out with all the Warrens, 
 to concerts, and society. He did not neglect Mr-s. War- 
 ren or Miss Emily. 
 
 One evening,. a little latei-, at the table, Mrs. Warren 
 said, " I think we had better have the Grahams here to 
 dine with. us. They are three, we are four; that makes 
 seven of us. Just a nice little party for an evening. 
 What do you say?" They said yes, only Miss Sarah 
 quietly remarked, that it would be an improvement to 
 make it eight. 
 
 Mrs. Warren exclaimed, " I beg your pardon, Miss 
 Warren. The all-important legal eighth one shall be in- 
 vited. And you please write all the invitations yourself." 
 
 " All right, mother. It shall be done." 
 
 It was done. It was as near a perfect evening as it 
 could be. Still, if we must criticise it, then whatever 
 criticism we might make, would arise from the fact, that 
 there were only three men to five women. I say no more. 
 
 The winter was going along finely with them all. It 
 had got to be the twelfth of February, and about nine 
 o'clock on that morning, Edric Lyman might htfve been 
 seen coming out of his office in School street, and taking 
 a bee line for the office of Jonathan Strong. He was in. 
 He greeted Mr. Lyman warmly. 
 
 Mr. Lyman said he had a case on hand, that involved 
 the future of two people certainly, and maybe even the 
 lives of others, and he wished to have a certain document 
 so strong, that it would be perfectly and legally sufficient. 
 So he wished to submit it to the learned counsel before 
 him.
 
 300 THE WILD AETIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 Talk about flattering a woman. You ought to hear a 
 lot of old lawyers soft-soap one another. It is, " my 
 learned brother," "the eminent counsel," "the honorable 
 counsel," " my scholarly opponent," " the great legal 
 light," and so forth. But it might be more foolish. 
 
 O ' O 
 
 They do not wear wigs and gowns, as they do in England. 
 Let us be thankful for that. After they were closeted 
 together, Edric Lyman handed the learned counsel a 
 nice, large, formidable-looking envelope. 
 
 Mr. Strong blew his nose sonorously and adjusted his 
 glasses. Then he slowly and ponderously opened the 
 envelope, which was unsealed. Edric Lyman stood with 
 a sober face, watching him. In a moment the old man 
 began to grin, the second line the grin grew broad, and 
 shot from ear to ear. Then he Avould read a line and 
 laugh, then another and hold on to his abdomen and re- 
 mark, " Haw, haw, haw ! " and look up at Edric so irre- 
 sistibly that he caught the infection of the learned coun- 
 sel. Finally, in instalments, he took it all in, and poking 
 Edric in the ribs, he said, "you dog, of all lawyers, you 
 do beat the devil." This was superlative praise. 
 " Then you think it will do ? " 
 " Do ? It will be sure to win." 
 " Then witness it, please, and I am safe." 
 With alternate writing, and spasm of the diaphragm, 
 in laughter, he got it down in a hand as large as the 
 Irishman who wrote a letter to the deaf woman. There 
 it was. 
 
 " I am obliged for your kindness," said Edric Lyman. 
 " Call me when you want me, and receive the continued 
 assurance of my most distinguished consideration." He 
 crossed School Street again and was in his office alone.
 
 A CASE AT LAW. 301 
 
 When there his face relaxed into a smile, he snapped his 
 eyes and said, " I made the old fellow grin once." 
 
 On the morning of Saint Valentine's day, a large, rich- 
 looking envelope lay on Edric Lyman's desk, while be^ 
 side it was a large sheet of legal paper done in splendid 
 writing, and colored inks. Edric Lyman had been airino- 
 
 O' t/ O 
 
 his penmanship. On the top were two doves, billing, in 
 the most suggestive manner, while down the sides of the 
 sheet ran wreaths of flowers. At the bottom was a cot- 
 tage and vines in green ink, and a happy couple near the 
 door. Underneath was " Home, Sweet Home." He 
 looked it over for the last time and examined the formi- 
 dable-looking seal, but did not seal it. " There," said he, 
 " I guess that will do." 
 
 He touched the bell and it brought the office boy. 
 The directions were gh'en and obeyed, and this messen- 
 ger started on his journey. 
 
 It was a Lawyer's Valentine. Miss Sarah Warren 
 was summoned to the door. It was Mr. Lyman's office 
 young man. In a stern voice he asked, "Are you Miss 
 Sarah Warren?" (He knew well enough she was, for he 
 had carried her notes and bouquets.) 
 
 " I am, sir." 
 
 " Then," he said, solemnly, " it is my duty as an officer 
 of the law to serve this writ upon you. Please sign this 
 receipt." She was startled, but she did. 
 
 Here is what she saw on the great envelope. 
 
 WRIT OF HABEAS CORPUS FOR Miss SARAH 
 WARREN. 
 
 This was written inside.
 
 302 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 COMMONWEALTH OF MATRIMONY, Suffolk, SS. 
 
 To Cupid, Esq., high constable of the Court of Hymen, 
 Greeting : We command you, that the body of Miss Sarah 
 Warren of Boston by Mrs. Farna Warren and Miss Emily 
 Warren imprisoned, and restrained of her liberty, as it is said, 
 you take and have before a minister of 'the Court of Hymen, as 
 soon after the receipt of this writ as she is willing to go, to 
 show cause why she should not be married to our beloved 
 Edric Lyman, and conform to the mandate of said Court of 
 Hymen. And you will also summon the said Mrs. Parna 
 Warren and all other kin concerned, to show cause why they 
 should detain the said worthy and well beloved Sarah Warren, 
 any longer. And have you there a license from the city clerk 
 with your doings thereon. 
 
 Done at the Court of Hymen, on Saint Valentine's day, in 
 the year 188-. Hymen, Judge, 
 
 By EDRIC LYMAN, Attorney at law. 
 
 Witness, JONATHAN STRONG. 
 
 God save the Commonwealth of Matrimony. 
 
 If you want to describe Miss Sarah Warren's sensa- 
 tions as she read this screed, I can only say, " she 
 thought she should have died." But she did not. It 
 was too good to keep, Sarah's valentine was, so before 
 long, her engagement was an open secret. Miss Sarah 
 Warren is the only .woman that I ever heard of who 
 received an offer of marriage by a writ of Habeas 
 Corpus. Plenty of people got copies of it, and it adver- 
 tised the smart young lawyer, no end.
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 A RAIXY DAY. 
 
 ROY BAETLETT was prosperous. First-class people 
 came to him and gave him an order for a costly picture, 
 upon condition that they had an invitation to the Art 
 Coterie. Tickets were issued and not transferable. His 
 pupils were many. Edric Lyman gave him a check for 
 fifty dollars, and Roy painted one for him. And, would 
 you believe it, Eli Bertram did. He was grateful. Roy 
 did not neglect his home or his friends. Sam Ellet got 
 a hearty letter as well as Jean McDuffie, and it came to 
 pass that no interest was neglected. Miss Graham was 
 in the studio four or five days in a week. She sold 
 several pictures, or at least they disappeared, like Mark 
 Twain's twin brother. 
 
 It was a rainy, blowy, slushy day. Miss Graham came 
 to the studio in a carriage, and Fred Annerly opened the 
 carriage door. She was dry and in first-class condition, 
 as she ran up the steps to the studio. 
 
 " I did not think I should see you to-day," said Roy. 
 
 "Yes," she said: "Aunty wanted something in town, 
 and I could send it back to her. So I could come as 
 well as not, and I shall stay and work awhile." 
 
 No one came in. It was a still day. Roy asked if she 
 had heard of Miss Sarah Warren's valentine. She had 
 heard of it and seen it. It was an open secret. It was 
 very refreshing, and very honorable. 
 
 303
 
 304 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 " Miss Warren was wealthy, was she not ? " 
 
 Roy said he supposed she was, but he had no idea that 
 a money consideration alone would attract Edric Lyman. 
 He was no fortune-hunter at all. 
 
 Said Roy: "If there is anything in the world that I 
 despise, it is a man that hunts a woman for her fortune. 
 I shall marry a poor girl. I should not have courage 
 enough to ask a rich one. I had rather a woman would 
 depend upon me for all, and then she could judge 
 whether I loved her or not, by the way I treated her. I 
 should try to bear the most of the burden and make it as 
 easy for her, as I possibly could." 
 
 " Then a poor girl would stand a better chance with 
 you than a rich one, Mr. Bartlett ? " 
 
 " Yes, I think so," said Roy. 
 
 " That is rather hard on the poor rich girl, is it not ? " 
 asked Miss Graham. 
 
 " Oh, I guess no rich girl will ever care for me," said 
 Roy, " and perhaps no poor one will either, although I 
 hope so." 
 
 "Perhaps some one will, if you only will them to," she 
 answered. 
 
 "Miss Graham, did you ever hear the story of the 
 cork leg?" 
 
 " No, I never did. Please tell me." 
 
 " Very well," said Roy. " It is a still day. The rain 
 beats hard against the window. Tremont Street is almost 
 deserted, and we have had good luck in selling pictures; 
 so we have quiet, and a reason for a little rest. Now 
 please put down your palette and brushes, and I will tell 
 you an old story, for too much work is not good for us. 
 This story has, I think, been printed, but it was told me
 
 A EAINY DAY. 305 
 
 by a friend, and I liked it so well that I filed it away in 
 memory, so as to tell it to some one that I was anxious 
 to please." 
 
 " Thank you, sir," she said. 
 
 Roy smiled. 
 
 "Once upon a time there was a woman, and she was 
 tall and fine-looking, well dressed, sensible, entertaining, 
 and attractive. Not the most beautiful in the world, 
 perhaps, but still a fine woman. It was not so much that 
 she was so good-looking, but she looked good, and she was 
 good, and she was an Irishwoman, in society, living in 
 London. She had plenty of followers. They talked with 
 her, and when they came to enquire about her, lo, she was 
 poor. Her aunt gave her a living. Then this admirer 
 came no more. A middle-aged man became acquainted 
 with her, and said he was much interested in her, and 
 would she tell him how she was situated in life ? She 
 frankly told him she was dependent on her aunt. If she 
 had been differently situated, he would have been glad 
 to have said more. Then came another. He did not 
 care for her poverty, if she would live within his mod- 
 erate income. She added also : there is another thing I 
 must tell you, I have a cork leg. Then he would say no 
 more. But at last there came an earnest, honest man, 
 who admired and loved this beautiful woman, if she was 
 poor and a cripple, although she did not show it, when 
 she walked. He urged his suit. She told of poverty and 
 the cork leg. He did not object. He would do his best 
 to love and serve her, in spite of poverty and misfortune. 
 Would she marry him? She would; and the day was 
 fixed. They had a quiet wedding at her aunt's house. 
 He had offered her money, but no, thanks to the liberality
 
 306 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 of her aunt, she had enough for the present. When the 
 wedding was over, she said she was glad to tell him that 
 things were better with her than they had appeared to be. 
 She said she was poor yesterday, but her aunt had held a 
 large amount of property, which she had conveyed to her 
 to-day. She told her husband that she was glad and 
 happy to be married for herself alone. She was glad to 
 tell him she was rich, and out of all danger of fortune- 
 hunters. And about the cork leg, she said, I shall have 
 to tell you that I have two cork legs. I was born in Cork. 
 
 And this splendid husband, so loyal and rare, 
 Was glad that his wife was so perfect and fair ; 
 All the love and the wealth that to her he had given 
 Came gloriously back, with the blessing of heaven ; 
 Ever so may they come from the powers above 
 To the man who gives all for a true woman's love." 
 
 Roy waited a moment. 
 
 She said, " Thank you, sir." After a pause she asked, 
 "Is marriage the highest ideal of life?" 
 
 O ~ 
 
 He answered : " To me it is, and the only one. Of 
 course there may be reasonable excuses, but Tupper says, 
 ' Marriage is a duty to most men.' I have no doubt about 
 it. It is to nearly all, and women too. I never, for a 
 moment, contemplated a single life. When I see my 
 own father and mother, and your uncle and aunt, I am 
 satisfied that such marriage is beyond all price. Does it 
 not seem so to you, Miss Graham ? " 
 
 "Yes, Mr. Bartlett, where good people marry intelli- 
 gently, for love, it ought always to be the highest joy." 
 
 Said Roy : " Sometime I wish you would take that 
 volume of Tupper's Proverbial Philosophy that lies upon 
 that old sideboard, beside the Milton, Montgomery,
 
 A RAINY DAY. 307 
 
 Burns, Shakespeare, and the Bible. It has Hammatt Bil- 
 lings' autograph on the first leaf, and is out of Titcomb's 
 library. Find the article on marriage. It is the best I 
 know in the English language. I do not see how it can 
 be better." 
 
 She said she would read it. 
 
 Roy said : " A little later, I hope to be better situated 
 financially, so I can be sure of a moderate income if I 
 get disabled. Then I shall consider it." 
 
 " I should think your father and mother were very 
 pleasantly situated," she said. 
 
 " Yes, they are. They are content. They have enough, 
 and as good as they wish. They prefer to work, to help 
 each other, and they like to have a good, productive farm. 
 They help many, and harm none. I do not see how they 
 can do better. I cannot see why my parents do not live 
 free from wrong-doing. They try to. My father does 
 not care at all for liquors, and he never used tobacco. 
 Of course, plenty of good people do use it, but I think 
 they would admit, that they would be whiter and cleaner 
 without it. I never use it, and I am glad I was prevented 
 from using it." 
 
 " What prevented you, please ? " 
 
 Roy stopped, and appeared to muse and think. She 
 waited. He turned, and looked steadily at her. " I have 
 never told it," said he ; "but if you will keep it for your- 
 self alone, I will tell you. When I came to Boston, about 
 four years ago, it was Monday. On the Saturday before, 
 we were picking apples in the orchard. There was no 
 one in the house but mother. I had not been gone out 
 long when I thought I would go in for a pitcher of water. 
 When I came to the door, I heard my mother's low, but
 
 308 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 most earnest voice in prayer. And this was the burden 
 of her prayer: 'O Lord, keep my boy from liquor and 
 tobacco. Keep him clean and white, as he is now. O 
 Lord, thou hast promised to answer prayer. I claim it 
 now. I will never cease to claim it. O Lord Jesus, keep 
 my boy pure and clean from liquor and tobacco.' Again 
 and again she begged for me. She does not know I 
 heard her. And I made up my mind, that it should be 
 the joy of my life to answer my mother's prayer. I do 
 not use liquors, I never touch tobacco, and I never will. 
 It is not self-denial at all. It would be self-denial to use 
 them. I would not be hired to defile my lips with 
 tobacco. You have my secret." 
 
 " I thank you, Mr. Bartlett. I think you will find I 
 can keep a secret, even if you had not asked it. It is re- 
 freshing what people there are in the world, when you 
 know them." 
 
 " Thank you, Miss Graham. Few people ever know what 
 it is to be loved as my parents love me. It is not to be 
 spoken of to every one. It is too sacred. Let me show 
 you something, Miss Graham. Here is this large row of 
 books. The Bible my parents gave me is here. Let me 
 show you what is written in it. Here it is : " 
 
 " TO ROY. 
 
 "My son, I wish you, while you live, 
 The highest good this life can give : 
 So read this book, for thus you may 
 Learn of the straight and narrow way. 
 And peace shall all your life attend, 
 With Christ, your Saviour and your friend. 
 " Your father, GUY BARTLETT."
 
 A RAINY DAY. 309 
 
 "My son, your mother's love and care, 
 Your mother's hope, your mother's prayer 
 Are all, that Christ shall be your joy; 
 That he shall own and bless my boy 
 For present peace, for future bliss, 
 My son, there is no way but this. 
 
 " Your mother, MARIAN ROYAL BARTLETT." 
 
 " We join to wish you, while you live, 
 The highest joy this life can give ; 
 And when its joys and griefs are past, 
 We all may meet in heaven at last 
 No more of sorrow, care, or fear : 
 So may it be, God bless you, dear. 
 
 " GUY BARTLETT. 
 
 "MARIAN ROYAL BARTLETT." 
 
 Miss Graham read it with strong feeling, for it was 
 like her own parents, and she was an orphan. A tear fell 
 down and moistened the page. She said, " O I am so 
 sorry to blot the page." 
 
 "Never mind," said he. "It is all the more sacred to 
 me. There are many people who would think lightly of 
 such an expression as is here written. For their opinion 
 I do not c5re. When the Master asked Simon, son of 
 Jonas, 'Lovest tliou me?' he wanted Simon to both say 
 he loved him, and to show that he loved him. And so 
 do I. The love that never finds expression, is worse than 
 the deaf and dumb alphabet of signs. Canis Major tells 
 me he loves me in every wag of his tail. If I had a dog 
 that never told his love to me, by a loving look or a wag- 
 ging tail, I should appoint his successor. I like this 
 beautiful stanza 
 
 " ' Love is the golden chain that binds 
 
 The happy souls above. 
 He is an heir of heaven who finds 
 His bosom g-low with love. 1
 
 310 THE WILD AKTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 " Now I do not mean that love should be limited to a 
 man and a woman, or to relatives only. I like the way 
 Edric Lyman treats me ; and Sam Ellet, and Jean 
 McDuffie, and the man and his wife who called me bad 
 names, and Jonathan Strong; and your uncle and aunt, 
 and Fred Annerly and his wife also, if they are tinted 
 Americans. He seems to be a kind, sensible gentleman." 
 
 " You never said a truer word," said Miss Graham. 
 " He is a part of the estate, and his wife also." 
 
 Said Roy, " It is duty, pleasure, philosophy, common 
 sense, and religion all in one, to put as much love and 
 good will into our lives, as we can. For surely life is a 
 tragedy. It begins with a cry of pain, and ends with a 
 dying groan. But O, what growth, what love, what 
 hope, amusement, cultivation, beauty, art, literature, 
 music, song, what fun even, lie between the coming and 
 the going. Some one addressed a new-born soul thus : 
 ' O little one that comest into this life, while all around 
 you smile, so live that thou rnayest go up into the higher, 
 holier life, while all around you weep.' These are great 
 thoughts, and they tend upward. So every time I think 
 of what my parents wrote in my Bible, I rejoice, and my 
 heart is full of love and loyalty to them." 
 
 " I am glad," said Miss Graham. 
 
 There was a knock at the door. It was the janitor. 
 
 " Mr. Bartlett, have you any influence with Frank 
 Wilkie? He is two months behind on his rent, and I 
 must make him move. He is drunk all the time." 
 
 " I do hot know, Mr. Janitor, whether I have or not. 
 I will go and try. Please make no move until I see what 
 I can do." 
 
 "All right, Mr. Bartlett. I will look in to-morrow."
 
 A EAINY DAY. 311 
 
 Roy took a long breath and said, " Now I will go and 
 see what can be done for Frank Wilkie." 
 
 Roy went up to the top of the building, and knocked 
 on Frank Wilkie's door. Xo answer. He heard just the 
 least noise within, and was just sure he was there. 
 
 Then he spoke and called," "Mr. Wilkie, Mr. Wilkie, a 
 friend wishes to see you. It is Mr. Bartlett." 
 
 There was a stir, and he came to the door, which he 
 slowly unfastened. 
 
 " I want to see you," said Roy, " you need help." 
 
 " Come in," said he. 
 
 Said Roy, "The janitor asked me if I had any influ- 
 ence with you. He said you owe two months' rent, and 
 he is responsible to the owner." 
 
 Wilkie sat down and covered his face with his hands. 
 His room was a lair. Behind a screen was an old lounge, 
 which was his bed. He did not take off his clothes at 
 night. There were no pictures of any account in the 
 room. It was dusty, forsaken, and mean, and the man 
 was the meanest thing in it. There was a choking odor 
 of stale tobacco smoke, Avhich, with an unclean man, who 
 was saturated with beer and whiskey, right in the middle 
 of it, made it a sight over which angels might weep. It 
 is lucky that a woman never does such a trick. Ten men 
 do it, where one woman does. Yes and more. Ten 
 times more, I guess. Right in the midst of it sat Frank 
 Wilkie. He sat down as soon as Roy came in. He did 
 not reply for some time. He was dirty, suffering, 
 wretched, ashamed, and partly drunk. 
 
 Roy said again, " Mr. Wilkie, you need help. I will 
 pay one month's rent for you, if you will let drink alone, 
 and go to work. If you do not, your things will be put
 
 312 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 into the street to-morrow. I will help you. Will you 
 try?" 
 
 Wilkie trembled and said, "Yes, I will try again, I 
 promise it." 
 
 "Then," said Roy, "I will open the window and door 
 a little, so I can breathe, and I will send out and get you 
 some coffee and biscuits, and will you sweep up and 
 arrange your room ? " 
 
 " Yes, I will. I would go to the river and jump in to 
 drown myself, but I can swim like a duck, drunk or sober, 
 so that is no use." 
 
 When Roy came back he brought a can of hot and 
 strong coffee, from the Oriental tea store, and a loaf of 
 graham bread and a piece of butter. 
 
 "There," said he, "that is good for you to sober off 
 with. Now what colors do you lack ? " 
 
 Roy looked in his color box, and it was lean indeed. 
 He went downstairs to his own room, and got canvases, 
 and a dozen tubes of paint. 
 
 " Now, Mr. Wilkie, go to work. It will steady you as 
 much as anything. Paint this waterfall and make it good 
 enough for me to keep." He promised he would, only he 
 wanted a bit of fresh air. " I want to go out. As soon as 
 I brush myself up, and walk around the Common, I will 
 return and work for you, all day." 
 
