GEORGE WASHINGTON AND MARTHA CURTIS.
From a drawing by Clara L. i'-urcl. (Page 34)
OO<XXX>OOOOOOOOOOOOO<>g
Of
THREADS OF GREY
AND GOLD
BY
MYRTLE REED
Author of
Lavender and Old Lace
The Master's Violin
Old Rose and Silver
A Weaver of Dreams
Flower of the Dusk
At the Sign of the Jack O'Lantern
The Shadow of Victory
Etc.
New York
GROSSET & DUNLAP
Publishers
QOCOOOOOQOOOOQOQO
COPYRIGHT, 1902
BY
MYRTLE REED
BY MYRTLE REED:
A Weaver of Dreams Sonnets to a Lover
Old Rose and Silver Master of the Vineyard
Lavender and Old Lace Flower of the Dusk
The Master's Violin At the Sign of the Jack-o'-Lantern
Love Letters of a Musician A Spinner in the Sun
The Spinster Book Later Love Letters of a Musician
The Shadow of Victory Love Affairs of Literary Men
Myrtle Reed Year Book
This edition is issued under arrangement with the publishers
G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS, NEW YORK AND LONDON
To THE READERS OF
THE ROMANCES OP MYRTLE REED.
A world-wide circle comprising probably not less
than two million sympathetic admirers
This volume, which presents some of the writer's most
typical utterances utterances characterised by the
combination of wisdom, humour, and sentiment that
belongs to all the writings of the gifted author,
IS DEDICATED BY
THE EDITOR.
CHICAGO,
January,
ill
2228404
IN MEMORY OP
A WEAVER OP DREAMS.
A tribute to Myrtle Reed in recognition of her beautiful and
valuable contributions to English literature.
AS the spinner of silk weaves his sunbeams of gold,
Blending sunset and dawn in its silvery fold,
So she wove in the woof of her wonderful words
The soft shimmer of sunshine and music of birds.
With the radiance of moonlight and perfume of flowers,
She lent charm to the springtime and gladdened the
hours.
She spoke cheer to the suffering, joy to the sad;
She gave rest to the weary, made the sorrowful glad.
The sweet touch of her sympathy soothed every pain,
And her words in the drouth were like showers of rain.
For she lovingly poured out her blessings in streams
As a fountain of waters a weaver of dreams.
Her bright smiles were bejewelled, her tears were em-
pearled,
And her thoughts were as stars giving light to the world;
Her fond dreams were the gems that were woven in gold,
And the fabric she wrought was of value untold.
Every colour of beauty was radiantly bright,
Blending faith, hope, and love in its opaline light.
And she wove in her woof the great wealth of her heart,
For the cord of her life gave the life to each part;
And the beauty she wrought, which gave life to the
whole,
Was her spirit made real she gave of her soul.
So the World built a temple a glorious shrine
A Taj Mahal of love to the woman divine.
ADDISON BLAKELY.
Editorial mote
THE Editor desires to make grateful
acknowledgment to the editors and
publishers of the several periodicals in
which the papers contained in this volume
were first brought into print, for their
friendly courtesy in permitting the collec-
tion of these papers for preservation in
book form.
CHICAGO,
January, 1913.
Contents
PAGE
How THE WORLD WATCHES THE NEW
YEAR COME IN . . . . 3
THE Two YEARS. (Poem) . . 23
THE COURTSHIP OF GEORGE
WASHINGTON .... 26
THE OLD AND THE NEW. (Poem) . 44
THE LOVE STORY OF "THE SAGE OF
MONTICELLO " . . . .46
COLUMBIA. (Poem) .... 59
STORY OF A DAUGHTER'S LOVE . . 60
THE SEA VOICE. (Poem) ... 75
MYSTERY OF RANDOLPH'S COURTSHIP 77
How PRESIDENT JACKSON WON His
WIFE 91
THE BACHELOR PRESIDENT'S LOYALTY
TO A MEMORY .... 105
DECORATION DAY. (Poem) . .118
ix
x Contents
PAGE
ROMANCE OF LINCOLN'S LIFE . ..119
SILENT THANKSGIVING. (Poem) . 135
IN THE FLASH OF A JEWEL . . 137
THE COMING OF MY SHIP. (Poem) . 156
ROMANCE AND THE POSTMAN . .158
A SUMMER REVERIE. (Poem) . .171
A VIGNETTE 172
MEDITATION. (Poem) . . .175
TRANSITION. (Poem) . . .187
THE SUPERIORITY OF MAN . .189
THE YEAR OF MY HEART. (Poem) . 196
THE AVERAGE MAN .... 197
THE BOOK OF LOVE. (Poem) . . 202
THE IDEAL MAN .... 204
GOOD-NIGHT, SWEETHEART. (Poem) '. 209
THE IDEAL WOMAN . . . . .211
SHE Is NOT FAIR. (Poem) " . . 220
THE FIN-DE SIECLE WOMAN . . 232
Contents xi
PAGE
THE MOON MAIDEN. (Poem) . . 229
HER SON'S WIFE .... 230
A LULLABY. (Poem) . . . 247
THE DRESSING-SACK HABIT . . 248
IN THE MEADOW. (Poem) . . 259
ONE WOMAN'S SOLUTION OF THE
SERVANT PROBLEM . . . 260
To A VIOLIN. (Poem) . . . 283
THE OLD MAID .... 284
THE SPINSTER'S RUBAIYAT. (Poem) . 291
THE RIGHTS OF DOGS . . . 293
TWILIGHT. (Poem) .... 298
WOMEN'S CLOTHES IN MEN'S BOOKS . 299
MAIDENS OF THE SEA. (Poem) . 320
TECHNIQUE OF THE SHORT STORY . 321
To DOROTHY. (Poem) . . . 333
WRITING A BOOK . . . . 334
THE MAN BEHIND THE GUN. (Poem) 355
QUAINT OLD CHRISTMAS CUSTOMS . 357
CONSECRATION. (Poem) . . , 371
1>ow tbe TKHorlfc Hdatcbes the
IRew l?ear Come In
Ibow tbe mnorlb Matdbee tfoe-
flew year dome In
HPHE proverbial "good resolutions" of
the first of January which are usually
forgotten the next day, the watch services
in the churches, and the tin horns in the
city streets, are about the only formali-
ties connected with the American New
Year. The Pilgrim fathers took no note
of the day, save in this prosaic record:
"We went to work betimes"; but one
Judge Sewall writes with no small pride
of the blast of trumpets which was sounded
under his window, on the morning of
January 1st, 1697.
He celebrated the opening of the eight-
eenth century with a very bad poem
which he wrote himself, and he hired the
bellman to recite the poem loudly through
the streets of the town of Boston; but
3
4 Sfflatcijtng tfje J^eto gear 3to
happily for a public, even now too much
wearied with minor poets, the custom
did not become general.
In Scotland and the North of England
the New Year festivities are of great
importance. Weeks before hand, the
village boys, with great secrecy, meet in
out of the way places and rehearse their
favourite songs and ballads. As the time
draws near, they don improvised masks
and go about from door to door, singing
and cutting many quaint capers. The
thirty-first of December is called "Hog-
manay," and the children are told that
if they go to the corner, they will see a man
with as many eyes as the year has days.
The children of the poorer classes go from
house to house in the better districts, with
a large pocket fastened to their dresses, or
a large shawl with a fold in front.
Each one receives an oaten cake, a
piece of cheese, or sometimes a sweet cake,
and goes home at night heavily laden
with a good supply of homely New Year
cheer for the rest of the family.
tfjc J^eto gear 3to
The Scottish elders celebrate the day
with a supper party, and as the clock strikes
twelve, friend greets friend and wishes him
"a gude New Year and mony o' them."
Then with great formality the door is
unbarred to let the Old Year out and the
New Year in, while all the guests sally
forth into the streets to "first foot"
their acquaintances.
The "first foot" is the first person to
enter a house after midnight of December
3 1 st. If he is a dark man, it is considered
an omen of good fortune. Women gener-
ally are thought to bring ill luck, and in
some parts of England a light-haired man,
or a light-haired, flat-footed man is pre-
ferred. In Durham, this person must
bring a piece of coal, a piece of iron,
and a bottle of whiskey. He gives a
glass of whiskey to each man and kisses
each woman.
In Edinburgh, a great crowd gathers
around the church in Hunter Square and
anxiously watches the clock. There is
absolute silence from the first stroke of
383atc&tng tfje jfreto pear 3n
twelve until the last, then the elders go
to bed, but the young folks have other
business on hand. Each girl expects the
"first foot" from her sweetheart and
there is occasionally much stratagem
displayed in outwitting him and arranging
to have some grandmother or serving
maid open the door for him.
During the last century, all work was
laid aside on the afternoon of the thirty-
first, and the men of the hamlet went to
the woods and brought home a lot of
juniper bushes. Each household also
procured a pitcher of water from "the
dead and living ford, " meaning a ford in
the river by which passengers and funerals
crossed. This was brought in perfect
silence and was not allowed to touch the
ground in its progress as contact with
the earth would have destroyed the charm.
The next morning, there were rites to
protect the household against witchcraft,
the evil eye, and other machinations of
his satanic majesty. The father rose
first, and, taking the charmed water and
aatc!)tng tfje jfreto gear 3n 7
a brush, treated the whole family to a
generous sprinkling, which was usually
acknowledged with anything but gratitude.
Then all the doors and windows were
closed, and the juniper boughs put on
the fire. When the smoke reached a
suffocating point, the fresh air was ad-
mitted. The cattle were fumigated in
the same way and the painful solemnities
of the morning were over.
The Scots on the first of the year
consult the Bible before breakfast. They
open it at random and lay a finger on a
verse which is supposed to be, in some
way, an augury for the coming year.
If a lamp or a candle is taken out of the
house on that day, some one will die
during the year, and on New Year's day
a Scotchman will neither lend, borrow ;
nor give anything whatsoever out of his
house, for fear his luck may go with it,
and for the same reason the floor must not
be swept. Even ashes or dirty water must
not be thrown out until the next day, and
if the fire goes out it is a sign of death.
8 Kaatdjing flje J^eto gear 3n
The ancient Drtdds distributed among
the early Britons branches of the sacred
mistletoe, which had been cut with solemn
ceremony in the night from the oak trees
in a forest that had been dedicated to
the gods.
Among the ancient Saxons, the New
Year was ushered in with friendly gifts,
and all fighting ceased for three days.
In Banffshire the peat fires are covered
with ashes and smoothed down. In the
morning they are examined closely, and
if anything resembling a human foot-
print is found in the ashes, it is taken as
an omen. If the footprint points towards
the door, one of the family will die or leave
home during the year. If they point in-
ward, a child will be born within the year.
In some parts of rural England, the
village maidens go from door to door with
a bowl of wassail, made of ale, roasted
apples, squares of toast, nutmeg, and
sugar. The bowl is elaborately decorated
with evergreen and ribbons, and as they
go they sing :
KSatcijtng tfjc Jfteto Dear 3in 9
"Wassail, wassail to our town,
The cup is white and the ale is brown,
The cup is made of the ashen tree,
And so is the ale of the good barley.
"Little maid, little maid, turn the pin,
Open the door and let us in;
God be there, God be here;
I wish you all a Happy New Year."
In Yorkshire, the young men assemble
at midnight on the thirty-first, blacken
their faces, disguise themselves in other
ways, then pass through the village with
pieces of chalk. They write the date of
the New Year on gates, doors, shutters,
and wagons. It is considered lucky to
have one's property so marked and the
revellers are never disturbed.
On New Year's Day, Henry VI received
gifts of jewels, geese, turkeys, hens, and
sweetmeats. "Good Queen Bess" was
fairly overwhelmed with tokens of affec-
tion from her subjects. One New Year's
morning, she was presented with caskets
studded with gems, necklaces, bracelets,
gowns, mantles, mirrors, fans, and a
io asiatcfjing tfje Jleto gear 3to
wonderful pair of black silk stockings,
which pleased her so much that she never
afterward wore any other kind.
Among the Romans, after the reforma-
tion of the calendar, the first day, and
even the whole month, was dedicated to
the worship of the god Janus. He was
represented as having two faces, and
looking two ways into the past and into
the future. In January they offered sac-
rifices to Janus upon two altars, and on
the first day of the month they were care-
ful to regulate their speech and conduct,
thinking it an augury for the coming year.
New Year's gifts and cards originated
in Rome, and there is a record of an amus-
ing lawsuit which grew out of the custom.
A poet was commissioned by a Roman
pastry-cook to write the mottoes for the
New Year day bonbons. He agreed to
supply five hundred couplets for six ses-
terces, and though the poor poet toiled
faithfully and the mottoes were used, the
money was not forthcoming. He sued
the pastry-cook, and got a verdict, but
3Uatrf)tng tfje ^eto gear 3fn 11
the cook regarded himself as the injured
party. Crackers were not then invented,
but we still have the mottoes those
queer heart-shaped things which were
the delight of our school-days.
The Persians remember the day with
gifts of eggs literally a "lay out!"
In rural Russia, the day begins as a
children's holiday. The village boys get
up at sunrise and fill their pockets with
peas and wheat. They go from house to
house and as the doors are never locked,
entrance is easy. They throw the peas
upon their enemies and sprinkle the wheat
softly upon their sleeping friends.
After breakfast, the finest horse in the
little town is decorated with evergreens
and berries and led to the house of the
greatest nobleman, followed by the pea
and wheat shooters of the early morning.
The lord admits both horse and people
to his house, where the whole family is
gathered, and the children of his household
make presents of small pieces of silver
money to those who come with the horse.
12 SHatcfjmg tfje jBLeto fiear Jin
This is the greeting of the peasants to
their lord and master.
Next comes a procession of domestic
animals, an ox, cow, goat, and pig, all
decorated with evergreens and berries.
These do not enter the house but pass
slowly up and down outside, that the
master and his family may see. Then
the old women of the village bring barn-
yard fowls to the master as presents, and
these are left in the house which the horse
has only recently vacated. Even the
chickens are decorated with strings of
berries around their necks and bits of
evergreen fastened to their tails.
The Russians have also a ceremony which
is more agreeable. On each New Year's
Day, a pile of sheaves is heaped up over
a large pile of grain, and the father, after
seating himself behind it, asks the children
if they can see him. They say they can-
not, and he replies that he hopes the crops
for the coming year will be so fine that
he will be hidden in the fields.
In the cities there is a grand celebration
13
of mass in the morning and the rest of
the day is devoted to congratulatory visits.
Good wishes which cannot be expressed in
person are put into the newspapers in the
form of advertisements, and in military and
official circles ceremonial visits are paid.
The Russians are very fond of fortune-
telling, and on New Year's eve the young
ladies send their servants into the street
to ask the names of the first person they
meet, and many a bashful lover has
hastened his suit by taking good care to
be the first one who is met by the servant
of his lady love. At midnight, each
member of the family salutes every other
member with a kiss, beginning with the
head of the house, and then they retire,
after gravely wishing each other a Happy
New Year.
Except that picturesque rake, Leopold
of Belgium, every monarch of Europe
has for many years begun the New Year
with a solemn appeal to the Almighty, for
strength, guidance, and blessing.
The children in Belgium spend the day in
14 aUatcljing flje j^eto pear 3n
trying to secure a "sugar uncle " or a "sugar
aunt." The day before New Year, they
gather up all the keys of the household
and divide them. The unhappy mortal
who is caught napping finds himself in a
locked room, from which he is not released
until a ransom is offered. This is usually
money for sweets and is divided among
the captors.
In France, no one pays much attention
to Christmas, but New Year's day is
a great festival and presents are freely
exchanged. The President of France also
holds a reception somewhat similar to,
and possibly copied from, that which
takes place in the White House.
In Germany, complimentary visits are
exchanged between the merest acquaint-
ances, and New Year's gifts are made
to the servants. The night of the thirty-
first is called Sylvester Aben and while
many of the young people dance, the day
in more serious households takes on a
religious aspect. During the evening,
there is prayer at the family altar, and at
H9atcf)ing ttje &tto fiear Jin 15
midnight the watchman on the church
tower blows his horn to announce the
birth of the New Year.
At Frankfort-on-the-Main a very pretty
custom is observed. On New Year's eve
the whole city keeps a festival with songs,
feasting, games, and family parties in every
house. When the great bell in the cathe-
dral tolls the first stroke of midnight, every
house opens wide its windows. People
lean from the casements, glass in hand, and
from a hundred thousand throats comes
the cry: "Prosit Neujahr!" At the last
stroke, the windows are closed and a mid-
night hush descends upon the city
The hospitable Norwegians and Swedes
spread their tables heavily; for all who
may come in at Stockholm there is a grand
banquet at the Exchange, where the
king meets his people in truly democratic
fashion.
The Danes greet the New Year with
a tremendous volley of cannon, and at
midnight old Copenhagen is shaken to its
very foundations. It is considered a
16 QHjreafcg of rep anb
delicate compliment to fire guns and
pistols under the bedroom windows of
one's friends at dawn of the new morning.
The dwellers in Cape Town, South
Africa, are an exception to the general
custom of English colonists, and after
the manner of the early Dutch settlers
they celebrate the New Year during the
entire week. Every house is full of
visitors, every man, woman, and child is
dressed in gay garments, and no one has
any business except pleasure. There are
picnics to Table Mountain, and pleasure
excursions in boats, with a dance every
evening. At the end of the week, every-
body settles down and the usual routine
of life is resumed.
In the Indian Empire, the day which
corresponds to our New Year is called
"Hooly" and is a feast in honour of the
god Krishna. Caste temporarily loses
ground and the prevailing colour is red.
Every one who can afford it wears red
garments, red powder is thrown as if it
were confetti, and streams of red water
tfjc J^eto gear 3n 17
are thrown upon the passers-by. It is
all taken in good part, however, as snow-
balling is with us.
Even "farthest North," where the
nights are six months long, there is recog-
nition of the New Year. The Esquimaux
come out of their snow huts and ice caves
in pairs, one of each pair being dressed
in women's clothes. They gain entrance
into every igloo in the village, moving
silently and mysteriously. At last there
is not a light left in the place, and having
extinguished every fire they can find,
they kindle a fresh one, going through in
the meantime solemn ceremonies. From
this one source, all the fires and lights in
the district are kindled anew.
One wonders if there may not be some
fear in the breasts of these Children of
the North, when for an instant they stand
in the vastness of the midnight, utterly
without fire or light.
The most wonderful ceremonies con-
nected with the New Year take place in
China and Japan. In these countries and
i8 {Efjreafc* of <Srep anb
in Corea the birth of the year is considered
the birthday of the whole community.
When a child is born he is supposed to be
a year old, and he remains thus until the
changing seasons bring the annual birth-
day of the whole Mongolian race, when
another year is credited to his account.
In the Chinese quarter of the large
cities, the New Year celebrations are
dreaded by the police, since where there
is so much revelry there is sure to be
trouble. In the native country, the re-
joicings absorb fully a month, during the
first part of which no hunger is allowed
to exist within the Empire.
The refreshments are light in kind
peanuts, watermelon seeds, sweetmeats,
oranges, tea and cakes. Presents of food
are given to the poor, and "brilliant
cakes," supposed to help the children
in their studies, are distributed from
the temples.
The poor little Chinamen must sadly
need some assistance, in view of the fact
that every word in their language has a
tfje iBteto gear 3n 19
distinct root, and their alphabet contains
over twenty thousand letters.
At an early hour on New Year's morning,
which according to their calendar comes
between the twenty-first of January and
the nineteenth of February, they pro-
pitiate heaven and earth with offerings of
rice, vegetables, tea, wine, oranges, and
imitation of paper money which they burn
with incense, joss-sticks, and candles.
Strips of scarlet paper, bearing mottoes,
which look like Chinese laundry checks,
are pasted around and over doors and
windows. Blue strips among the red,
mean that a death has occurred in the
family since the last celebration.
New Year's calls are much in vogue in
China, where every denizen of the Empire
pays a visit to each of his superiors, and
receives them from all of his inferiors.
Sometimes cards are sent, and, as with
us, this takes the place of a call.
Images of gods are carried in procession
to the beating of a deafening gong, and
mandarins go by hundreds to the Emperor
20 3>tjrealis of &itp anb
and the Dowager Empress, with congrat-
ulatory addresses. Their robes are gor-
geously embroidered and are sometimes
heavy with gold. After this, they worship
their household gods.
Illuminations and fireworks make the
streets gorgeous at night, and a monstrous
Chinese dragon, spouting flame, is drawn
through the streets.
People salute each other with cries of
"Kung-hi! Kung-hi!" meaning I humbly
wish you joy, or "Sin-hi! Sin-hi!" May
joy be yours.
Many amusements in the way of the-
atricals and illumination are provided for
the public.
In both China and Japan, all debts must
be paid and all grudges settled before the
opening of the New Year. Every one is
supposed to have new clothes for the oc-
casion, and those who cannot obtain them
remain hidden in their houses.
In Japan, the conventional New Year
costume is light blue cotton, and every
one starts out to make calls. Letters
ZSatcfjing tfoe Jleto gear 3n 21
on rice paper are sent to those in distant
places, conveying appropriate greetings.
The Japanese also go to their favourite
tea gardens where bands play, and wax
figures are sold. Presents of cooked rice
and roasted peas, oranges, and figs are
offered to every one. The peas are
scattered about the houses to frighten
away the evil spirits, and on the fourth
day of the New Year, the decorations of
lobster, signifying reproduction, cabbages
indicating riches, and oranges, meaning
good luck, are taken down and replaced
with boughs of fruit trees and flowers.
Strange indeed is the country in which
the milestones of Time pass unheeded.
In spite of all the mirth and feasting,
there is an undercurrent of sadness which
has been most fitly expressed by Charles
Lamb:
Of all the sounds, the most solemn and
touching is the peal which rings out the old
year. I never hear it without gathering up
in my mind a concentration of all the images
that have been diffused over the past twelve
22 {Efjreabs of <J5rn> anb <Salb
months ; all that I have done or suffered, per-
formed, or neglected, in that regretted time.
I begin to know its worth as when a person
dies. It takes a personal colour, nor was it
a poetical flight in a contemporary, when he
exclaimed: 'I saw the skirts of the departing
year!'"
ZTvoo
THREAD softly, ye throngs with hurry-
1 ing feet,
Look down, O ye stars, in your flight,
And bid ye farewell to a time that was
sweet,
For the year lies a-dying to-night.
In a shroud of pure snow lie the quickly-
fled hours
The children of Time and of Light;
Stoop down, ye fair moon, and scatter
sweet flowers,
For the year lies a-dying to-night.
Hush, ye rivers that sweep to the
sea,
From hill and from blue mountain
height;
The flood of your song should be sorrow,
not glee,
For the year lies a-dying to-night.
23
24 {g&teab* of Gttp anb
Good night, and good-bye, dear, mellow,
old year,
The new is beginning to dawn.
But we '11 turn and drop on thy white
grave a tear,
For the sake of the friend that is gone.
All hail to the New! He is coming with
gladness,
From the East, where in light he
reposes ;
He is bringing a year free from pain and
from sadness,
He is bringing a June with her ros^s.
A burst of sweet music, the listeners hear,
The stars and the angels give warn-
ing-
He is coming in beauty, this joyful New
Year,
O'er the flower-strewn stairs of the
morning.
He is bringing a day with glad pulses
beating,
For the sorrow and passion are gone,
And Love and Life have a rapturous
meeting
In the rush and the gladness of dawn.
25
The Old has gone out with a crown that
is hoary,
The New in his brightness draws near;
Then let us look up in the light and the
glory,
And welcome this royal New Year.
Gbe Courtsbip of
TOaebtiiQton
HPHE quaint old steel engraving which
shows George and Martha Washing-
ton sitting by a table, while the Custis
children stand dutifully by, is a familiar
picture in many households, yet few of us
remember that the first Lady of the White
House was not always first in the heart
of her husband/
The years have brought us, as a people,
a growing reverence for him who was
in truth the "Father of His Country."
Time has invested him with godlike at-
tributes, yet, none the less, he was a many
among men, and the hot blood of youth
ran tumultuously in his veins.
At the age of fifteen, like many another
schoolboy, Washington fell in love. The
man who was destined to be the Com-
26
Courtship of Kiasfjington 27
mander of the Revolutionary Army, wan-
dered through the shady groves of Mount
Vernon composing verses which, from a
critical standpoint, were very bad. Scraps
of verse were later mingled with notes
of surveys, and interspersed with the
accounts which that methodical statesman
kept from his school-days until the year
of his death.
In the archives of the Capitol on a
yellowed page, in Washington's own
handwriting, these lines are still to be
read:
"Oh, Ye Gods, why should my Poor
Resistless Heart
Stand to oppose thy might and Power,
At last surrrender to Cupid's feather'd
Dart,
And now lays bleeding every Hour
For her that's Pityless of my grief and
Woes,
And will not on me, pity take.
I '11 sleep amongst my most inveterate
Foes,
And with gladness never wish to wake.
In Deluding sleepings let my Eyelids
close,
28 &breab* of rep anb
That in an enraptured Dream I may
In a soft lulling sleep and gentle repose
Possess those joys denied by Day."
Among these boyish fragments there
is also an incomplete acrostic, evidently
intended for Miss Frances Alexander,
which reads as follows:
" From your bright sparkling Eyes I was
undone ;
Rays, you have, rays more transparent
than the Sun
Amidst its glory in the rising Day;
None can you equal in your bright array ;
Constant in your calm, unspotted Mind;
Equal to all, but will to none Prove kind,
So knowing, seldom one so young you '11
Find.
11 Ah, woe's me that I should Love and
conceal
Long have I wished, but never dare
reveal,
Even though severely Love's Pains I
feel;
Xerxes that great wast not free from
Cupid's Dart,
And all the greatest Heroes felt the
smart."
ourt*f)ip of JKasrfrington 29
He wrote at length to several of his
friends concerning his youthful passions.
In the tell-tale pages of the diary, for 1748,
there is this draft of a letter:
"DEAR FRIEND ROBIN: My place of Resi-
dence is at present at His Lordship's where
I might, was my heart disengag'd, pass my
time very pleasantly, as there 's a very
agreeable Young Lady Lives in the same
house (Col. George Fairfax's Wife's Sister);
but as that 's only adding fuel to fire, it makes
me the more uneasy, for by often and un-
avoidably being, in Company with her revives
my former Passion for your Lowland Beauty;
whereas was I to live more retired from
young Women I might in some measure
aliviate my sorrows by burying that chaste
and troublesome Passion in the grave of
oblivion or eternal forgetfulness, for as I am
very well assured, that 's the only antidote
or remedy, that I shall be relieved by, as
I am well convinced, was I ever to ask any
question, I should only get a denial which
would be adding grief to uneasiness."
The "Lowland Beauty" was Miss Mary
Bland. Tradition does not say whether
or not she ever knew of Washington's
admiration, but she married Henry Lee.
30 {Efjrea&tf of <@rep anii
"Light Horse Harry, "that daring master
of cavalry of Revolutionary fame, was
the son of the "Lowland Beauty," and
some tender memories of the mother may
have been mingled with Washington's
fondness for the young soldier. It was
"Light Horse Harry" also, who said of
the Commander-in-Chief that he was
"first in war, first in peace, and first in
the hearts of his countrymen!"
By another trick of fate the grandson
of the "Lowland Beauty" was Gen.
Robert E. Lee. Who can say what
momentous changes might have been
wrought in history had Washington mar-
ried his first love?
Miss Gary, the sister of Mrs. Fairfax,
was the "agreeable young lady" of whom
he speaks. After a time her charm seems
to have partially mitigated the pain he
felt over the loss of her predecessor in
his affections. Later he writes of a Miss
Betsey Fauntleroy, saying that he is soon
to see her, and that he "hopes for a re-
vocation of her former cruel sentence. "
Courtship of ZHasfjmgton 31
When Braddock's defeat brought the
soldier again to Mount Vernon, to rest
from the fatigues of the campaign, there
is abundant evidence to prove that he
had become a personage in the eyes of
women. For instance, Lord Fairfax
writes to him, saying:
"If a Satterday Night's Rest cannot be
sufficient to enable your coming hither to
morrow, the Lady's will try to get Horses to
equip our Chair or attempt their strength on
Foot to Salute you, so desirious are they
with loving Speed to have an occular Demon-
stration of your being the same identical
Gent that lately departed to defend his
Country's Cause. "
A very feminine postcript was attached
to this which read as follows :
"DEAR SIR
"After thanking Heaven for your safe
return, I must accuse you of great unkindness
in refusing us the pleasure of seeing you this
night. I do assure you nothing but our
being satisfied that our company would be
disagreeable, should prevent us from trying
if our Legs would not carry us to Mount
32 tEfjrea&g of rep anb
Vernon this night, but if you will not come
to us, tomorrow morning very early we shall
be at Mount Vernon.
"SALLY FAIRFAX
ANN SPEARING
ELIZ'TH DENT"
Yet, in spite of the attractions of
Virginia we find him journeying to Boston,
on military business, by way of New
York.
The hero of Braddock's stricken field
found every door open before him. He
was fe"ted in Philadelphia, and the aris-
tocrats of Manhattan gave dinners in
honour of the strapping young soldier
from the wilds of Virginia.
At the house of his friend, Beverly
Robinson, he met Miss Mary Philipse,
and speedily surrendered. She was a
beautiful, cultured woman, twenty-five
years old, who had travelled widely and
had seen much of the world. He promptly
proposed to her, and was refused, but
with exquisite grace and tact.
Graver affairs however soon claimed his
Courtship of atatfijmgtim 33
attention, and he did not go back, though
a friend wrote to him that Lieutenant-
Colonel Morris was besieging the citadel.
She married Morris, and their house in
Morristown became Washington's head-
quarters, in 1776 again, how history
might have been changed had Mary Phi-
lipse married her Virginia lover!
In the spring of 1758, Washington met
his fate. He was riding on horseback
from Mount Vernon to Williamsburg
with important despatches. In crossing
a ford of the Pamunkey he fell in with a
Mr. Chamberlayne, who lived in the
neighbourhood. With true Virginian hos-
pitality he prevailed upon Washington to
take dinner at his house, making the
arrangement with much difficulty, how-
ever, since the soldier was impatient to
get to Williamsburg.
Once inside the colonial house, whose
hospitable halls breathed welcome, his
impatience, and the errand itself, were
almost forgotten. A negro servant led his
horse up and down the gravelled walk in
34 {i)teabg of <@rep an to
front of the house ; the servant grew tired,
the horse pawed and sniffed with im-
patience, but Washington lingered.
A petite hazel-eyed woman she who
was once Patsy Dandridge, but then the
widow of Daniel Parke Custis was delay-
ing important affairs. At night-fall the
distracted warrior remembered his mission,
and made a hasty adieu. Mr. Chamber-
layhe, meeting him at the door, laid a
restraining hand upon his arm. "No
guest ever leaves my house after sunset, "
he said.
The horse was put up, the servant
released from duty, and Washington re-
mained until the next morning, when,
with new happiness in his heart, he
dashed on to Williamsburg.
We may well fancy that her image was
before him all the way. She had worn
a gown of white dimity, with a cluster
of Mayblossoms at her belt, and a little
white widow's cap half covered her soft
brown hair.
She was twenty-six, some three months
Courtship of ilHasljtngton 35
younger than Washington ; she had wealth,
and two children. Mr. Custis had been
older than his Patsy, for she was married
when she was but seventeen. He had
been a faithful and affectionate husband,
but he had not appealed to her imagination,
and it was doubtless through her imagina-
tion, that the big Virginia Colonel won
her heart.
She left Mr. Chamberlayne's and went
to her home the "White House" near
William's Ferry. The story is that when
Washington came from Williamsburg, he
was met at the ferry by one of Mrs.
Custis's slaves. "Is your mistress at
home?" he inquired of the negro who
was rowing him across the river.
"Yes, sah, " replied the darkey, then
added slyly, "I recon you am de man
what am expected. "
It was late in the afternoon of the
next day when Washington took his de-
parture, but he had her promise and was
happy. A ring was ordered from Phila-
delphia, and is duly set down in his
36 !jrcatHJ of &tcp anb
accounts: "One engagement ring, two
pounds, sixteen shillings. "
Then came weary months of service
in the field, and they saw each other only
four times before they were married.
There were doubtless frequent letters,
but only one of them remains. It is the
letter of a soldier:
" We have begun our march for the Ohio,
[he wrote]. A courier is starting for Williams-
burg, and I embrace the opportunity to send
a few words to one whose life is now insep-
arable from mine.
"Since that happy hour, when we made our
pledges to each other, my thoughts have
been continually going to you as to another
self. That an All-powerful Providence may
keep us both in safety is the prayer of your
ever faithful and affectionate Friend
"G. WASHINGTON
"20th of July
Mrs. Martha Custis."
On the sixth of the following January
they were married in the little church
of St. Peter. Once again Dr. Mossum,
in full canonicals, married "Patsy" Dan-
Court stitp of BHasfjington 37
dridge to the man of her choice. The
bridegroom wore a blue cloth coat lined
with red silk and ornamented with silver
trimmings. His vest was embroidered
white satin, his shoe- and knee-buckles
were of solid gold, his hair was powdered,
and a dress sword hung at his side.
The bride was attired in heavy brocaded
white silk inwoven with a silver thread.
She wore a white satin quilted petticoat
with heavy corded white silk over-skirt,
and high-heeled shoes of white satin with
buckles of brilliants. She had ruffles of
rich point lace, pearl necklace, ear-rings,
and bracelets, and was attended by three
bridesmaids.
The aristocracy of Virginia was out in
full force. One of the most imposing
figures was Bishop, the negro servant,
who had led Washington's horse up and
down the gravelled path in front of Mr.
Chamberlayne's door while the master
lingered within. He was in the scarlet
uniform of King George's army, booted
and spurred, and he held the bridle rein
38 Cfjrca&s of
of the chestnut charger that was forced
to wait while his rider made love.
On leaving the church, the bride and
her maids rode back to the "White House "
in a coach drawn by six horses, and guided
by black post-boys in livery, while Colonel
Washington, on his magnificent horse,
and attended by a brilliant company,
rode by her side.
There was no seer to predict that some
time the little lady in white satin, brocade
silk, and rich laces, would spend long hours
knitting stockings for her husband's army,
and that night after night would find her, in
a long grey cloak, at the side of the wounded,
hearing from stiffening lips the husky whis-
per, "God bless you, Lady Washington!"
All through the troublous times that
followed, Washington was the lover as
well as the husband. He took a father's
place with the little children, treating
them with affection, but never swerving
from the path of justice. With the fond-
ness of a lover, he ordered fine clothes
for his wife from London.
Courts Jjip of KJasiitngton 39
After his death, Mrs. Washington de-
stroyed all of his letters. There is only
one of them to be found which was writ-
ten after their marriage. It is in an old
book, printed in New York in 1796, when
the narrow streets around the tall spire
of Trinity were the centre of social life,
and the busy hum of Wall Street was
not to be heard for fifty years !
One may fancy a stately Knicker-
bocker stopping at a little bookstall
where the dizzy heights of the Empire
Building now rise, or down near the
Battery, untroubled by the white cliff
called "The Bowling Green," and asking
pompously enough, for the Epistles;
Domestic, Confidential, and Official, from
General Washington.
The pages are yellowed with age,
and the "f " used in the place of the "s",
as well as the queer orthography and
capitalisation, look strange to twentieth-
century eyes, but on page 56 the lover-
husband pleads with his lady in a way that
we can well understand.
40 3H)reab* of (Step anfc (Solb
The letter is dated "June 24, 1776,"
and in part is as follows:
"MY DEAREST LIFE AND LOVE.
"You have hurt me, I know not how much,
by the insinuation in your last, that my
letters to you have been less frequent because
I have felt less concern for you.
"The suspicion is most unjust; may I not
add, is most unkind. Have we lived, now
almost a score of years, in the closest and
dearest conjugal intimacy to so little pur-
pose, that on the appearance only, of in-
attention to you, and which you might have
accounted for in a thousand ways more
natural and more probable, you should pitch
upon that single motive which is alone injuri-
ous to me?
" I have not, I own, wrote so often to you as
I wished and dS I ought.
"But think of my situation, and then ask
your heart if I be without excuse?
"We are not, my dearest, in circumstances
the most favorable to our happiness; but
let us not, I beseech of you, make them worse
by indulging suspicions and apprehensions
which minds in distress are apt to give way to.
"I never was, as you have often told me,
even in my better and more disengaged
days, so attentive to the little punctillios
of friendship, as it may be, became me; but
Conrtefjip of 8Habingtou 41
my heart tells me, there never was a moment
in my life, since I first knew you, in which it
did not cleave and cling to you with the
warmest affection; and it must cease to beat
ere it can cease to wish for your happiness,
above anything on earth.
' ' Your faithful and tender husband, G. W. "
"'Seventy-six!" The words bring a
thrill even now, yet, in the midst of those
stirring times, not a fortnight before the
Declaration was signed, and after twenty
years of marriage, he could write her like
this. Even his reproaches are gentle, and
filled with great tenderness.
And so it went on, through the Revolu-
tion and through the stormy days in which
the Republic was born. There were long
and inevitable separations, yet a part of
the time she was with him, doing her
duty as a soldier's wife, and sternly refusing
to wear garments which were not woven
in American looms.
During the many years they lived at
Mount Vernon, they attended divine
service at Christ Church, Alexandria,
Virginia, one of the quaint little landmarks
42 fltfjreafc* of <rep anfc
of the town which is still standing. For
a number of years he was a vestryman of
the church, and the pew occupied by him
is visited yearly by thousands of tourists
while sight-seeing in the national Capitol.
Indeed all the churches, so far as known,
in which he once worshipped, have pre-
served his pew intact, while there are
hundreds of tablets, statues, and monu-
ments throughout the country.
In the magnificent monument at Wash-
ington, rising to a height of more than 555
feet, the various States of the Union have
placed stone replicas of their State seals,
and these, with other symbolic devices,
constitute the inscriptions upon one hun-
dred and seventy-nine of these memorial
stones. Not only this, but Europe and
Asia, China and Japan have honoured
themselves by erecting memorials to the
great American.
When at last his long years of service
for his country were ended, he and his
beloved wife returned again to their
beautiful home at Mount Vernon, to wait
Courtsfjtp of HlaaJjington 43
for the night together. The whole world
knows how the end came, with her loving
ministrations to the very last of the three
restful years which they at this time spent
together at the old home, and how he
looked Death bravely in the face, as
became a soldier and a Christian.
3be tt> anb tbe IRevo
RANDMOTHER sat at her spinning
wheel
In the dust of the long ago,
And listened, with scarlet dyeing her cheeks,
For the step she had learned to know.
A courtly lover, was he who came,
With frill and ruffle and curl
They dressed so queerly in the days
When grandmother was a girl!
"Knickerbockers" they called them then,
When they spoke of the things at all
Grandfather wore them, buckled and
trim,
When he sallied forth to call.
Grandmother's eyes were youthful then
His "guiding stars," he said;
While she demurely watched her wheel
And spun with a shining thread.
Frill, and ruffle, and curl are gone,
But the "knickers" are with us still
And so is love and the spinning wheel,
But we ride it now if you will !
44
ant! tfje Jleto 45
In grandfather's "knickers" I sit and
watch
For the gleam of a lamp afar;
And my heart still turns, as theirs, me-
thinks,
To my wheel and my guiding star.
%o\>e Storp of tbe Sage of
flDonticeUo
A MERICAN history holds no more
** beautiful love-story than that of
Thomas Jefferson, third President of the
United States, and author of the Declara-
tion of Independence. It is a tale of single-
hearted, unswerving devotion, worthy of
this illustrious statesman. His love for
his wife was not the first outpouring of
his nature, but it was the strongest and
best the love, not of the boy, but of the
man.
Jefferson was not particularly handsome
as a young man, for he was red-haired,
awkward, and knew not what to do with
his hands, though he played the violin pass-
ably well. But his friend, Patrick Henry,
suave, tactful and popular, exerted himself
to improve Jefferson's manners and fit
46
(Efje g>age of iHonttccllo 47
him for general society, attaining at last
very pleasing results, although there was
a certain roughness in his nature, shown
in his correspondence, which no amount
of polishing seemed able to overcome.
John Page was Jefferson's closest friend,
and to him he wrote very fully concerning
the state of his mind and heart, and with
a certain quaint, uncouth humour, which
to this day is irresistible.
For instance, at Fail-field, Christmas
day, 1762, he wrote to his friend as follows:
"DEAR PAGE
"This very day, to others the day of greatest
mirth and jolity, sees me overwhelmed with
more and greater misfortunes than have
befallen a descendant of Adam for these
thousand years past, I am sure ; and perhaps,
after excepting Job, since the creation of the
world.
"You must know, Dear Page, that I am now
in a house surrounded by enemies, who take
counsel together against my soul; and when
I lay me down to rest, they say among them-
selves, ' Come let us destroy him. '
"I am sure if there is such a thing as a
Devil in this world, he must have been here
48 &breat)* of &rtp anb
last night, and have had some hand in what
happened to me. Do you think the cursed
rats (at his instigation I suppose) did not eat
up my pocket book, which was in my pocket,
within an inch of my head? And not con-
tented with plenty for the present, they
carried away my gemmy worked silk garters,
and half a dozen new minuets I had just got,
to serve, I suppose, as provision for the winter.
"You know it rained last night, or if you do
not know it, I am sure I do. When I went
to bed I laid my watch in the usual place,
and going to take her up after I arose this
morning, I found her in the same place, it
is true, but all afloat in water, let in at a leak
in the roof of the house, and as silent, and as
still as the rats that had eaten my pocket
book.
"Now, you know if chance had anything to
do in this matter, there were a thousand
other spots where it might have chanced to
leak as well as this one which was perpen-
dicularly over my watch. But I '11 tell
you, it 's my opinion that the Devil came and
bored the hole over it on purpose.
"Well, as I was saying, my poor watch had
lost her speech. I would not have cared
much for this, but something worse attended
it the subtle particles of water with which
the case was filled had, by their penetration,
so overcome the cohesion of the particles
>age of ^Hontt cello 49
of the paper, of which my dear picture, and
watch patch paper, were composed, that in
attempting to take them out to dry them,
my cursed fingers gave them such a rent as
I fear I shall never get over.