 " Very well," said Roy. " I will look in again by and 
 by, and I will get your supper." 
 
 Wilkie locked the door and they went downstairs to- 
 gether. Roy met another artist at his door, a sharp, 
 witty one, who is always saying something brilliant. 
 Wilkie kept on with a downcast look, but his wretched- 
 ness was apparent.
 
 A EAINY DAY. 313 
 
 Says the artist, "I do like to see a man enjoy himself." 
 
 Roy had to smile at such an absurdity. Wilkie soon 
 returned and went to work faithfully. Roy paid a 
 month's rent, only ten dollars, and bought pictures of 
 him, which he did not want, to get his mone\ back. 
 Frank Wilkie got upon his feet again. He might have 
 made from one to three thousand a year, if he had been 
 the man that Royal Bartlett was. li is more in the man 
 than it is in the business, usually. 
 
 Miss Graham tendered a five-dollar bill to help pay 
 Frank Wilkie's rent, but Roy declined it. He said, " a 
 woman's money comes harder than a man's, and he should 
 feel happier to know that she was saving hers, so that 
 she might be well provided for, in case of misfortune." 
 
 She laughed a merry laugh, and said, "she hoped she 
 should not be so disabled that her music or her art would 
 not give her a living."
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 THE GBEAT ENGLISHMAN. 
 
 ROY BARTLETT'S studio door had for three days past 
 borne this notice, 
 
 ART COTERIE, THURSDAY EVE AT 8. 
 SHAKESPEARE AND ENGLISH NIGHT. 
 
 The company was a rich one. The curtain concealed 
 the rear end of the great double parlors, and was an in- 
 terrogation point of great suggestiveness. 
 
 Roy Bartlett announced, " Ladies and gentlemen : We 
 vary our programme to suit ourselves. The first thing 
 this evening is a new song to an old tune. It is a rattling 
 college song. ' Vive la Compagnie.' Only one stanza is 
 to be sung by one person, and only that person, and one 
 other, knows the one stanza which he is going to sing. 
 We hope you will all sing big on the responses, and jump 
 on when the chorus comes around. Miss Sarah Warren 
 will preside at the drum and Miss Graham at the piano." 
 
 She played it through with variations and queer little 
 capers. The lines were sung solo, and the refrain and 
 chorus by all. But the way that drum came in, mark- 
 ing the time, right on the dot, and with a judicious roll 
 on the chorus, was very exhilarating. There were no 
 critics there, so I leave you to judge whether it was fun 
 
 or not. Here is the song, 
 
 314
 
 THE GREAT ENGLISHMAN 1 . 315 
 
 Sung by Miss Emily Warren. 
 
 O welcome, dear friends, with the sunshine you bring. 
 
 Vive la compagnie. 
 We welcome you here to be happy and sing, 
 
 Vive la compagnie. 
 
 CHORUS Vive la, vive la, vive Famour, 
 Vive la, vive la, vive Famour, 
 Vive Famour, vive 1'amour, 
 Vive la compagnie. 
 
 Sung by Miss Graham. 
 
 This life is a blessing so pleasant and long, 
 
 Vive la compagnie. 
 With love and good company, music and song, 
 
 Vive la compagnie. 
 CHORUS Vive la, etc. 
 
 Sung by Roy Bartlett. 
 
 When a splendid young lawyer has fallen in love, 
 
 Vive la compagnie, 
 It is time to give thanks to the powers above, 
 
 Vive la compagnie. 
 CHORUS Vive la, etc. 
 
 Sung by Edric Lyman. 
 
 When a rising young artist is well known to fame, 
 
 Vive la compagnie, 
 It is just about time he Was doing the same, 
 
 Vive la compagnie. 
 CHORUS Vive la, etc. 
 
 Sung by Mr. Stacy. 
 
 Hurrah for sweet Cupid, and may he live long, 
 
 Vive la compagnie, 
 Hurrah for old Hymen, so wise and so strong, 
 
 Vive la compagnie. 
 CHORUS Vive la, etc.
 
 316 THE WILD AETIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 Sung by one of the members. 
 May the blessing of heaven crown every glad year, 
 
 Vive la compagnie, 
 For our hostess so kind, who has gathered us here, 
 
 Vive la compagnie. 
 CHORUS Vive la, etc. 
 
 By the young man who told the capital-punishment story. 
 
 Now a blessing, a cheer, and good luck to you all, 
 
 Vive la compagnie, 
 So says every one of us, so say we all, 
 
 Vive la compagnie. 
 CHORUS Vive la, etc. 
 
 There was a spice of mischief in the song, but they 
 knew how to take a joke, and it went well. It was a 
 roaring chorus. Then Roy announced that they would 
 listen to Mr. Edric Lyman. He spoke almost without 
 notes. Yet a few heads of subjects, numbered, and well 
 arranged, he held in his hand, and taking his story easily, 
 and hardly making a set speech, or argument of it, he 
 began, 
 
 " Ladies and gentlemen, if you were asked to give 
 the first name in English literature, for all the past, you 
 would all, undoubtedly, unite upon Shakespeare. And 
 the questions, Who was he ? what did he do ? and what 
 is it worth ? are questions of interest to all thinking men 
 and women. Lately, these questions also involve the 
 same questions concerning Sir Francis Bacon. I have 
 no theory to prove as barrister, but I have a verdict as 
 juryman. I have read Shakespeare well, have been in 
 clubs for his study, have heard readings and recitations 
 many, have heard and seen his plays on the stage, and 
 have read about fifty volumes of his critics. What I
 
 THE GREAT ENGLISHMAN. 317 
 
 have to present to you is not intended as an argument, to 
 compel you to my way of thinking, but as a slight sum- 
 mary of the result of all I ever heard or read of Shakes- 
 peare. You can think what you please of it. More 
 than three hundred years ago he was born. More than 
 two hundred and fifty he died. He was thoroughly 
 English, of the great middle class, that own property and 
 do business. He and his ancestors were all Roman Cath- 
 olics. Now, and here, let me say, that of all the critical 
 books upon Shakespeare, not one stands so high in my 
 estimation as ' Shakespeare, from an American point of 
 view,' by George Wilkes. To be a Protestant, in that 
 age, meant that a man protested against the customs of 
 the old faith, because he found the new faith a higher and 
 purer one. Consequently Puritans were moral and relig- 
 ious men, while easy-going Catholics might be moral or 
 not. Charlecote Hall was a noble manorial residence, 
 then and now. I have a picture of it. It was the 
 residence of Sir Thomas Lucy, knight, and member of 
 parliament. It was a spirited thing to do, to steal a deer 
 of Sir Thomas, and a dangerous, as well. There was an 
 added flavor in the fact that Sir Thomas was a Puritan, a 
 Protestant. I have heard old fellows tell of their exploits 
 in stealing watermelons, but I never thought any more of 
 them for it. Indeed, I think decidedly more of the man 
 that never was a thief. Still it must be remembered that 
 these were easy-going times. Sir Thomas had it all his 
 own way, being a magistrate, and young Shakespeare 
 was fined and whipped. It also must be remembered 
 that Lucy's game, his deer, in his park, were as much his 
 cattle as his cows. It is a big crime in England to-day 
 to steal a deer. No wonder William got himself into
 
 318 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 trouble. The name Lowsie Lucy was a spite. But you 
 cannot prove anything against Lucy as an honest, good 
 man. 
 
 "It did not hurt Shakespeare's conscience, for he never 
 had much. He was a good-sized, auburn-haired man, 
 gentle and pleasant in his ways, when he left his wife and 
 three children, and relieved Sir Thomas Lucy's jurisdic- 
 tion of a poacher by going to London. Perhaps Shakes- 
 peare's family needed the meat to eat. He liked the 
 stage, and took to the theatre. The Puritan element and 
 the theatre element were a long way farther apart then 
 than to-day. Now the stage is purer and better, and the 
 Puritan is not so particular. If he wrote the plays and 
 poems that common-sense gives him credit for, he knew 
 the flavor of sin, and liked it. If he wrote a few verses, 
 even the lampoon of Lowsie Lucy, before he was twenty, 
 then later and often he wrote more and better. It is a 
 natural sequence, as many artists and others know. Who 
 is it that says, 
 
 "' 'Tis true, what eveiy poet knows, 
 Dull souls shall always think in prose ; 
 But whose rapt soul hath numbers given 
 Shall sing them both in earth and heaven ' ? 
 
 " It is said that he taught school. School-teachers are 
 usually sharp. They see so much dulness, that they hate 
 it, and put themselves far from it. This helps Shakes- 
 peare again. He wrote the sonnets, ' Venus and Adonis,' 
 and the ' Rape of Lucrece.' These would take a higher 
 order of talent than any of his plays. The poet outranks 
 the prose writer, as the sculptor outranks the brick and 
 stone layer. The prose of the ancients is lost. The
 
 THE GREAT ENGLISHMAN. 319 
 
 poetry lives. That Shakespeare wrote these poems is 
 undisputed. It is a higher order of talent to write good 
 poems that shall live, than good plays, that may or may 
 not live. What countless cartloads of plays have been 
 written, and are gone forever. But Shakespeare wrote 
 history in plays, and they live. He is compiled and 
 illustrated more than all. There are plenty of as good 
 plays as ever he wrote. The old English comedies, 
 ' School for Scandal,' ' London Assurance,' and the like. 
 That he had a large vocabulary, and the gift of expression 
 in the highest degree, no one disputes. He said things 
 elegantly and refreshingly. He was a master stagewright 
 too. He pleased his sovereign and the nobility. He 
 made friends, and he made money. Best of all, he knew 
 the value of money, and how to keep it ; and how to keep 
 himself respectable. A man or woman that cannot keep 
 a secret, or a dollar, is despicable indeed. The man with 
 the one talent, that could not navigate that to advantage, 
 had it taken from him, and he was thrust out. So will it 
 ever be. 
 
 "How easy it would have been for Shakespeare, in 
 those drinking days, to have fooled away every penny as 
 fast as he got it, and have effectually prevented any 
 accumulation. Many theatrical people do. He was in a 
 place of supreme temptation, and he saved his money, 
 supported his family, bought real estate, and got rich. 
 He ennobled the stage. He ennobled himself. Bad as 
 his themes were, the theatre began to be a better enter- 
 tainment. Do you ask me what I object to in Shakes- 
 peare ? He was in and of his age. There was a spirit 
 of protest against the ancient looseness of speech and 
 life, among the Protestants. It wrought slowly upon the
 
 320 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 stage. What immoral people some of his characters 
 are. If drawn from life, they were no less unpresentable. 
 He wrote to please, never to instruct. He wrote without 
 any moral purpose whatever. He almost always bowed 
 down to priests, friars, and nuns, and he spoke of Romish 
 ordinances with deep respect. He made a martext of 
 every Protestant in his play. He treated a Jew as they 
 have always been treated in the Ghetto at Rome. In his 
 'Merchant of Venice,' his Jew, Shylock, is really the best 
 man in the play. He makes his self-styled gentlemen to 
 spit upon him, to cheat and swindle him without stint, and 
 to ruin him. No wonder a Jew hates such Christians. 
 Anybody would. No wonder he wants a pound of their 
 flesh. I should, and more. The Jews are the great nation 
 of the olden time. They have always been an educated 
 people, loyal and true to their history, their faith in God, 
 and their Hebrew nation ; and if Jesus Christ is my Lord, 
 my hope, and my Redeemer, he will be glad to have me 
 honor his ancient nation, and think justly and kindly of 
 his people. And I do. What abuse did ever Shakes- 
 peare condemn ? 
 
 " Dickens was always fighting some ancient wrong. 
 Now it was the chancery court, now imprisonment for 
 debt, now the law's delay, now the tyrannical schools, 
 now the rapacity of lawyers, now the shiftlessness of in- 
 efficiency, now self-righteousness and pomposity, and all 
 the time he did amuse, he did instruct, and he did point 
 the road to a better way. When her Majesty, a woman 
 who is a legal, rightful ruler, and is, by the grace of God, 
 loyally anchored in the hearts and pockets of all true 
 Britons, when she sent for him to read, before hei-, at 
 Windsor Castle, he declined to go as a reader, where he
 
 THE GREAT ENGLISHMAN. 321 
 
 would not be admitted as a gentleman. He showed his 
 right as a free Englishman. But I am sorry he did it. 
 Even sovereigns are entitled to some consideration. 
 Especially so in the United States, where no man can tell 
 how soon he will be called to be sovereign himself. But 
 Shakespeare was always, in every play, ready to do fool- 
 ish homage to a king and to insult the hedge-born, com- 
 mon people, of which he was one. It is painful. But 
 Shakespeare was an agreeable man, handsome, with win- 
 ning ways, a fine poet, a master of expression, a first-class 
 stage manager and playwright, a well read, well educated 
 man. Many men are well educated without a college 
 diploma. All this in one is very, very rare. There are 
 in literature about three hundred allusions to him, by 
 contemporary writers. All of them speak of him with 
 honor, with scarce an exception. They speak of him as 
 'The sweet swan of Avon,' 'Gentle Shakespeare,' and 
 other endearing names. 
 
 " About thirty years he lived in London, sometimes 
 coming home to Stratford-on-Avon, a journey of about 
 ninety miles. It is a pity that the great fire in London 
 and other fires have burnt up all his plays, so that not a 
 line survives. Only five poor signatures are left. Thank 
 Heaven, his tomb remains, although if the rascally cre- 
 mationists had lived then, we might not have had even 
 that. For two hundred and forty years after he died, 
 wealthy and honored, his right to his own work was 
 undisputed. 
 
 "Then Miss Delia Bacon wrote a book to prove that all 
 Shakespeare's Roman Catholic flavored plays were writ- 
 ten by Francis Bacon, a Protestant, a man through whose 
 influence, largely, it was that Queen Elizabeth cut off the
 
 322 THE WILD AKTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 Roman Catholic head of poor Mary Stuart. Emerson 
 gave Miss Bacon a letter of introduction to Carlyle. He 
 wrote back, ' Oh, Emerson, your woman is mad.' An 
 exhaustive statement. She died in an asylum. But says 
 some one, Lord Palmerston is said to have thought that 
 Bacon wrote Shakespeare's plays for him. Think what 
 you like. I do not believe it. Pope spoke of Bacon as 
 ' the wisest, brightest, meanest of mankind.' He was 
 just about such a Protestant in theory, as Shakespeare 
 was a Catholic in practice. 
 
 " Shakespeare wrote ' Romeo and Juliet,' also ' Troilus 
 and Cressida,' 'Merry Wives of Windsor,' and others. 
 These were lushy love stones. That was just like 
 Shakespeare. He was married and had three children at 
 twenty. It was his characteristic through life. Francis 
 Bacon, Lord Verulam, was married at forty-six and had 
 no children. Any 'Romeo and Juliet' about that? 
 Bacon took a dose of nitre, a strong diuretic, every morn- 
 ing for the last thirty years of his life, and was dosing 
 himself continually otherwise. Any ' Merry Wives of 
 Windsor' about that? Not much. It never lay in his 
 body or soul, to write the virile plays that Shakespeare 
 wrote. 
 
 " Printer's ink did not flow as easy then as now, yet 
 Francis Bacon's works were much in print. His income 
 allowed it. He is described as of medium height, of a 
 pleasing, open, and venerable appearance. With all his 
 philosophy, he had plenty of superstitions, and very fool- 
 ish ones. He was subject to certain epileptic or fainting 
 fits, at certain times of the moon. 
 
 " Epileptics are not very fertile. Shakespeare was 
 blond, winning, true, and, with all he has written, not
 
 THE GREAT ENGLISHMAN. 323 
 
 egotistical. Bacon was a sublime egotist, and cold- 
 blooded as a snake. Please notice the high-sounding 
 titles of his works. The first was ' The Greatest Birth of 
 Time.' Could anything be more grandiloquent ! And yet 
 that book, written by a man with abundant means, who 
 married a rich wife, a London alderman's daughter, 
 that book is lost, and there is not a copy in all the world. 
 You can draw an inference. His next work is 'The 
 Grand Instauration of the Sciences.' Here let me ask, is 
 there any person present that can repeat a few lines from 
 Bacon's works ? No one answered. What ! not a bit of 
 Bacon in all this company? And yet, some pretend that 
 he wrote Shakespeare. What infernal folly." 
 
 Then they laughed. 
 
 " Notice how Bacon begins his ' Great Instauration.' 
 * Francis of Verulam thought thus, and such is the 
 method which he determined within himself, and which 
 he thought it concerned the living and posterity to know.' 
 
 " Posterity is full of Will Shakespeare, but it does not 
 distress itself about Frank Bacon. The Earl of Essex 
 was Bacon's friend and helper, until Bacon became Lord 
 Chancellor of England. Bacon repaid his noble benefac- 
 tor, by bringing him to public execution. I respect 
 Shakespeare, I do not respect Bacon. Bacon wrote one 
 or two plays, to be acted before Queen Elizabeth. But 
 they were so full of adulation and soft-sawder that they 
 are as dead as the Pharaohs. Bacon's books do not con- 
 tain one bright saying, Avhich is quoted and ascribed to 
 him. But Shakespeare has done more to improve the 
 English language than any man that ever lived. What 
 expressions, what ' elegies, and quoted odes, and jewels, 
 five words long, that on the stretched forefinger of all
 
 324 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 time sparkle forever.' Truly he is not ' of an age, but 
 for all time.' Bacon's wife survived him twenty years. 
 She had no children. Like Hannah Partridge, which 
 
 O f 
 
 dear old Mrs. Vincent acted, she never had the chance. 
 
 "I cannot stop to quote Bacon. He is as dry as dust. 
 His philosophy is mental, often obscure, oftener fanciful, 
 frequently only partially true, and often false altogether. 
 His style of mind is as much like Shakespeare as Thomas 
 Dick is like Lord Byron. Bacon's writings are as much 
 like Shakespeare's as Dr. Watts's hymns are like Roderick 
 Random. Nobody but a fool would "try to make them 
 read alike. The very fact that Bacon's high-sounding 
 title, ' The Greatest Birth of Time,' written and pub- 
 lished by a rich man, who was soon after Lord High 
 Chancellor of England, and in a land, the richest, of all 
 the earth, in colleges and libraries, a land that has robbed 
 all other lands, by purchase and loot, of books and manu- 
 scripts, a land of scholars and ideas, a land of the 
 British Museum, and private collections, a land where 
 its kings were often scholars, like the mighty King 
 Alfred, a land conservative and preservative of all 
 good thought, a land where original manuscripts can 
 seldom be bought, and where first editions sell for enor- 
 mous prices, a land full of Shakespeare societies, a 
 land barren of Bacon societies, a land loving, reading, 
 quoting, studying, spouting Shakespeare, this land, 
 even England, cannot show one copy of a live lord's first 
 work, and in one sense alone does not care to save its 
 Bacon. 
 
 " Shakespeare died an old man at fifty-two. I can tell 
 fortunes pretty well. Show me an August sweeting, and 
 I can tell you that it will be dead and gone in October.
 
 THE GREAT ENGLISHMAN. 325 
 
 Show me a russet, firm and hard, ripe in the last of Octo- 
 ber, and I can tell, of positive knowledge, that with care 
 it ought to keep till May. Show me a young man who 
 grows slow, and does not get his beard until he is long 
 past twenty-one, and I know that he ought to live to be 
 eighty or more. Early ripe, early rotten. Show me a 
 Shakespeare, omnivorous enough in the good things of 
 this life, to be the husband of a woman eight years older, 
 and with three children at twenty, a man out of a fam- 
 ily that nearly all die young, and I can show you a man 
 that will have sucked his orange dry at fifty-two, Avill 
 have retired from business, will have paralysis enough to 
 spoil his autograph, and will be ready to take his quietus 
 in a rich dinner. 
 
 "I have seen liufus Choate's writing, and I could 
 hardly read it. I have heard him plead, and people came 
 from far to hear him. Shakespeare's tomb and bust tell 
 the story of what Stratford knew about him. Bacon died 
 and had no monument for years. His rich wife raised 
 none. But after many years, a man who had been his 
 servant, and had profited by the money that Bacon had 
 lavishly spent, he, out of gratitude and pity, raised a 
 small monument to author, philosopher, lawyer, courtier, 
 judge, lord, viscount, and High Chancellor of England. 
 He was buried where he died, away from father, mother, 
 kindred. He was not loved or lamented. Shakespeare 
 was, and to-day there is no shrine on earth more 
 precious. Of his own time, Bacon is neglected, and 
 Elizabeth despised. Elizabeth ordered Shakespeare to 
 show Falstaff in love, and he wrote the '.Merry Wives of 
 Windsor.' Rare Ben Jonson knew Shakespeare well, 
 and he wrote :
 
 326 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 " ' My Shakespeare, rise : I will not lodge thee by 
 Chaucer or Spenser, or bid Beaumont lie 
 A little farther, to make thee a roome ; 
 Thou art a rnoniment without a toombe, 
 And art alive still, while thy books doth live. 
 Sweet Swan of Avon, what a sight it were 
 To see thee in our waters yet appear, 
 And make those flights upon the banks of Thames, 
 That did so take Eliza and our James.' 
 