"... And now, though her picture be
defaced, there is so lively an image of her
imprinted in my mind, that I shall think of
her too often, I fear for my peace of mind ;
and too often I am sure to get through old
Coke this winter, for I have not seen him
since I packed him up in my trunk in
Williamsburg. Well, Page, I do wish the
Devil had old Coke for I am sure I never
was so tired of the dull old scoundrel in my
life. . . .
"I would fain ask the favor of Miss Bettey
Burwell to give me another watch paper
of her own cutting, which I should esteem
much more though it were a plain round one,
than the nicest in the world cut by other
hands; however I am afraid she would think
this presumption, after my suffering the other
to get spoiled. If you think you can excuse
me to her for this, I should be glad if you
would ask her. ,
Page was a little older than Jefferson,
and the young man thought much of his
advice. Six months later we find Page
50 Cljreabsf of <Srep anb
advising him to go to Miss Rebecca
Burwell and "lay siege in form."
There were many objections to this
first, the necessity of keeping the matter
secret, and of "treating with a ward
before obtaining the consent of her
guardian," which at that time was con-
sidered dishonourable, and second, Jeffer-
son's own state of suspense and uneasiness,
since the lady had given him no grounds
for hope.
"If I am to succeed [he wrote], the sooner
I know it the less uneasiness I shall have
to go through. If I am to meet with dis-
appointment, the sooner I know it, the more
of life I shall have to wear it off; and if I
do meet with one, I hope and verily believe
it will be the last.
"I assure you that I almost envy you your
present freedom and I assure you that if
Belinda will not accept of my heart, it shall
never be offered to another."
In his letters he habitually spoke of
Miss Burwell as "Belinda," presumably
on account of the fear which he expresses
to Page, that the letters might possibly
g>age of itlontt cello 51
fall into other hands. In some of his
letters he spells "Belinda" backward, and
with exaggerated caution, in Greek letters.
Finally, with much fear and trembling,
he took his friend's advice, and laid seige
to the fair Rebecca in due form. The
day afterward October 7, 1763 he con-
fided in Page :
' ' In the most melancholy fit that ever a poor
soul was, I sit down to write you. Last
night, as merry as agreeable company and
dancing with Belinda could make me, I
never could have thought that the succeeding
sun would have seen me so wretched as I now
am!
" I was prepared to say a great deal. I had
dressed up in my own mind, such thoughts
as occurred to me, in as moving language
as I knew how, and expected to have per-
formed in a tolerably creditable manner.
But . . . when I had an opportunity of
venting them, a few broken sentences,
uttered in great disorder, and interrupted
by pauses of uncommon length were the
too visible marks of my strange confusion!
"The whole confab I will tell you, word for
word if I can when I see you which God send,
may be soon."
52 flPbrea&S of <&rep anfc
After this, he dates his letters at " Devils-
burg, " instead of Williamsburg, and says
in one of them, "I believe I never told
you that we had another occasion. " This
time he behaved more creditably, told
"Belinda" that it was necessary for him
to go to England, explained the inevitable
delays and told how he should conduct
himself until his return. He says that
he asked no questions which would admit
of a categorical answer there was some-
thing of the lawyer in this wooing! He
assured Miss Rebecca that such a question
would one day be asked. In this letter
she is called "Adinleh' and spoken of as
"he."
Miss Burwell did not wait, however,
until Jefferson was in a position to seek
her hand openly, but was suddenly married
to another. The news was a great shock
to Jefferson, who refused to believe it
until Page confirmed it; but the love-lorn
swain gradually recovered from his dis-
appointment.
With youthful ardour they had planned
>agc of iflontircllo 53
to buy adjoining estates and have a car-
riage in common, when each married the
lady of his love, that they might attend
all the dances. A little later, when Page
was also crossed in love, both forswore
marriage forever.
For five or six years, Jefferson was
faithful to his vow rather an unusual
record. He met his fate at last in the per-
son of a charming widow Martha Skelton.
The death of his sister, his devotion
to his books, and his disappointment
made him a sadder and a wiser man.
His home at Shadwell had been burned,
and he removed to Monticello, a house
built on the same estate on a spur of the
Blue Ridge Mountains, five hundred feet
above the common level.
He went often to visit Mrs. Skelton
who made her home with her father after
her bereavement. Usually he took his
violin under his arm, and out of the
harmonies which came from the instru-
ment and the lady's spinet came the
greater one of love.
54 QHjreab* of <@rep atifc <f>olb
They were married in January of 1772.
The ceremony took place at "The Forest"
in Charles City County. The chronicles
describe the bride as a beautiful woman,
a little above medium height, finely formed,
and with graceful carriage. She was
well educated, read a great deal, and played
the spinet unusually well.
The wedding journey was a strange one.
It was a hundred miles from "The Forest "
to Monticello, and years afterward their
eldest daughter, Martha Jefferson Ran-
dolph, described it as follows:
"They left 'The Forest' after a fall of
snow, light then, but increasing in depth as
they advanced up the country. They were
finally obliged to quit the carriage and proceed
on horseback. They arrived late at night,
the fires were all out, and the servants had
retired to their own houses for the night.
The horrible dreariness of such a house, at
the end of such a journey, I have often heard
both relate."
Yet, the walls of Monticello, that
afterwards looked down upon so much
of jflonticdlo 55
sorrow and so much joy, must have long
remembered the home-coming of master
and mistress, for the young husband
found a bottle of old wine "on a shelf behind
some books," built a fire in the open fire-
place, and "they laughed and sang together
like two children.'*
And that life upon the hills proved very
nearly ideal. They walked and planned
and rode together, and kept house and
garden books in the most minute fashion.
Births and deaths followed each other
at Monticello, but there was nothing else
to mar the peace of that happy home.
Between husband and wife there was no
strife or discord, not a jar nor a rift in
that unity of life and purpose which
welds two souls into one.
Childish voices came and went, but two
daughters grew to womanhood, and in
the evening, the day's duties done, violin
and harpsichord sounded sweet strains
together.
They reared other children besides
their own, taking the helpless brood of
56 QDftreabg of <&rep anfc
Jefferson's sister into their hearts and
home when Dabney Carr died. Those
three sons and three daughters were
educated with his own children, and
lived to bless him as a second father.
One letter is extant which was written
to one of the nieces whom Jefferson so
cheerfully supported. It reads as follows :
"PARIS, June 14, 1787.
"I send you, my dear Patsey, the fifteen
livres you desired. You propose this to me
as an anticipation of five weeks' allowance,
but do you not see, my dear, how imprudent
it is to lay out in one moment what should
accommodate you for five weeks? This is
a departure from that rule which I wish to
see you governed by, thro' your whole life,
of never buying anything which you have
not the money in your pocket to pay for.
"Be sure that it gives much more pain to the
mind to be in debt than to do without any
article whatever which we may seem to want.
"The purchase you have made is one I am
always ready to make for you because it is my
wish to see you dressed always cleanly and a
little more than decently; but apply to me first
for the money before making the purchase,
if only to avoid breaking through your rule.
&age of fHonti cello 57
" Learn yourself the habit of adhering vigor-
ously to the rules you lay down for yourself.
I will come for you about eleven o'clock on
Saturday. Hurry the making of your gown,
and also your redingcote. You will go with
me some day next week to dine at the Marquis
Fayette. Adieu, my dear daughter,
"Yours affectionately,
"In. JEFFERSON"
Mrs. Jefferson's concern for her husband,
the loss of her children, and the weary
round of domestic duties at last told upon
her strong constitution.
After the birth of her sixth child, Lucy
Elizabeth, she sank rapidly, until at last it
was plain to every one, except the dis-
tracted husband, that she could never
recover.
Finally the blow fell. His daughter
Martha wrote of it as follows:
"Asa nurse no female ever had more tender-
ness or anxiety. He nursed my poor mother
in turn with Aunt Carr, and her own sister
sitting up with her and administering her
medicines and drink to the last.
"When at last he left his room, three weeks
after my mother's death, he rode out, and
58 Qtfjrea&a of <$rep anb
from that time, he was incessantly on horse-
back, rambling about the mountain."
Shortly afterward he received the ap-
pointment of Plenipotentiary to Europe, to
be associated with Franklin and Adams in
negotiating peace. He had twice refused
the same appointment, as he had promised
his wife that he would never again enter
public life, as long as she lived.
Columbia
SHE comes along old Ocean's trackless
way
A warrior scenting conflict from afar
And fearing not defeat nor battle-scar
Nor all the might of wind and dashing
spray;
Her foaming path to triumph none may
stay
For in the East, there shines her morning
star;
She feels her strength in every shining
spar
As one who grasps his sword and waits
for day.
Columbia, Defender! dost thou hear?
The clarion challenge sweeps the sea
And straight toward the lightship doth
she steer,
Her steadfast pulses sounding jubilee;
Arise, Defender! for thy way is clear
And all thy country's heart goes out to
thee.
59
Storp of a Daugbter's Olove
A ARON BURR was past-master of
** what Whistler calls "the gentle art
of making enemies!" Probably no man
ever lived who was more bitterly hated
or more fiercely reviled. Even at this day,
when he has been dead more than half
a century, his memory is still assailed.
It is the popular impression that he
was a villain. Perhaps he was, since
"where there is smoke, there must be
fire," but happily we have no concern
with the political part of his life. What-
ever he may have been, and whatever
dark deeds he may have done, there still
remains a redeeming feature which no
one has denied him his love for his
daughter, Theodosia.
One must remember that before Burr
was two years old, his father, mother,
60
3 J&ugftter'* ILobc 61
and grandparents were all dead. He
was reared by an uncle, Timothy Edwards,
who doubtless did his best, but the odds
were against the homeless child. Neither
must we forget that he fought in the
Revolution, bravely and well.
From his early years he was very
attractive to women. He was handsome,
distinguished, well dressed, and gifted
in many ways. He was generous, ready at
compliments and gallantry, and possessed
an all-compelling charm.
In the autumn of 1777, his regiment
was detailed for scouting duty in New
Jersey, which was then the debatable
ground between colonial and British
armies. In January of 1779, Colonel Bun-
was given command of the "lines" in
Westchester County, New York. It was
at this time that he first met Mrs. Prevost,
the widow of a British officer. She lived
across the Hudson, some fifteen miles
from shore, and the river was patrolled
by the gunboats of the British, and the
land by their sentries.
62 Sfjrcatjg of <&ttv anti
In spite of these difficulties, however,
Burr managed to make two calls upon
the lady, although they were both neces-
sarily informal. He sent six of his trusted
soldiers to a place on the Hudson, where
there was an overhanging bank under
which they moored a large boat, well
supplied with blankets and buffalo robes.
At nine o'clock in the evening he left
White Plains on the smallest and swiftest
horse he could procure, and when he
reached the rendezvous, the horse was
quickly bound and laid in the boat. Burr
and the six troopers stepped in, and in
half an hour they were across the ferry.
The horse was lifted out, and unbound,
and with a little rubbing he was again
ready for duty.
Before midnight, Burr was at the house
of his beloved, and at four in the morning
he came back to the troopers awaiting
him on the river bank, and the return
trip was made in the same manner.
For a year and a half after leaving the
army, Burr was an invalid, but in July,
9 JBaugfjter'g Hobe 63
1782, he married Mrs. Prevost. She was
a widow with two sons, and was ten years
older than her husband. Her health
was delicate and she had a scar on her
forehead, but her mind was finely culti-
vated and her manners charming.
Long after her death he said that if his
manners were more graceful than those of
some men, it was due to her influence, and
that his wife was the truest woman, and
most charming lady he had ever known.
It has been claimed by some that Burr's
married life was not a happy one, but
there are many letters still extant which
passed between them which seemed to
prove the contrary. Before marriage he
did not often write to her, but during his
absences afterward, the fondest wife could
have no reason to complain.
For instance:
"This morning came your truly welcome
letter of Monday evening," he wrote her at
one time. "Where did it loiter so long?"
"Nothing in my absence is so flattering to
me as your health and cheerfulness. I then
64 {Efjreafc* of &rep anto
contemplate nothing so eagerly as my return,
amuse myself with ideas of my own happiness,
and dwell upon the sweet domestic joys
which I fancy prepared for me.
" Nothing is so unfriendly to every species of
enjoyment as melancholy. Gloom, however
dressed, however caused, is incompatible with
friendship. They cannot have place in the
mind at the same time. It is the secret, the
malignant foe of sentiment and love."
He always wrote fondly of the children:
"My love to the smiling little girl," he said
in one letter. "I continually plan my return
with childish impatience, and fancy a thou-
sand incidents which are most interesting."
After five years of married life the wife
wrote him as follows :
"Your letters always afford me a singular
satisfaction, a sensation entirely my own.
This was peculiarly so. It wrought strange-
ly upon my mind and spirits. My Aaron,
it was replete with tenderness and with the
most lively affection. I read and re-read
till afraid I should get it by rote, and mingle
it with common ideas."
Soon after Burr entered politics, his
wife developed cancer of the most virulent
a Baugfjter'sf Hobc 65
character. Everything that money or
available skill could accomplish was done
for her, but she died after a lingering and
painful illness, in the spring of 1794
They had lived together happily for
twelve years, and he grieved for her deeply
and sincerely. Yet the greatest and most
absorbing passion of his life was for his
daughter, Theodosia, who was named for
her mother and was born in the first year
of their marriage. When little Theodosia
was first laid in her father's arms, all that
was best in him answered to her mute
plea for his affection, and later, all that
was best in him responded to her baby
smile.
Between those two, there was ever the
fullest confidence, never tarnished by
doubt or mistrust, and when all the world
forsook him, Theodosia, grown to woman-
hood, stood proudly by her father's side
and shared his blame as if it had been the
highest honour.
When she was a year or two old, they
moved to a large house at the corner of
66 3H)teati0 of <Srej> anb
Cedar and Nassau Streets, in New York
City. A large garden surrounded it and
there were grapevines in the rear. Here
the child grew strong and healthy, and
laid the foundations of her girlish beauty
and mature charm. When she was but
three years old her mother wrote to the
father, saying:
"Your dear little Theodosia cannot hear you
spoken of without an apparent melancholy;
insomuch, that her nurse is obliged to exert
her invention to divert her, and myself avoid
the mention of you in her presence. She
was one whole day indifferent to everything
but your name. Her attachment is not of
a common nature."
And again:
"Your dear little daughter seeks you twenty
times a day, calls you to your meals, and will
not suffer your chair to be filled by any of
the family."
The child was educated as if she had
been a boy. She learned to read Latin
and Greek fluently, and the accomplish-
ments of her time were not neglected.
<3 2iaugf)ter'd Ho be 67
When she was at school, the father wrote
her regularly, and did not allow one of
her letters to wait a day for its affectionate
answer. He corrected her spelling and
her grammar, instilled sound truths into
her mind, and formed her habits. From
this plastic clay, with inexpressible love
and patient toil, he shaped his ideal
woman.
She grew into a beautiful girl. Her
features were much like her father's.
She was petite, graceful, plump, rosy,
dignified, and gracious. In her manner,
there was a calm assurance the air of
mastery over all situations which she
doubtless inherited from him.
When she was eighteen years of age,
she married Joseph Alston of South Caro-
lina, and, with much pain at parting from
her father, she went there to live, after
seeing him inaugurated as Jefferson's
Vice-President. His only consolation was
her happiness, and when he returned
to New York, he wrote her that he
approached the old house as if it had been
68 {treab* of &rep anb
the sepulchre of all his friends. "Dreary,
solitary, comfortless it was no longer
home."
After her mother's death, Theodosia
had been the lady of his household and
reigned at the head of his table. When
he went back there was no loved face
opposite him, and the chill and loneliness
struck him to the heart.
For three years after her marriage,
Theodosia was blissfully happy. A boy
was born to her, and was named Aaron
Burr Alston. The Vice-President visited
them in the South and took his namesake
unreservedly into his heart. "If I can
see without prejudice," he said, "there
never was a finer boy."
His last act before fighting the duel
with Hamilton, was writing to his daugh-
ter a happy, gay, care-free letter, giving
no hint of what was impending. To her
husband he wrote in a different strain,
begging him to keep the event from her
as long as possible, to make her happy
always, and to encourage her in those
Hobe 69
habits of study which he himself had
taught her.
She had parted from him with no other
pain in her heart than the approaching
separation. When they met again, he
was a fugitive from justice, travel-stained
from his long journey in an open canoe,
indicted for murder in New York, and in
New Jersey, although still President of
the Senate, and Vice-President of the
United States.
The girl's heart ached bitterly, yet no
word of censure escaped her lips, and she
still held her head high. When his Mexi-
can scheme was overthrown, Theodosia
sat beside him at his trial, wearing her
absolute faith, so that all the world might
see.
When he was preparing for his flight
to Europe, Theodosia was in New York,
and they met by night, secretly, at the
house of friends. Just before he sailed,
they spent a whole night together, making
the best of the little time that remained
to them before the inevitable separation.
70 CJjrcntig of <>rep anb <&olb
Early in June they parted, little dreaming
that they should see each other no more.
During the years of exile, Theodosia
suffered no less than he. Mr. Alston had
lost his faith in Aaron Burr, and the
woman's heart strained beneath the bur-
den. Her health failed, her friends shrank
from her, yet openly and bravely she
clung to her father.
Public opinion showed no signs of
relenting, and his evil genius followed
him across the sea. He was expelled
from England, and in Paris he was almost
a prisoner. At one time he was obliged
to live upon potatoes and dry bread, and
his devoted daughter could not help him.
He was despised by his countrymen, but
Theodosia's adoring love never faltered.
In one of her letters she said:
"I witness your extraordinary fortitude
with new wonder at every misfortune.
Often, after reflecting on this subject, you
appear to me so superior, so elevated above
other men I contemplate you with such a
strange mixture of humility, admiration,
a Baugijter'a Hobe 71
reverence, love, and pride, that a very little
superstition would be necessary to make
me worship you as a superior being, such
enthusiasm does your character excite in me.
"When I afterward revert to myself, how
insignificant do my best qualities appear!
My own vanity would be greater if I had
riot been placed so near you, and yet, my
pride is in our relationship. I had rather
not live than not to be the daughter of
such a man."
She wrote to Mrs. Madison and asked
her to intercede with the President for
her father. The answer gave the required
assurance, and she wrote to her father,
urging him to go boldly to New York
and resume the practice of his profession.
"If worse comes to worst," she wrote,
I will leave everything to suffer with
you."
He landed in Boston and went on to
New York in May of 1812, where his
reception was better than he had hoped,
and where he soon had a lucrative practice.
They planned for him to come South in
the summer, and she was almost happy
72 {Efjreafcjs of <&rep anb
again, when her child died and her mother's
heart was broken.
She had borne much, and she never re-
covered from that last blow. Her health
failed rapidly, and though she was too
weak to undertake the trip, she insisted
upon going to New York to see her
father.
Thinking the voyage might prove bene-
ficial, her husband reluctantly consented,
and passage was engaged for her on a
pilot-boat that had been out privateering,
and had stopped for supplies before going
on to New York.
The vessel sailed and a storm swept
the Atlantic coast from Maine to Florida.
It was supposed that the ship went down
off Cape Hatteras, but forty years after-
ward, a sailor, who died in Texas, confessed
on his death-bed that he was one of a crew
of mutineers who took possession of the
Patriot and forced the passengers, as well,
as the officers and men, to walk the plank.
He professed to remember Mrs. Alston
well, and said she was the last one who
a Jiaugfjter'a Hobc 73
perished. He never forgot her look of
despair as she stepped into the sea with
her head held high even in the face of
death.
Among Theodosia's papers was found a
letter addressed to her husband, written
at a time when she was weary of the
struggle. On the envelope was written:
"My Husband. To be delivered after
my death. I wish this to be read imme-
diately and before my burial."
He never saw the letter, for he never had
the courage to go through her papers, and
after his death it was sent to her father.
It came to him like a message from the
grave:
"Let my father see my son, sometimes,"
she had written. "Do not be unkind to him
whom I have loved so much, I beseech of
you. Burn all my papers except my father's
letters, which I beg you to return to him."
A long time afterward, her father
married Madame Jumel, a rich New York
woman who was many years his junior,
but the alliance was unfortunate, and
74 tEfjreafca of <@rep anb
was soon annulled. Through all the rest of
his life, he never wholly gave up the hope
that Theodosia might return. He clung
fondly to the belief that she had been
picked up by another ship, and some day
would be brought back to him.
Day by day, he haunted the Battery,
anxiously searching the faces of the incom-
ing passengers, asking some of them for
tidings of his daughter, and always believ-
ing that the next ship would bring her back.
He became a familiar figure, for he was
almost always there a bent, shrunken
little man, white-haired, leaning heavily
upon his cane, asking questions in a thin
piping voice, and straining his dim eyes
forever toward the unsounded waters, from
whence the idol of his heart never came.
For out within those waters, cruel, change-
less,
She sleeps, beyond all rage of earth or
sea;
A smile upon her dear lips, dumb, but
waiting,
And I I hear the sea- voice calling me.
B
Sea^lDoice
EYOND the sands I hear the sea-
voice calling
With passion all but human in its pain,
While from my eyes the bitter tears are
falling,
And all the summer land seems blind
with rain;
For out within those waters, cruel, change-
less,
She sleeps, beyond all rage of earth or
sea,
A smile upon her dear lips, dumb, but
waiting,
And I I hear the sea-voice calling me.
The tide comes in. The moonlight flood
and glory
Of that unresting surge thrill earth with
bliss,
And I can hear the passionate sweet
story
Of waves that waited round her for her
kiss.
75
76 QHjreafcg of <@rep anb
Sweetheart, they love you; silent and
unseeing,
Old Ocean holds his court around you
there,
And while I reach out through the dark
to find you
His fingers twine the sea-weed in your
hair.
The tide goes out and in the dawn's new
splendour
The dreams of dark first fade, then pass
away,
And I awake from visions soft and tender
To face the shuddering agony of day
For out within those waters, cruel, change-
less,
She sleeps, beyond all rage of earth or
sea;
A smile upon her dear lips, dumb, but
waiting,
And I I hear the sea-voice calling me.
Gbe flDpsterp of IRanfcolpb's
Courtsbip
|T is said that in order to know a man,
one must begin with his ancestors, and
the truth of the saying is strikingly
exemplified in the case of "John Randolph
of Roanoke," as he loved to write his
name.
His contemporaries have told us what
manner of man he was fiery, excitable,
of strong passions and strong will, capable
of great bitterness, obstinate, revengeful,
and extremely sensitive.
" I have been all my life, " he says, "the
creature of impulse, the sport of chance,
the victim of my own uncontrolled and
uncontrollable sensations, and of a poetic
temperament."
He was sarcastic to a degree, proud,
haughty, and subject to fits of Byronic
77
78 {Efjreafcg of <&rej> anb
despair and morbid gloom. For these
traits we must look back to the Norman
Conquest from which he traced his descent
in an unbroken line, while, on the side of
his maternal grandmother, he was the
seventh in descent from Pocahontas,
the Indian maiden who married John
Rolfe.
The Indian blood was evident, even in
his personal appearance. He was tall,
slender, and dignified in his bearing; his
hands were thin, his fingers long and
bony; his face was dark, sallow, and
wrinkled, oval in shape and seamed with
lines by the inward conflict which forever
raged in his soul. His chin was pointed
but firm, and his lips were set ; around his
mouth were marked the tiny, almost
imperceptible lines which mean cruelty.
His nose was aquiline, his ears large at
the top, tapering almost to a point at the
lobe, and his forehead unusually high and
broad. His hair was soft, and his skin,
although dark, suffered from extreme sen-
sitiveness.
'* CourWfjip 79
"There is no accounting for thinness of skins
in different animals, human, or brute [he once
said]. Mine, I believe to be more tender
than many infants of a month old. Indeed I
have remarked in myself, from my earliest
recollection, a delicacy or effeminacy of com-
plexion, which but for a spice of the devil in
my temper would have consigned me to the
distaff or the needle."
"A spice of the devil" is mild indeed.
considering that before he was four years
old he frequently swooned in fits of passion,
and was restored to consciousness with
difficulty.
His most striking feature was his eyes.
They were deep, dark, and fiery, filled
with passion and great sadness at the
same time. "When he first entered an
assembly of people," said one who knew
him, "they were the eyes of the eagle in
search of his prey, darting about from place
to place to see upon whom to light. When
he was assailed they flashed fire and
proclaimed a torrent of rage within."
The voice of this great statesman was
a rare gift:
8o tEtjreabg of <@rep anb
" One might live a hundred years [says one,]
and never hear another like it. The wonder
was why the sweet tone of a woman was so
harmoniously blended with that of a man.
His very whisper could be distinguished above
the ordinary tones of other men. His voice
was so singularly clear, distinct, and melodious
that it was a positive pleasure to hear him
articulate anything."
Such was the man who swayed the
multitude at will, punished offenders with
sarcasm and invective, inspired fear even
in his equals, and loved and suffered more
than any other prominent man of his
generation.
He had many acquaintances, a few
friends, and three loves his mother, his
brother, and the beautiful young woman
who held his heart in the hollow of her
hand, until the Gray Angel, taking pity,
closed his eyes in the last sleep.
His mother, who was Frances Bland,
married John Randolph in 1769, and John
Randolph, of Roanoke, was their third son.
Tradition tells us of the unusual beauty
of the mother
&anfcolpf)'g Courtefjip 81
"the high expanded forehead, the smooth
arched brow ; the brilliant dark eyes ; the well
defined nose ; the full round laughing lips ; the
tall graceful figure, the beautiful dark hair;
an open cheerful countenance suffused with
that deep, rich Oriental tint which never
seems to fade, all of which made her the
most beautiful and attractive woman of her
age."
She was a wife at sixteen, and at
twenty-six a widow. Three years after
the death of her husband, she married
St. George Tucker, of Bermuda who
proved to be a kind father to her children.
In the winter of 1781, Benedict Arnold,
the traitor who had spread ruin through
his native state, was sent to Virginia on
an expedition of ravage. He landed at
the mouth of the James, and advanced
toward Petersburg. Matoax, Randolph's
home, was directly in the line of the
invading army, so the family set out on
a cold January morning, and at night
entered the home of Benjamin Ward, Jr.
John Randolph was seven years old,
and little Maria Ward had just passed
82 {Eijreabs of <&rep anb
her fifth birthday. The two children
played together happily, and in the boy's
heart was sown the seed of that grand
passion which dominated his life.
After a few days, the family went on
to Bizarre, a large estate on both sides
of the Appomattox, and here Mrs. Tucker
and her sons spent the remainder of
the year, while her husband joined General
Greene's army, and afterward, the force of
Lafayette.
In 1788, John Randolph's mother died,
and his first grief swept over him in an
overwhelming torrent. The boy of fifteen
spent bitter nights, his face buried in the
grass, sobbing over his mother's grave.
Years afterward, he wrote to a friend,
"I am a fatalist. I am all but friendless.
Only one human being ever knew me. She
only knew me."
He kept his mother's portrait always in
his room, and enshrined her in loving re-
membrance in his heart. He had never
seen his father's face to remember it dis-
tinctly, and for a long time he wore his
'* Courtefjip 83
miniature in his bosom. In 1796, his
brother Richard died, and the unexpected
blow crushed him to earth. More than
thirty years afterward he wrote to his
half-brother, Henry St. George Tucker,
the following note:
"DEAR HENRY
"Our poor brother Richard was born in
1770. He would have been fifty-six years
old the ninth of this month. I can no more.
"J.R. OFR."
At some time in his early manhood he
came into close relationship with Maria
Ward. She had been an attractive child,
and had grown into a woman so beautiful
that Lafayette said her equal could not
be found in North America. Her hair
was auburn, and hung in curls around
her face; her skin was exquisitely fair;
her eyes were dark and eloquent. Her
mouth was well formed; she was slender,
graceful, and coquettish, well-educated,
and in every way, charming.
To this woman, John Randolph's heart
went out in passionate, adoring love.
84 {Efjreab* of &rep anb <&olb
He might be bitter and sarcastic with
others, but with her he was gentleness
itself. Others might know him as a man
of affairs, keen and logical, but to her
he was only a lover.
Timid and hesitating at first, afraid
perhaps of his fiery wooing, Miss Ward
kept him for some time in suspense. All
the treasures of his mind and soul were
laid before her; that deep, eloquent voice
which moved the multitude to tears at its
master's will was pleading with a woman
for her love.
What wonder that she yielded at last
and promised to marry him? Then for
a time everything else was forgotten.
The world lay before him to be conquered
when he might choose. Nothing would
be too great for him to accomplish
nothing impossible to that eager joyous
soul enthroned at last upon the greatest
heights of human happiness. And then
there was a change. He rode to her home
one day, tying his horse outside as was
his wont. A little later he strode out,
'* Courtstjip 85
shaking like an aspen, his face white in
agony. He drew his knife from his
pocket, cut the bridle of his horse, dug
his spurs into the quivering sides, and
was off like the wind. What battle was
fought out on that wild ride is known only
to John Randolph and his God. What
torture that fiery soul went through, no
human being can ever know. When he
came back at night, he was so changed
that no one dared to speak to him.
He threw himself into the political
arena in order to save his reason. Often
at midnight, he would rise from his uneasy
bed, buckle on his pistols, and ride like
mad over the country, returning only
when his horse was spent. He never
saw Miss Ward again, and she married
Peyton Randolph, the son of Edmund
Randolph, who was Secretary of State
under Washington.
The entire affair is shrouded in mystery.
There is not a letter, nor a single scrap
of paper, nor a shred of evidence upon
which to base even a presumption. The
86 QHbrea&g of <&rep anfc <&olb
separation was final and complete, and
the white-hot metal of the man's nature
was gradually moulded into that strange
eccentric being whose foibles are so well
known.
Only once did Randolph lift even a
corner of the veil. In a letter to his
dearest friend he spoke of her as:
"One I loved better than my own soul, or
Him who created it. My apathy is not
natural, but superinduced. There was a
volcano under my ice, but it burnt out, and
a face of desolation has come on, not to be
rectified in ages, could my life be prolonged
to patriarchal longevity.
"The necessity of loving and being loved
was never felt by the imaginary beings of
Rousseau and Byron's creation, more im-
periously than by myself. My heart was
offered with a devotion that knew no reserve.
Long an object of proscription and treachery,
I have at last, more mortifying to the pride of
man, become an object of utter indifference."
The brilliant statesman would doubtless
have had a large liberty of choice among
the many beautiful women of his circle,
but he never married, and there is no
i\anfcolpb' Courtship 87
record of any entanglement. To the few
women he deemed worthy of his respect
and admiration, he was deferential and
even gallant. In one of his letters to a
young relative he said:
"Love to god-son Randolph and respectful
compliments to Mrs. R. She is indeed a fine
woman, one for whom I have felt a true
regard, unmixed with the foible of another
passion.
"Fortunately or unfortunately for me, when
I knew her, I bore a charmed heart. Nothing
else could have preserved me from the full
force Oi -er attractions."
For much of the time after his dis-
appointment, he lived alone with his
servants, solaced as far as possible by
those friends of all mankind books.
When the spirit moved him, he would
make visits to the neighbouring planta-
tions, sometimes dressed in white flannel
trousers, coat, and vest, and with white
paper wrapped around his beaver hat!
When he presented himself in this manner,
riding horseback, with his dark eyes burn-
88 tCijrcatis of (Seep anb
ing, he was said to have presented "a
most ghostly appearance!"
An old lady who lived for years on the
banks of the Staunton, near Randolph's
solitary home, tells a pathetic story :
She was sitting alone in her room in the
dead of winter, when a beautiful woman,
pale as a ghost, dressed entirely in white,
suddenly appeared before her, and began
to talk about Mr. Randolph, saying he
was her lover and would marry her yet, as
he had never proved false to his plighted
faith. She talked of him incessantly,
like one deranged, until a young gentleman
came by the house, leading a horse with
a side-saddle on. She rushed out, and
asked his permission to ride a few miles.
Greatly to his surprise, she mounted with-
out assistance, and sat astride like a man.
He was much embarrassed, but had no
choice except to escort her to the end of
her journey.
The old lady who tells of this strange
experience says that the young woman
several times visited Mr. Randolph, al-
Kanbolptj's Courtship 89
ways dressed in white and usually in
the dead of winter. He always put her
on a horse and sent her away with a ser-
vant to escort her.
In his life there were but two women
his mother and Maria Ward. While
his lips were closed on the subject of his
love, he did not hesitate to avow his
misery. "I too am wretched," he would
say with infinite pathos; and after her
death, he spoke of Maria Ward as his
"angel."
In a letter written sometime after she
died, he said, strangely enough : "I loved,
aye, and was loved again, not wisely,
but too well."
His brilliant career was closed when
he was sixty years old, and in his last
illness, during delirium, the name of Maria
was frequently heard by those who were
anxiously watching with him. But, true
to himself and to her, even when his
reason was dethroned, he said nothing
more.
He was buried on his own plantation,
in the midst of "that boundless contiguity
of shade," with his secret locked forever
in his tortured breast. "John Randolph
of Roanoke," was all the title he claimed;
but the history of those times teaches
us that he was more than that he was
John Randolph, of the Republic.
Ibow preeibent Jackson Udon
Ibis mite
|N October of 1788, a. little company of
immigrants arrived in Tennessee. The
star of empire, which is said to move
westward, had not yet illumined Nashville,
and it was one of the dangerous points
"on the frontier."
The settlement was surrounded on all
sides by hostile Indians. Men worked
in the fields, but dared not go out to their
daily task without being heavily armed.
When two men met, and stopped for
a moment to talk, they often stood back
to back, with their rifles cocked ready
for instant use. No one stooped to drink
from a spring unless another guarded
him, and the women were always attended
by an armed force.
Col. John Donelson had built for himself
91
of <0rep anb (Solfo
a blockhouse of unusual size and strength,
and furnished it comfortably; but while
surveying a piece of land near the village,
he was killed by the savages, and his
widow left to support herself as best she
could.
A married daughter and her husband
lived with her, but it was necessary for
her to take other boarders. One day
there was a vigorous rap upon the stout
door of the blockhouse, and a young man
whose name was Andrew Jackson was
admitted. Shortly afterward, he took
up his abode as a regular boarder at the
Widow Donelson's.
The future President was then twenty-
one or twenty-two. He was tall and
slender, with every muscle developed
to its utmost strength. He had an
attractive face, pleasing manners, and
made himself agreeable to every one in
the house.
The dangers of the frontier were but
minor incidents in his estimation, for "des-
perate courage makes one a majority,"
feotu 3Tack*on IKon &te ZHif e 93
and he had courage. When he was but
thirteen years of age, he had boldly defied
a British officer who had ordered him to
clean some cavalry boots.
"Sir," said the boy, "I am a prisoner of
war, and I claim to be treated as such!"
With an oath the officer drew his sword,
and struck at the child's head. He parried
the blow with his left arm, but received
a severe wound on his head and another
on his arm, the scars of which he always
carried.
The protecting presence of such a man
was welcome to those who dwelt in the
blockhouse Mrs. Donelson, Mr. and Mrs.
Robards, and another boarder, John Over-
ton. Mrs. Donelson was a good cook
and a notable housekeeper, while her
daughter was said to be "the best story
teller, the best dancer, the sprightliest
companion, and the most dashing horse-
woman in the western country. "
Jackson, as the only licensed lawyer
in that part of Tennessee, soon had plenty
of business on his hands, and his life in
94 Qftjreatis of <&rep antj
the blockhouse was a happy one until
he learned that the serpent of jealousy
lurked by that fireside.
Mrs. Robards was a comely brunette,
and her dusky beauty carried with it an
irresistible appeal. Jackson soon learned
that Captain Robards was unreasonably
and even insanely jealous of his wife, and
he learned from John Overton that before
his arrival there had been a great deal of
unhappiness because of this.
At one time Captain Robards had
written to Mrs. Donelson to take her
daughter home, as he did not wish to
live with her any longer; but through
the efforts of Mr. Overton a reconciliation
had been effected between the pair, and
they were still living together at Mrs.
Donelson's when Jackson went there to
board.
In a short time, however, Robards be-
came violently jealous of Jackson and
talked abusively to his wife, even in the
presence of her mother and amidst the
tears of both. Once more Overton inter-
f ackaon I on 2te Kttf e 95
fered, assured Robards that his suspicions
were groundless, and reproached him for
his unmanly conduct.
It was all in vain, however, and the
family was in as unhappy a state as before,
when they were living with the Captain's
mother who had always taken the part of
her daughter-in-law.
At length Overton spoke to Jackson
about it, telling him it was better not to
remain where his presence made so much
trouble, and offered to go with him to
another boarding-place. Jackson readily
assented, though neither of them knew
where to go, and said that he would talk
to Captain Robards.
The men met near the orchard fence,
and Jackson remonstrated with the
Captain who grew violently angry and
threatened to strike him. Jackson told
him that he would not advise him to try
to fight, but if he insisted, he would try
to give him satisfaction. Nothing came
of the discussion, however, as Robards
seemed willing to take Jackson's advice
96 SDijrea&g a! <0rep anti
and did not dare to strike him. But the
coward continued to abuse his wife, and
insulted Jackson at every opportunity.
The result was that the young lawyer
left the house.
A few months later, the still raging hus-
band left his wife and went to Kentucky,
which was then a part of Virginia. Soon
afterward, Mrs. Robards went to live
with her sister, Mrs. Hay, and Overton
returned to Mrs. Donelson's.
In the following autumn there was a
rumour that Captain Robards intended to
return to Tennessee and take his wife to
Kentucky, at which Mrs. Donelson and
her daughter were greatly distressed. Mrs.
Robards wept bitterly, and said it was im-
possible for her to live peaceably with her
husband as she had tried it twice and failed.
She determined to go down the river to
Natchez, to a friend, and thus avoid her
husband, who she said had threatened to
haunt her.
When Jackson heard of this arrange-
ment he was very much troubled, for he
ZSon &is Klife 97
felt that he had been the unwilling cause
of the young wife's unhappiness, although
entirely innocent of any wrong intention.
So when Mrs. Robards had fully deter-
mined to undertake the journey to Natchez,
accompanied only by Colonel Stark and
his family, he offered to go with them as
an additional protection against the In-
dians who were then especially active, and
his escort was very gladly accepted. The
trip was made in safety, and after seeing
the lady settled with her friends, he re-
turned to Nashville and resumed his law
practice.
At that time there was no divorce law
in Virginia, and each separate divorce
required the passage of an act of the
legislature before a jury could consider
the case. In the winter of 1791, Captain
Robards obtained the passage of such
an act, authorising the court of Mercer
County to act upon his divorce. Mrs.
Robards, hearing of this, understood that
the passage of the act was, in itself,
divorce, and that she was a free woman.
98 QH)reafe of <&rep nub
Jackson also took the divorce for granted.
Every one in the country so understood
the matter, and at Natchez, in the follow-
ing summer, the two were married.
They returned to Nashville, settled
down, and Jackson began in earnest the
career that was to land him in the White
House, the hero of the nation.
In December of 1793, more than two
years after their marriage, their friend
Overton learned that the legislature had
not granted a divorce, but had left it
for the court to do so. Jackson was
much chagrined when he heard of this,
and it was with great difficulty that he
was brought to believe it. In January
of 1794, when the decree was finally
obtained, they were married again.
It is difficult to excuse Jackson for
marrying the woman without positive
and absolute knowledge of her divorce.
He was a lawyer, and could have learned
the facts of the case, even though there
was no established mail service. Each
of them had been entirely innocent of
Men &>ts fc&tfc 99
any intentional wrong-doing, and their
long life together, their great devotion
to each other, and General Jackson's
honourable career, forever silenced the
spiteful calumny of his rivals and enemies
of early life.
In his eyes his wife was the soul of
honour and purity; he loved and rever-
enced her as a man loves and reverences
but one woman in his lifetime, and for
thirty-seven years he kept a pair of pistols
loaded for the man who should dare to
breathe her name without respect.
The famous pistol duel with Dickinson
was the result of a quarrel which had its
beginning in a remark reflecting upon
Mrs. Jackson, and Dickinson, though a
crack shot, paid for it with his life.
Several of Dickinson's friends sent
a memorial to the proprietors of the
Impartial Review, asking that the next
number of the paper appear in mourning,
"out of respect for the memory, and
regret for the untimely death, of Mr.
Charles Dickinson."
ioo tEfjreaba of &rep anfc
"Old Hickory" heard of this movement,
and wrote to the proprietors, asking that
the names of the gentlemen making the
request be published in the memorial
number of the paper. This also was
agreed to, and it is significant that twenty-
six of the seventy-three men who had
signed the petition called and erased
their names from the document.
"The Hermitage" at Nashville, which
is still a very attractive spot for visitors,
was built solely to please Mrs. Jackson,
and there she dispensed gracious hospi-
tality. Not merely a guest or two, but
whole families, came for weeks at a time,
for the mistress of the mansion was fond
of entertaining, and proved herself a
charming hostess. She had a good mem-
ory, had passed through many and greatly
varied experiences, and above all she had
that rare faculty which is called tact.
Though her husband's love for her
was evident to every one, yet, in the
presence of others, he always maintained
a dignified reserve. He never spoke of her
101
as "Rachel," nor addressed her as "My
Dear." It was always "Mrs. Jackson,"
or "wife." She always called him "Mr.
Jackson," never "Andrew" nor "General."
Both of them greatly desired children,
but this blessing was denied them; so they
adopted a boy, the child of Mrs. Jackson's
brother, naming him " Andrew Jackson, "
and bringing him up as their own child.
The lady's portrait shows her to have
been wonderfully attractive. It does not
reveal the dusky Oriental tint of her
skin, the ripe red of her lips, nor the
changing lights in her face, but it shows
the high forehead, the dark soft hair,
the fine eyes, and the tempting mouth
which was smiling, yet serene. A lace
head-dress is worn over the waving hair,
and the filmy folds fall softly over neck
and bosom.