 "Again he said, 'I loved the man, and do honor his 
 memory on this side idolatry, as much as any. He was 
 indeed honest, and of an open and free nature had an 
 excellent fancy, brave notions, and gentle expressions, 
 wherein he flowed with that facility, that sometimes it 
 was necessary he should be stopped.' Ah, indeed, rare 
 Ben Jonson was a true, loving friend ! He also says, ' I 
 remember the players have often mentioned, as an honor 
 to Shakespeare, that in his writing, whatsoever he penned, 
 he never blotted a line.' Certainly, he could do it 
 easily, and he did it. Many of Bacon's platitudes remind 
 me of a certain windy orator, who said, 'I have consid- 
 ered that small towns and sparsely populated do not con- 
 tain as many inhabitants as larger towns more densely 
 populated.' With this exception, that any one ought to 
 grin at this. But I never found a chance to smile once 
 at all the prolonged dreary dulness of Bacon. Twenty- 
 four years after Shakespeare died, Cote's edition of 
 Shakespeare was published, and this poem by Leonard 
 Digges is prefixed : 
 
 " ' Poets are born, not made ; when I would prove 
 The truth, the glad remembrance I must love 
 Of never-dying Shakespeare, who alone 
 Is argument enough to make that one.
 
 THE GREAT ENGLISHMAN. 327 
 
 First, that he was a poet none would doubt 
 
 That heard the applause of what he sees, set out, 
 
 Imprinted : 
 
 Next Nature only helped him for look, thorow 
 
 This whole book, thou shalt find he doth not -borrow 
 
 One phrase from Greeks, or Latines imitate, 
 
 Nor once from vulgar languages translate. 
 
 Nor, plagair-like, from others gleane, 
 
 Nor begs he from each witty friend a scene 
 
 To piece his acts with. All that he doth write 
 
 Is pure his owne : plot, language, exquisite.' 
 
 " Of all the asinine foolishness that the nineteenth cen- 
 tury has envolved, none is more stupid than the Bacon- 
 Shakespeare controversy. You all know the poet's 
 epitaph. Let me supplement it, in closing, with a stanza 
 of my own : 
 
 " Good friends, for Jesus 1 sake be true, 
 Give Shakespeare honor, richly due ; 
 And cursed be he where liars dwell, 
 Who says he wrote not, long and well." 
 
 The address was done and the attention had been per- 
 fect. 
 
 Roy Bartlett said, " We have with us a delegation 
 from a loyal British society. And they can sing. 
 They will sing a new song. Their soloist happens to 
 have the same name as Queen Elizabeth's music teacher, 
 Mr. John Bull; and we can all join in the chorus, in a 
 word of praise to our Mother land." John Bull was a 
 beauty. 
 
 He was a large florid Englishman, with ruffles at his 
 wrists, and a bosom full of them. Then with Miss Gra- 
 ham lightly marking time on the piano, and Miss Sarah
 
 328 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 Warren with dots on the drum, on the solo, but full 
 sounds and "tutti" on the chorus. Then John Bull 
 sang, 
 
 "WHERE THE BOW BELLS RING." 
 
 An English song of home. 
 
 " Come join in a song of our mother land, 
 A song of old England so mighty and grand. 
 The land that we love, and the song that we sing, 
 Is the happy land where the Bow bells ring. 
 CHORUS Where the bow bells ring, where the bow bells ring, 
 Old England is fair as the flowers of spring. 
 Ring on, sweet bells, your music tells 
 Of the happy land where the bow bells ring. 
 
 " The British bells ringing glad and gay, 
 
 And we seem to hear them so far away, 
 
 And home comes back in the songs we sing, 
 
 The happy land where the Bow bells ring. CHORUS. 
 
 " As the bird flies home when his wing is free, 
 
 Our mother land, we come back to thee, 
 
 In the tales we tell, and the songs we sing, 
 
 Of the happy land where the Bow bells ring. CHORUS. 
 
 " Old England's flag is flowing free, 
 
 Britannia sails on every sea, 
 
 All round the world true Britons sing 
 
 Of the happy land where the Bow bells ring. CHORUS. 
 
 " God save the queen and England's power, 
 God save Old England in danger's hour, 
 God save true Britons, wherever found, 
 While the world swings on in its mighty round. 
 CHORUS." 
 
 The parlors were warm and the windows were open. 
 The applause outside was big and strong. The chorus 
 woke the echoes on Beacon Hill. The lights slowly de-
 
 THE GREAT ENGLISHMAN. 329 
 
 dined in the parlors. The piano gave a few chords, 
 which grew fainter as the lights went down, then, slowly 
 sinking, they went out and it was dark. Then a woman's 
 voice called firm and strong, 
 
 " O Shakespeare ; come to us to-night, 
 Come from thy home of power and might, 
 Whose work the years have borne along, 
 Replete with beauty, joy, and song. 
 Spirit of power, inspire this place, 
 And let us now behold thy face." 
 
 There was a clap of the best stage thunder, and with 
 bass notes on the piano, Miss Sarah's drum rolling, stamp- 
 ing feet of the initiated, a bass drum and a big gong 
 in the cellar and you would have thought the heavens and 
 earth were coming together. 
 
 O ~ 
 
 But there, before the curtain, stood an English warrior 
 in armor on one side, and Queen Elizabeth in all her 
 jewels, ruffs and stomachers, on the other, with crown 
 and sceptre galore ; while between them and behind the 
 curtain, in strong light, and in contrast to the darkness 
 of the rooms, sat Shakespeare. The same high forehead, 
 light complexion, pleasant face, Vandyke collar, bouquet 
 on table, library background. They were indeed sur- 
 prised, and they greeted the first Englishman of all time, 
 with round after round of applause. Even the British 
 flag, the cross of Saint George above it all, was not for- 
 gotten. They looked with hungry eyes, and well they 
 might, for never did I see but this one man who was an 
 ideal Shakespeare. I have heard many speak of it. 
 
 When they had looked long, Roy said, " Friends, I am 
 glad you are pleased. This gentleman is a worthy rep-
 
 330 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 resentative of the great poet. He is a literary and 
 Shakespearian scholar, long known in the city of Cam- 
 bridge, in the old Franklin Library Association, and the 
 Irving Literary Association, and now well known in the 
 city hall of Cambridge, most kindly and pleasantly, as Mr. 
 John McDuffie. I am obliged to him for his assistance 
 and for our pleasant illusion. Now we can afford to sing 
 ' God save the Queen,' one stanza, to close our pleasant 
 evening." 
 
 It was done, and the way that British delegation sang 
 was an inspiration indeed. The Art Coterie took their 
 enthusiasm with them and they always had it. Mr. 
 McDuffie was very pleasantly greeted after the company 
 broke up and the Warrens had abundance of approval of 
 their receptions.
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 THE ARTISTS OF BOSTON. 
 
 THE Mr. Stacy who had been a visitor at the Warren 
 home, with his wife, was at all the Art Coterie entertain- 
 ments. His brother also came, and was very pleasant 
 company. He was a teacher in one of the best private 
 schools in Boston. It was said, what a splendid match 
 he would make for Miss Emily Warren, and it was not 
 long before they began to be of the same opinion. They 
 were very quiet about it, but still they allowed the idea 
 to dawn upon them, and to interest them. 
 
 It was getting toward spring. Roy had made an ex- 
 change with a tailor, and sold him several pictures, which 
 gave him all the clothing he needed. Eli Bertram had 
 sent in a man with an order for pictures, and had paid it 
 in cash. Roy had shown how grateful he was, and was 
 giving him love and warm welcome in return. Some of 
 the most loving, grateful people I have ever known, have 
 been aged people. Sometimes they are hungry for love. 
 Roy never forgot a friend. 
 
 He and Miss Graham called on the other artists, in 
 studio hours. They went to the galleries, the Art Club, 
 and the Art Museum. It was a change and a recreation, 
 to study the work of others. He dined with Miss Gra- 
 ham's uncle and aunt, and a fine time they had with the 
 stereoscopics. There are some fine collections in Boston. 
 
 331
 
 332 THE WILD AKTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 They are the best pictures ever made, and they ought to 
 take a revival. Our government ought to have views of 
 every fort and fortification, every ship and public building, 
 of its own. There ought to be a stereoscopic department 
 Nothing shows, educates, and delineates so much. I 
 know one man who has thousands of glass pictures, and 
 another who has ten thousand views of all kinds. Roy 
 enjoyed the society of Mr. and Mrs. Graham. They had 
 travelled and seen much. Miss Graham did the honors, 
 picking out the views she liked best, and Mr. Graham 
 would tell some story or make some comment on some of 
 his pictures. Long as the evening was, it was gone be- 
 fore they knew it. 
 
 Then Roy went home, musing as he went. He took it 
 slowly, but undoubtedly he was doing a little quiet think- 
 ing. He paid no especial attention to the way home, but 
 when he was on the top of Beacon hill, he paused, and 
 said to himself, " Yes : I will think of it, but I will not 
 hurry it." 
 
 Not long after this there was a dinner party at Mrs. 
 Warren's. Although I have no especial warrant to do 
 so, I will couple the names together, as they did in their 
 minds : Mr. and Mrs. Alfred Stacy, Mr. Edward Stacy 
 and Miss Emily Warren, Mr. Royal Bartlett and Miss 
 Mary Graham, Mr. Edric Lyman and Miss Sarah War- 
 ren. These eight people did Mrs. Parna Warren enter- 
 tain. To say that they had a fine time, would not be 
 strong enough. Birds of a feather flock together. Here 
 were four as good honorable men as you can find, and all 
 they have to do, is to eat and drink, and entertain four 
 as honorable and interesting young women, as ever were 
 seen since Jacob kissed Rachel and lifted up his voice
 
 THE ARTISTS OF BOSTON. 333 
 
 and wept. Jacob was Rachel's uncle. Jacob must have 
 had it bad. These young people got through the even- 
 ing without a tear. But they often laughed heartily at 
 Edric Lyman's stories or Edward Stacy's. Lawyers and 
 school teachers are frequently awful sharp. 
 
 Miss Graham's carriage came with Fred Annerly. 
 Roy asked permission to walk home with her. He got 
 it and sent the carriage home empty. He walked the 
 long path with her, across the Common, and saw her 
 safely in her own home. It was a pleasant walk, but with- 
 out anything especial to report to you, who read this. 
 
 With industry, good management, a good number of 
 pupils, and attractive ways, Roy was doing well. He 
 enjoyed life thoroughly and thankfully. He would not 
 be morbid, and he did keep sweet as a rose. Much de- 
 pends upon the will. So the days went along until one 
 Wednesday morning, when the janitor called again. He 
 said : " Mr. Bartlett, do the artists want to try to rescue 
 Mr. Wilkie from himself? He is down again, financially 
 and morally. He is almost in delirium tremens." 
 
 " I will call on him," said Roy. 
 
 He did call and knock at the door. After a long wait, 
 Roy heard shuffling feet coming to the door, and Frank 
 Wilkie was a sight to behold. I need not describe a 
 man saturated with whiskey and tobacco. But he had 
 consciousness enough to be ashamed. He looked it. He 
 began to stammer an excuse, but Roy stopped him. 
 
 " Mr. Wilkie, you do not need to say a word. Let me 
 talk to you." 
 
 There was a light knock at the door. Roy admitted 
 Miss Graham, and Frank Wilkie was ashamed indeed. 
 He blushed.
 
 334 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 She said, " I pitied you, Mr. Wilkie, and I want to 
 help you and save you." 
 
 Said Roy, " Why will you go to hell this way ? " 
 
 " There is no hell," he answered. 
 
 " There is," said Roy, " and you are in it and it is in 
 you. You are full of it. You are almost out of your 
 mind with the poison of alcohol. When you say a man is 
 intoxicated, you are simply saying he is poisoned. Toxi- 
 con is the technical name for poison. You are poisoned, 
 almost crazy. Your clothing is poisoned to rags. Your 
 money is all gone and poisoned out of you. Your self- 
 respect is all gone. Your good name and clear con- 
 science are all gone, and you are poisoned, body and soul. 
 You are in hell if ever a man was. You are suffering. 
 Sorry and ashamed. No drunkard hath eternal life. No 
 drunkard shall inherit the kingdom of heaven. Frank 
 Wilkie, I know you had a good mother. How must she 
 feel to look down upon you now? Here Miss Graham 
 and I have come to help you and rescue you. As soon 
 as the janitor told us we came." 
 
 Frank Wilkie was weeping and shivering in agony. 
 
 " Oh, do give it up forever," said Miss Graham, and she 
 wept and pleaded with him. 
 
 " There is no hope," he sobbed. 
 
 " Yes, there is," said Miss Graham. " I know there is 
 hope, for you are loving and giving to all but yourself. 
 I saw you lay a silver dollar down before a poor woman 
 who was washing up the stairs. And I know you almost 
 supported a poor girl, who got sick last winter. You 
 gave her money to go to her friends in the country. Oh, 
 give it up," said she, and she begged and wept alter- 
 nately.
 
 THE ARTISTS OF BOSTON. 335 
 
 Roy kept silent while Miss Graham pleaded with him. 
 
 " What shall I do ? " Frank Wilkie asked. 
 
 "Sign a solemn agreement never to use alcohol or 
 tobacco again," said Miss Graham. 
 . " Good men use tobacco," said Wilkie. 
 
 "Yes, Mr. Wilkie," said she, " but the best and cleanest 
 men do not. You will never be clean and safe until you 
 give them both up forever. Tobacco is a vice, and you 
 have had enough. Oh, be a clean white man." 
 
 She wept as she pleaded with him. 
 
 " Then, I will sign it," said he. " I was in despair. 
 I thought I had no friend on earth, but I find I have two 
 faithful ones. Miss Graham, I never will disgrace my 
 name again. I never will grieve my sainted mother 
 again, or bring tears to your eyes. Hereafter I use 
 neither, again, as long as I live. Mr. Bartlett, please 
 write an obligation, as strong as you can make it. Miss 
 Graham shall prevail and beauty shall conquer the beast." 
 
 Said Roy, " Miss Graham, will you remain here until I 
 return with the covenant?" 
 
 She would. Roy went down to his own studio and 
 soon returned with the following, handsomely written on 
 large note paper. 
 
 "This certifies that I, Francis Wilkie, do hereby and herein 
 solemnly swear, upon my sacred honor, by all I hope for in 
 this life, or the life to come, by the memory of my sainted 
 mother, that I will Never again use intoxicating liquors of any 
 kind, or tobacco. So help me God, and keep me steadfast." 
 
 With tearful eyes and trembling hands he signed it. 
 
 Roy added, " In our presence " and handed the pen to 
 Miss Graham and then it bore the names of Mary Gra- 
 ham and Royal Bartlett as witnesses.
 
 336 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 " Shall I keep it and bring you a copy ? " 
 
 " Yes," said Frank Wilkie. 
 
 Miss Graham would insist upon leaving a ten-dollar 
 note with Roy for FVank Wilkie. 
 
 " Now," said Roy, " I will get you some strong coffee 
 and a lunch. If you can ventilate and right up this 
 studio to make it look as if a temperance man lived here, 
 it will be in order." 
 
 Roy soon returned with a can of coffee and a good 
 lunch. Miss Graham returned to their studio, but she was 
 tired. The strain of anxiety concerning Frank Wilkie 
 was so great that she needed rest. She did not work, 
 and went home early. While Frank Wilkie was having 
 his lunch, which he needed to sober him off, Roy went 
 up to his wardrobe at Mrs. Warren's, and got a second- 
 best suit, which was just right for Frank Wilkie. This 
 he gave him, and soon had the satisfaction of seeing him 
 look like a man again. It touched him all the more. 
 
 O 
 
 He was completely subdued. Then Roy led him out to 
 the Turkish baths in Beacon Street and put him in 
 charge of Mr. Haggerty, with instructions as to what he 
 had been, what he had agreed to be, and to make a three- 
 hour job of it, to keep watch of him, and to let him sleep 
 if he would. He took his bath splendidly and was as 
 quiet as a lamb. He rested while Roy got his own lunch 
 and put in three hours good work. 
 
 After Roy closed the studio, he went to the Turkish 
 bath rooms and got Frank Wilkie. They went down to 
 Marston's, on Brattle Street, and got a tenderloin steak, 
 with a cup of strong tea. It went well. He had been 
 cleaned, rested, fed, employed, and when a man is thor- 
 oughly busy, the devil has little hold on him. Then Roy
 
 THE ARTISTS OF BOSTON. 337 
 
 took him to his own room, and, with illustrated hooks 
 and many other things to interest him, he left him, and 
 descended to his own supper. I am afraid I use some 
 words interchangeably, but I do not forget the traditions 
 of my ancestors, and I cannot forget the customs of fine 
 people of the present day. 
 
 Roy explained to Mrs. Warren enough of the situation, 
 but not recounting all the objectionable points, for it is 
 not always best to horrify a woman. If every woman 
 knew what manner of man was near her, she would 
 shrink much oftener than she does now. 
 
 Roy shared his bed with Frank, and they both rested 
 well. Frank was still pale and unsteady, and Roy 
 located him in his own studio, with colors and canvas, to 
 work. He did not leave him long alone. They both 
 applied themselves to work during the day, and Roy 
 paid ten dollars for rent for Frank Wilkie. He brought 
 back the receipt, giving it to him, and got a look of 
 thanks and grateful acknowledgment. 
 
 It was the evening of the Art Coterie. Frank Wilkie 
 did not wish to be visible at the meeting. The notice on 
 Roy's, door announced that the entertainment would be 
 " Sketches of Boston Artists." There was a screen near 
 the desk in Mrs. Warren's parlors, that effectually cut off 
 a corner, but left room for a chair behind it. In this 
 chair sat Frank Wilkie, to hear all, but to be invisible. 
 No one outside the family knew he was there, or suspected 
 it. One of the older artists, that had long been in 
 Boston, was introduced, and took the stand to speak. 
 He said : 
 
 Ladies and gentlemen, Art is long. Its ways are 
 various, and the many ways that artists have of holding
 
 338 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 the mirror up to Nature give us infinite varieties of 
 interpretation. There need be no antagonism, because 
 we have not the same likes, or because we have not the 
 same facility of expression. Now I have before me a 
 peculiar task, and if you can help me by giving me per- 
 mission to speak what you may not assent to, and let it 
 pass for what it is worth, to enjoy all you can, and to 
 refuse to be fretted by what you do not agree to, 
 then my work is easy, and all is pleasant. I have my 
 likes and dislikes as much as any, but I do not under- 
 value an artist that paints a cheap picture. The ancient 
 statement, that all men are created free and equal, is to 
 be taken with great allowance. All men are indeed cre- 
 ated free, within certain very narrow limits, but they get 
 into trouble if they exceed them. In a few rights they 
 may be equal : but for the most part they are utterly and 
 eternally unequal, and I think they are more so in their 
 perceptions of art than in anything else. In some it is 
 utterly wanting, a minus quantity forever; while others 
 are pilgrims of beauty and children of light until they 
 are translated. 
 
 The numbers by which I denote these artists dp not 
 indicate any quality, but are given as they occur to me. 
 No. 1. My friend, whom I shall call number one, was 
 born in 1817, in New Ipswich, N. H. I have known 
 him many years. I suppose he must be a sinner, if all 
 men are ; but why he should submit to such an insinu- 
 ation, I never could see. I never found anything to base 
 such a statement upon. I think he paints as large a per- 
 centage of pictures that I like as any man living. It is 
 always a beauty. His colors are always pure and clean. 
 His summer home and studio are at North Conway.
 
 THE ARTISTS OF BOSTON. 389 
 
 The views of the mountains, the valley, and the world of 
 wonder near home, give him beautiful subjects. I have 
 one view, near his home, and Thomas' Starr King watched 
 him while he painted it. I have another, in the Cathedral 
 Woods, with his own son, Kensett, in the picture. His 
 lilies and roses, his kalmias and apple-blossoms, his corn and 
 " punkins," his woods and waterfalls, are beauty pictures. 
 He has had many pupils. Not long ago I heard a young 
 artist say, "I have just been up in this artist's studio, and 
 he has quite a harem of women, all painting in oil ; and 
 I'll be hanged if there was not one pupil sixty-five years 
 old. Ha! ha! ha!" 
 
 He laughed heartily. After he was gone out, I told the 
 others that the pupil in question was seventy years old, 
 and could paint a much better picture than this critic 
 could. Then they all laughed. I always enjoy a call at 
 his studio. He is a kindly critic, and carries no toma- 
 hawk or scalping-knife. So the merciful find mercy. 
 His name is in the later encyclopedias, and it is very 
 pleasant to know that his winter studio is in Boston. For 
 the sake of Boston and North Conway I might wish him 
 to live forever, but it would not be fair to keep him out 
 of heaven so loner. So, inasmuch as I do not know what 
 
 O * 
 
 specific good to wish for Benjamin Champney, I shall 
 leave it for the Almighty Power that gives, to select the 
 
 gift. 
 
 " May he have all, in one true wish exprest, 
 Whate'er God gives to those that he loves best." 
 
 No. 2 is an Englishman, "For he himself has said it, 
 
 O * 
 
 and 'tis greatly to his credit, that he is an Englishman." 
 He has crossed the Atlantic many times. He has gone 
 back many times, to care for his sisters in England.
 
 340 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 He is one of the kindest and best of men. While he 
 attends, the Art Club will be sure of a total-absti- 
 nence, anti-tobacco man. The woods are not full of 
 such men. Everybody speaks of him in the kindest 
 manner. His studio is a hive of pictures, many flowers, 
 landscapes and souvenirs of old England. He plays the 
 flute finely. It is very entertaining to hear him tell of his 
 little adventures he has met in his travels across the ferry, 
 and in England. Not long since I called at his door, and, 
 without meaning it, I gave a Masonic knock. It was 
 answered in kind, and in a moment more, I knew what I 
 did not know before, that Henry Day had given me the 
 welcome of a Master-mason. As Rip says, May he live 
 long, and prosper. 
 