When Jackson was elected to the
Presidency, the ladies of Nashville or-
ganized themselves into sewing circles
to prepare Mrs. Jackson's wardrobe. It
was a labour of love. On December 23,
102 {Eljrcafcfi of <&rep anb <&olb
1828, there was to be a grand banquet
in Jackson's honour, and the devoted
women of their home city had made
a beautiful gown for his wife to wear at
the dinner. At sunrise the preparations
began. The tables were set, the dining-
room decorated, and the officers and men
of the troop that was to escort the Presi-
dent-elect were preparing to go to the home
and attend him on the long ride into the
city. Their horses were saddled and in
readiness at the place of meeting. As the
bugle sounded the summons to mount, a
breathless messenger appeared on a horse
flecked with foam. Mrs. Jackson had
died of heart disease the evening before.
The festival was changed to a funeral,
and the trumpets and drums that were to
have sounded salute were muffled in
black. All decorations were taken down,
and the church bells tolled mournfully.
The grief of the people was beyond speech.
Each one felt a personal loss.
At the home the blow was terrible.
The lover-husband would not leave his
103
wife. In those bitter hours the highest
gift of his countrymen was an empty
triumph, for his soul was wrecked with
the greatness of his loss.
When she was buried at the foot of a
slope in the garden of "The Hermitage,"
his bereavement came home to him with
crushing strength. Back of the open grave
stood a great throng of people, waiting in
the wintry wind. The sun shone brightly
on the snow, but "The Hermitage" was
desolate, for its light and laughter and love
were gone. The casket was carried down
the slope, and a long way behind it came
the General, slowly and almost helpless,
between two of his friends.
The people of Nashville had made ready
to greet him with the blare of bugles,
waving flags, the clash of cymbals, and
resounding cheers. It was for the Presi-
dent-elect the hero of the war. The
throng that stood behind the open grave
greeted him with sobs and tears not
the President-elect, but the man bowed
by his sixty years, bareheaded, with his
104 ^fjreafca of <0re|> antJ
gray hair rumpled in the wind, staggering
toward them in the throes of his bitterest
grief.
In that one night he had grown old.
He looked like a man stricken beyond
all hope. When his old friends gathered
around him with the tears streaming down
their cheeks, wringing his hand in silent
sympathy, he could make no response.
He was never the same again, though his
strength of will and his desperate courage
fought with this infinite pain. For the
rest of his life he lived as she would have
had him live guided his actions by the
thought of what his wife, if living, would
have had him do loving her still, with the
love that passeth all understanding.
He declined the sarcophagus fit for an
emperor, that he might be buried like a
simple citizen, in the garden by her side.
His last words were of her his last look
rested upon her portrait that hung oppo-
site his bed, and if there be dreaming in
the dark, the vision of her brought him
peace at last.
Bachelor preeifcent's 1o\>alt\>
to a
T^HE fifteenth President was remarkable
* among the men of his time for his
life-long fidelity to one woman, for since
the days of knight-errantry such devotion
has been as rare as it is beautiful. The
young lawyer came of Scotch-Irish parent-
age, and to this blending of blood were
probably in part due his deep love and
steadfastness. There was rather more of
the Irish than of the Scotch in his face, and
when we read that his overflowing spirits
were too much for the college in which he
had been placed, and that, for "reasons
of public policy," the honours which he
had earned were on commencement day
given to another, it is evident that he may
sometimes have felt that he owed allegiance
primarily to the Emerald Isle.
105
io6 tCfjrcalisf of <&rep anb
Like others, who have been capable of
deep and lasting passion, James Buchanan
loved his mother. Among his papers
there was found a fragment of an auto-
biography, which ended in 1816, when
the writer was only twenty-five years
of age. He says his father was "a kind
father, a sincere friend, and an honest
and religious man," but on the subject
of his mother he waxes eloquent :
"Considering her limited opportunities in
early life [he writes], my mother was a
remarkable woman. The daughter of a
country fanner, engaged in household em-
ployment from early life until after my
father's death, she yet found time to read
much, and to reflect deeply on what she
read.
She had a great fondness for poetry, and
could repeat with ease all the passages in her
favorite authors which struck her fancy.
These were Milton, Pope, Young, Cowper,
and Thompson.
I do not think, at least until a late period
in life, she had ever read a criticism on any
one of these authors, and yet such was the
correctness of her natural taste, that she
had selected for herself, and could repeat,
JSacijelor $reaifcent'* Hopaltp 107
every passage in them which has been ad-
mired. . . .
"For her sons, as they grew up successively,
she was a delightful and instructive compan-
ion. . . . She was a woman of great firmness
of character, and bore the afflictions of her
later life with Christian philosophy. . . .
It was chiefly to her influence, that her sons
were indebted for a liberal education. Under
Providence I attribute any little distinction
which I may have acquired in the world to
the blessing which He conferred upon me in
granting me such a mother."
If Elizabeth Buchanan could have read
these words, doubtless she would have
felt fully repaid for her many years of
toil, self-sacrifice, and devotion.
After the young man left the legislature
and took up the practice of law, with the
intention of spending his life at the bar,
he became engaged to Anne Coleman, the
daughter of Robert Coleman, of Lancaster.
She is said to have been an unusu-
ally beautiful girl, quiet, gentle, modest,
womanly, and extremely sensitive. The
fine feelings of a delicately organized
nature may easily become either a bless-
io8 {Efjreafc* of &rep anfc
ing or a curse, and on account of her
sensitiveness there was a rupture for which
neither can be very greatly blamed.
Mr. Coleman approved of the engage-
ment, and the happy lover worked hard
to make a home for the idol of his heart.
One day, out of the blue sky a thunderbolt
fell. He received a note from Miss
Coleman asking him to release her from
her engagement.
There was no explanation forthcoming,
and it was not until long afterward that
he discovered that busy-bodies and gossips
had gone to Miss Coleman with stories
concerning him which had no foundation
save in their mischief -making imaginations,
and which she would not repeat to him.
After all his efforts at re-establishing the
old relations had proved useless, he wrote
to her that if it were her wish to be re-
leased from her engagement he could
but submit, as he had no desire to hold
her against her will.
The break came in the latter part of
the summer of 1819, when he was twenty-
JSarfjelor ^retfibent'* 3Lopaltp 109
eight years old and she was in her twenty-
third year. He threw himself into his
work with renewed energy, and later on
she went to visit friends in Philadelphia.
Though she was too proud to admit it,
there was evidence that the beautiful
and high-spirited girl was suffering from
heartache. On the ninth of December,
she died suddenly, and her body was
brought home just a week after she left
Lancaster. The funeral took place the
next day, Sunday, and to the suffering
father of the girl, the heart-broken lover
wrote a letter which in simple pathos
stands almost alone. It is the only
document on this subject which remains,
but in these few lines is hidden a tragedy :
" LANCASTER, December 10, 1819.
"MY DEAR SIR:
"You have lost a child, a dear, dear child.
I have lost the only earthly object of my
affections, without whom, life now presents
to me a dreary blank. My prospects are
all cut off, and I feel that my happiness will
be buried with her in her grave.
"It is now no time for explanation, but the
time will come when you will discover that
i io {EijreaW of (Step anfc
she, as well as I, has been greatly abused.
God forgive the authors of it! My feelings
of resentment against them, whoever they
may be, are buried in the dust.
"I have now one request to make, and for
the love of God, and of your dear departed
daughter, whom I loved infinitely more than
any human being could love, deny me not.
Afford me the melancholy pleasure of seeing
her body before its interment. I would not,
for the world, be denied this request.
" I might make another, but from the mis-
representations that have been made to you,
I am almost afraid. I would like to follow
her remains, to the grave as a mourner. I
would like to convince the world, I hope
yet to convince you, that she was infinitely
dearer to me than life.
" I may sustain the shock of her death, but
I feel that happiness has fled from me for-
ever. The prayer which I make to God
without ceasing is, that I yet may be able
to show my veneration for the memory of
my dear, departed saint, by my respect and
attachment for her surviving friends.
" May Heaven bless you and enable you
to bear the shock with the fortitude of a
Christian.
" I am forever, your sincere and grateful
friend,
"JAMES BUCHANAN."
in
The father returned the letter unopened
and without comment. Death had only
widened the breach. It would have been
gratifying to know that the two lovers
were together for a moment at the end.
For such a meeting as that there are no
words but Edwin Arnold's :
"But he who loved her too well to dread
The sweet, the stately, the beautiful dead
He lit his lamp, and took the key,
And turn'd it ! alone again he and she ! "
For him there was not even a glimpse
of her as she lay in her coffin, nor a whisper
that some day, like Evelyn Hope, sue
might "wake, and remember and under-
stand." With that love that asks only
for the right to serve, and feeling perhaps
that no pen could do her justice, he
obtained permission to write a paragraph
for a local paper, which was published un-
signed:
"Departed this life, on Thursday morning
last, in the twenty-third year of her age,
while on a visit to friends in the city of
Philadelphia, Miss Anne C. Coleman, daugh-
of &rep anb
ter of Robert Coleman, Esquire of this city.
It rarely falls to our lot to shed a tear over
the remains of one so much and so deservedly
beloved as was the deceased. She was
everything which the fondest parent, or the
fondest friend could have wished her to be.
Although she was young and beautiful
and accomplished, and the smiles of fortune
shone upon her, yet her native modesty and
worth made her unconscious of her own
attractions. Her heart was the seat of all
the softer virtues which ennoble and dignify
the character of woman.
She has now gone to a world, where, in
the bosom of her God, she will be happy
with congenial spirits. May the memory
of her virtues be ever green in the hearts
of her surviving friends. May her mild
spirit, which on earth still breathes peace and
good will, be their guardian angel to pre-
serve them from the faults to which she was
ever a stranger.
"The spider's most attenuated thread
Is cord, is cable, to man's tender tie
On earthly bliss it breaks at every breeze."
How deeply he felt her death is shown
by extracts from a letter written to him by
a friend in the latter part of December:
IBacfjelot -present's; Hopaltp 113
" I am writing, I know not why, and perhaps
had better not. I write only to speak of the
awful visitation of Providence that has
fallen upon you, and how deeply I feel it. ...
I trust to your philosophy and courage, and
to the elasticity of spirits natural to most
young men. . . .
The sun will shine again, though a man
enveloped in gloom always thinks the dark-
ness is to be eternal. Do you remember
the Spanish anecdote?
A lady who had lost a favorite child re-
mained for months sunk in sullen sorrow and
despair. Her confessor, one morning visited
her, and found her, as usual immersed in
gloom and grief. 'What,' said he, 'Have
you not forgiven God Almighty?'
She rose, exerted herself, joined the world
again, and became useful to herself and her
friends."
Time's kindly touch heals many wounds,
but the years seemed to bring to James
Buchanan no surcease of sorrow. He
was always under the cloud of that mis-
understanding, and during his long politi-
cal career, the incident frequently served
as a butt for the calumnies of his enemies.
It was freely used in "campaign docu-
of <&rej> anb
ments," perverted, misrepresented, and
twisted into every conceivable shape,
though it is difficult to conceive how
any form of humanity could ever be so
base.
Next to the loss of the girl he loved,
this was the greatest grief of his life. To
see the name of his "dear, departed saint"
dragged into newspaper notoriety was
absolute torture. Denial was useless, and
pleading had no effect. After he had
retired to his home at Wheatland, and
when he was past seventy when Anne
Coleman's beautiful body had gone back
to the dust, there was a long article in
a newspaper about the affair, accompanied
by the usual misrepresentations.
To a friend, he said, with deep emotion :
"In my safety-deposit box in New York
there is a sealed package, containing papers
and relics which will explain everything.
Sometime, when I am dead, the world
will know and absolve."
But after his death, when his executors
found the package, there was a direction
115
on the outside: "To be burned unopened
at my death."
He chose silence rather than vindication
at the risk of having Anne Coleman's
name again brought into publicity. In
that little parcel there was doubtless
full exoneration, but at the end, as always,
he nobly bore the blame.
It happened that the letter he had
written to her father was not in this
package, but among his papers at Wheat-
land- otherwise that pathetic request
would also have been burned.
Through all his life he remained true
to Anne's memory. Under the continual
public attacks his grief became one that
even his friends forebore to speak of,
and he had a chivalrous regard for all
women, because of his love for one. His
social instincts were strong, his nature af-
fectionate and steadfast, yet it was owing
to his disappointment that he became
President. At one time, when he was in
London, he said to an intimate friend:
"I never intended to engage in politics,
n6 Sfireabtf of (Step ant> <&olb
but meant to follow my profession strictly.
But my prospects and plans were all
changed by a most sad event, which
happened at Lancaster when I was a
young man. As a distraction from my
grief, and because I saw that through a
political following I could secure the friends
I then needed, I accepted a nomination."
A beautiful side of his character is
shown in his devotion to his niece, Harriet
Lane. He was to her always a faithful
father. When she was away at school
or otherwise separated from him, he wrote
to her regularly, never failing to assure
her of his affection, and received her love
and confidence in return. In 1865, when
she wrote to him of her engagement, he
replied, in part, as follows:
"I believe you say truly that nothing would
have induced you to leave me, in good or
evil fortune, if I had wished you to remain
with me.
"Such a wish on my part 'would be very
selfish. You have long known my desire
that you should marry whenever a suitor
worthy of you should offer. Indeed, it has
$tad)elor ipreaifcent's Hopaltp 117
been my strong desire to see you settled in
the world before my death. You have now
made your own unbiased choice; and from
the character of Mr. Johnston, I anticipate
for you a happy marriage, because I believe
from your own good sense, you will conform
to your conductor, and make him a good and
loving wife."
The days passed in retirement at
Wheatland were filled with quiet content.
The end came as peacefully as the night
itself. He awoke from a gentle sleep,
murmured, " O Lord, God Almighty,
as Thou wilt!" and passed serenely into
that other sleep, which knows not dreams.
The impenetrable veil between us and
eternity permits no lifting of its folds;
there is no parting of its grey ness, save
for a passage, but perhaps, in "that un-
discovered country from whose bourne
no traveller returns" Anne Coleman and
her. lover have met once more, and the
long life of faithfulness at last has won
her pardon.
decoration S>a\>
1THE trees bow their heads in sorrow,
While their giant branches wave,
With the requiems of the forest,
To the dead in a soldier's grave.
The pitying rain falls softly,
In grief for a nation's brave,
Who died 'neath the scourge of treason
And rest in a lonely grave.
So, under the willow and cypress
We lay our dead away,
And cover their graves with blossoms,
But the debt we never can pay.
All nature is bathed in tears,
On our sad Memorial day,
When we crown the valour of heroes
With flowers from the garments of May
118
"Romance of tbe %ife of
^Lincoln
ID Y the slow passing of years humanity
*-J attains what is called the "historical
perspective," but it is still a mooted ques-
tion as to how many years are necessary.
We think of Lincoln as a great leader,
and it is difficult to imagine him as a
lover. He was at the helm of "the Ship
of State" in the most fearful storm it ever
passed through; he struck off the shackles
of a fettered people, and was crowned with
martyrdom; yet in spite of his greatness,
he loved like other men.
There is no record for Lincoln's earlier
years of the boyish love which comes to
many men in their school days. The
great passion of his life came to him in
manhood but with no whit of its sweetness
gone. Sweet Anne Rutledge ! There are
119
120 {Efjreab* of <&rep anb
those who remember her well, and to this
day in speaking of her, their eyes fill with
tears. A lady who knew her says: "Miss
Rutledge had auburn hair, blue eyes, and
a fair complexion. She was pretty, rather
slender, and good-hearted, beloved by all
who knew her. "
Before Lincoln loved her, she had a
sad experience with another man. About
the time that he came to New Salem, a
young man named John McNeil drifted
in from one of the Eastern States. He
worked hard, was plucky and industrious,
and soon accumulated a little property.
He met Anne Rutledge when she was but
seventeen and still in school, and he
began to pay her especial attention which
at last culminated in their engagement.
He was about going back to New York
for a visit and leaving he told Anne that
his name was not McNeil, but McNamar
that he had changed his name so that his
dependent family might not follow him
and settle down upon him before he was
able to support them. Now that he was
Romance of tfje ILile of Htncoln 121
in a position to aid his parents, brothers,
and sisters, he was going back to do it and
upon his return would make Anne his wife.
For a long time she did not hear from
him at all, and gossip was rife in New
Salem. His letters became more formal
and less frequent and finally ceased al-
together. The girl's proud spirit com-
pelled her to hold her head high amid
the impertinent questions of the neighbors.
Lincoln had heard of the strange conduct
of McNeil and concluding that there was
now no tie between Miss Rutledge and
her quondam lover, he began his own
siege in earnest. Anne consented at last
to marry him provided he gave her time
to write to McNamar and obtain a release
from the pledge which she felt was still
binding upon her.
She wrote, but there r*^s no answer and
at last she definitely accepted Lincoln.
It was necessary for him to complete
his law studies, and after that, he said,
"Nothing on God's footstool shall keep us
apart. "
122 QH)tea&g of <&rep ant)
He worked happily but a sore conflict
seemed to be raging in Anne's tender heart
and conscience, and finally the strain told
upon her to such an extent that when she
was attacked by a fever, she had little
strength to resist it.
The summer waned and Anne's life
ebbed with it. At the very end of her
illness, when all visitors were forbidden,
she insisted upon seeing Lincoln. He
went to her and closed the door be-
tween them and the world. It was his
last hour with her. When he came out,
his face was white with the agony of
parting.
A few days later, she died and Lincoln
was almost insane with grief. He walked
for hours in the woods, refused to eat,
would speak to no one, and there settled
upon him that profound melancholy which
came back, time and again, during the
after years. To one friend he said: "I
cannot bear to think that the rain and
storms will beat upon her grave. "
When the days were dark and stormy
Romance of tfje Htfe of Lincoln 123
he was constantly watched, as his friends
feared he would take his own life. Finally,
he was persuaded to go away to the house
of a friend who lived at some distance,
and here he remained until he was ready
to face the world again.
A few weeks after Anne's burial, Mc-
Namar returned to New Salem. On his
arrival he met Lincoln at the post-office
and both were sorely distressed. He
made no explanation of his absence, and
shortly seemed to forget about Miss
Rutledge, but her grave was in Lincoln's
heart until the bullet of the assassin
struck him down.
In October of 1833, Lincoln met Miss
Mary Owens, and admired her though
not extravagantly. From all accounts,
she was an unusual woman. She was tall,
full in figure, with blue eyes and dark hair;
she was well educated and quite popular
in the little community. She was away
for a time, but returned to New Salem in
1836, and Lincoln at once began to call
upon her, enjoying her wit and beauty.
124 l&ftreaba of <&rcp anb
At that time she was about twenty-eight
years old.
One day Miss Owens was out walking
with a lady friend and when they came to
the foot of a steep hill, Lincoln joined them.
He walked behind with Miss Owens, and
talked with her, quite oblivious to the
fact that her friend was carrying a heavy
baby. When they reached the summit,
Miss Owens said laughingly: "You
would not make a good husband, Abe."
They sat on the fence and a wordy
discussion followed. Both were angry
when they parted, and the breach was not
healed for some time. It was poor policy
to quarrel, since some time before he had
proposed to Miss Owens, and she had
asked for time in which to consider it
before giving a final answer. His letters
to her are not what one would call "love-
letters." One begins in this way:
MARY: I have been sick ever since my
arrival, or I should have written sooner. It
is but little difference, however, as I have very
little even yet to write. And more, the
Cfje Romance of nje Hilt of Uttuoln 125
longer I can avoid the mortification of
looking in the post-office for your letter, and
not finding it, the better. You see I am mad
about that old letter yet. I don't like very
well to risk you again. I '11 try you once
more, anyhow.
The remainder of the letter deals with
political matters and is signed simply
"Your Friend Lincoln."
In another letter written the following
year he says to her:
I am often thinking about what we said
of your coming to live at Springfield. I am
afraid you would not be satisfied. There is
a great deal of flourishing about in carriages
here, which it would be your doom to see
without sharing it. You would have to be
poor without the means of hiding your
poverty. Do you believe you could bear that
patiently?
Whatever woman may cast her lot with
mine, should any ever do so, it is my intention
to do all in my power to make her happy and
contented ; and there is nothing I can imagine
that would make me more unhappy than to
fail in the effort.
I know I should be much happier with you
than the way I am, provided I saw no signs
126 tEijreafcs of dlrep anto
of discontent in you. What you have said
to me may have been in the way of jest, or I
may have misunderstood it.
If so, then let it be forgotten; if otherwise
I much wish you would think seriously before
you decide. For my part, I have already
decided.
What I have said I will most positively abide
by, provided you wish it. My opinion is
that you would better not do it. You have
not been accustomed to hardship, and it may
be more severe than you now imagine.
I know you are capable of thinking correctly
upon any subject and if you deliberate
maturely upon this before you decide, then
I am willing to abide by your decision.
Matters went on in this way for about
three months; then they met again,
seemingly without making any progress.
On the day they parted, Lincoln wrote her
another letter, evidently to make his own
position clear and put the burden of
decision upon her.
If you feel yourself in any degree bound
to me [he said], I am now willing to release
you, provided you wish it ; wh !;, on the other
hand, I am willing and even anxious, to bind
you faster, if I can be convinced that it will
Romance of tfje TL\it of Htmoln 127
in any considerable degree add to your
happiness. This, indeed, is the whole ques-
tion with me. Nothing would make me more
miserable than to believe you miserable
nothing more happy than to know you were
so.