 No. 3 was born in Raymond, N. H. Forty years 
 ago he was for a while a salesman in a dry goods store. 
 But all the time he was studiously learning to draw and 
 paint. Soon he began to paint all the time. He has had 
 a great many pupils. He has had an art school in Bos- 
 ton for many years, teaching several branches of art. He 
 loved pictures, and illustrated books, beyond any one I 
 ever saw. Some said he was a miser in art. If it is a 
 fault to love art and beauty so much, it leans to virtue's 
 side. Better love beauty than something worse. Later, 
 when his strength failed, he sold off about four thousand 
 dollars worth of books at auction. He must have had 
 many thousand dollars worth of books, engravings, and 
 works of art. Illustrations by Turner, Stanfield, Pyne, 
 Calame, Harding, Bartlett, etc., and O how many port- 
 folios of engravings and prints. I think he knew more of 
 art in all its branches, than any man I ever knew. His 
 pictures sold for moderate prices, but he was very prolific
 
 THE ARTISTS OF BOSTON. 341 
 
 in them. I have been on summer tours with him several 
 times, and it was very enjoyable. But one day in Febru- 
 ary, 1888, a few pupils and friends gathered at his studio, 
 at the corner of Essex and Washington streets, and 
 listened to his burial service by Rev. Dr. Bartol, and 
 later, William H. Titcombe was borne to the craves of 
 
 ' O 
 
 his family, and laid beside his father and mother, in Ray- 
 mond, N. H. Age 63. He had no vices. He loved 
 poetry, beauty, and art without limit. He was ready to 
 impart what he knew. He had taking, pleasant ways. 
 He was full of fun, and the best of company. He was 
 Bohemian enough to make the best of life. And to him 
 I take a cup of kindness yet for "Auld Lang Syne." 
 
 No. 4 is a lady artist. She has a home in Middleboro 
 and Boston. She just believes in Boston, which is assui'- 
 ance of the highest taste. She paints in oil, and has 
 many orders for crayon portraits. She does fine crayon 
 work. Not long since, she paid a visit to Southern 
 California. That was a good thing, but it was a better 
 thincr to come back to Boston, where she is known and 
 
 O ' 
 
 appreciated. The name on her studio door is Miss Sarah 
 D. White. 
 
 No. 5 is a man who paints many pictures at moderate 
 prices, and gives as much art for the money, as any man 
 I know. He has been in Europe, and travelled much in 
 America. He is honest and true, easy and kind. He is 
 so good to me that he will not chide me, even for this 
 portrait. He is a Second Advent Christian, and don't 
 care who knows it. He is teetotal and anti-tobacco. He 
 is smart and industrious. It is pleasant to meet him 
 here, and it would add largely to the promise of the 
 sweet by and by, to know that I should have for a near
 
 342 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 neighbor, Mr. E. W. Parkhurst. Perhaps we might go 
 sketching together. 
 
 O O 
 
 No. 6 was a queer compound. He was small in size. 
 Sometimes he would dress fairly well, and soon he would 
 be shabby. He was embalmed in tobacco, and he 
 often heightened the flavor with whiskey. But he could 
 paint in very attractive color. He would take a palette 
 knife and dab on bright color; then wobble it into a sun- 
 set effect that would charm you. His pictures would 
 always have some past-finding-out effect, that would take 
 with you. But his affairs were always at a crisis. He 
 got locked up for his thirst. His pockets held nothing. 
 He is gone. He was a scattering genius, with several 
 vices. Alas for No. 6 ! What a pity he was. 
 
 No. 7 restores pictures, and does it admirably. What 
 beautiful things I have seen in his studio. In all the 
 picture work that I have met, I have found no restora- 
 tions that have pleased me more than his. Fine speci- 
 mens that are far too good to lose, come back with the 
 same feeling and the life renewed. Some that seem 
 cracked and darkened to death, come to life at his bid- 
 ding. I always see something new in his room. He 
 does the best work, and pleasant as that is, the artist him- 
 self gives the work an added charm. Mr. Harold Fletcher 
 does not need to ask my blessing. He has it all the time. 
 
 No. 8 paints flowers, and does it splendidly. His 
 studio has been in the studio building for years. He has 
 had many pupils. I have a picture of his, magnolia buds 
 and blossom. He manages to give the charm of Nature 
 and art in his pictures, in a way to make them very inter- 
 esting. I give Mr. George W. Seavey my kindest re- 
 gards both for the man and his work.
 
 THE ARTISTS OF BOSTON. 343 
 
 No. 9 paints portraits. For good, faithful, durable work 
 they are splendid. I have two of them. One is my son 
 Bert, at three years old, with light curly hair. I have had 
 people say they had rather have that picture, than any in 
 the house. It is perfectly satisfactory. I have also my 
 own portrait by him. -It is satisfactorily and con- 
 foundedly like me. What a gallery his portraits would 
 make. Several of his are in Mechanics Hall in Worces- 
 ter. He has painted Lincoln, Garrison, Gov. Andrew, 
 Col. Ward, Sumner, Webster, Phillips, John B. Moore, 
 M. P. Wilder, Gough, Parker, Parker Pillsbury, S. G. 
 Foster, and ever so many more. For the best of 
 work, done by the best of men, I recommend both the 
 man and his work, with lifelong regards for Mr. E. T. 
 Billings. 
 
 No. 10 is a Boston boy. He was born in 1813, in 
 Atkinson Street, now Congress street. He has been in 
 Europe, and has painted long and well in Boston. He 
 has had many pupils. Some artists take a subject, and 
 paint nature in cold hard facts, grimly true. This artist 
 will take the same subject, and, while being faithful to 
 the scene, he will idealize it, and make it mysterious and 
 attractive, so that you will wonder at the secret of his 
 art. I like the pictures and the artist. His work is in 
 the best hoilses, and wherever it is, there is a subtle 
 something about it, that is the quality, that is almost the 
 despair of art. What pleasant calls I have had at his 
 studio. The percentage of his pictures that I should be 
 glad to own and see every day, is large. They are vastly 
 superior to many of the French pictures that sell for so 
 large a price. Here is a poem of his which I appropriate. 
 It is a view from his own house.
 
 344 THE WILD AETIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 THE REVOLVING LIGHT. 
 
 By S. L. Gerry. 
 
 'Tis dark. My children sleep. 
 
 'Tis dark. Yet day begins to creep. 
 'Tis dawn. Yon harbor, lights have shone all night, 
 Till day's first peep. 
 
 Now bright it burns, now fainter turns, 
 
 Now dark as Egypt's night ; 
 Now brighter gleams, now stronger beams, 
 Now full-orbed light. 
 
 My eyes still seek the distant streak 
 
 Where day the ocean meets, 
 Paler the light revolves as night 
 The morning greets. 
 
 Yet still it burns, and lights by turns 
 
 At danger's treacherous edge, 
 Where breakers dash, and sullen lash, 
 O'er sunken ledge. 
 
 Yon little star that pales afar 
 
 Hath faithful vigils kept, 
 At danger's post, guarding the coast, 
 While men have slept. 
 
 Its work is done. Behold the sun, 
 
 And now its little ray, 
 
 Mingling its gleams with God's own beams, 
 Is merged in glorious day. 
 
 And so, for all he is, and all he has done, I vote that 
 Samuel L. Gerry is an honor to himself, to art, and to 
 Boston. 
 
 No. 11 is composed of two ones, side^by side. Conse- 
 quently they are twins, C. and D. They were born in 
 Maiden, in the same room that Adoniram Judson was. I
 
 THE ARTISTS OF BOSTON. 345 
 
 do not know them apart and cannot consider them apart. 
 They are very talented men. One paints pictures, the 
 other is a sculptor. One or both designed the soldiers' 
 monument in Cambridge. They are musical, witty, liter- 
 ary, artistic, and if you need daylight on any thing that 
 is nebulous to you, it is safe to consult them. Is it a 
 lecture on music, literature, art, sculpture, Shakespeare? 
 "Well, it is a blessed thing to know something. I give 
 kind regards to the brothers Cyrus and Darius Cobb. 
 
 No. 12 is a widow with an invalid depending upon her. 
 She had a little money to begin on, and a love for art, 
 but no genius. It was uphill work. She took a few 
 lessons, and painted some almost hopeless pictures. Her 
 courage was good and she did improve. So by main 
 strength and will power, she would learn to paint. Now 
 she paints a fair picture, has many pupils, at a low rate, 
 and compels art to be her servant. Art shows good taste 
 by surrendering to such a pleasant, true-hearted lady. We 
 cannot all be'grenadiers in art. 
 
 No. 13 and his wife came eight years ago from East 
 Prussia. They lived in Washington at first. They are 
 just married lovers, and it is refreshing to visit them at 
 their home. They have quite a picture gallery and studio 
 beside. Scenes in or near Washington, Boston, and in 
 Germany. Their pets are many. Canaries, rabbits, 
 doves, Angora cats and several monkeys. Dandie, their 
 black monkey with a white face, gives me the kindest 
 greeting. These people are fine artists, and I give my 
 kind regards to Mr. Albert and Mrs. Ottilie Bon-is. 
 
 No. 14 is a young man who loves art. Usually it is a 
 blessing, but with him it is a pity. Because if he hated 
 it, he would let it alone. But. now he has a studio, and
 
 346 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 paints pictures. Some are of barn-door size. O the roses, 
 the landscapes and the figures. Of course there is no 
 valid and sufficient reason for profanity ; but if there was 
 his pictures would be that reason. They are as far from 
 being works of art as dock mud is from being wedding cake. 
 Any artist would almost be justified in breaking out in 
 wild, wicked, elaborate denunciations of such work. He 
 painted a little child kneeling at prayer. Going by his 
 door I saw it and I never wanted a tomahawk so badly 
 in my life. A teamster saw it, and went off gritting his 
 teeth. The little girl's bare foot was too big for a man's 
 arctic. A descendant of the laughing philosopher got a 
 glimpse of it and went off, holding on to his abdomen. 
 And yet, that artist might have been a success driving a 
 tip cart. Usually it is better to paint a poor picture than 
 none, but there is a limit. He will not see this, and I 
 will not tell his name. 
 
 No. 15 was born in Boston and lives in Maiden. I had 
 a chance to see him and his pictures within a week and I 
 never saw a finer moonlight than he showed me. I do 
 admire all his work. This picture was the bay of Naples 
 by moonlight. Vesuvius of course. About the year 
 1837, when he was in Italy, he lived awhile at Albano. 
 Mr. S. L. Gerry went there and was with him for some 
 time. They went sketching together. With a hope of 
 doing him some good, Mr. Gerry one day asked him, 
 Why do you not give some thought of the life to come, 
 and look forward and upward sometimes ? It will make 
 a better and a happier man of you. He answered, I do 
 not trouble myself about the future, for the present is all 
 I can attend to. Nevertheless he remembered Mr. Gerry's 
 kind words. A little while before, some friend had given
 
 THE ARTISTS OF BOSTON. 347 
 
 Mr. Gerry a small Bible as a keepsake. He lost it. He 
 thought the custom-house folks got it. But no, it was 
 left with Mr. George L. Brown at Albano, and he thought 
 it was left for him to read as a bit of missionary good 
 work from his friend Gerry. Later, when Mr. Brown 
 was sick from brain fever, he read Mr. Gerry's Bible as 
 he recovered. He learned to love it and believe in it, 
 and Mr. Brown tells, that the story and faith of Christ 
 has brightened his life, and made a better man of him. 
 He lived many years in Rome. He had good success in 
 selling his pictures. I think he was born in the same 
 year as Mr. Gerry. Both Boston boys. What bright 
 splendid pictures Mr. Brown does paint. There is a might 
 and power in the expression that he finds, in a palette of 
 color. I return his parting word to me, his hearty "God 
 bless you." 
 
 No. 16 has long been a portrait painter in Boston. 
 His work ranks high, and goes into the best places. I do 
 like the art he gets in his pictures. For a long time they 
 will be in Boston as memorials of people of character, 
 and souvenirs of remembrance of the artist, Mr. J. 
 Harvey Young. 
 
 No. 17 is a lady who has painted in oil, has had her 
 pictures reproduced in chromo. Her oil studies are 
 always pleasant. She makes New England scenes attrac- 
 tive. Of late she gives the most of her time to crayon 
 portraits. I see them well spoken of in the papers, and 
 know that she is doing excellent work. Her pupils and 
 friends will testify for Miss A. M. Gregory as a faithful 
 and successful artist. 
 
 No. 18 is an artist, and self-appointed art critic. I 
 have heard unconcise people say, a picture of his was
 
 348 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 " good." They must have given the priest something to 
 pay for lying. Once in a while he praises a picture that 
 he did not paint, but usually he flays them alive. I never 
 knew him to sell a picture for cash. Still, with his art 
 and his rich relations, he manages to stub along somehow. 
 As I do not wish to fight, I omit the name. 
 
 No. 19 is a very odd number. I had him in my employ 
 when he was fourteen years old. He was a lean, cadaver- 
 ous, poor little boy. The freckles on his face were more 
 than sporadic, they were multitudinous and confluent. 
 The warts on his hands were more than social, they were 
 gregarious. Some were on foot and some were on wart- 
 back. He never had eaten an orange. I went out and 
 got him one, and before I knew it he had eaten the peel 
 also. He could not tell the time of day, as he had never 
 been where clocks were. He was mild, shy, and afraid. 
 I told him a funny story, and he smiled. I told him 
 another, and a funnier one, and he roared. I was bound 
 to start him. Then we were acquainted. I asked him 
 questions, pumped him in fact. He said he had made a 
 sketch in ink of his grandfather's turning-lathe. He 
 showed it. There was merit in it. He told me how he 
 had longed for paints, to paint pictures. I bought him a 
 kit of Winsor and Newton's water-colors, a good one. 
 He sat up late, and I was surprised at the good work he 
 had done. Soon his Avarts were all gone, and the freckles 
 largely gone after them. Since then he has been a 
 designer for calico. I have souvenirs that I keep, that 
 came out of his waste basket. One is a little marine 
 water-color. Another is a pictm*e of thistle blossoms 
 with bees on them. Those bees and flies, drawn with pen, 
 are fine. I held the picture near my ear, and heard a
 
 THE AETISTS OF BOSTON. 349 
 
 buzzing. Perhaps it was the bees in the picture. I have 
 it framed, where I can see it every day. He can draw or 
 paint fruit or berries admirably. He has designed and 
 drawn for some of the best agricultural papers in New. 
 York. He has made new headings for several. He can 
 take an intricate oil painting and copy it good enough to 
 puzzle the man that painted it. He will take a pen and 
 draw blackberries better than any man I ever saw. He 
 has no vices that I ever heard of. He is no financier. He 
 has more genius than any artist I ever met. His bank 
 account is so small that he can put it " all in his eye," and 
 wink real easy. He was always true, kind, and grateful 
 to me, and I earnestly hope that God's blessing will 
 come to lighten his life, and shine brighter unto the 
 perfect day. 
 
 No. 20 lives in Cambridgeport. On a corner, behind a 
 high hedge, among trees and vines, is his home and studio. 
 His pictures are mostly landscape, with some marines, 
 flowers, and still-life. His trees are beauties. His 
 country roads and waterfalls please me much. He is 
 past seventy, and his pictures never were better. He had 
 a son, Charlie, an artist, who died at North Con way. He 
 was clever, in both senses of the word, and a real good 
 fellow. Whoever has a picture of No. 20 gets an honest 
 one, of an artist who is anxious to leave behind him 
 work true to nature, and a credit to the artist, Mr. John 
 W. A. Scott. 
 
 No. 21 has lived and painted in Boston, but now lives 
 in Maiden. Fine portraits, pleasant landscapes, and O 
 such grapes, peaches, cherries, and other fruit. I give 
 kind regards to the artist, Mr. H. R. Burdick. 
 
 No. 22 was a pleasant gentleman and a fine portrait
 
 350 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 painter. "He would paint the picture of an ordinary, un- 
 interesting person, and, while making it a good likeness, 
 would idealize it, and make it a grand picture. It was 
 high art. I have three of his portraits. His wife and he 
 were called away in middle life. They were a fine couple. 
 I gladly give this word of kindly appreciation to the 
 memory of Mr. and Mrs. Edward L. Ouster. 
 
 No. 23 is an absorbent. He will get all he can out of 
 this world, and give just as little as he can for it. He 
 can paint a fine portrait or a bright landscape. If he can 
 get into your debt he will stay there. The idea of loving 
 and giving, hoping for nothing again, never entered his 
 mind. The more I see of the rnan, the more I admire 
 everybody else. He will never learn the truth of that 
 scripture, " There is, that scattereth and yet increaseth, 
 and there is that withholdeth more than is meet, and it 
 tendeth to poverty." 
 
 No. 24 is a lady artist, and all her surroundings are 
 as pretty as pinks. She lives in Cambridgeport, among 
 the pleasant, sunny houses not far from Brookline bridge, 
 and the views of Boston and Charles River from her 
 home and studio are fine. She paints many pictures that 
 I like, especially flowers, and many pupils come to her. 
 The situation, the city, the skies, and the river must be 
 full of pleasant suggestions for the artist, Mrs. J. A. 
 Wiggin. 
 
 No. 25 is a Boston boy. It is a splendid beginning. 
 He has been long and well known here. He paints land- 
 scape, marine, game, and fish. O ever so many things. 
 He is always good to me, and I fully believe he is to 
 everybody. Every summer he goes sketching far and 
 wide. Now in Maine, then in New Hampshire, and
 
 THE ARTISTS OF BOSTON. 351 
 
 again in Vermont, or in New York, among the Adiron- 
 dacks. He has had some funny experiences. Once he was 
 out sketching in a book. A curious countryman hailed him 
 with, Hullo there ! Practisin' singin' ? No, I am sketch- 
 ing. Wai, I thought it looked like a singing book. 
 Again he was under his sun-umbrella, sketching in oil. 
 Hullo, are you shadin' a sick critter there ? Not much. 
 Wai, I see yer had yer umbrella spread, an' I didn't know 
 but you was shadin' a sick critter. Wot ye doin' ? I am 
 painting a picture. Sell 'em ? Git yer livin' out of 'em ? 
 Yes, I do. Wai, now, I wouldn't give ten cents for a 
 barn full on 'em. It was very funny from the artist's 
 point of view ; but a countryman need not be a brute. 
 Another time he was in New Hampshire. A farmer 
 came out laughing. Ho, ho, ho, my wife thought you 
 was a tramp, that had been stealin' our apples ; but come 
 to find out, you are the painter feller that boards down 
 to Fogg's. Again he was making a sketch. A farmer 
 came out and enquired. Cipherin' ? Another time one 
 enquired of another who it was. Is he crazy ? He 
 walks along a short distance, then stops; looks around, 
 stops again ; acts real funny. Curiosity was relieved 
 when they found it was a still-hunt for beauty. On the 
 seashore he was walking along with his sketch-box. A lot 
 of .boys came running after him. "Be you the man that 
 vaccinates boys?" Again he walked out with his box. 
 " Be you a pedlar ?" No, sir, I am not. Wai, sir, it ain't 
 nothin' to object to. John Jacob Astor was a pedlar. 
 An artist sketching is a great wonder to an enquiring 
 mind. It is a good thing to find a large, handsome pick- 
 erel, then take him to your studio, paint his picture, and 
 then eat him for dinner. I should like to see all the
 
 352 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 pictures that this industrious prolific painter has painted. 
 Now it is a derby hat with a rat-terrier in it. Then it 
 is a straw hat with a Malta kitten, in it. Now a fish, a 
 Florida red snapper, in the gayest of color. Now shad or 
 salmon, perch or smelts. Landscapes in color, or black 
 and white, like a steel engraving. Then mountain, wood- 
 land, lake, and river in color. If any shall succeed in 
 being a better artist, they will find it hard to be a kinder, 
 better fellow than Mr. Samuel W. Griggs. 
 
 No. 26 is a marine painter. He gets as much of the 
 spirit of the sea in his pictures, as any one I can name. 
 A faithful student, and very popular. I like his pictures 
 thoroughly. Once he painted a large picture in six 
 hours, and sold it for six hundred dollars. I need not 
 say it was a fine picture, but it was a risky thing to do. 
 A house with one coat of paint on it is not a well painted 
 house. No more is a picture. It will soon grow to look 
 thin. He wins fame and fortune, and he deserves it 
 well. 
 
 No. 27 paints portraits, landscapes, and interiors. He 
 is doing excellent work. Lately I saw an interior, a par- 
 lor scene, with a lady sitting, reading. It was an elabo- 
 rate picture, and a study of mysterious color. Several 
 portraits, some of them children, were being done. 
 There is power and promise in the work of Mr, J. 
 Wagner. 
 