In spite of his evident sincerity, it is not
surprising to learn that a little later, Miss
Owens definitely refused him. In April, of
the following year, Lincoln wrote to his
friend, Mrs. L. H. Browning, giving a full
account of this grotesque courtship:
I finally was forced to give it up [he wrote]
at which I very unexpectedly found myself
mortified almost beyond endurance.
I was mortified it seemed to me in a hun-
dred different ways. My vanity was deeply
wounded by the reflection that I had so long
been too stupid to discover her intentions,
and at the same time never doubting that I
understood them perfectly; and also, that
she, whom I had taught myself to believe
nobody else would have, had actually re-
jected me, with all my fancied greatness.
And then to cap the whole, I then, for the
first time, began to suspect that I was really
a little in love with her. But let it all go.
I '11 try and outlive it. Others have been
made fools of by the girls; but this can never
with truth be said of me. I most emphatically
in this instance made a fool of myself. I
have now come to the conclusion never again
to think of marrying, and for this reason I
Can never be satisfied with any one who
would be blockhead enough to have me!
The gist of the matter seems to be that
at heart Lincoln hesitated at matrimony,
as other men have done, both before and
since his time. In his letter to Mrs.
Browning he speaks of his efforts to "put
off the evil day for a time, which I really
dreaded as much, perhaps more, than an
Irishman does the halter!"
But in 1839 Miss Mary Todd came to
live with her sister, Mrs. Ninian Edwards,
at Springfield. She was in her twenty-first
year, and is described as "of average
height and compactly built. " She had a
well-rounded face, rich dark brown hair,
and bluish grey eyes. No picture of her
fails to show the full, well-developed chin,
which, more than any other feature is
an evidence of determination. She was
strong, proud, passionate, gifted with a
Romance of tfje ILilt of Lincoln 129
keen sense of the ridiculous, well educated,
and swayed only by her own imperious
will.
Lincoln was attracted at once, and
strangely enough, Stephen A. Douglas
crossed his wooing. For a time the two
men were rivals, the pursuit waxing more
furious day by day. Some one asked Miss
Todd which of them she intended to marry,
and she answered laughingly: "The one
who has the best chance of becoming
President!"
She is said, however, to have refused the
"Little Giant" on account of his lax
morality and after that the coast was clear
for Lincoln. Miss Todd's sister tells us
that "he was charmed by Mary's wit and
fascinated by her quick sagacity, her
will, her nature, and culture." "I have
happened in the room," she says, "where
they were sitting, often and often, and
Mary led the conversation. Lincoln
would listen, and gaze on her as if drawn
by some superior power irresistibly so;
he listened, but scarcely ever said a word. "
130 {Eijreafcg of <&rcp anb dlolb
The affair naturally culminated in an
engagement, and the course of love was
running smoothly, when a distracting
element appeared in the shape of Miss
Matilda Edwards, the sister of Mrs.
Edwards's husband. She was young and
fair, and Lincoln was pleased with her
appearance. For a time he tried to go on
as before, but his feelings were too strong
to be concealed. Mr. Edwards endeavoured
to get his sister to marry Lincoln's friend,
Speed, but she refused both Speed and
Douglas.
It is said that Lincoln once went to Miss
Todd's house, intending to break the en-
gagement, but his real love proved too
strong to allow him to do it.
His friend, Speed, thus describes the con-
clusion of this episode. ' ' Well, old fellow, ' '
I said, "did you do as you intended?"
"Yes, I did," responded Lincoln
thoughtfully, "and when I told Mary I
did not love her, she, wringing her hands,
said something about the deceiver being
himself deceived. "
Romance of tfje Hilt of Lincoln 131
"What else did you say?"
"To tell you the truth, Speed, it was
too much for me. I found the tears
trickling down my own cheeks. I caught
her in my arms and kissed her."
"And that 's how you broke the engage-
ment. Your conduct was tantamount to a
renewal of it!"
And indeed this was true, and the lovers
again considered the time of marriage.
There is a story by Herndon to the
effect that a wedding was arranged for the
first day of January, 1841, and then when
the hour came Lincoln did not appear, and
was found wandering alone in the woods
plunged in the deepest melancholy a
melancholy bordering upon insanity.
This story, however, has no foundation;
in fact, most competent witnesses agree
that no such marriage date was fixed,
although some date may have been
considered.
It is certain, however, that the relations
between Lincoln and Miss Todd were
broken off for a time. He did go to
132 {Eijreafctf of (Srep anfc
Kentucky for a while, but this trip cer-
tainly was not due to insanity. Lincoln
was never so mindless as some of his
biographers would have us believe, and
the breaking of the engagement was due
to perfectly natural causes the difference
in temperament of the lovers, and Lincoln's
inclination to procrastinate. After a time
the strained relations gradually improved.
They met occasionally in the parlor of a
friend, Mrs. Francis, and it was through
Miss Todd that the duel with Shields
came about.
She wielded a ready and a sarcastic pen,
and safely hidden behind a pseudonym
and the promise of the editor, she wrote a
series of satirical articles for the local
paper, entitled: "Letters from Lost Town-
ships." In one of these she touched up
Mr. Shields, the Auditor of State, to such
good purpose that believing that Lincoln
had written the article, he challenged him
to a duel. Lincoln accepted the challenge
and chose "cavalry broadswords" as the
weapons, but the intervention of friends
Romance of tfje Hilt of Hincoln 133
prevented any fighting, although he always
spoke of the affair as his "duel. "
As a result of this altercation with
Shields, Miss Todd and the future Presi-
dent came again into close friendship, and
a marriage was decided upon.
The license was secured, the minister
sent for, and on November 4, 1842, they
became man and wife.
It is not surprising that more or less
unhappiness obtained in their married
life, for Mrs. Lincoln was a woman of
strong character, proud, fiery, and deter-
mined. Her husband was subject to
strange moods and impulses, and the
great task which God had committed to
him made him less amenable to family
cares.
That married life which began at the
Globe Tavern was destined to end at the
White House, after years of vicissitude and
serious national trouble. Children were
born unto them, and all but the eldest
died. Great responsibilities were laid upon
Lincoln and even though he met them
134 tE^realuS of <^rep an&
bravely it was inevitable that his family
should also suffer.
Upon the face of the Commander-in-
chief rested nearly always a mighty sad-
ness, except when it was occasionally
illumined by his wonderful smile, or when
the light of his sublime faith banished the
clouds.
Storm and stress, suffering and heart-
ache, reverses and defeat were the portion
of the Leader, and when Victory at last
perched upon the National standard, her
beautiful feet were all drabbled in blood,
and the most terrible war on the world's
records passed down into history. In the
hour of triumph, with his great purpose
nobly fulfilled, death came to the great
Captain.
The United Republic is his monument,
and that rugged, yet gracious figure,
hallowed by martyrdom, stands before the
eyes of his countrymen forever serene and
calm, while his memory lingers like a
benediction in the hearts of both friend
and foe.
Silent
SHE is standing alone by the window
A woman, faded and old,
But the wrinkled face was lovely once,
And the silvered hair was gold.
As out in the darkness, the snow-flakes
Are falling so softly and slow,
Her thoughts fly back to the summer of life,
And the scenes of long ago.
Before the dim eyes, a picture comes,
She has seen it again and again;
The tears steal over the faded cheeks,
And the lips that quiver with pain,
For she hears once more the trumpet call
And sees the battle array
As they march to the hills with gleaming
swords
Can she ever forget that day?
She has given her boy to the land she loves,
How hard it had been to part !
And to-night she stands at the window alone,
With a new-made grave in her heart.
136 &f)rea&* of (Step anb
And yet, it 's the day of Thanksgiving
But her child, her darling was slain
By the shot and shell of the rebel guns
Can she ever be thankful again?
She thinks once more of his fair young face,
And the cannon's murderous roll,
While hatred springs in her passionate heart,
And bitterness into her soul.
Then out of the death-like stillness
There comes a battle-cry
The song that led those marching feet
To conquer, or to die.
"Yes, rally round the flag, boys!"
With tears she hears the song,
And her thoughts go back to the boys in blue,
That army, brave and strong
Then Peace creeps in amid the pain.
The dead are as dear as the living,
And back of the song is the silence,
And back of the silence Thanksgiving.
fln the jflasb of a Jewel
/"CERTAIN barbaric instincts in the
^-^ human race seem to be ineradicable.
It is but a step from the painted savage,
gorgeous in his beads and wampum, to
my lady of fashion, who wears a tiara
upon her stately head, chains and collars
of precious stones at her throat, bracelets
on her white arms, and innumerable rings
upon her dainty fingers. Wise men may
decry the baleful fascination of jewels, but,
none the less, the jeweller's window con-
tinues to draw the crowd.
Like brilliant moths that appear only at
night, jewels are tabooed in the day hours.
Dame Fashion sternly condemns gems in
the day time as evidence of hopelessly
bad taste. No jewels are permitted in
any ostentatious way, and yet a woman
may, even in good society, wear a few
137
138 tEfjreati* of <@rep anto
thousand dollars' worth of precious stones,
without seeming to be overdressed, pro-
vided the occasion is appropriate, as in the
case of functions held in darkened rooms.
In the evening when shoulders are bared
and light feet tread fantastic measures in a
ball room, which is literally a bower of
roses, there seems to be no limit as regards
jewels. In such an assembly a woman
may, without appearing overdressed, adorn
herself with diamonds amounting to a small
fortune.
During a season of grand opera in
Chicago, a beautiful white-haired woman
sat in the same box night after night
without attracting particular attention,
except as a woman of acknowledged
beauty. At a glance it might be thought
that her dress, although elegant, was rather
simple, but an enterprising reporter dig-
covered that her gown of rare old lace,
with the pattern picked out here and there
with chip diamonds, had cost over fifty-five
thousand dollars. The tiara, collar, and
few rings she wore, swelled the grand
3fn ttjc Jflasif) of a 5etocl 139
total to more than three hundred thousand
dollars.
Diamonds, rubies, sapphires, emeralds,
pearls, and opals these precious stones
have played a tremendous part in the
world's history. Empires have been bar-
tered for jewels, and for a string of pearls
many a woman has sold her soul. It is
said that pearls mean tears, yet they are
favourite gifts for brides, and no maiden
fears to wear them on her way up the aisle
where her bridegroom waits.
A French writer claims that if it be true
that the oyster can be forced to make as
many pearls as may be required of it, the
jewel will become so common that my lady
will no longer care to decorate herself with
its pale splendour. Whether or not this
will ever be the case, it is certain that
few gems have played a more conspicu-
ous part in history than this.
Not only have we Cleopatra's reckless
draught, but there is also a story of a noble
Roman who dissolved in vinegar and
drank a pearl worth a million sesterces,
140 {Dljreabs of &rep anb <@olb
which had adorned the ear of the woman he
loved. But the cold-hearted chemist de-
clares that an acid which could dissolve
a pearl would also dissolve the person who
swallowed it, so those two legends must
vanish with many others that have shriv-
elled up under the searching gaze of
science.
There is another interesting story about
the destruction of a pearl. During the
reign of Elizabeth, a haughty Spanish
ambassador was boasting at the Court of
England of the great riches of his king.
Sir Thomas Gresham, wishing to get even
with the bragging Castilian, replied that
some of Elizabeth's subjects would spend
as much at one meal as Philip's whole
kingdom could produce in a day! To
prove this statement, Sir Thomas invited
the Spaniard to dine with him, and having
ground up a costly Eastern pearl the
Englishman coolly swallowed it.
Going back to the dimness of early
times, we find that many of the ancients
preferred green gems to all other stones.
3n tfje jflafirtj of a STetoel 141
The emerald was thought to have many
virtues. It kept evil spirits at a distance,
it restored failing sight, it could unearth
mysteries, and when it turned yellow its
owner knew to a certainty that the woman
he loved was false to him.
The ruby flashes through all Oriental
romances. This stone banished sadness
and sin. A serpent with a ruby in its
mouth was considered an appropriate
betrothal ring.
The most interesting ruby of history is
set in the royal diadem of England. It is
called the Black Prince's ruby. In the
days when the Moors ruled Granada,
when both the men and the women of
that race sparkled with gems, and even
the ivory covers of their books were some-
times set with precious stones, the Spanish
king, Don Pedro the Cruel, obtained this
stone from a Moorish prince whom he had
caused to be murdered.
It was given by Don Pedro to the Black
Prince, and half a century later it glowed
on the helmet of that most picturesque
142 tEfnrea&g of <^rep anb
of England's kings, Henry V, at the battle
of Agincourt.
The Scotchman, Sir James Melville, saw
this jev/ci during his famous visit to the
Court of Elizabeth, when the Queen showed
him some of the treasures in her cabinet,
the most valued of these being the portrait
of Leicester.
"She showed me a fair ruby like a great
racket ball," he says. "I desired she
would send to my queen either this or the
Earl of Leicester's picture." But Elizabeth
cherished both the ruby and the portrait,
so she sent Marie Stuart a diamond
instead.
Poets have lavished their fancies upon
the origin of the opal, but no one seems to
know why it is considered unlucky. Women
who laugh at superstitions of all kinds are
afraid to wear an opal, and a certain
jeweller at the head of one of the largest
establishments in a great city has carried
his fear to such a length that he will not
keep one in his establishment not only
this, but it is said that he has even been
3n tfje jflasrt) of a SFetoel 143
known to throw an opal ring out of the
window. The offending stone had been
presented to his daughter, but this fact
was not allowed to weigh against his
superstition. It is understood when he
entertains that none of his guests will wear
opals, and this wish is faithfully respected.
The story goes that the opal was discov-
ered at the same time that kissing was in-
vented. A young shepherd on the hills of
Greece found a pretty pebble one day, and
wishing to give it to a beautiful shepherdess
who stood near him, he let her take it from
his lips with hers, as the hands of neither
of them were clean.
Many a battle royal has been waged for
the possession of a diamond, and several
famous diamonds are known by name
throughout the world. Among these are
the Orloff, the Koh-i-noor, the Regent, the
Real Paragon, and the Sanci, besides the
enormous stone which was sent to King
Edward from South Africa. This has
been cut but not yet named.
The Orloff is perhaps the most brilliant
144 tCijreabsi of <J5rcj> anb
of all the famous group. Tradition says
that it was once one of the eyes of an Indian
idol and was supposed to have been the
origin of all light. A French grenadier
of Pondicherry deserted his regiment,
adopted the religion and manners of the
Brahmans, worshipped at the shrine of
the idol whose eyes were light itself, stole
the brightest one, and escaped.
A sea captain bought it from him for
ten thousand dollars and sold it to a Jew
for sixty thousand dollars. An Armenian
named Shafras bought it from the Jew,
and after a time Count Orloff paid
$382,500 for this and a title of Russian
nobility.
He presented the wonderful refractor
of light to the Empress Catherine who
complimented Orloff by naming it after
him. This magnificent stone, which weighs
one hundred and ninety-five carats, now
forms the apex of the Russian crown.
The Real Paragon was in 1861 the
property of the Rajah of Mattan. It was
then uncut and weighed three hundred
3n tije jflasf) of a 3T*tod 145
and seven carats. The Governor of Bata-
via was very anxious to bring it to Europe.
He offered the Rajah one hundred and
fifty thousand dollars and two warships
with their guns and ammunition, but the
offer was contemptuously refused. Very
little is known of its history. It is now
owned by the Government of Portugal
and is pledged as security for a very large
sum of money.
It has been said that one could carry
the Koh-i-noor in one end of a silk purse
and balance it in the other end with a gold
eagle and a gold dollar, and never feel the
difference in weight, while the value of the
gem in gold could not be transported in
less than four dray loads!
Tradition says that Kama, King of
Anga, owned it three thousand years ago.
The King of Lahore, one of the Indies,
heard that the King of Cabul, one of the
lesser princes, had in his possession the
largest and purest diamond in the world.
Lahore invited Cabul to visit him, and
when he had him in his power, demanded
146 Jjreafcg of
the treasure. Cabul, however, had sus-
pected treachery, and brought an imita-
tion of the Koh-i-noor. He of course
expostulated, but finally surrendered the
supposed diamond.
The lapidary who was employed to
mount it pronounced it a piece of crystal,
whereupon the royal old thief sent soldiers
who ransacked the palace of the King of
Cabul from top to bottom, in vain. At
last, however, after a long search, a servant
betrayed his master, and the gem was
found in a pile of ashes.
After the annexation of the Punjab in
1849, the Koh-i-noor was given up to the
British, and at a meeting of the Punjab
Board was handed to John (afterward
Lord) Lawrence who placed it in his
waistcoat pocket and forgot the treasure.
While at a public meeting some time later,
he suddenly remembered it, hurried home
and asked his servant if he had seen a small
box which he hadleftinhiswaistcoatpocket.
"Yes, sahib, " the man replied ; "I found
it, and put in your drawer. "
3!n tfje Jflasrt) of a HTetoel 147
"Bring it here, " said Lawrence, and the
servant produced it.
"Now," said his master, "open it and
see what it contains. "
The old native obeyed, and after re-
moving the folds of linen, he said: "There
is nothing here but a piece of glass."
"Good," said Lawrence, with a sigh of
relief, "you can leave it with me. "
The Sanci diamond belonged to Charles
the Bold, Duke of Burgundy, who wore
it in his hat at the battle of Nancy, where
he fell. A Swiss soldier found it and sold
it for a gulden to a clergyman of Baltimore.
It passed into the possession of Anton,
King of Portugal, who was obliged to sell it,
the price being a million francs.
It shortly afterward became the property
of a Frenchman named Sanci, whose
descendant being sent as an ambassador,
was required by the King to give the
diamond as a pledge. The servant carry-
ing it to the King was attacked by robbers
on the way and murdered, not, however,
until he had swallowed the diamond. His
148 fjreafca of (Step anfc
master, feeling sure of his faithfulness,
caused the body to be opened and found
the gem in his stomach. This gem came
into the possession of the Crown of Eng-
land, and James II carried it with him to
France in 1688.
From James it passed to his friend and
patron, Louis XIV, and to his descendants,
until the Duchess of Berry at the Restora-
tion sold it to the Demidoffs for six hun-
dred and twenty-five thousand francs.
It was worth a million and a half of
francs when Prince Paul Demidoff wore
it in his hat at a great fancy ball given in
honour of Count Walewski, the Minister
of Napoleon III and lost it during the
ball! Everybody was wild with excite-
ment when the loss was announced
everybody but Prince Paul Demidoff.
After an hour's search the Sanci was
found under a chair.
After more than two centuries, "the
Regent is, " a^ Saint-Simon described it in
1 7 1 7 , ' ' a brilliant, inestimable and unique. ' '
Its density is rather higher than that of the
3n ttjc Jflast) of a STetoel 149
usual diamond, and it weighs upwards of
one hundred and thirty carats. This stone
was found in India by a slave, who, to
conceal it, made a wound in his leg and
wrapped the gem in the bandages. Reach-
ing the coast, he intrusted himself and his
secret to an English captain, who took the
gem, threw the slave overboard, and sold
his ill-gotten gains to a native merchant
for five thousand dollars.
It afterwards passed into the hands of
Pitt, Governor of St. George, who sold it
in 1717 to the Duke of Orleans, then
Regent of France, for $675,000. Before
the end of the eighteenth century the
stone had more than trebled in worth, and
we can only wonder what it ought to bring
now with its "perfect whiteness, its regular
form, and its absolute freedom from stain
or flaw!"
The collection belonging to the Sultan
of Turkey, which is probably the finest in
the world, dates prior to the discovery of
America, and undoubtedly came from Asia.
One Turkish pasha alone left to the Empire
150 {Efjreabsf of <^rcp anb
at his death, seven table-cloths embroidered
with diamonds, and bushels of fine pearls.
In the war with Russia, in 1778, Turkey
borrowed $30,000,000 from the Ottoman
Bank on the security of the crown jewels.
The cashier of the bank was admitted to
the treasure-chamber and was told to help
himself until he had enough to secure his
advances.
"I selected enough," he says, "to secure
the bank against loss in any event, but
the removal of the gems I took made no
appreciable gap in the accumulation."
In the imperial treasury of the Sultan,
the first room is the richest in notable
objects. The most conspicuous of these
is a great throne or divan of beaten gold,
occupying the entire centre of the room,
and set with precious stones : pearls, rubies,
and emeralds, thousands of them, covering
the entire surface in a geometrical mosaic
pattern. This specimen of barbaric magni-
ficence was part of the spoils of war taken
from one of the shahs of Persia.
Much more interesting and beautiful,
3n tije Jflatff) of a STetoel 151
however, is another canopied throne or
divan, placed in the upper story of the
same building. This is a genuine work of
old Turkish art which date,s from some time
during the second half of the sixteenth
century. It is a raised square seat, on
which the Sultan sat cross-legged. At
each angle there rises a square vertical
shaft supporting a canopy, with a minaret
or pinnacle surmounted by a rich gold and
jewelled finial. The entire height of the
throne is nine or ten feet. The materials
are precious woods, ebony, sandal-wood,
etc., with shell, mother-of-pearl, silver, and
gold.
The entire piece is decorated inside and
out with a branching floriated design in
mother-of-pearl marquetry, in the style
of the fine early Persian painted tiles, and
the centre of each of the principal leaves
and flowers is set with splendid cabochon
gems, fine balass rubies, emeralds, sap-
phires, and pearls.
Pendant from the roof of the canopy, and
in a position which would be directly over
152 QTijteafc* of <grep anfc
the head of the Sultan, is a golden cord, on
which is hung a large heart-shaped orna-
ment of gold, chased and perforated with
floriated work, and beneath it hangs a
huge uncut emerald of fine colour, but of
triangular shape, four inches in diameter,
and an inch and a half thick.
Richly decorated arms and armour form
a conspicuous feature of the contents of all
three of these rooms. The most notable
work in this class in the first apartment is a
splendid suit of mixed chain and plate mail,
wonderfully damascened and jewelled,
worn by Sultan Murad IV, in 1638, at the
taking of Bagdad.
Near to it is a scimetar, probably a part
of the panoply of the same monarch.
Both the hilt and the greater part of the
broad scabbard of this weapon are in-
crusted with large table diamonds, forming
checkerwork, all the square stones being
regularly and symmetrically cut, of exactly
the same size upward of half an inch
across. There are many other sumptuous
works of art which are similarly adorned.
3n tije jflastf) of a STetoel 153
Rightfully first among the world's splen-
did coronets stands the State Crown of
England. It was made in 1838 with
jewels taken from old crowns and others
furnished by command of the Queen.
It consists of diamonds, pearls, rubies,
sapphires, and emeralds, set in silver and
gold. It has a crimson velvet cap with
ermine border; it is lined with white silk
and weighs about forty ounces. The lower
part of the band above the ermine border
consists of a row of one hundred and ninety-
nine pearls, and the upper part of this
band has one hundred and twelve pearls,
between which, in the front of the crown,
is a large sapphire which was purchased
for it by George IV.
At the back is a sapphire of smaller
size and six others, three on each side,
between which are eight emeralds. Above
and below the sapphires are fourteen
diamonds, and around the eight emeralds
are one hundred and twenty-eight dia-
monds. Between the emeralds and sap-
phires are sixteen ornaments, containing
one hundred and sixty diamonds. Above
the band are eight sapphires, surmounted
by eight diamonds, between which are eight
festoons, consisting of one hundred and
forty-eight diamonds.
In the front of the crown and in the
centre of a diamond Maltese cross is the
famous ruby of the Black Prince. Around
this ruby to form the cross are seventy-
five brilliant diamonds. Three other Mal-
tese crosses, forming the two sides and
back of the crown, have emerald centres,
and each contains between one and two
hundred brilliant diamonds. Between the
four Maltese crosses are four ornaments in
the form of the French fleur-de-lis, with
four rubies in the centre, and surrounded
by rose diamonds.
From the Maltese crosses issue four im-
perial arches, composed of oak leaves and
acorns embellished with hundreds of mag-
nificent jewels. From the upper part of
the arches are suspended four large pend-
ant pear-shaped pearls, with rose diamond
caps. Above the arch stands the mound,
3n tfje Jflaafr of a 3FetoeI 155
thickly set with brilliants. The cross on
the summit has a rose cut sapphire in the
centre, surrounded by diamonds.
A gem is said to represent "condensed
wealth, " and it is also condensed history.
The blood of a ruby, the faint moonlight
lustre of a pearl, the green glow of an
emerald, and the dazzling white light of a
diamond in what unfailing magic lies
their charm? Tiny bits of crystal as they
appear to be even the Orloff diamond
could be concealed in a child's hand yet
kings and queens have played for stakes
like these. Battle and murder have been
done for them, honour bartered and
kingdoms lost, but the old magic beauty
never fades, and to-day, as always, sin and
beauty, side, by side, are mirrored in the
flash of a jewel.
Cbe Coming of flfei? Sbip
OTRAIGHT to the sunrise my ship's sails
v~/ are leaning,
Brave at the masthead her new colours fly ;
Down on the shore, her lips trembling with
meaning,
Love waits, but unanswering, I heed not her
cry.
The gold of the East shall be mine in full
measure,
My ship shall come home overflowing with
treasure,
And love is not need, but only a pleasure,
So I wait for my ship to come in.
Silent, half troubled, I wait in the shadow,
No sail do I see between me and the dawn;
Out in the blue and measureless meadow,
My ship wanders widely, but Love has not
gone.
"My arms await thee," she cries in her
pleading,
"Why wait for its coming, when I am thy
needing?"
156
Coming of flip &W9 157
I pass by in stillness, all else unheeding,
And wait for my ship to come in.
See, in the East, surrounded by splendour,
My sail glimmers whitely in crimson and blue ;
I turn back to Love, my heart growing tender,
"Now I have gold and leisure for you.
Jewels she brings for thy white breast's
adorning,
Measures of gold beyond a queen's scorn-
ing"-
To-night I shall rest joy comes in the
morning,
So I wait for my ship to come in.
Remembering waters beat cold on the shore,
And the grey sea in sadness grows old;
I listen in vain for Love's pleading once more,
While my ship comes with spices and gold.
The sea birds cry hoarsely, for this is their
songing,
On masthead and colours their white wings
are thronging,
But my soul throbs deep with love and with
longing,
And I wait for my ship to come in.
IRomance ant) tfee postman
A LETTER! Do the charm and un-
*^ certainty of it ever fade ? Who
knows what may be written upon the
pages within!
Far back, in a dim, dream-haunted
childhood, the first letter came to me. It
was "a really, truly letter," properly
stamped and addressed, and duly delivered
by the postman. With what wonder the
chubby fingers broke the seal! It did not
matter that there was an inclosure to one's
mother, and that the thing itself was
written by an adoring relative; it was a
personal letter, of private and particular
importance, and that day the postman
assumed his rightful place in one's affairs.
In the treasure box of many a grand-
mother is hidden a pathetic scrawl that
the baby made for her and called "a letter."
158
Romance anb tfje postman 159
To the alien eye, it is a mere tangle of
pencil marks, and the baby himself, grown
to manhood, with children of his own,
would laugh at the yellowed message,
which is put away with his christening
robe and his first shoes, but to one, at least,
it speaks with a deathless voice.
It is written in books and papers that
some unhappy mortals are swamped with
mail. As a lady recently wrote to the
President of the United States: "I suppose
you get so many letters that when you see
the postman coming down the street, you
don't care whether he has anything for
you or not. "
Indeed, the President might well think
the universe had gone suddenly wrong if
the postman passed him by, but there are
compensations in everything. The First
Gentleman of the Republic must inevitably
miss the pleasant emotions which letters
bring to the most of us.
The clerks and carriers in the business
centres may be pardoned if they lose sight
of the potentialities of the letters that pass
i6o OHjreafcg of <grep anb
through their hands. When a skyscraper
is a postal district in itself, there is no time
for the man in grey to think of the burden
he carries, save as so many pounds of
dead weight, becoming appreciably lighter
at each stop. But outside the hum and
bustle, on quiet streets and secluded by-
ways, there are faces at the windows,
watching eagerly for the mail.
The progress of the postman is akin to a
Roman triumph, for in his leathern pack
lies Fate. Long experience has given him
a sixth sense, as if the letters breathed a
hint of their contents through their super-
scriptions.
The business letter, crisp and to the
point, has an atmosphere of its own, even
where cross lines of typewriting do not
show through the envelope.
The long, rambling, friendly hand is
distinctive, and if it has been carried in the
pocket a long time before mailing, the
postman knows that the writer is a married
woman with a foolish trust in her husband.
Circulars addressed mechanically, at so
Romance anb ttjc postman 161
much a thousand, never deceive the post-
man, though the recipient often opens
them with pleasurable sensations, which
immediately sink to zero. And the love-
letters! The carrier is a veritable Sher-
lock Holmes when it comes to them.
Gradually he becomes acquainted with
the inmost secrets of those upon his route.
Friendship, love, and marriage, absence
and return, death, and one's financial con-
dition, are all as an open book to the man in
grey. Invitations, cards, wedding an-
nouncements, forlorn little letters from
those to whom writing is not as easy as
speech, childish epistles with scrap pictures
pasted on the outside, all give an inkling
of their contents to the man who delivers
them.
When the same bill comes to the same
house for a long and regular period, then
ceases, even the carrier must feel relieved
to know that it has been paid. When he
is n't too busy, he takes a friendly look at
the postal cards, and sometimes saves a
tenant in a third flat the weariness of two
1 62 ^fjrea'os of <&rep anb <&olb
flights of stairs by shouting the news up the
tube!
If the dweller in a tenement has ingratia-
ting manners, he may learn how many
papers, and letters are being stuffed into
the letter-box, by a polite inquiry down
the tube when the bell rings. Through the
subtle freemasonry of the postman's voice
a girl knows that her lover has not forgot-
ten her and her credit is good for the
"two cents due" if the tender missive is
overweight.
"All the world loves a lover," and even
the busy postman takes a fatherly interest
in the havoc wrought by Cupid along his
route. The little blind god knows neither
times nor seasons all alike are his own
but the man in grey, old and spectacled
though he may be, is his confidential
messenger.
Love-letters are seemingly immortal.
A clay tablet on which one of the Pharaohs
wrote, asking for the heart and hand of a
beautiful foreign princess, is now in the
British Museum. But suppose the post-
Romance anli tfje $ofitman 163
man had not been sure-footed, and all the
clay letters had been smashed into frag-
ments in a single grand catastrophe ! What
a stir in high places, what havoc in Church
and State, and how many fond hearts
broken, if the postman had fallen down!
"Nothing feeds the flame like a letter,"
said Emerson; "it has intent, personality,
secrecy." Flimsy and frail as it is, so
easily torn or destroyed, the love-letter
many times outlasts the love. Even the
Father of his Country, though he has been
dead this hundred years or more, has left
behind him a love-letter, ragged and faded,
but still legible, beginning: "My Dearest
Life and Love."
"Matter is indestructible," so the
scientists say, but what of the love-letter
that is reduced to ashes? Does its passion
live again in some far-off violet flame, or,
rising from its dust, bloom once more in a
fragrant rose, to touch the lips of another
love?
In countless secret places, the tender
missives are hidden, for the lover must
164 QDfjreafcs of <rep anti
always keep his joy in tangible form, to be
sure that it was not a dream. They fly
through the world by day and night, like
white- winged birds that can say, "I love
you" over mountain, hill, stream, and
plain; past sea and lake and river, through
the desert's fiery heat and amid the
throbbing pulses of civilisation, with never
a mistake, to bring exquisite rapture to
another heart and wings of light to the
loved one's soul.
Under the pillow of the maiden, her
lover's letter brings visions of happiness
too great for the human heart to hold.
Even in her dreams, her fingers tighten
upon his letter the visible assurance of
his unchanging and unchangeable love.
When the bugle sounds the charge, and
dimly through the flash and flame the
flag signals "Follow!" many a heart,
leaping to answer with the hot blood of
youth, finds a sudden tenderness in the
midst of its high courage, from the loving
letter which lies close to the soldier's
breast.
Romance anb tfje Postman 165
Bunker Hill and Gettysburg, Moscow
and the Wilderness, Waterloo, Mafeking,
and San Juan the old blood-stained fields
and the modern scenes of terror have
all alike known the same message and
the same thrill. The faith and hope of the
living, the kiss and prayer of the dying, the
cries of the wounded, and the hot tears of
those who have parted forever, are on the
blood-stained pages of the love-letters that
have gone to war.
"Ich Hebe Dich, " "Je t'aime, " or, in our
dear English speech, "I love you," it is
all the same, for the heart knows the
universal language, the words of which are
gold, bedewed with tears that shine like
precious stones.
Every attic counts old love-letters among
its treasures, and when the rain beats on
the roof and grey swirls of water are blown
against the pane, one may sit among the
old trunks and boxes and bring to light
the loves of days gone by.
The little hair-cloth trunk, with its
rusty lock and broken hinges, brings to
i66 {Efjreaba of <r*p anto
mind a rosy-cheeked girl in a poke bonnet,
who went a-visiting in the stage-coach.
Inside is the bonnet itself white, with a
gorgeous trimming of pink "lute-string"
ribbon, which has faded into ashes of roses
at the touch of the kindly years.
From the trunk comes a musty fragrance
lavender, sweet clover, rosemary, thyme,
and the dried petals of roses that have
long since crumbled to dust. Scraps of
brocade and taffeta, yellowed lingerie, and
a quaint old wedding gown, daguerreo-
types in ornate cases, and then the letters,
tied with faded ribbon, in a package by
themselves.
The fingers unconsciously soften to their
task, for the letters are old and yellow, and
the ink has faded to brown. Every one
was cut open with the scissors, not hastily
torn according to our modern fashion, but
in a slow and seemly manner, as befits a
solemn occasion.
Perhaps the sweet face of a great-
grandmother grew much perplexed at the
sight of a letter in an unfamiliar hand, and
Romance ant) tljc postman 167
perhaps, too, as is the way of womankind,
she studied the outside a long time before
she opened it. As the months passed by,
the handwriting became familiar, but a
coquettish grandmother may have flirted
a bit with the letter, and put it aside
until she could be alone.
All the important letters are in the
package, from the first formal note asking
permission to call, which a womanly
instinct bade the maiden put aside, to
the last letter, written when twilight lay
upon the long road they had travelled to-
gether, but still beginning: " My Dear and
Honoured Wife."
Bits of rosemary and geranium, lemon
verbena, tuberose, and heliotrope, fragile
and whitened, but still sweet, fall from the
opened letters and rustle softly as they fall.
Far away in the "peace which passeth
all understanding," the writer of the
letters sleeps, but the old love keeps a
fragrance that outlives the heart in which
it bloomed.
At night, when the fires below are
i68 {Efjreab* of <Srep anfc
lighted, and childish voices make the old
house ring with laughter, Memory steals
into the attic to sing softly of the past, as
a mother croons her child to sleep.
Rocking in a quaint old attic chair, with
the dear familiar things of home gathered
all about her, Memory's voice is sweet,
like a harp tuned in the minor mode when
the south wind sweeps the strings.
Bunches of herbs swing from the rafters
and fill the room with the wholesome scent
of an old-fashioned garden, where rue and
heartsease grew. With the fragrance
comes the breath from that garden of
Mnemosyne, where the simples for heart-
ache nod beside the River of Forgetfulness.
In a flash the world is forgotten, and
into the attic come dear faces from that
distant land of childhood, where a strange
enchantment glorified the common-place,
and made the dreams of night seem real.
Footsteps that have long been silent are
heard upon the attic floor, and voices,
hushed for years, whisper from the shadows
from the other end of the room.
Romance anto tfje -postman 169
A moonbeam creeps into the attic and
transfigures the haunted chamber with a
sheen of silver mist. From the spinning-
wheel come a soft hum and a delicate
whir; then a long-lost voice breathes the
first notes of an old, old song. The
melody changes to a minuet, and the lady
in the portrait moves, smiling, from the
tarnished gilt frame that surrounds her
then a childish voice says: "Mother, are
you asleep?"
Down the street the postman passes,
bearing his burden of joy and pain : let-
ters from far-off islands, where the Stars
and Stripes gleam against a forest of
palms; from the snow-bound fastnesses of
the North, where men are searching for
gold; from rose-scented valleys and violet
fields, where the sun forever shines, and
from lands across the sea, where men speak
an alien tongue single messages from one
to another; letters that plead for pardon
cross the paths of those that are meant to
stab; letters written in jest too often find
grim earnest at the end of their journey,
170 tEfjreabtf of 4rep anb
and letters written in all tenderness meet
misunderstandings and pain, when the
postman brings them home; letters that
deal with affairs of state and shape the
destiny of a nation; tidings of happiness
and sorrow, birth and death, love and trust,
and the thousand pangs of trust betrayed;
an hundred joys and as many griefs are
all in the postman's hands.
No wonder, then, that there is a stir in
the house, that eyes brighten, hearts beat
quickly, and eager steps hasten to the door
of destiny, when the postman rings the
bell!
H Summer IReverie
I SIT on the shore of the deep blue sea
As the tide comes rolling in,
And wonder, as roaming in sunlit dreams,
The cause of the breakers' din.
For each of the foam-crowned billows
Has a wonderful story to tell,
And the surge's mystical music
Seems wrought by a fairy spell.
I wander through memory's portals,
Through mansions dim and vast,
And gaze at the beautiful pictures
That hang in the halls of the past.
And dream-faces gather around me,
With voices soft and low,
To draw me back to the pleasures
Of the lands of long ago.
There are visions of beauty and splendour,
And a fame that I never can win
Far out on the deep they are sailing
My ships that will never come in.
171
H IDignette
TT was a muddy down-town corner and
* several people stood in the cold,
waiting for a street-car. A stand of daily
papers was on the sidewalk, guarded by two
little newsboys. One was much younger
than the other, and he rolled two marbles
back and forth in the mud by the curb.
Suddenly his attention was attracted by
something bright above him, and he looked
up into a bunch of red carnations a young
lady held in her hands. He watched them
eagerly, seemingly unable to take his eyes
from the feast of colour. She saw the
hungry look in the little face, and put one
into his hand. He was silent, until his
brother said: "Say thanky to the lady."
He whispered his thanks, and then she bent
down and pinned the blossom upon his
ragged jacket, while the big policeman on
the corner smiled approvingly.
172
a \7fgnette 173
"My, but you 're gay now, and you can
sell all your papers," the bigger boy said
tenderly.
"Yep, I can sell 'em now, sure!"
Out of the crowd on the opposite corner
came a tiny, dark-skinned Italian girl, with
an accordion slung over her shoulder by a
dirty ribbon; she made straight for the
carnations and fearlessly cried, "Lady,
please give me a flower ! " She got one, and
quickly vanished in the crowd.
The young woman walked up the street
to a flower-stand to replenish her bunch
of carnations, and when she returned,
another dark-skinned mite rushed up to her
without a word, only holding up grimy
hands with a gesture of pathetic appeal.
Another brilliant blossom went to her, and
the young woman turned to follow her;
on through the crowd the child fled, until
she reached the corner where her mother
stood, seamed and wrinkled and old, with
the dark pathetic eyes of sunny Italy. She
held the flower out to her, and the weary
mother turned and snatched it eagerly,
174 {Efrreaotf of <rep anb dlolb
then pressed it to her lips, and kissed it as
passionately as if it had been the child who
brought it to her.
Just then the car came, and the big grey
policeman helped the owner of the carna-
tions across the street, and said as he put
her on the car, "Lady, you Ve sure done
them children a good turn to-day. "
flDebitation
I SAIL through the realms of the long ago,
Wafted by fancy and visions frail,
On the river Time with its gentle flow,
In a silver boat with a golden sail.
My dreams, in the silence are hurrying by
On the brooklet of Thought where I let them
flow,
And the " lilies nod to the sound of the stream"
As I sail through the realms of the long ago.
On the shores of life's deep-flowing stream
Are my countless sorrows and heartaches,
too,
And the hills of hope are but dimly seen,
Far in the distance, near heaven's blue.
I find that my childish thoughts and dreams
Lie strewn on the sands by the cruel blast
That scattered my hopes on the restless
streams
That flow through the mystic realms of the
past.
pointers for tbe Olorfce of Creation
OOME wit has said that the worst vice
^ in the world is advice, and it is also
quite true that one ignorant, though well-
meaning person can sometimes accomplish
more damage in a short time, than a dozen
people who start out for the purpose of
doing mischief.
The newspapers and periodicals of to-
day are crowded with advice to women, and
while much of it is found in magazines for
women, written and edited by men, it is
also true that a goodly quantity of it comes
from feminine writers; it is all along the
same lines, however, the burden of effort
being to teach the weaker sex how to
become more attractive and more lovable
to the lords of creation. It is, of course, all
intended for our good, for if we can only
please the men, and obey their slightest
176
for tfjc Horba of Creation 177
wish even before they take the trouble to
mention the matter, we can then be per-
fectly happy.
A man can sit down any day and give
us directions enough to keep us busy for a
lifetime, and we seldom or never return the
compliment. This is manifestly unfair,
and so this little preachment is meant for
the neglected and deserving men, and for
them only, so that all women who have
read thus far are invited to leave the matter
right here and turn their attention to the
column of "Advice to Women " which
they can find in almost any periodical.
In the first place, gentlemen, we must
admit that you do keep us guessing,
though we do not sit up nights nor lose
much sleep over your queer notions.
We can't ask you many questions, either,
dear brethren, for, as you know, you rather
like to fib to us, and sometimes we are able
to find it out, and then we never believe
you any more.
We may venture, however, to ask small
favours of you, and one of these is that you
178 tEfjreafcg of <&rej> anb dlolb
do not wear red ties. You look so nice in
quiet colours that we dislike exceedingly to
have you make crazy quilts of yourselves,
and that is just what you do when you
begin experimenting with colours which
we naturally associate with the "cullud
pussons."
And a cane may be very ornamental, but
it 's of no earthly use, and we would rather
you would not carry it when you go out
with us.