 No. 28 was born near the Grand Monadnock, in south- 
 ern New Hampshire. His summer home is in Peterboro. 
 He paints cattle, sheep, and landscape. In these sketches 
 I am giving my own loves and opinions only, and not an 
 art criticism at all. Neither am I advertising an artist. 
 There is nothing mercenary about it. I have known this
 
 THE ARTISTS OF BOSTON. 353 
 
 man since he began, and I never knew aught about him 
 that was not the kindest and best. All the force of his 
 life has been to be the best artist that he could possibly 
 be. He paints cattle and sheep splendidly. If I wanted 
 a picture of New England cattle or sheep, I had rather 
 have one of his, than any artist that I ever saw or heard 
 of, not even excepting Rosa Bonheur, or Eugene Ver- 
 boeckhoven. His sheep and cattle are a triumph of art. 
 He gets large prices and might increase on them. His 
 pictures get the best places in the exhibitions, and go 
 into the best houses. To the man and the artist I give 
 my kind regards, to Mr. Charles F. Pierce. 
 
 No. 29 is a fine lady artist. She paints airily, ideally, 
 admirably. Can I criticise her ? Yes, I can ; but I 
 won't. She has two always apparent ruling motives. 
 One is to paint the best possible picture, and the other is 
 to get the largest number of shekels for it. I envy her 
 her art, and give it the continued assurance of my most 
 distinguished consideration. 
 
 No. 30 paints marine pictures. If he could arise, as an 
 artist, to the level he has attained as a kind good fellow, 
 he would get the highest bounce he ever got in his life. 
 Still he gets about twelve or fifteen hundred a year, out 
 of it. We cannot all be Raphaels. It is better to be a 
 saint and an artist of moderate merit, than to be a 
 supreme artist and a Satan. I cannot paint a picture all 
 iu white and cadmium. I cannot declare all artists Claudes 
 and Murillos. This gives me some fine shadows between 
 the high lights. 
 
 No. 31 is a poor artist. Poor every way. He was 
 born out of a poor family, and I think it would have been 
 a fortune to him if he had never been born at all. He
 
 354 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 pays a poor rent for a poor studio, when he pays it at all. 
 He paints a poor picture, when he paints at all, with poor 
 paints, on a poor canvas ; and it sells for a. poor price 
 when it sells at all ; and the buyer, when there is one, is 
 a poor judge of pictures, and makes a poor trade. This 
 poor artist lives in a poor way, dresses poor, N and has a 
 poor look ahead. He sometimes wonders why this world 
 is such a poor place for him ; and perhaps, I cannot say 
 for sure, he makes a poor effort to improve things. But 
 it is such a poor effort, of course it has a poor result. I 
 am sorry to hang such a poor portrait among such rich 
 color, but we are not all brigadier-generals. Some must 
 be high privates. 
 
 No. 32 is a young lady, pretty as pinks, and sweet 
 enough to cut up for a salad. She lives out of town, 
 coming in to take a lesson once or twice a week. She 
 paints a real good picture, so good that you would marvel 
 at it. She is engaged to a fine young man, and I should 
 like to kill him. I know I ought not to, for he must be 
 nice, or she would not tolerate him. I cannot really 
 blame him for wishing to forsake father and mother to 
 become one flesh. But it cuts me up all the same. They 
 will please receive the old beaver's blessing. 
 
 No. 33 was born in Ohio, in 1841. His home and home 
 studio are in Hyde Park, Mass. He has been in Europe, 
 in all about seven years, studying with the best masters. 
 He paints wonderful pictures. When the Mechanics' 
 Association and Boston Art Club buy a man's pictures, 
 it is a sign that he has a standing in art. His autumn 
 landscapes and twilight skies are very fine. He has 
 plenty of pupils and paints some portraits. One of his 
 pictures is in my sitting-room, where I see it every day.
 
 THE ARTISTS OF BOSTON. 355 
 
 My wife has voted unanimously, that she shall keep it 
 there. That suits me. He has fine success in art, and I 
 never heard even an art critic dare to criticise him as a 
 man. If the prayers of the righteous prevail, Mr. John 
 J. Enneking will live long and be happy. It is a pleasure 
 to see what a power he is in art. 
 
 No. 34 paints cattle, sheep, and landscape. He has had 
 very successful sales, has been in Europe and California. 
 He has a fine standing among Boston artists. His late 
 exhibition was interesting and popular. It takes merit 
 to attain a position in art like Mr. J. Foxcroft Cole. 
 Next to the poet, the artist lives in the work he leaves 
 behind him. The gift of expression, always made valu- 
 able by development, is one great gift, whether in con- 
 struction, invention, enunciation, or delineation. But 
 words do not express the thought. They fit ideas as 
 sabots do feet. They are wooden and clumsy. The 
 thought is beautiful, flexible, and graceful. Happy is the 
 man who can give it expression. Happy is the artist who 
 can show the beauty pictures in his mind. Of course I 
 cannot know many of the artists of a great city. But 
 what I have known of them has, in general, been very 
 pleasant. Indeed I think, as a class, they are the most 
 enjoyable people alive. One more picture and I am done. 
 Ladies and gentlemen, I have not spoken to win your ap- 
 plause, neither have I set down aught in malice. Every 
 word I have spoken has been carefully written, well con- 
 sidered, and is true. A mean person, low, drunken, dirty, 
 or selfish, will be that although he may try to do the 
 noblest work. O the pleasant people I have met as 
 artists. I give them kindest regards. If one utterly 
 lacks self-control, woe is for him, unless he assert him-
 
 356 THE WILD AKTIST IK BOSTON. 
 
 self. A runaway horse is poor property, but alas, for a 
 runaway soul. Once in a while we do see ojie. 
 
 No. 35 was one of the best marine painters I ever saw, 
 perhaps quite the best. O his mighty ships, his ocean 
 waves. He was a true genius, good size, florid, handsome, 
 able to sell his pictures readily and for good prices. I 
 have seen a picture of his marked two thousand dollars. 
 He might have been immensely rich, and have gone into 
 the most honored society. I can go where his pictures 
 occupy splendid places. They are magnificent. But he 
 wasted his talent and his young life. He died of a com- 
 plication of everything that he could blame himself or a 
 woman for. The artists subscribed money, some of 
 them, with great self-denial, and buried him. More, they 
 bore his coffin to a little chapel, and a dreadful office it 
 was, and one they will not soon forget. I am sorry to 
 bring such a picture before you, but I had a motive, and 
 I must be true. And I have a little more to say, and 
 - perhaps I do an unpardonable thing, but I do it with a 
 kind loving heart. 
 
 There is an artist now in Boston, that is going down 
 to a drunkard's grave. He is a good artist and a gener- 
 ous man. He only lacks the saving grace of self-control. 
 I never was intimate with him, and so I have no influence 
 over him. I hope some of you have. His condition is 
 well known to many. I should not be surprised to hear 
 of his death at any time. I saw him yesterday, almost 
 on the rocks. I earnestly entreat of any of you, that have 
 any influence, to use it at once, to do the noblest deed of 
 your lives, to rescue poor Frank Wilkie. 
 
 The address was done and the suspense was painful. 
 What was it to the man behind the screen ?
 
 THE ARTISTS OF BOSTON. 357 
 
 Roy Bartlctt took the stand and for a moment was un- 
 able to control himself. He began : " My friends, I am 
 glad for the kind words that our brother has spoken. 
 With such as he, art and heart are near together. And 
 I am glad to tell him, and you all, of something that will 
 rejoice your hearts. "What our brother has said, was true, 
 yesterday morning. But now, Frank Wilkie is in the 
 hands of devoted friends, and better still, has voluntarily 
 signed a solemn obligation, by his sacred honor, by all he 
 hopes for in earth or heaven, by the sacred memory of 
 his mother, that he will never use intoxicating liquors or 
 tobacco again, while he lives." 
 
 Roy Bartlett had made a sensation. Again and again 
 there came a storm of applause, until weariness compelled 
 them to cease. 
 
 Then the artist who had addressed them said, " I feel, 
 to thank God. I should like to sing, ' Praise God, from 
 whom all blessings flow.' " 
 
 It was done. Their thankfulness found expression. 
 There were plenty of splendid singers present. They 
 sang that glorious song of praise, and Frank Wilkie sat 
 with bowed head and heard it all. The hour was late, 
 but they felt thankful. 
 
 Handel's " Hallelujah Chorus " was called for. Miss 
 Warren had some copies in books and they sang it with 
 a will. Then the people in the street cheered, which 
 pleased the coterie. 
 
 A gentleman arose and said, " I should like to hear 
 this company sing, 'We won't go home till morning.'" 
 
 The idea took at once. Mr. Bartlett called Mr. Webb 
 to take charge of it and sing the second stanza, " For we 
 are all jolly good fellows," if ordered.
 
 358 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 Mr. Webb asked Miss Graham to preside at the piano. 
 Said he, " I once heard this man-song, sung by a wagon 
 load of girls from a female seminary, and they sung it. 
 Dolce andante sostenuto. I have not got over it yet. 
 We will sing it to old 'Malbrook,' and please give it 
 staccato, with force and precision. Sing big, and be- 
 tween the stanzas, Miss Graham, please give us a fancy 
 interlude." 
 
 They arose as Miss Graham gave a line of the roister- 
 ing old song. The director was wide awake. If you 
 have ever heard it sung by a good smart chorus, as I did 
 that night, you have heard a good thing, well done. 
 Then came Miss Graham's interlude. I heard a graphic 
 young man telling it the next day. He said : " I tell you 
 she did everlastingly maul that piano." At the close of 
 the interlude, her notes climbed by pleasant fugues to 
 the top of the highest, and prettily trilling there, she 
 came lightly and sweetly by the common chords, alterna- 
 ting with funny little capers, down to the tonic, and then 
 she looked up for orders. She might have had all the 
 applause she wanted, but it was not permitted. The 
 order, Ready, sing, came short and sharp, and " For we 
 are all jolly good fellows " was music and song, truth and 
 poetry. The parlors were soon empty, and Frank Wilkie 
 was conducted to Roy's chamber. 
 
 He said : " Mr. Bartlett, how pleasant it is to be loved 
 and honored as you are." 
 
 " You can be," said Roy. 
 
 " I will try," said he.
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 A WHITE MAN. 
 
 THE next morning, the first train bore Roy and Frank 
 "Wilkie, with color and canvases, to Dover, New Hamp- 
 shire, and Frank was left in charge of Mr. and Mrs. 
 Bartlett, with a full statement of the case. He was cared 
 for, guarded, made happy, and at home. He was cher- 
 ished and prayed for, and it did not hurt him a bit. He 
 painted a good-size picture of the homestead, to begin 
 with, a daylight scene. When it was done he had been 
 so impressed with his surroundings, that he painted the 
 same scene, the Bartlett home, by moonlight. There was 
 the same light in the sitting-room windows, and in Roy's 
 chamber. There was the full moon above it all, and the 
 smoke from the large chimney came up in the form of an 
 angel, with shadowy arms, held out in blessing. The 
 bright moon was in a clear space, but just outside of that 
 were clouds suggesting cherubs' heads, like the angel 
 arch in Raphael's " Madonna di San Sisto." In one cor- 
 ner, on a rock, was printed, " The Angel of Peace." 
 
 Frank Wilkie worked like a beaver. He went to 
 church with Mr. and Mrs. Bartlett, and it did him good. 
 Mrs. Bartlett knit him stockings, and made him shirts, 
 and Mr. Bartlett bought him a new suit of clothes. He 
 learned to milk, and did so morning and night. When 
 the two pictures were finished and dry enough, Frank 
 
 359
 
 360 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 gave them to Mr. and Mrs. Bartlett. He said he should 
 like to have them go to Boston for Roy to see. They 
 did go, and were shown, handsomely framed, at the next 
 Art Coterie. 
 
 Then Frank wrote a letter, thanking all his friends in 
 the Art Coterie, for their sympathy and kindness, and 
 Roy read it at the time he called attention to the pict- 
 ures. It made the best of thankful feeling. Then it 
 was not long before he sold some pictures in Dover. 
 The dollars began to come in. As he had no vices, they 
 stayed in. He asked permission to prolong his stay. 
 He would help milk, would work some on the farm, and 
 if he could stay until next October, he would help do the 
 haying. He had never found a place that had so much 
 of peace and God's blessing. The author used to think 
 so himself, when he went there. Or he would pay cash 
 for his board and help some beside. 
 
 Mr. Bartlett refused his cash but said he could stay, 
 and help a little. So Frank Wilkie was changed from 
 what he was, and stayed all summer. He sent money to 
 Roy to pay his back rent, and the janitor stored his few 
 things at a low rate. Frank sent pictures to people in 
 Boston, who were glad to get them at the price. One 
 day Eli Bertram was in Roy's studio. He said he had 
 no relations living. Roy expressed his sympathy. He 
 went further. He said, "Mr. Bertram, you have been 
 good to me. Give me a chance to serve you sometime. 
 If you are ever -sick, or in need of a friend, let me know 
 it, and I will come to your assistance. Don't hesitate to 
 send for me, day or night." 
 
 " I give you the same permission," said Miss Graham. 
 
 " God bless you both," said Eli Bertram. " I think,
 
 A WHITE MAN. 361 
 
 however," said he, " that I have means enough for all I 
 shall want, and the folks I board with are good to me. 
 I board with a widow, who has an aged mother, and it is 
 home for me, and help for both of them. But as I said, 
 I will let you know if I need you." 
 
 Then Roy showed Mr. Bertram Frank Wilkie's pict- 
 ures, and told him the whole story. The old man was 
 pleased enough. Eli Bertram had the name of being a 
 close-fisted man. Solomon Shavin would have testified 
 to it. But he tried faithfully to do the most good he 
 could. He had supported this widow, Mrs. Francis, 
 whom he boarded with, and it hud made a home for both 
 her and her mother ; and without it, they might have 
 both gone to the almsnouse. He loved those that loved 
 him. He would have loved more, but they would not. 
 
 When Roy told him the story of Frank Wilkie, he 
 was glad, and taking twenty-five dollars from his pocket- 
 book, he said, " here, Mr. Bartlett, send this to him, and 
 tell him to paint as good a picture of your homestead as 
 he can afford to for that, and send it to me. And tell 
 him to come and get boarded where I do, when he re- 
 turns, and I will help him sell his pictures." 
 
 So Frank Wilkie had a splendid summer, made friends 
 and money and grew in favor with God and man. He 
 also made up his mind to go to board with Eli Bertram, 
 when he came back in the fall, but it was not to be. 
 Mr. Bertram's health declined visibly. He called on 
 Jonathan Strong and made his will. No one else knew 
 
 O 
 
 it, and although a copy was left with Mr. Strong, the 
 original was left in his safe, in his boarding mistress's 
 parlor. He told her of it later, and said he had left her 
 something. Roy and Miss Graham came often to see
 
 362 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 him, and Roy was with him when he passed away. And 
 Eli Bertram's will was a surprise. Not so much in what 
 he owned, as in what he did with it. He owned ten 
 brick houses in one block, worth over ten thousand dol- 
 lars each, beside considerable other real and personal 
 property. He gave the houses to these five persons, for 
 their own use forever. Two to Roy Bartlett, two to 
 Miss Graham, two to Edric Lyman, two to Frank Wilkie 
 with a proviso, that he kept his obligation, otherwise it 
 went to his residuary legatee, and two to his pastor. 
 Roy and Edric Lyman were to be executors, and Roy 
 was residuary legatee. He also left the house and a 
 package of government bonds to Mrs. Francis, his house- 
 keeper, the widow that he had boarded so long with. 
 She was worthy of it. They were all surprised every 
 way. There was no one to dispute the will. 
 
 Now Roy was well situated. He congratulated Miss 
 Graham and she thanked him. Frank Wilkie gave 
 thanks to Roy for it all. Well he might. There are 
 some sponges, that you may waste all human and divine 
 love upon, and they will never love you back again. Eli 
 Bertram was none of that, neither was Frank Wilkie, or 
 Edric Lyman, or Roy Bartlett, or Mary Graham. I do not 
 know which it was that loved first, but I do know that 
 the love was there, and one of them at least could say, 
 " he first loved me." 
 
 The next and last meeting of the Art Coterie was a 
 short one with more sketches of Boston artists and plenty 
 of music. Of course Boston artists were not half repre- 
 sented. Mrs. Warren received several pictures, as sou- 
 venirs of the artists. There was a genuine regret when 
 they sang " Auld Lang Syne," at the close of the
 
 A WHITE MAN. 363 
 
 evening. Roy had hosts of friends, and a kind thought 
 for all. 
 
 One day he had a letter from home which made him 
 laugh. His mother had written what they were all doing, 
 how Frank Wilkie had prospered, how industrious he 
 was, and all the news. Then she wrote that Canis Major 
 wanted to write a word, and as he had just come out of 
 the meadow, she got a good impression of his big, muddy 
 paw, which she dried, and added, " Come home, Roy," 
 as the dog's invitation. Eoy also got this letter, 
 
 " DEAR FRIEND ROY, I have heard from your father of your 
 good fortune, and my wife and I are rejoiced indeed. My 
 father owned a large house here in Dover, which did not 
 pay very well. I have taken it, and fitted it up as a hotel 
 and boarding house. We are doing well from the start. 
 Father gives me the rent and supplies from the farm, and I 
 give him a part of the money. We have splendid sings, and 
 plenty of company. McDuffie's Hotel'will welcome you at any 
 time. When you are married, please come and pass your 
 honeymoon with us. We have plenty of horses and carnages, 
 and you shall have the best of everything, free. I am glad of 
 what you have done in art, and in property. Now please let 
 us see you in Dover, and we will have no end of a good time. 
 My wife sends her love to you, and so do I. 
 " Ever your friend, 
 
 "JEAN McDUFFIE." 
 
 " He is a true heart," said Roy, as he folded up the 
 letter. " He lost his self-will in the Isinglass River, and 
 since then he has been grateful and loving." 
 
 Somehow Miss Graham did not seem elated over Eli 
 Bertram's splendid gift, and Roy sat down to consider it. 
 He was truly grateful to the old man. Was Miss Graham 
 cold-hearted ? Then he thought how ready she was to
 
 364 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 give money to all who needed it, even more than Roy 
 thought best. Yes, indeed ; and how she pleaded with 
 tears to save Frank Wilkie. No, she was not cold-hearted, 
 sure. She was not. If she was not elated over wealth, 
 that was virtue and common sense. She was not ex- 
 travagant. She had not begun to tell what she would do 
 or buy. Her expenses were not increased. She dressed 
 well, but modestly. Nothing loud in color. He tried to 
 criticise her, and he began to feel ashamed of himself 
 inside for doing it. If any one had said a word against 
 Mary Graham, he would have resented it hotly. And 
 she, just quiet and faithful, helped his pupils, and walked 
 in Roy Bartlett's mind, the bright eclipse of any and all 
 other women. He mused. He looked with his mind's 
 eye, Horatio, at her, from every point of view, in every 
 relation of life, for time and eternity, and the little 
 modest woman unconsciously bore the test.
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI. 
 
 SOLOMON IN ALL HIS GLORY. 
 
 THE winter was gone, and it was May. Roy was well 
 situated financially. He had a good bank account. With 
 the brick store property, which came by the kindness of 
 Mr. S. R. Knights, and the two brick houses that Eli 
 Bertram left him, he was having an assured income of 
 twenty-five hundred a year, beside what his art brought 
 him, which was no small sum. He had not increased his 
 style of living. His home with Mrs. Warren was good 
 enough. It was the middle of May. 
 
 One morning Miss Graham came in and Roy asked "if 
 it was not time to consider their trip to Dover, to see 
 the apple trees in bloom." 
 
 She said, "she was ready, when the best time came." 
 
 " That is what I am looking for," said Roy. " The 
 Whitsunday is about the twentieth of May. Suppose 
 we go on Thursday, before the Whitsunday." 
 
 She said, " yes." 
 
 " Can you stay a week ? " 
 
 " She coutd if it was suitable, and nothing happened at 
 home." 
 
 So it was agreed. They took the morning train for 
 Dover. The pupils had been notified and the studio door 
 said : " Gone sketching for a week." 
 
 365
 
 366 'THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 When the battle of Lexington was fought, on the nine- 
 teenth of April, the peach and cherry trees were in full 
 bloom, and it was so hot a day that some were overcome 
 with the heat. A hundred years later, I went to Lexing- 
 ton, and saw General Grant at the centennial. It was a 
 cold raw day. Our party went out in the woods and 
 made a fire to eat our lunch by. We saw several small 
 snowdrifts, and although our party were all born Yankees, 
 yet we were bluenoses, every one. Not a blossom or a 
 sign of one. But the Whitsunday, a month later, is quite 
 sure to show the apple-blossoms, that surpass Solomon in 
 all his glory. 
 
 Mr. Bartlett met Roy and Mary at the station. He 
 had killed the fatted calf, he said, and the prodigal would 
 get some veal worth eating. Mother Bartlett was happy 
 again now Roy had come home, and Miss Graham was 
 made at home, and free from all restraint at once. Canis 
 Major rejoiced with joy unspeakable to see Roy and Miss 
 Graham, whom he remembered well. Frank Wilkie was 
 there, and it was good to see how handsome he had 
 grown. The great orchard was becoming a cloud of pink 
 and white blossoms. In the afternoon the three artists 
 walked out around the house and garden. Canis Major 
 and Grimalkin went too; Frank Wilkie carried Grimalkin. 
 A man that does not love cat or dog is a pig of a man 
 any way. Roy showed Miss Graham where Will Glanco 
 had jumped out at him, and struck him with a club. The 
 scar still showed. They were all as pleased and happy as 
 Canis Major and Grimalkin, but Roy and Miss Graham 
 were almost too quiet. Frank Wilkie noticed it, but did 
 not remark. Mr. and Mrs. Bartlett were in the house. 
 Mrs. Bartlett was fixing up something nice for tea, and
 
 SOLOMON IN ALL HIS GLORY. 3G7 
 
 he was all around, playful, paying attention to her, 
 and courting his wife over again. " What is the matter 
 with Roy ? " he asked. 
 
 " Well, what is ? " she asked. 
 
 "Why," said Mr. Bartlett, "he is as solemn as an owl. 
 He has not smiled once since he came." 
 
 "Don't you know what ails him?" asked mother Bart- 
 lett, as she elevated the range of her specs, and looked 
 her old husband-lover in the face. 
 
 "Liver complaint?" he asked. 
 
 "Liver cum-granny," she said. "Don't you know bet- 
 ter than that? you old bunch of sweetness. It is a heart 
 disease, and it will take a woman about the size of Miss 
 Graham to cure it." 
 
 He laughed. He said he was getting a little mixed. 
 He could not tell art from heart, at all. There seemed to 
 be no boundary line between them at all. So Roy's 
 father and mother kept up an awful thinking, and Roy 
 was not a bit the wiser for it. 
 
 Take your excursion the first fair day, you can let it 
 rain any time. So the next morning was sunny and 
 pretty. They had an easy-riding top buggy, with rubber 
 blanket and robe ; then they were ready for casualties and 
 showers. Roy and Miss Graham took sketching books, 
 and were off at eight o'clock. They took the road 
 through Barrington, over Waldron's Hill, by Jonathan 
 Drew's and Gilman Hall's, past the old Judge Hale place, 
 and by the old Doctor Woodbury farm, and so on to 
 Bow Pond. They call it Bow Lake now. Roy told the 
 names of the farms as he drove past, and they made an 
 outline occasionally. It was a succession of exclamations. 
 Oh ! see this, or, Oh ! see that, very often. I have often
 
 368 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 done the same joimiey, with an artist, but never with so 
 interesting an artist as Roy had. 
 
 What a beauty New Hampshire is when the apple trees 
 are in bloom. They kept to the east of Bow Pond, after 
 passing the village, and when they came to a fine view of 
 the lake, which is three miles long, they found a place to 
 dine. The horse had his harness off, to cool off. Roy 
 brought a pail of spring water instead of champagne. 
 He took the supplies out of the carriage, and, with a tree 
 piled with pink apple blossoms low down over their heads, 
 they sat down to dine. Cold coffee, bread and butter, 
 fatted calf, apple pie, doughnuts and cheese, with honey 
 in the comb, do not amount to any great self-denial, and 
 they began to be merry; that is no, they didn't. They 
 were as quiet and steady as two people frequently are in 
 same condition. They ate their dinners, and were grate- 
 ful to all who had contributed to them. The horse was 
 rested, and entertained as well. These two people 
 were satisfied to be together, for this visit of Miss 
 Graham's might be the last forever. They were very 
 pleasant to each other, but there was no fun, no laugh, 
 from the rising of the sun to the going down thereof. It 
 was a ride, it was beauty, it was apple blossoms, O hand- 
 some as paradise. It was nature, it was art; and if it 
 was another thing, the Lord only knew it, or what it was. 
 They did not. They returned by the green hill road, and 
 they had found a long, quiet, happy day. 
 
 Sam Ellet and his wife came over in the evening. He 
 was as full of fun as he could stick. His wife tried to 
 suppress him a little, but he let out another joke, that 
 made her snort right out with laughter. Then Roy 
 laughed too, and Miss Graham also. But this was after
 
 SOLOMON IN ALL HIS GLOEY. 369 
 
 sunset, mind you ; so I have told you no lies. Sam was 
 solemn enough the night he walked into the Hoskins 
 mudhole. But he outlived it. 
 
 Saturday it rained. They all stayed at home, and Jean 
 McDuffie and his wife came up. Roy was his mother's 
 boy again. 
 
 On Sunday they all went to the brick Orthodox church, 
 in two teams. It is a good way to spend Sunday. I have 
 been there myself many times, in the days when Rev. 
 Homer Barrows preached there. Miss Graham just 
 enjoyed her visit, every minute. Such good, safe, clean, 
 white people. They will labor for you. They will pray 
 for you. Let them. 
 
 Monday morning they took to the i-oad again. This 
 time they went by Hicks's Hill, and straight to Lee Hill. 
 O the apple blossoms. Many a tree was one mighty and 
 splendid bouquet. O the glorious apple-trees ! They went 
 through Wadleys Falls village, and Roy told her stories 
 of farms and people as they passed. Wilson's mills had 
 formerly been Bartlett's mills. They kept on through 
 New Market. They went slowly, for there was much to 
 see. There was the bridge over the Lamprey River; on 
 the eastern end, is where a plank was laid across, to save 
 distance, and one Sunday evening Mary Rendall, while 
 returning from meeting, fell off and was drowned, fifty 
 years ago and more. On the hill, a few rods east of the 
 bridge, is a huge rock, close beside the road, with a large 
 dark stain on it, on the side of the rock toward New 
 Market. Roy told her the Indian legend, how a young 
 settler had come and built his house near, and they 
 ordered him to leave, but he would not go. They shot 
 him, and killed his wife and child on the top of the great
 
 370 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 rock, dashing the child in pieces where the great dark 
 stain now is. The stain is still there, and every one sees 
 it as he crosses the bridge from New Market to Durham. 
 Beautiful trees. The river glimmers through them. 
 
 They had their dinner in a quiet place near the road. 
 They had a twenty-mile ride, and so much beauty to see, 
 that their eyes were tired with seeing. But they got 
 home just in time for a cup of tea, and Mother Bartlett's 
 cooking. 
 
 There were several people here, doing some tall think- 
 ing. Another day they took the carryall, and Mr. and 
 Mrs. Bartlett went with Roy and Miss Graham, first to 
 Garrison Hill, then to Great Falls, and Salmon Falls. 
 The omnipresent apple-blossoms followed them all the 
 way. Solomon did have some luxuries, but there were 
 three things that he owned right up he could never 
 understand, and here was Roy, a Boston artist, trying to 
 find out the hardest one. No wonder it stuck him. Mr. 
 Bartlett talked as they rode, and Roy and Miss Graham 
 had the back seat all to themselves. It was a Quaker 
 meeting. 
 
 They had two days more. Roy asked her, "Did you 
 ever catch a trout ? " 
 
 " No, I never did." 
 
 " Do you wish to ? " 
 
 " Yes, I do." 
 
 " Then," said he, " we will go up to the old trout brook 
 to-morrow, trouting. Perhaps we may get a string. The 
 wind is south, and I guess it is a good time. Now, Miss 
 Graham, I want to consult your wish. I will bait your 
 hook, take the fish off, if you get any, and be your helper, 
 so you need not soil your hands. But once you said you
 
 SOLOMON IN ALL HIS GLORY. 371 
 
 wished to help yourself where you can, and be indepen- 
 dent. In that case you will have to take the worms, and 
 bait your own hook, and take off your fish. Your hands 
 will not smell nice ; but soap and water soon cures all 
 that, when you get home. Now, what will you do ?" 
 
 She answered, "If you will please to show me how to 
 bait the hook, and how to fish, I will get along alone, as 
 long as I can." 
 
 He would show her. He did. He showed her how to 
 walk softly, and not jar the ground, and scare the fish ; 
 not to let her shadow fall in the water ; not to speak or 
 make a noise, to fish cautiously and patiently, and not 
 get her hook caught, but if she did, to break it and tie on 
 another. He would be near. There were no snakes to 
 hurt, no wild cattle, no danger. Beckon, if she 
 needed help. His eye would be on her. It was a long 
 lesson, and a good one. 
 
 Roy did not drop a line in the water, but showed her 
 all the art. She had on light rubber-boots, and a gray 
 dress. He took his sketch-book along, and she began to 
 fish. She was noiseless and wary, and she caught them 
 fast. At first Roy thought she would not fancy baiting 
 the hook, but she did it, and as soon as they began to 
 bite, that little witch took out the speckled beauties, many 
 small, but some of good size, until Roy was hardly 
 pleased to see her get along so well without him. 
 
 He made some outline sketches of her as she fished, 
 with the winding brook beyond her. It was sport for 
 her, and a heart-ache for him. Not once did she call 
 him, but kept to her sport like an old fisher that supplies 
 the White Mountain hotels. She lost one or two hooks, 
 but she soon supplied their places, and she did not tie
 
 372 THE WILD AKTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 them on with a granny knot either. She had had a man's 
 instruction. It was a weaver's knot, and it held. Now 
 she let her line drop in the ripplings. Now she let it drop 
 in a dark, deep pool, like a grasshopper. She handled 
 that light pole like an old fisher. And while she fished 
 like Isaac Walton, she also unconsciously fished like Simon 
 Peter. She stepped as softly as a cat. No fish saw her, 
 until they had the good fortune to be caught by her. 
 When she had gone a long way, and ought to have been 
 getting tired, Roy came up and whispered that she had 
 done enough. He looked in her basket, and it was 
 another surprise. She had done splendidly, better than 
 he had supposed. They gave it up. Roy took her tackle 
 and fish, and they drove home. 
 
 It was a splendid ride. When his mother saw the 
 trout, and heard the story, she said it was the beatermost 
 thing she ever heard of. Roy cleaned the fish, and it was 
 a good mess, enough for all. He ate some of them, but 
 they rather stuck in his crop. I am not posing for ele- 
 gance, but I must be graphic and forcible. This is a 
 man's statement. He was as solemn as two owls, or 
 Deacon Bedott, and he grew solemner. He had seen that 
 she could get a living out of a piano, out of singing, out 
 of painting, and he was almost afraid she could out of 
 fishing. One of the old English writers once said, " God 
 never made an independent man." But Roy was afraid 
 he had, by mistake, or otherwise, made an independent 
 woman. 
 
 The morning for their return came at last. Frank 
 Wilkie and Ned Foss had said their " good-by," and gone 
 ploughing. Miss Graham thanked them all for the 
 pleasantest visit of her life. Mr. Bartlett brought up
 
 SOLOMON IN ALL HIS GLORY. 373 
 
 some sweet cider that did not appear before Frank Wil- 
 kie, and Miss Graham had a little of that. 
 
 Roy said lie should be home in June for haying, but 
 could not tell whether his next winter would be in 
 Boston, or where. Miss Graham gave him a very earnest 
 look at this, but made no remark. She went upstairs to 
 complete her wraps, and they were not long waiting for 
 her. Mother kissed her, and said, " God bless you, dear. 
 Come again." 
 
 Miss Graham's eyes were tearful. Then four solemn 
 people parted. Roy and Miss Graham to Dover station, 
 and Boston, and away into the blue. Roy spoke but 
 little. He cared for her splendidly. He called her atten- 
 tion to Hicks's Hill, and Madbury Station ; to Durham, 
 and -New Market ; to the glorious apple-blossoms every- 
 where. 
 
 At eleven, they took a hack, and went, with no other 
 passengers, to Commonwealth Avenue. On the way she 
 thanked him for all his kindness, but h'e said he was sorry 
 he could not have done more to entertain her. Would 
 she grant him a favor? He had something to say to her. 
 Would she let Fred Annerly call at the studio at two 
 o'clock? Then he would be sure the message would reach 
 her. She would, and they parted at her door. Fred 
 Annerly called. Roy shook him heartily by the hand, 
 and Fred said, " Mr. Bartlett, please let me know if I can 
 serve you in any way. I will do it if it is in my power." 
 
 Roy thanked him, and his commission was to bear this 
 lettei-, and deliver it at once to Miss Graham, and to her 
 hand alone. He would do it faithfully, and at once. 
 Roy tried to make him take a five-dollar bill, but it was 
 declined. No, he could not take anything from him ; but
 
 374 THE WILD ARTIST IN. BOSTON. 
 
 he would serve him with all his heart. Then Roy knew 
 his friend. 
 
 Roy's message went at true love's speed across the 
 Common and Public Garden, to her hand, and in her 
 chamber she read it. 
 
 " Miss Graham, I do not know as you are prepared to under- 
 stand this, but I must write it. You have pleased me, impressed 
 me, helped me, and have been growing to be the best part of 
 my life, ever since I knew you. Now I can keep silent no 
 longer, I must speak. Nothing seems of any value without 
 you. Can you join your life with mine, and be my wife? 
 Answer now, even if you have to ask time to consider. If I 
 can be of any service to your uncle and aunt, I will gladly do 
 so. I wanted to ask you all the past week, but did not wish 
 to spoil your visit, or take you at a disadvantage. Please let 
 your trusty messenger bring my answer. 
 " Ever yours, 
 
 " ROYAL BARTLETT." 
 
 In about an hour it came. 
 
 " DEAR ROY, Do your parents know of this ? and do they 
 approve ? Yours, 
 
 "MARY GRAHAM." 
 
 In less time, Fred waited outside the studio for the 
 answer, and bore it to her. 
 
 "DEAR MARY, Yes, they do. You remember my father 
 gave you some sweet cider, and then you went upstairs to get 
 ready. Mother looked up to me and said, ' Roy, that is the 
 woman that I want for your wife.' It almost choked me. 
 When I could speak, I told her I would get you if I could, and 
 she said, ' Thank God.' She said, ' Father, I do not often taste 
 cider, but you may give me some on that.' They poured out 
 some in two tumblers, and she held it up and said, ' Roy, may 
 you get the woman that you want,' and father said, ' Good 
 luck to you, my son.' Yes : we will all love you forever. O 
 tell me, Mary. I will wait in the studio. ROY."
 
 SOLOMON IN ALL HIS GLORY. 375 
 
 At five o'clock there was a knock on the door. Fred 
 Annerly gave him a letter. Fred gave bis hand fer- 
 vently, but whether in pity or congratulation, Roy could 
 not tell. Fred said that no answer w r as needed. Roy's 
 heart sank within him. He entered the studio, closed 
 the door, and was ready, as ever he would be, to meet 
 joy or sorrow. His destiny was before him. He opened 
 the letter and read. 
 
 "MY DEAR ROY, You shall have your answer. Take 
 your Bible, find the book of Ruth, and dear Ruth's answer 
 shall be mine. It is the first chapter, and sixteenth and seven- 
 teenth verses. Rest to-night, and see my uncle to-morrow 
 morning at nine, in the library. 
 
 "Yours forever, 
 
 " MARY GRAHAM." 
 
 With trembling hands he found the book of Ruth, and 
 he read : " And Ruth said : Intreat me not to leave thee 
 or to return from following after thee ; for whither thou 
 goest I will go, and where thou lodgest I will lodge ; 
 thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God. 
 Where thou diest will I die, and there will I be bui'ied ; 
 the Lord do so to me and more also, if aught but death 
 part thee and me." 
 
 He covered his face with his hands, and murmured, 
 " Thank God ! thank God ! " and he bowed his head upon 
 his mother's Bible, and it was moistened with his tears.
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII. 
 
 A CONSUMMATION. 
 
 IP this novel, which is one of the truest books ever 
 written, had been written by a woman, it would have 
 bobbed off as short as a rabbit's tail, at the last chapter, 
 but it is a male book. Whether Roy Bartlett or Mary 
 Graham slept well that night, I do not actually know. 
 But I do not think they did. There was a pile of think- 
 ing to do. Love is a mighty and disturbing force. I 
 know it is, for I have had a touch of it myself. Here 
 please smile. A joke. Better labelled. 
 
 Then next morning, Roy went across the Common, 
 with a bit of bouquet on his coat, looking so handsome that 
 people stared at him. I met him as he went through 
 Park Street gate, and wondered what was up. I found 
 out soon, and congratulated. At three minutes before 
 nine, he went up the steps, and was about to ring the 
 bell, when the door swung open of itself and he entered 
 the vestibule. The door closed and Roy Bartlett stood 
 in the presence of his queen. I know novelists have 
 great privileges, but I was not allowed to be present. 
 Some things are sacred. You can let out your imagina- 
 tion. If you think they stood at opposite sides of the 
 vestibule, and criticised the weather, I hope you will 
 never read another book of mine as long as you live. 
 Mrs. Graham kept guard in the hall, inside. A sermon 
 
 376
 
 A CONSUMMATION. 377 
 
 has two heads and an application; good thin". Five 
 minutes later, this happy couple entered the hall, and, 
 without looking to, or for anything or anybody, they 
 passed through the door into the parlor, and she called 
 Roy's attention to the pictures. It was a good thing to 
 consider art for a moment, and let nature cool off. To 
 let the eyes dry and the cheeks subside from peonies to 
 blush roses. Not that they cared particularly for art, 
 just then. A few minutes later they came out and Roy 
 had a hearty greeting from Mrs. Wilson Graham. Then 
 Miss Graham escorted him into the library. Kindly wel- 
 comed by Mr. Wilson Graham. 
 
 Roy took the bull by the horns. He said : " I have 
 asked your niece to be my wife, and she has consented." 
 
 Mr. Graham smiled. " How soon would suit you, 
 Mr. Bartlett?" 
 
 " The sooner the bett'er." 
 
 Mr. Graham laughed. "My niece is twenty-three at 
 the twentieth of June. The autumn is a good time to 
 marry, or next spring." 
 
 " Why not this spring, say, on her birthday ? " asked 
 Roy. 
 
 Mr. Graham was amused. " Well, I do not blame you," 
 said he. " Mother and I had been acquainted a long 
 time, but when we found we wanted each other, it did 
 not take us long to get ready. Ten days, I think." 
 
 Then Roy laughed. " That is a long time for us to 
 wait," said he. " About three weeks." 
 
 Mr. Graham said, " Well, Mr. Bartlett, I will make you 
 a proposition. This estate is not mine. But I hold it, and 
 am required to use it, as if it was mine. You young folks 
 can be united on the twentieth of June, upon condition,
 
 378 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 that you come here and be my guests, for one year, with- 
 out cost to you. You can be perfectly at home, you can 
 use the carriage, and the servants will serve you." 
 
 " It is not accepted," said Roy. " I shall be glad to 
 come, but I wish to pay." 
 
 "I was afraid I should find an objection," said Mr. 
 Graham. 
 
 " Then let me pay a fair bill," said Roy, " and later, 
 when you give up your stewardship, you come and live 
 with us." 
 
 Said Mr. Graham, "Do you think my niece is a woman 
 of good common sense ? And am I also such a man ? " 
 
 " Most certainly." 
 
 " Then," said Mr. Graham, " when you understand it 
 better, you will agree with us. After you have been 
 married a month, if you think you must pay, I will take 
 it. Until then, you may consider your wedding-day the 
 twentieth of June, and keep your money." 
 
 " I will do it," said Roy, " for you, most generous of 
 men." 
 
 Then Mr. Graham touched a bell, and aunty and Miss 
 Graham came in. He at once told them that the wed- 
 ding was fixed for the twentieth of June, Mary's birth- 
 day. She stole a glance at Roy's face which made his 
 heart dance a fandango beyond anything they have in 
 Mexico. 
 
 The drawing-room was visited, Mr. Graham did the 
 honors. He led them along before a grand sofa, before 
 they knew it, and, placing them, he stepped back, and, 
 looking them over, he said, " there, my dears, is the place 
 for you to be united, and you will make a very handsome 
 couple."
 
 A CONSUMMATION. 379 
 
 Roy laughed and both blushed. 
 
 Said he, "Now, Miss Mary, you may show your young 
 man aixnind the house." 
 
 She did. All the chambers, her own boudoir, which 
 was the large front chamber over the drawing-room, 
 which, she shyly said, might be theirs, sometime, if he 
 was good. They took their time about it. They went 
 into each room. They sat and talked it over. They 
 went upon the roof. They visited all the rooms again in 
 succession. He found several of his own pictures, some of 
 them hung in her own room. Before he knew it, it was 
 lunch time. They were called below, where Roy had a 
 rousing greeting, from Fred Annerly and Jennie, his 
 wife. Nor were the cook, Mrs. Simpson, and her daughter 
 Mollie forgotten. Roy had his lunch with them, and 
 after a little time in the library, he wandered into the 
 drawing-room, and around into quiet places, with Mary. 
 Then he was escorted through the vestibule again and 
 went across the Common, once more, to the studio. He 
 wrote a letter home, thus, 
 
 "DEAR FATHER AND MOTHER, You are invited to my 
 wedding on the twentieth of June, at Miss Graham's home, 
 on Commonwealth Avenue, 
 
 " Your son, 
 
 " ROY." 
 
 He posted his letter. He tried to paint, but he could 
 not get ahead any. He made calls. He called on Mr. 
 Billings, Mr. Griggs, Mr. Shapleigh, and Mr. Seavey. He 
 took a walk. He could not keep still. He killed the 
 day. It was a peculiar day. Love is crazy business. 
 He was warmly welcomed at Mrs. Warren's, and after 
 dinner, he told them of his happiness. He got rather a
 
 380 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 setback from Mrs. Warren, who said she had been ex- 
 pecting it for centuries. 
 
 Roy ate a little dinner, but could not settle down to 
 anything. He could not stay with the Warrens, nor in 
 his own room. So he walked out, and before he knew it, 
 he was gazing at a certain house, from the opposite side 
 of Commonwealth Avenue. He took a long earnest look. 
 It was a condition to be in. O the Grand Old Passion is 
 the strongest current a man ever meets. About a woman 
 I cannot say, as I never was a woman. If Pope had 
 said, the proper study of mankind is woman, he would 
 have just done it. Been and gone and done it. 
 
 Roy was irregular at his rneals at Mrs. Warren's, but 
 Edric Lyrnan and Edward Stacy were there so much, that 
 Miss Sarah or Miss Emily Warren did not lose any sleep 
 on that account. If they did on any other account, they 
 might charge it to that particular account. The day 
 after his engagement, Roy called on his friend, Benjamin 
 Champney. Of course Mrs. Warren might have expected 
 something to come, but did any one else ? He would go 
 slow. He began : " Mr. Champney, shall you be at home 
 at North Conway in August ? " 
 
 " Yes, probably." 
 
 "Then I may call on you, with my wife; I am engaged 
 to Miss Graham, and shall be married soon." 
 
 Mr. Champney replied, " I supposed you were engaged 
 long ago, and everybody considers it the most suitable 
 and elegant thing you could possibly do. I shall be glad 
 to see you at North Conway, at any time. Drop me a 
 line a few days before, and we will surely be there to 
 welcome you." 
 
 Alas for Roy's little secret. It had long been expected
 
 A CONSUMMATION. 381 
 
 on earth, and was written in heaven from the foundation 
 of the world. If you cannot hurl in a little solid doctrine 
 occasionally, what is the use to have any. Roy came to 
 consider it, although, O so sacred, as something the public 
 must know. So he made no bones about it. But that 
 sweet June was a gusty kind of a time. , You ought to 
 have seen Miss Graham look at him. It gave him a sen- 
 sation. Roy wrote to Jean McDuffie. 
 
 'DEAR JEAN, My joy is coming. I shall be married on 
 the twentieth of June. We shall take the five o'clock train 
 from Boston and get to Dover at 7 : 45. If you will meet us at 
 the station, rain or shine, unless it is an awful dangerous 
 storm, we will stay with you, perhaps a week. But I will 
 pay, or I won't come. I will pay you fifty dollars for the week, 
 and carriage hire, and other expenses extra. Will you be 
 ready ? Yours, 
 
 "ROY BARTLETT." 
 
 The answer came true and hearty, and Jean would be 
 there to wait for him. At last, things seemed to be get- 
 ting into line, and this planet did not seem to be quite so 
 panicky as it was. If Roy was slightly irregular to his 
 meals at Mrs. Warren's, he was regular enough at Mr. 
 Wilson Graham's. He was there once a day at least, 
 except that he went to 'Dover once, and stayed over 
 Sunday. 
 
 He called on Sam Ellet, and gave him an invitation to 
 his wedding. Yes, Sam and Mary would come. It was 
 arranged that they would stay at Mr. Graham's two or 
 three days, after the wedding. Roy's father and mother 
 were to remain a week, also, and at the end of that time 
 they were all to meet at the Bartlett farm. 
 
 This programme was fully carried out. Sam and Mary
 
 882 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 had a three-days visit to Boston, and O the rides they 
 had. One day a picnic on the summit of Milton Blue 
 Hill; one day to the Middlesex Fells; one day. at Nan- 
 tasket. Then, after Sam and Mary had returned, Mr. 
 and Mrs. Wilson Graham had Roy's father and mother 
 alone to entertain. That was easy enough, for Boston 
 contains enough variety to entertain a savage or a saint, 
 from a prayer-meeting to a policy shop; from art to 
 anarchy. So these older children had no end of larks, and 
 did not worry about the rising generation. 
 
 But I am getting before my story. Roy arranged that 
 Mrs. Francis, who was a young and comely widow, and 
 needed a change after caring for Eli Bertram, should go 
 to the Bartlett farm for a visit. So she went there with 
 him. She was to keep house for Frank Wilkie and Ned 
 Foss, while the old folks went to the wedding. She 
 knew the story of Frank Wilkie. So she had her change 
 of scene, and Frank had an awful nice time admiring the 
 widow. Ned Foss was mightily interested in the devel- 
 opments. His moustache was getting a good start, and 
 it was attracting much attention among the girls. 
 
 While the June roses were coming out, all the bright 
 flowers were blooming in the kingdom of love. It was 
 arranged that Edric Lyman should occupy as Roy's suc- 
 cessor, in the Warren family, at which Mrs. Warren 
 laughed, Miss Emily smiled, and I don't believe Miss 
 Sarah ever shed any tears over it. It was the rarest and 
 longest of all June days. The wedding party was a unit, 
 in the love and best wishes that they brought. It was a 
 new and holy love, not built on the ruin of broken hearts. 
 Here are the guests who came, glad and smiling, to grace 
 the wedding of Roy and Mary,
 
 A CONSUMMATION. 383 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Wilson Graham and relatives, 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Guy Bartlett and relatives, 
 
 Mrs. Warren and the Mayor of Boston, 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Alfred Stacy, 
 
 Mr. Edward Stacy and Miss Emily Warren, 
 
 Mr. Edric Lyman and Miss Sarah Warren, 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Jonathan Strong, 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Samuel Ellet, 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. S. R. Knights, 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Fred Annerly, 
 
 Mrs. Simpson and Mollie, 
 
 The coachman and servants. 
 
 There was also another couple present, fine-looking peo- 
 ple. Roy thought he had met the man somewhere. He 
 was introduced to him as Mr. Arad Phillips, Mrs. Warren's 
 and Mr. Graham's banker. That is, he was president of 
 the bank where they deposited, and was their business 
 adviser when called upon. 
 
 Miss Graham's pastor was called to perform the cere- 
 mony, assisted by Roy's pastor from Park Street, and the 
 Orthodox minister from Dover, N. H. Brides are always 
 lovely. It is beyond my power to describe the wedding. 
 A healthy imagination is a blessed gift, and furnishes the 
 best the market affords. So please to do justice to this, 
 the most blissful of all occasions. Life has three great 
 crises. The first is a little before our time. The last is 
 decidedly subsequent to it. But with Roy Bartlett as 
 groom and Mary Graham .as bride, this, the sweetest of 
 all the sacraments of this life, is entitled to everything in 
 the superlative degree. 
 
 After the ceremony was over, and all had been pre- 
 sented, and had congratulated, there came a lull. 
 
 Like the man who courted a girl, got married, took his
 
 384 THE WILD AKTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 wife home, and " went out and sot down on a rock," Mr. 
 Phillips remarked that it was a very' solemn time. Then 
 they laughed. The servants retired to prepare lunch. It 
 was past noon. All were to remain. 
 
 Mr. Phillips asked, " Mr. Bartlett, do you remember 
 when you first saw me?" 
 
 Roy did not. 
 
 "Do you remember, when you first came to Boston, 
 that you said, in a studio, that you wished to find a board- 
 ing place like your own home ? " 
 
 " I do," said Roy. 
 
 " I was there," said Mr. Phillips. " I reported to Mrs. 
 Warren that she had better send you a note, and she 
 did." 
 
 " Thank you, sir," said Roy. 
 
 "And I have kept my eye on you ever since. A little 
 later I told Mr. and Mrs. Graham of you, and suggested 
 that Miss Mary might study art with you. And she 
 did, and more too. I also told Eli Bertram of you." 
 
 Said Roy, " Why, Mr. Phillips, you have been my guar- 
 dian angel." 
 
 " Hold on," said he, " I am not done yet. You know 
 that Mr. Wilson Graham is not the owner of the estate 
 of which this establishment is a part." 
 
 " I do," said Roy. 
 
 " Do you know who is?" he asked. 
 
 " I do not," said Roy. 
 
 " Then it gives me a great deal of pleasure to tell you. 
 Your wife, Mrs. Royal Bartlett, is the rightful owner. 
 She inherited it all from her father, except what it has 
 increased by the good management of her uncle. And her 
 first offering to you is this check, which I hold in my
 
 A CONSUMMATION. 385 
 
 hand, which commands the bank of which I am president 
 to pay to your order fifty thousand dollars. It is on de- 
 posit at my bank, in your name. Here is the bank-book, 
 your wife's wedding gift to you." Mr. Phillips presented 
 it. " You know, Mr. Bartlett, that you were no fortune- 
 hunter, and Miss Graham wanted no fortune-hunter. So 
 we think we have managed it finely. Your wife's estate 
 is not far from a million, and it may be more. And, Mr. 
 Royal Bartlett, I congratulate you, for I think, apart 
 from the money, you are just about the luckiest man in 
 the whole world." 
 
 Roy turned all the colors of a dying dolphin, as this 
 was all unfolded to him. At the close, he contrived to 
 say, " he would try to bear up under it, but to have so 
 much of happiness and God's blessing thrown upon him 
 at once, was almost enough to kill him." 
 
 He thanked Mr. Phillips and them all. Many of the 
 guests were surprised. A fine box of wedding-cake was 
 labelled for each one present, only to be the forerunners of 
 many more, sent out later. After the refreshments, Fred 
 Annerly and the coachman were ready to take the happy 
 couple to the station. Roy's father and mother, with 
 Sam and Mary, remained to have their visit with Mr. and 
 Mrs. Graham, at the home on Commonwealth Avenue.
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII. 
 
 UP IN A BALLOON. 
 
 IT was a short ride, that seventy miles more or less, 
 to Dover. If any element of happiness was lacking, they 
 were too happy to miss it. In the dusk of the evening, 
 they rode into the station. Jean McDuffie was there, and 
 his face shone with joy. The carriage took them to 
 McDuffie's Hotel, and it was a nice place. Mrs. McDuffie 
 met them, and led them at once to their rooms. It was 
 a surprise. The dressing-case was a bank of roses. On 
 the table was a large satin cushion, and fastened upon it 
 were blush prairie roses, forming the names Royal, Mary. 
 Flowers everywhere. Two of Roy's pictures hung in the 
 room. After they were settled, and the toilets arranged, 
 Jean escorted them to the tea-table. Jean and his wife, 
 and Roy and Mary. They were happy in each other. 
 That is the way to be. "For no man livetli to himself." 
 Of course selfishness can stay around a long time, but it 
 does not lire. 
 
 After tea, Jean showed them around the house, and 
 they had much to tell. So the time flew away, and the 
 Dover factory bell rang for nine o'clock. Jean said that 
 there were some singers coming, and if Mr. and Mrs. 
 Bartlett would sit in their room, with the light turned 
 low, they could hear the music at its best. The house 
 had a wide hall, and a fine piano was in it. Jean had 
 invited Myra Pinkham, and a whole chorus, that he be- 
 
 386
 
 UP IN A BALLOON. 387 
 
 longed to. He had told them he wanted them to sing, 
 for it was in honor of a man who had risked his own life, 
 and saved his, and that brought the music. 
 
 Jean and his wife were popular, and they did sing. It 
 got told around town, that there was to be a big sing at 
 Jean McDuffie's on the eve of the twentieth, and a large 
 chorus came, and plenty of outsiders. Ned Foss and 
 Frank Wilkie guessed whose concert it was, and they 
 left Canis Major to keep house, and took the widow, and 
 went down to listen outside. They kept their surmise to 
 themselves. So there was a piano, quite an orchestra, 
 and plenty of chorus. Roy and Mary sat in their bower 
 of roses, and heard the concert in their honor. The hall 
 was soon occupied, and by the people in all the rooms 
 below, there must have been a large delegation. Myra 
 Pinkham could just play the piano, and sing to perfection. 
 
 Roy said to Mary, that Jean was trying to outdo him- 
 self. Their door was wide open, but was guarded, and 
 Jean and his wife sat upon the stairs. Jean announced 
 that the concert would commence with 
 
 THE SUMMER MORNING CAROL OF PRAISE. 
 
 [SOLO AND CHORUS.] 
 
 " Morning comes and day is breaking, 
 Night is done and earth is waking, 
 All around the joy partaking 
 Wake a song of praise. 
 Birds are singing, flowers are springing, 
 Incense bringing, light adorning, 
 * Gladness comes on wings of morning, 
 
 Full of love and praise. 
 
 CHORUS Glory, beauty, power, and blessing, 
 Seemeth heaven the earth possessing, 
 We, the heavenly light possessing,
 
 388 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 Gladly sing Thy praise. 
 Hallelujah, Hallelujah ! 
 Gladly sing Thy praise, Amen, 
 
 " Lord, I thank thee for this being, 
 Living, hoping, loving, seeing, 
 Light shone in and darkness fleeing, 
 See the sunlight blaze. 
 So Thy love is shining ever, 
 So Thy mercy f aileth never ; 
 Blessed be Thy name forever, 
 All my hope and praise. 
 
 CHORUS Glory, etc. 
 
 " Lord, accept my invocation, 
 Low I bow in adoration. 
 Rise, my soul, in exaltation. 
 Thou, from whence I came : 
 Thou hast been my habitation, 
 Thou shalt be my expectation, 
 O my soul and all within me 
 Bless His holy name. 
 
 CHOKUS Glory, etc." 
 
 It was finely sung. After a few minutes' rest, Jean 
 announced 
 
 THE NEW HAMPSHIRE SONG AND CHORUS. 
 
 "O beauty land, New Hampshire hills, fond memory comes to 
 
 me, 
 
 And brings a song with music sweet, a loyal song to thee. 
 While youth and beauty, love and home come back again so 
 
 fair 
 That all the past seems bright with flowers, so sweetly 
 
 blooming there. ^* 
 
 CHORUS My dear New Hampshire home, where'er my feet 
 
 may roam, 
 My loyal heart still claims a part in thee, New Hampshire 
 
 home.
 
 UP IN A BALLOON. 
 
 "O mighty mountains glowing light with morning's early 
 
 beams, 
 
 O beauty hill-tops shining bright with evening's latest gleams, 
 O ever changing wonder-scenes wherever we may go, 
 With rivers, lakes, and sparkling streams, whose laughing 
 
 waters flow. CHORUS. 
 
 " O wonder-scenes of ice and snow, amid the winter gloom ; 
 O handsomest of all the world, the apple-trees in bloom ; 
 Sweet breezes playing in the grass, across the summer 
 
 plain, 
 And Autumn loaded down with fruit, and piled with golden 
 
 grain. CHORUS. 
 
 " How blush the raspberries by the road, inviting as we pass, 
 How sweet the strawberries hid away so modest in the grass : 
 What blackberries shining dark as night, and ripe enough 
 
 to fall, 
 
 And blueberry bushes hanging full of sweetness for us all. 
 CHORUS. 
 
 " God bless thee, O New Hampshire dear, my heart is true to 
 thee. 
 
 God bless thy children eveiywhere, on every land and sea ; 
 
 Firm as thy mighty mountains stand, pure as thy winter's 
 snow, 
 
 God bless thee while thy sweet flowers bloom, and spark- 
 ling waters flow. CHORUS." 
 
 Myra Pinkham sang it beautifully. She is a New 
 Hampshire girl, and it was a home song to her. The 
 chorus was strong and the cheers outside the house, this 
 
 O 
 
 splendid June night, told how well the loyal song was ap- 
 preciated. Truly Roy's honeymoon was a beauty. The 
 moon was at its full, and the days and nights were alike 
 glorious. 
 
 Then a lady sung a queer song, to a funny little minor 
 tune. It was the
 
 390 THE WILD AKTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 "POOR OLD BACHELOR. 
 
 " There is a poor old bachelor we often see about, 
 Like half a pair of scissors that has lost the rivet out ; 
 He is always hunting after something, always gone to pot, 
 And he never, never finds it when he can as well as not. 
 CHORUS He's a poor old bachelor because he is afraid, 
 
 When he might be so happy with a sweet old maid. 
 
 " His coat and vest need fixing, you can hardly call them dress, 
 And those continuations O you really can't express ; 
 From the poor old fellow's hat, full of dust as it can be, 
 To the poorest darned old stockings that you ever yet did see, 
 CHORUS. He's a poor old bachelor. 
 
 " The boudoir of a bachelor is a wonderful old lair; 
 The blind, that cannot see it, can smell it in the air ; 
 It has no angel's visits to keep it sweet and true, 
 For everything is crazy there, and everything askew. 
 CHORUS He's a poor old bachelor. 
 
 " On the coldest nights of winter he can lie abed and groan, 
 In solitude, to hate himself and shiver all alone ; 
 Because he never hunted for a better way instead, 
 He ought to have some broken crackers, scattered in his bed. 
 CHORUS He's a poor old bachelor. 
 
 " The wise ones often tell us there is nothing made in vain, 
 
 The reason of a bachelor is not so very plain ; 
 
 Perhaps to teach young people to remember love's young 
 
 dream, 
 
 Or to occupy his bosom when you want to freeze ice cream. 
 CHORUS He's a poor old bachelor. 
 
 " So he lived his lifetime all alone, to grumble and to mope, 
 He often asked the value of a shilling's worth of rope ; 
 As he had no wife or children, he did not want to stay, 
 There came an east wind from the west, and then he blew 
 
 away. 
 CHORUS He's a poor old bachelor."
 
 UP IN A BALLOON. 391 
 
 She sang it comically and it was jolly. Then Myra 
 Pinkham sang "To charm the night away," a negro song, 
 and the chorus did their part. A young man with a 
 sweet voice sang "The sweet bells of heaven" with 
 chorus. Then a lady sang " The birds' love song," 
 warbling and trilling like a bird. 
 
 The Harrington song was called for and Myra sang it, 
 and the whole house sang the chorus, 
 
 " O shine the rising morning, O glow the setting sun, 
 The sweetest spot between them both is old Barrington." 
 
 Jean called for a Rochester lady to sing "The bald- 
 headed man," and requested all to pile on to the chorus. 
 It was very funny, and the lady made the most of it. 
 But when the four parts sang big with piano and or- 
 chestra, 
 
 " O the bald-headed man, deny it if you can, 
 
 The prince of all good fellows is the bald-headed man," 
 
 it was a roaring chorus, and somehow they managed to 
 accent it with a bass drum. The boys caught on, and 
 the whole neighborhood sang. It was too good to for- 
 get, and the street urchins picked it up, and roared it, 
 all the way from Garrison Hill to Sawyer's mills, all sum- 
 mer. When a countryman took out his bandanna, to 
 wipe off the great desert, he was surprised to hear them 
 sing, and thought the devil had got into the boys. He 
 did not know it was a part of Roy's wedding chorus. I 
 am afraid this is a digression. 
 
 Jean McDuffie said, "now we will have two songs 
 more. One is,
 
 392 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 "THE GRAND OLD PASSION. 
 
 A love song dedicated to all true lovers, old or young, married or 
 single, all round the world, by one of them. 
 
 WORDS AND Music BY J. B. WIGGIN. SONG AND CHORUS. 
 
 "/Young Love came down when old Time was young, 
 
 And he made all the flowers of spring ; 
 He started the world in its tireless round, 
 
 And he started the birds to sing. 
 CHORUS Beautiful love, the glory of life, 
 On angel's wings comes down ; 
 Rejoice, rejoice, for the Grand Old Passion 
 That makes the world go round. 
 
 " Young love he met a man and a maid, 
 
 And he gave them the sweetest pain ; 
 He bound their hearts with a silken thread, 
 
 And they never got loose again. CHORUS. 
 
 " They lived together and loved each other, 
 
 And young loves came at their call. 
 They worked together and helped each other, 
 
 And love inspired them all. CHORUS. 
 
 " The twain were one in their hearts' desires, 
 
 As true to love as the sun ; 
 To love each other beyond the river, 
 
 Whenever their work was done. CHORUS. 
 
 " Their children grew to be men and maids, 
 
 And in love's sweet meshes were found ; 
 They all rejoice in the Grand Old Passion, 
 
 That makes the world go round. CHORUS. 
 
 " Then open your heart to this beautiful joy, 
 
 The sweetest that ever was found ; 
 The blessing of life is the Grand Old Passion, 
 That makes the world go round. CHORUS."
 
 UP IN A BALLOON. 393 
 
 Myra Pinkhara did her best with this song, and was 
 well rewarded at the close. Jean stood in the hall, and 
 announced, "Now we will have the last song. It is a 
 waltz song, 'The Balmy Sleep,' a solo song, of loving care 
 and protection. It is late. I have travellers and dear, 
 valued frfends in the house. This concert is in their 
 honor. Especially this last piece." 
 
 Then, with prelude and interlude, a lady sang, 
 " O come, balmy sleep, with thy wonderful healing, 
 
 Like a fair summer eve, when the winds are at play ; 
 O bear us from care, all its shadows concealing, 
 
 As the thistledown floats on the light breeze away. 
 Then welcome light slumbers, to musical numbers, 
 
 As they peacefully flow on a fair summer day. 
 With bright blossoms falling, and mating birds calling, 
 And the music of bright waters flowing away. 
 
 " When sweet peace has found you, and slumber has bound you, 
 
 And true hearts around you, in safety to keep, 
 With loving hearts blessing, and music caressing 
 
 Like angels possessing, and wooing to sleep, 
 Then welcome light slumbers, to musical numbers, 
 
 As they peacefully flow on a fair summer day, 
 With bright blossoms falling, and mating birds calling, 
 
 And the music of bright waters flowing away. 
 
 " With the bright land before us, and the kind Father o'er us, 
 
 And the angels in charge, his beloved to keep ; 
 While true love around us, with sweet bonds has bound us, 
 
 Then trustfully, blissfully, peacefully sleep. 
 Then welcome light slumbers, to musical numbers, 
 
 As they peacefully flow on a fair summer's day ; 
 With sweet blossoms falling, and mating birds calling, 
 
 And the music of bright waters flowing away." 
 
 Some one called, "So say we all of us," and you could 
 not stop them. It was sung to " America," and they all 
 did their best, in the house and out, while the bass drum 
 marked the time, so it could be heard all over Dover.
 
 394 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 They cheered and shouted, " Good night, Jean," enough 
 to wake up all Pine Hill. 
 
 Roy and Mary laughed some, and they felt that they 
 were loved and honored indeed. Soon Jean was putting 
 things to rights, and it was near eleven o'clock. 
 
 Roy came out, dropped the night-latch, and came down 
 to talk to Jean. " Well, Jeanie, what is the programme 
 for to-morrow ? Is it Agamenticus ? " 
 
 " It is Agamenticus," he replied. " I have a nice, easy 
 two-seated carnage, and span of horses. I have Linward 
 Waldron and Sidney Wentvvorth both here, on their sum- 
 mer vacation. They are a little past twenty-one, about of 
 an age, splendid fellows as ever grew, both Dover boys, out 
 of our best New Hampshire stock. One will drive the team, 
 and the other will guide you up Mount Agamenticus." 
 
 "Just the thing," said Roy. "Jean, you are a jewel." 
 
 " So my wife thinks," said he, laughing ; " and so does 
 yours of you." 
 
 " I hope so," said Roy. 
 
 " Then," said Jean, " if the weather is suitable you can 
 take an all-day trip, and sketch as you go. The commis- 
 sary will be attended to, and you will be happy." And 
 Jean sang, 
 
 " Up in a balloon, boys, up in a balloon, 
 Kiting round the little stars, sailing round the moon, 
 Love will go beyond the clouds, love is kind and true, 
 Love will go beyond the stars, and navigate the blue ; 
 Up in a balloon, boys, up in a balloon, 
 Kiting round the little stars, sailing round the moon." 
 
 Roy laughed. He looked at his watch. "Good 
 night ! " said Roy. " Time is up." 
 
 " Good night ! " said Jean, " and pleasant dreams."
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX. 
 
 AGAMENTICUS, A PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 AT half-past six next morning Roy came down, like a 
 son of the morning. Jean met him gayly, and showed 
 him the little room set for breakfast for four. It was 
 pretty as posies, and awaiting the arrival of Lady Bart- 
 lett, whom Roy soon ushered in to breakfast. They were 
 four. It reminds me of a man who asked a blessing in 
 this wise, " O Lord, bless me and my wife, my son John 
 and his wife, us four and no more." I want to tell you 
 all about this breakfast; everything. If I give you all 
 the facts you have something to ornament. With your 
 artistic knowledge and fertile imagination, you can get 
 up a scene that is a credit to you and the book. I do not 
 wish fiction too fictitious. It gets thin and uncertain. 
 These people are real people. They are all alive to-day, 
 and I love them and visit them. I have lived pleasant 
 years in Dover. So Jean and his wife sat opposite, and 
 Roy and Mary could do no less. There never was a 
 kinder, more devoted quartette. I knew Roy from boy- 
 hood, and Mary soon after h did. I never knew an act 
 of their lives that I regretted. If Job was a just man, 
 and so good that some people think him an impossibility, 
 an allegory, a poem, and a no-such-thing, why may not 
 my friend, who is the hero of my book, be as much of a 
 man every way as the nomadic old Jew? It is easier 
 
 395
 
 396 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON". 
 
 than rascality, and pays better every way. So love and 
 gratitude prepared the breakfast, and joy and thankful- 
 ness ate it. 
 
 Soon after, they were called into the parlor, and were 
 introduced to Lin Waldron, their guide, and Sid Went- 
 worth, their driver. The time had gone to eight o'clock. 
 The supplies were aboard. Mrs. Bartlett came down in 
 a neat gray dress, and she and Roy took the back seat in 
 the carriage. Jean gave them parting instructions. It 
 is anywhere from twelve to twenty-five miles from Dover 
 to Agamenticus, according to who tells the story. 
 
 "Now drive carefully," said Jean. "Take care. 
 Don't miss the road. Get home by five." 
 
 It was a red-letter day. I have been over the road 
 again and again, but not with a bride. The young men 
 had received their instructions. Safe and honorable. No 
 devilment in them. It was a splendid ride. 
 
 When Roy wanted to stop ten minutes or more, to 
 sketch an outline, Lin Waldron did the same, for lo, he 
 was a bit of an artist. Sid Wentworth told a story that 
 was very funny, and now our two lovers could laugh 
 heartily. A change had come o'er the spirit of their 
 dream, or rather the dream had ended in a blessed 
 awakening. 
 
 After the usual episodes of a glorious June ride, they 
 came to the old homestead, deserted the last time I saw 
 it, at the west end of Agamenticus. Sid took care of the 
 horses, and remained with them, having his lunch by him- 
 self. This gave him a little time to geologize among the 
 rocks. Lin Waldron, taking the basket, preceded Roy 
 and Mary, each with an alpenstock. It was quite a 
 climb, though not dangerous. It is called about six hun-
 
 AGAMENTICUS, A PILGRIMAGE. 397 
 
 dred and eighty feet above the sea, yet it is so prominent, 
 it is seen from afar, and seems much higher. They were 
 not long reaching the summit, and O what a sight it was. 
 The day was cloudless. There was a good breeze upon 
 the mountain. Lin Waldron sought a sightly, sunny 
 place, in the shelter of a boulder, out of too fresh a breeze, 
 and began to prepare the feast. Mary was delighted. 
 There was the ocean, about eight miles away, a mirror of 
 light, with white dots of sails. Away to the west was 
 the line of York beach, and the rolling summer landscape. 
 Afar to the east, the ocean dissolved into the eternity of 
 space. To the .northeast the farms and forests of the 
 Pine Tree State. They saw it hand in hand. 
 
 They turned to the north. Mary said, "Why, what a 
 peculiar cloud ! " 
 
 " It is peculiar," said Roy. He looked at her, and 
 watched the varying emotions of her face. 
 
 " O what a beautiful day," she said, " what a mighty 
 view of the ocean, and all the country ! And that won- 
 derful, wonderful cloud. It is low down, yet it must be 
 high where it is, and it has angles and battlements, and O 
 it looks like a heavenly vision, O so white ! " 
 
 Roy smiled. He had been on Agamenticus before. 
 He looked in Mary's eyes and asked, "Mary, is that a 
 cloud ? " 
 
 She looked puzzled as she gazed at it, and answered, 
 hesitatingly, " Yes, Roy, it is a cloud, is it not ? A white 
 cloud." 
 
 Roy smiled, as he asked her, " Mary, what is that great 
 mass that occupies the whole of the northern part of 
 New Hampshire ?" 
 
 She looked earnestly to the north again. There was
 
 398 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 the great white cloud. In a moment more she cried, 
 " Why, it is the White Mountains! " 
 
 And as she gazed, the depth of her emotion dimmed 
 her eyes with tears. There the great mystery shone, 
 glowing in its dress of winter, soon to be changed to a 
 warmer color. And so our lovers saw and worshipped. 
 
 I state an actual fact. I tell you I am writing a true 
 book ; I saw the same sights, on a beautiful day in June, 
 and I gazed with wonder and astonishment at the myste- 
 rious cloud, and I saw it as such, several minutes before 
 they revealed themselves to me. I shall never forget it. 
 Two men, not artists at all, were with me, and they saw 
 the mystery only as a cloud, until I declared it was the 
 White Mountains. And my splendid Roy and Mary 
 for there are splendid men and women on earth, as well 
 as in heaven saw the mountains transfigured before 
 them. Roy told me the story in the presence of his wife. 
 It is well worth a pilgrimage to see. They were quiet. 
 They looked love and joy to each other, and felt that 
 they were near to each other, and to Nature's heart. 
 Some splendid man has said that Nature often puts on 
 her finest dress to receive an appreciative spectator. So 
 did Mount Agamenticus to-day. And she entertained 
 her visitors better than ever did the Mount of Olives. 
 They heard a voice singing the old song, 
 
 " When up the mountain climbing, 
 I sing this merry strain, la, la," 
 
 and they listened. Lin Waldron could sing. When the 
 song was done, he was near them. He lifted his hat, 
 made a bow, and said, "Agamenticus will receive her 
 guests at dinner." There was a cushion for Mary, and a
 
 AGAMENTICUS, A PILGRIMAGE. 399 
 
 picnic surprise on the ground. The stuffed chicken was 
 a beauty. Roy cut it up. Lin had made a cup of tea. 
 They had cold coffee, and a bottle of milk, boiled eggs, 
 bread and butter, sardines and a lemon, cake and mince 
 pie. Candy, of course. Jean knew they would have 
 mountain appetites. And they began to be merry. Yes, 
 they did. And they kept it up. That dinner disap- 
 peared like dew before the sun. Roy said it was lucky 
 there was no more. Then Roy held up his hand and 
 said, "God bless Jean McDuffie." "And his wife," 
 added Mary, " for I saw her put up the dinner." 
 
 Then Lin Waldron topped out with, " and as Tiny Tim 
 says, God bless us every one." 
 
 " I accept the amendment," said Roy. 
 
 So that dinner was a picture in memory, and a joy for- 
 ever. They cleared away the wreck, and Lin packed it 
 up, much lighter than it was. They sat down, and Lin 
 recited " The Burial of Moses." I have had him do it at 
 my house. It is grand. And how appropriate for a 
 mountain top. 
 
 " Now," said Roy, " it is said that the old chief Aga- 
 menticus is buried upon this mountain top. Let us walk 
 around and see if we can find his tomb." 
 
 They did walk, but like Moses, " No one knows that 
 sepulchre, and no one saw it e'er." 
 
 They looked long and earnestly at the scene, and at the 
 mountains especially, long and lovingly. 
 
 Roy asked, "Mary, is your honeymoon good enough?" 
 
 " Yes, my husband, it is perfect. O God, thou hast 
 blessed me. I ask for no more." 
 
 " Mary, answer me one question. When did you first 
 begin to care for me, or to feel any interest in me ? "
 
 400 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 She answered, "Won't you be proud and uppish?" 
 
 "No," said Roy, smiling. 
 
 " Will you love me a little more ? " 
 
 " I can't. I love you with my whole heart now." 
 
 She laughed. " Well, Mr. Bartlett, the first time I 
 came to your studio, and saw you, I made up my mind 
 if you were as good as you appeared to be, I would get 
 you if I could. That was what I took lessons for. Now 
 please don't take advantage of it." 
 
 Roy laughed heartily. He said " he was happier than 
 he supposed he was, to be wanted and cared for so long." 
 
 They " caet a longing, lingering look behind." They 
 left the old chief Agamenticus, "alone in his glory." 
 
 When a part way down, Lin let out a locomotive 
 whistle, and Sid had the team ready, while Roy made an 
 outline of the old farmhouse and trees. Lin and Sid 
 strayed out of sight a few minutes. 
 
 Sid began : " Well, Lin, what do you think of it ? " 
 
 " I think it is great," said he. 
 
 " So do I," said Sid ; " it is the richest thing I ever 
 struck." 
 
 " My sentiments," said Lin. 
 
 " How long have they been married ?" 
 
 "Jean did not say. He said they were young married 
 people, and we had better not discuss marriage, or any- 
 thing about it. My opinion is they have not been mar- 
 ried many days, and maybe not many hours. They have 
 not got used to each other." 
 
 " Just so," said Sid. " Just see her look at him ! I 
 hope my wife will look that way at me." 
 
 "I guess she will," said Lin, "from what I hear. At 
 any rate, you are man enough, and she is woman enough, 
 and I hope my wife will," continued Lin.
 
 AGAMENTICUS, A PILGRIMAGE. 401 
 
 "And I guess she will," laughed Sid Wentworth, 
 " from what I hear." 
 
 Then they could both laugh. 
 
 " Say, Sid," said Lin, " I guess it is a case of love in all 
 corners." 
 
 " I shouldn't be surprised," Sid answered. 
 
 They bade good-by to the lonely homestead. They 
 saw the family burial ground, beside the road near the 
 house. They had just about time to go home, and get 
 there at five o'clock. They all voted that the day was a 
 beauty, and Lin Waldron said it was as handsome as a 
 bride. Sid laughed, and said that a bride was the nicest 
 thing in the whole world; and Roy gave just a queer 
 little look at Mary. She kept her face straight, and was 
 serenely unconscious, but it took an effort. Jean received 
 his company back again, safe and sound. 
 
 As they alighted at Mac's, Mrs. Bartlett thanked the 
 young men, and said, 'If each of you have a lady in 
 Dover, that you are interested in, if you will call here 
 this evening, I will sing you a song." 
 
 This was a leading question, to be acted on. 
 
 "Will you come, Sid?" 
 
 "Yes, Lin, if you will. It is a giveaway," said Sid, 
 " but I will try it." 
 
 Lin lifted his hat to Mrs. Bartlett, and said, " I thank 
 you for your kind invitation, and I fully expect the lady 
 will be glad to come. If she does not, I will come with- 
 out her." 
 
 " So will I," said Sid Wentworth. 
 
 " Come from eight to nine," said Mrs. Bartlett, as she 
 went up the steps. 
 
 They did come, with two of Dover's daughters, and
 
 402 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 Roy and Mary were glad that these two splendid fellows 
 were having a touch of this old, old complaint. Mary 
 sang like a bird, and played the piano like a witch. Jean 
 McDuffie offered the young men money for their service, 
 but they declined it. It was good enough without. 
 They went on other excursions; to Garrison Hill, to 
 Locke's Mills with Jean and his wife, to Stonehouse 
 Pond, and the diamond rock in Barrington, and they had 
 a picnic at them all. 
 
 On the afternoon of the twenty-seventh of June, Roy 
 paid his bill of seventy-five dollars, which Jean begged 
 him not to pay, but he would and did. He said, " Jean, 
 if I am any good to you, pay me in love." 
 
 Later, Mrs. Bartlett sent Mrs. Jean McDuffie a check 
 for a hundred dollars. Jean and his wife rode with them 
 to the Bartlett farm, where they met Roy's father and 
 mother, and Mary's uncle and aunt, just arrived. Ned 
 Foss smiled all over. Canis Major almost turned himself 
 wrong side out with joy. Ned was dressed all in his 
 pretties, and had a bouquet on his coat. He had the 
 parlor all decorated with flowers. Mr. and Mrs. Jean 
 McDuffie were ushered in. There were four married 
 couples. All had just arrived. Frank Wilkie and the 
 widow had welcomed them, but all at once they had dis- 
 appeared. Ned was radiant. 
 
 " Now," said he, " please to take seats for a moment, 
 for I expect company." 
 
 What was coming? A touch of a bell was heard, 
 and Ned stepped to the front stairs. There was a rustle 
 of silk, and a sound of people descending. He came in 
 as marshal, followed by Sam Ellet and Mary, who stood 
 before the great sofa, and between them Mr. and Mrs.
 
 AGAMENTICUS, A PILGRIMAGE. 403 
 
 Frank Wilkie. Frank had married the widow. Ned 
 announced the fact. It was a surprise. It was all right. 
 But it was so queer. Ned did the honors. He presented 
 each, and they all said God's blessing was in it. Roy had 
 written to Edric Lyman, and Frank Wilkie also had. So 
 Edric was well posted. These four couples were here at the 
 Bartlett farm, and as they had excursion enough, they all 
 joined in the haying. After the Fourth of July was over 
 Roy rode again a conqueror, to the rattle song of the 
 mowing machine and help was so plenty that it went 
 with a rush.
 
 CHAPTER XL. 
 
 GRAND TABLEAU. 
 
 AFTER Roy and Mary had been gone four days, that 
 evening Edric Lyman and Edward Stacy came home to 
 dine at the Warren home. They sat down to the table. 
 Edric did not eat. He sat back and said, " O dear, the 
 world goes hard, and things don't suit me." 
 
 " What is it ? " asked Mrs. Warren ; " does not the din- 
 ner suit you ? " 
 
 " O yes, the dinner is very nice, what there is of it, and 
 it is abundant, such as it is, and it is altogether splendid, 
 like the lady that presides over it, and that is not the 
 trouble at all." 
 
 " Then what is the trouble ? " 
 
 " Why ! here those two infants, Roy and Mary, have 
 been and gone and got married, and ended that dreadful 
 single life, and I don't see why poor Sarah and I can't, 
 or poor Edward and Emily." Mrs. Warren laughed. 
 She said it did seem too bad somehow. She was willing. 
 Sarah and Emily tried hard to keep from laughing. 
 Edward sighed deeply, although he almost laughed too. 
 
 Said Edric, " I suppose that the happy pair will go to 
 the Bartlett farm, on the twenty-seventh, and I move 
 that we four people be married on the first day of July, 
 and all four go to Mac's hotel for a week. We can go to 
 
 404
 
 GRAND TABLEAU. 405 
 
 Agamenticus. We can run up to the Bartletts', we can 
 have high jinks for a week, and come back to our splen- 
 did mother-in-law, and live happy ever after." 
 
 ''Second the motion," said Edward. "All those in 
 favor of this arrangement, please hold up their right 
 hand." 
 
 Edric, Edward, and Mrs. Warren voted " yes." 
 i Contrary-minded was called. Not a hand was raised. 
 The ladies put their handkerchiefs to their eyes, although 
 there was nothing to cry about. " It is voted unani- 
 mously," said Edric Lyman. And he snapped out, to 
 Miss Sarah, " I guess you need not cry. I feel as badly 
 about it as you do," and she snorted right out with 
 laughter. 
 
 Edric Lyman had fun in him. 
 
 Said Mrs. Warren, "You have done a large amount of 
 business, now eat your dinner. Your soup is cooling. 
 Pepper it well, and it will do." 
 
 It was agreed that a public wedding was impolitic. 
 They would have to leave out some, they were so well 
 known. It would include so many of Edric's clients, and 
 he mixed his friendship all in with his business, so his 
 clients were his friends, and all the teachers, and the Art 
 Coterie friends, and they were so well known in the 
 West Church it was impossible. So they had a family 
 wedding. Now, reader, look and see. The summons 
 went to Dover, and was a cause for congratulation. 
 Roy and Mary just rejoiced over it. The first of July 
 came. The Warren parlors held a select company. Not 
 selected for style, wealth, or any quality, but love and 
 good-will. Here are the guests, after the wedding, at 
 least :
 
 406 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. 
 
 Mrs. Warren and his Honor the Mayor, 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Jonathan Strong, 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Arad Phillips, 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Royal Bartlett, 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Guy Bartlett, 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Wilson Graham, 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Samuel Ellet, 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Fred Annerly, 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Frank Wilkie, 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Edric Lyman, 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Edward Stacy, 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Alfred Stacy, 
 
 and a few relatives and others. It went off like a sky 
 rocket, like Dr. Marigold's supper. The mayor gave the 
 brides away. I cannot describe it. All adjectives fail. 
 Here was a room full of white souls. Most of them 
 always had been white. Later, they had a Pullman car, 
 and almost all the party went to Dover. Some to Mac's. 
 Some to the Bartlett home, and some to Sam Ellet's. It 
 was a happy time. They met at the Bartlett farm some 
 evenings. "Edric Lyman outdid himself. The wild artist 
 in Boston had been a perfect ten-strike. Some people 
 are. Some people glorify everything they touch. This 
 good time was not very long ago, either. At the date of 
 this book, they were every one alive, and in some families 
 the number was even increased. So runs the world 
 away. Let it run. It is the best thing it can do. 
 Reader, I should be glad to know how you like my story. 
 If you will write me, state any objection. I will do you 
 a good turn if I can. Send your address. Direct to " J. 
 B. Wiggin, 13 Pleasant place, Cambridgeport, Mass." 
 
 Mrs. Warren's daughters live with her. Her house 
 and heart are big enough to contain her sons-in-law also.
 
 GRAND TABLEAU. 407 
 
 They are rich and can take care of it. Mr. and Mrs. Guy 
 Bartlett are just the same sweet honest souls as ever, and 
 their house often shelters some splendid people. Sam 
 Ellet makes the Hoskins farm shine, and Mary likes it. 
 Mr. and Mrs. Wilson Graham live with Roy and Mary. 
 Fred Annerly and Jennie are there, and they prove that 
 God puts as white souls in bronze as he does in marble. 
 Frank Wilkie promised to go to the Methodist church, 
 with Mrs. Francis, and, now she is Mrs. Wilkie, he goes. 
 He has joined them, and is one of the stewards of the 
 church. He is a splendid man. Jean McDuffie and his 
 wife are prosperous and happy. Mr. and Mrs. Jonathan 
 Strong are all right, and he defers to his colleague, Edric 
 Lyman. Mr. and Mrs. Wilson Graham are much, in sum- 
 mer, at the Bartlett farm, and Mr. and Mrs. Guy Bartlett 
 are often, in winter, at the Bartlett home on Common- 
 wealth Avenue. Selfishness enters not into their 
 thoughts. And my splendid Roy and Mary are rich 
 every way, and they use it, and they both enter into the 
 spirit of Him who first loved us, and gave Himself for us ; 
 and thus they exemplify in themselves that grace of lov- 
 ing and giving which is the crowning beauty of a glori- 
 ous life.
 
 KWS^VwlMflJi^ 
 
 K^A-1 -W6^.^u x vA^ \ ^Iffi/jL M - ! 
 
 ffBfiSWM* 
 
 tnAwu 5 >, ^v" ^ '. x x * >a . ; ,e * , >"i 
 
 ^a\ v *. t./, w. / _ fSTIA'x v* 
 
 ! 4 S^k^ ! -^S&:f i .J%^"S.is^ 
 
 gp^>^p'%: ^^r^r^:' /i^ '^S^r ^ : m^ 
 

 
 1 
 
 ii 
 
 000 087 334 9 
 ^- '