Never tell us you have n't had time to
come and see us, or write to us, because we
know perfectly well that if you wanted
to badly enough, you would take the time,
so the excuse makes us even madder than
does the neglect. Still, when you don't
want to come, we would not have you do
it for anything.
There is an old saying that "absence
makes the heart grow fonder" so it does
of the other fellow. We don't propose
to shed any tears over you ; we simply go to
the theatre with the other man and have
an extremely good time. When you are
pointer* for tfje ICorbs of Creation 179
very, very bright, you can manage some
way not to allow us to forget you for a
minute, nor give us much time to think
of anything else.
When we are angry, for heaven's sake
don't ask us why, because that shows your
lack of penetration. Just simply call
yourself a brute, and say you are utterly
unworthy of even our faint regard, and you
will soon realise that this covers a lot of
ground, and everything will be all right in
a few minutes.
And whatever you do, don't show any
temper yourself. A woman requires of a
man that he shall be as immovable as the
rock of Gibraltar, no matter what she does
to him. And you play your strongest card
when you don't mind our tantrums even
though it 's a state secret we are telling
you.
Don't get huffy when you meet us with
another man ; in nine cases out of ten, that 's
just what we do it for. And don't make the
mistake of retaliating by asking another
girl somewhere. You '11 have a perfectly
i8o tEijreab* of <Srep anb
miserable time if you do, both then and
afterward.
When you do come to see us, it is not at
all nice to spend the entire evening talking
about some other girl. How would you like
to have the graces of some other man
continually dinned into your ears? Some-
times we take that way in order to get a
rest from your overweening raptures over
the absent girl.
We have a well-defined suspicion that
you talk us over with your chums and
compare notes. But, bless you, it can't
possibly hold a candle to the thorough and
impartial discussions that some of you get
when girls are together, either in small
bevies, or with only one chosen friend.
And we don't very much care what you
say about us, for a man never judges a
woman by the opinion of any one else, but
another woman's opinion counts for a great
deal with us, so you would better be careful.
If you are going to say things that you
don't mean, try to stamp them with the
air of sincerity if you can once get a
pointers! for tfje Horb* of Creation 181
woman to fully believe in your sincerity,
you have gone a long way toward her heart.
Have n't you found out that women are
not particularly interested in anecdotes?
Please don't tell us more than fifteen in the
same evening.
And don't begin to make love to us before
you have had time to make a favourable
impression along several lines a man, as
well as a woman, loses ground and forfeits
respect by making himself too cheap.
If a girl runs and stereams when she has
been caught standing under the mistletoe,
it means that she will not object; if she
stiffens up and glares at you, it means that
she does. The same idea is sometimes
delicately conveyed by the point of a pin.
But a woman will be able to forgive almost
anything which you can make her believe
was prompted by her own attractiveness,
at least unless she knows men fairly well.
You know, of course, that we will not
show your letters, nor tell when you ask
us to marry you and are refused. This
much a woman owes to any man who has
182 (Eijteabs of <&rep anb
honoured her with an offer of marriage to
keep his perfect trust sacredly in her own
heart. Even her future husband has no
business to know of this it is her lover's
secret, and she has no right to betray it.
Keeping the love-letters and the offers
of marriage from any honourable man safe
from a prying world are points of honour
which all good women possess, although we
may sometimes quote certain things from
your letters, as you do from ours.
There 's nothing you can tell a woman
which will please her quite so much as that
knowing her has made you better, es-
pecially if you can prove it by showing a
decided upward tendency in your morals.
That 's your good right bower, but don't
play it too often keep it for special
occasions.
There 's one mistake you make, dear
brethren, and that is telling a woman you
love her as soon as you find it out yourself,
and the most of you will do that very thing.
There is one case on record where a man
waited fifteen minutes, but he nearly died
pointer* for tfjc Horba of Creation 183
of the strain. The trouble is that you
seldom stop to consider whether we are
ready to hear you or not, nor whether the
coast is clear, nor what the chances are
in your favour. You simply relieve your
mind, and trust in your own wonderful
charms to accomplish the rest.
And we wish that when the proper time
comes for you to speak your mind you 'd
try to do it artistically. Of course you
can't write it, unless you are far away from
her, for if you can manage an opportunity
to speak, a resort to the pen is cowardly.
And don't mind our evading the subject
we always do that on principle, but please
don't be scared, or at least don't show it,
whatever you may feel. If there is one
thing a woman dislikes more than another
it is a man who shows cowardice at the
crucial point in life.
Every man, except yourself, dear reader,
is conceited. And one particular sort of it
makes us very, very weary. You are so
blinded by your own perfections, so sure
that we are desperately in love with you,
184 tE&reafcg ot <&rep anfc
that you sometimes give us little unspoken
suggestions to that effect, and then our
disgust is beyond words.
Another cowardly thing you sometimes
do, and that is to say that we have spoiled
your life that we could have made you
anything we pleased and that you are
going straight to perdition. If one woman
is all that keeps you from going to ruin,
you have secured a through ticket anyway,
and it 's too late to save you. You don't
want a woman who might marry you only
out of pity, and you are not going to die of
a broken heart. Men die of broken vanity,
sometimes, but their hearts are pretty
tough, being made of healthy muscle.
You get married very much as you go
down town in the morning. You run, like
all possessed, until you catch your car, and
then you sit down and read your news-
paper. When you think your wife looks
unusually well, it would not hurt you in the
least to tell her so, and the way you leave
her in the morning is going to settle her
happiness for the day, though she may be
-pointer* for tije Uorbs of Creation 185
too proud to let you know that it makes
any difference. Women are quick to
detect a sham, and they don't want you to
say anything that you don't feel, but you
are pretty sure to feel tenderly toward her
sometimes, careless though you may be,
and then is the time to tell her so. You
don't want to wait until she is dead, and
then buy a lily to put on her coffin. You 'd
better bring her the lily some time when
you Ve been cross and grumpy.
But don't imagine that a present of any
kind ever atones for a hurt that has been
given in words. There 's nothing you can
say which is more manly or which will do
you both so much good as the simple
"forgive me" when you have been wrong.
Rest assured, gentlemen, that you who
spend the most of your evenings in other
company, and too often find fault with your
meals when you come home, are the cause
of many sorrowful talks among the women
who are wise enough to know, even though
your loyal wife may put up a brave front
in your defense.
186 {Efjreafcg of <rej> anto
How often do you suppose the brave
woman who loves you has been actually
driven in her agony to some married friend
whom she can trust and upon her sym-
pathetic bosom has cried until she could
weep no more, simply because of your
thoughtless neglect? How often do you
think she has planned little things to make
your home-coming pleasant, which you
have never noticed? And how often do
you suppose she has desperately fought
down the heartache and tried to believe
that your absorption in business is the
reason for your forgetfulness of her?
Do you ever think of these things? Do
you ever think of the days before you were
sure of her, when you treasured every line
of her letters, and would have bartered
your very hopes of heaven for the earthly
life with her?
But perhaps you can hardly be expected
to remember the wild sprint that you made
from the breakfast table to the street-car.
transition
I AM thy Pleasure. See, my face is fair
With silken strands of joy I twine thee
round ;
Life has enough of stress forget with me !
Wilt thou not stay? Then go, thou art not
bound.
I am thy Pastime. Let me be to thee
A daily refuge from the haunting fears
That bind thee, choke thee, fill thy soul with
woe.
Seek thou my hand, let me assuage thy tears.
I am thy Habit. Nay, start not, thy will
Is yet supreme, for art thou not a man?
Then draw me close to thee, for life is brief
A little space to pass as best one can.
I am thy Passion. Thou shalt cling to me
Through all the years to come. The silken
cord
Of Pleasure has become a stronger bond,
Not to be cleft, nor loosened at a word.
187
i88 3H}teab of <@rep anti
I am thy Master. Thou shalt crush for me
The grapes of truth for wine of sacrifice;
My clanking chains were forged for such as
thee,
I am thy Master yea, I am thy vice!
Gfoe Superiority of flDan
A^TlTHOUT pausing to inquire why
* * savages and barbarians are cap-
able of producing college professors, who
sneer at the source from which they sprung,
we may accept for the moment the mas-
culine hypothesis of intellectual superiority.
Some women have been heard to say that
they wish they had been born men, but
there is no man bold enough to say that
he would like to be a woman.
If woman can produce a reasoning being,
it follows that she herself must be capable
of reasoning, since a stream can rise no
higher than its fountain. And yet the
bitter truth stares us in the face. We
have no Shakespeare, Michelangelo, or
Beethoven; our Darwins, our Schumanns
are mute and inglorious; our Miltons,
Raphaels, and Herbert Spencers have not
arrived.
189
190 Breads of <rep anti
Call the roll of the great and how many
women's names will be found there?
Scarcely enough to enable you to call the
company mixed.
No woman in her senses wishes to be
merely the female of man. She aspires to
be distinctly different to exercise her
varied powers in wholly different ways.
Ex-President Roosevelt said: "Equality
does not imply identity of function. " We
do not care to put in telephones or to collect
fares on a street-car.
Primitive man set forth from his cave
to kill an animal or two, then repaired to a
secluded nook in the jungle, with other
primitive men, to discuss the beginnings of
politics. Primitive woman in the cave
not only dressed his game, but she cooked
the animal for food, made clothing of its
skin, necklaces and bracelets of its teeth,
passementerie of its claws, and needles of
its sharper bones. What wonder that she
had no time for an afternoon tea?
The man of the twentieth century has
progressed immeasurably beyond this, but
^>uperton'tp of iHan 191
his wife, industrially speaking, has not
gone half so far. Is she not still in some
cases a cave-dweller, while he roams the
highways of the world?
If a woman mends men's socks, should
he not darn her lisle-thread hosiery, and run
a line of machine stitching around the
middle of the hem to prevent a disastrous
run from a broken stitch? If she presses
his ties, why should he not learn to iron
her bits of fine lace?
Some one will say : "But he supports her.
It is her duty."
"Yes, dear friend, but similarly does he
'support' the servant who does the same
duties. He also gives her seven dollars
every Monday morning, or she leaves."
Are we to suppose that a wife is a woman
who does general housework for board and
clothes, with a few kind words thrown in?
A German lady, whom we well knew,
worked all the morning attending to the
comforts of her liege lord. In the dining
room he was stretched out in an easy chair,
while the queen of his heart brushed and
192 ZEfjreatifi of <0rep anti
repaired his clothes yes, and blacked his
boots! Doubtless for a single kiss, re-
dolent of beer and sausages, she would have
pressed his trousers. Kind words and the
fragrant osculation had already saved him
three dollars at his tailor'.s.
By such gold-brick methods, dear friends,
do men get good service cheap. Would
that we could do the same! Here, and
gladly, we admit masculine superiority.
Our short-sightedness, our weakness for
kind words, our graceful acceptance of the
entire responsibility for the home, have
chained us to the earth, while our lords
soar. After having worked steadily for
some six thousand years to populate the
earth passably, some of us may now be
excused from that duty.
Motherhood is a career for which especial
talents are required. Very few women
know how to bring up children properly.
If you don't believe it, look at the difference
between our angelic offspring, and the
little imps next door ! It is as unreasonable
to suppose that all women can be good
of 4flan 193
mothers as it is to suppose that all women
can sing in grand opera.
And yet, let us hug to our weary hearts,
in our most discouraged moments, the great
soul-satisfying truth that men, no matter
what they say or write, think that we are
smarter than they are. Otherwise, they
would not expect of us so much more than
they can possibly do themselves.
In every field of woman's work outside
the house, the same illustration applies.
They also think that we possess greater
physical strength. They chivalrously
shield us from the exhausting effort of
voting, but allow us to stand in the street-
cars, wash dishes, push a baby carriage,
and scrub the kitchen floor. Should we
not be proud because they consider us so
much stronger and wiser than they? In-
terruptions are fatal to their work, as the
wife of even a business man will testify.
What would have become of Spencer's
Data of Ethics if, while he was writing it, he
had two dressmakers in the house? Should
we have had Hamlet, if at the comple-
194 {Efjreabsf of <&rep anb <@olb
tion of the first act Mr. Shakespeare had
given birth to twins, when he had made
clothes for only one?
The great charm of marriage, as of life
itself, is its unexpectedness. The only
way to test a man is to marry him. If you
live, it 's a mushroom; if you die, it 's a
toadstool !
Or, as another saying goes: "Happiness
after marriage is like the soap in the bath-
tub; you knew it was there when you got
in."
Man's clothes are ugly, but the styles
change gradually. A judge on the bench
may try a case lasting two weeks, and his
hat will not be hopelessly behind the times
when it is finished. A man can stoop to
pick up a fallen magazine without pausing
to remember that his front steels are not so
flexible this year as they were last.
He is not distressed by the fear that some
other man may have a suit just like his,
or that the neighbours will think it is his
last year's suit dyed.
We women fritter ourselves away upon a
g>upenontp of jftem 195
thousand unnecessary things. We waste
our creative energies and our inspired
moments upon pursuits so ephemeral that
they are forgotten to-morrow. Our day's
work counts for nothing when tested by the
standards of eternity. We are unjust,
not only to ourselves, but to the men who
strive for us, for civilisation must progress
very slowly when half of us are dragged
by pots and pans.
A house is a material fact, but a home is
a fine spiritual essence which may pervade
even the humblest abode. If love means
harmony, why not try a little of it in the
kitchen? Better a perfect salad than a
poor poem; better a fine picture than an
immaculate house.
Ebe H>ear of flDp Ibeart
A SIGH for the spring, full flowered,
promised spring,
Laid on the tender earth, and those dear days
When apple blossoms gleamed against the
blue!
Ah, how the world of joyous robins sang:
"I love but you, Sweetheart, I love but you!"
A sigh for summer fled. In warm, sweet air
Her thousand singers sped on shining wing;
And all the inward life of budding grain
Throbbed with a thousand pulses, while I
cling
To you, my Sweet, with passion near to pain.
A sigh for autumn past. The garnered fields
Lie desolate to-day. My heart is chill
As with a sense of dread, and on the shore
The waves beat grey and cold, and seem to say :
"No more, oh, waiting soul, oh nevermore!"
A sigh for winter come. No singing bird,
Nor harvest field, is near the path I tread;
An empty husk is all I have to keep.
The largess of my giving left me bare,
And I ask God but for His Lethe sleep.
196
average flDan
TTHE real man is not at all on the out-
skirts of civilisation. He is very
much in evidence and everybody knows
him. He has faults and virtues, and some-
times they get so mixed up that "you can-
not tell one from t' other. ' '
He is erratic and often queer. He
believes, with Emerson, that "with con-
sistency a great soul has nothing to do."
And he is, of course, "a great soul." Logi-
cal, is n't it?
The average man thinks that he is a
born genius at love-making. Henders, in
The Professor's Love Story, states it thus :
"Effie, ye ken there are some men ha' a
power o'er women. . . . They 're what
ye might call 'dead shots.' Ye canna
deny, Effie, that I 'm one o' those men!"
Even though a man may be obliged to
197
198 tEfjrea&g of (Step an&
admit, in strict confidence between himself
and his mirror, that he is not at all hand-
some, nevertheless he is certain that he has
some occult influence over that strange,
mystifying, and altogether unreasonable
organ a woman's heart.
The real man is conceited. Of course
you are not, dear masculine reader, for
you are one of the bright particular
exceptions, but all of your men friends are
conceited are n't they?
And then he makes fun of his women
folks because they spend so much time in
front of the mirror in arranging hats and
veils. But when a high wind comes up
and disarranges coiffures and chapeaux
alike, he takes "my ladye fair" into some
obscure corner, and saying, "Pardon me,
but your hat is n't quite straight, " he
will deftly restore that piece of millinery
to its pristine position. That 's nice of
him, is n't it? He does very nice things
quite often, this real man.
He says women are fickle. So they are,
but men are fickle too, and will forget all
gfaerage iHan 199
about the absent sweetheart while con-
templating the pretty girls in the street.
For while "absence makes the heart grow
fonder" in the case of a woman, it is
presence that plays the mischief with a
man, and Miss Beauty present has a very
unfair advantage over Miss Sweetheart
absent.
The average man thinks he is a connois-
seur of feminine attractiveness. He thinks
he has tact, too, but there never was a man
who was blessed with much of this valuable
commodity. Still, as that is a favourite
delusion with so large a majority of the
human race, the conceit of the ordinary
masculine individual ought not to be
censured too strongly.
The real man is quite an expert at flat-
tery. Every girl he meets, if she is at all
attractive, is considered the most charming
lady that he ever knew. He is sure she
is n't prudish enough to refuse him a kiss,
and if she is, she wins not only his admira-
tion, but that which is vastly better his
respect.
200 ^fjreati* of <rep an&
If she hates to be considered a prude
and gives him the kiss, he is very sweet
and appreciative at the time, but later on
he confides to his chum that she is a silly
sort of a girl, without a great deal of self-
respect !
There are two things that the average
man likes to be told. One is that his taste
in dress is exceptional; the other that he
is a deep student of human nature and
knows the world thoroughly. This re-
mark will make him your lifelong friend.
Again, the real man will put on more
agony when he is in love than is needed
for a first-class tragedy. But there 's no
denying that most women like that sort of
thing, you, dear dainty feminine reader,
being almost the only exception to this rule.
But, resuming the special line of thought,
man firmly believes that woman cannot
sharpen a pencil, select a necktie, throw a
stone, drive a nail, or kill a mouse, and it is
very certain that she cannot cook a beef-
steak in the finished style of which his
lordship is capable.
gberase jftem 201
Yes, man has his faults as well as woman.
There is a vast room for improvement on
both sides, but as long as this old earth
of ours turns through shadow and sunlight,
through sorrow and happiness, men and
women will forgive and try to forget, and
will cling to, and love each other.
Gfoe Booh of Xov>e
I DREAMT I saw an angel in the night,
And she held forth Love's book, limned
o'er with gold,
That I might read of days of chivalry
And how men's hearts were wont to thrill of
old.
Half wondering, I turned the musty leaves,
For Love's book counts out centuries as years,
And here and there a page shone out un-
dimmed,
And here and there a page was blurred with
tears.
I read of Grief, Doubt, Silence unexplained
Of many-featured Wrong, Distrust, and
Blame,
Renunciation bitterest of all
And yet I wandered not beyond Love's name.
At last I cried to her who held the book,
So fair and calm she stood, I see her yet ;
"Why write these things within this book of
Love?
Why may we not pass onward and forget?"
202
of Ho be 203
Her voice was tender when she answered me:
" Half child, half woman, earthy as thou art,
How should'st thou dream that Love is never
Love
Unless these things beat vainly on the heart?"
Ifceal flDan
TJE is n't nearly so scarce as one might
* * think, but happy is the woman who
finds him, for he is often a bit out of the
beaten paths, sometimes in the very
suburbs of our modern civilisation. He
is, however, coming to the front rather
slowly, to be sure, but nevertheless he is
coming.
He would n't do for the hero of a dime
novel he is n't melancholy in his mien,
nor Byronic in his morals. It is a frank,
honest, manly face that looks into the
other end of our observation telescope when
we sweep the horizon to find something
higher and better than the rank and file of
humanity.
He is a gentleman, invariably courteous
and refined. He is careful in his attire,
but not foppish. He is chivalrous in his
204
3beal j&an 205
attitude toward woman, and as politely
kind to the wrinkled old woman who
scrubs his office floor as to the aristocratic
belle who bows to him from her carriage.
He is scrupulously honest in all his
dealings with his fellow men, and meanness
of any sort is utterly beneath him. He has
a happy way of seeing the humorous side
of life, and he is an exceedingly pleasant
companion.
When the love light shines in his eyes,
kindled at the only fire where it may be
lighted, he has nothing in his past of which
he need be ashamed. He stands beside
her and pleads earnestly and manfully
for the treasure he seeks. Slowly he turns
the pages of his life before her, for there is
not one which can call a blush to his cheek,
or to hers.
Truth, purity, honesty, chivalry, the
highest manliness all these are written
therein, and she gladly accepts the clean
heart which is offered for her keeping.
Her life is now another open book. To
him her nature seems like a harp of a
206 Cfrreafog of <&rep an&
thousand strings, and every note, though it
may not be strong and high, is truth itself,
and most refined in tone.
So they join hands, these two: the
sweetheart becomes the wife; the lover
is the husband.
He is still chivalrous to every woman,
but to his wife he pays the gentler defer-
ence which was the sweetheart's due. He
loves her, and is not ashamed to show it.
He brings her flowers and books, just as
he used to do when he was teaching her to
love him. He is broad-minded, and far-
seeing he believes in "a white life for
two." He knows his wife has the same
right to demand purity in thought, word,
and deed from him, as he has to ask
absolute stainlessness from her. That is
why he has kept clean the pages of his life
why he keeps the record unsullied as the
years go by.
He is tender in his feelings; if he goes
home and finds his wife in tears, he does n't
tell her angrily to "brace up, " or say, "this
is a pretty welcome for a man!" He
Sfceal 4flan 207
does n't slam the door and whistle as if
nothing was the matter. But he takes her
in his comforting arms and speaks soothing
words. If his comrades speak lightly of
his devotion, he simply thinks out other
blessings for the little woman who presides
at his fireside.
His wife is inexpressibly dear to him, and
every day he shows this, and takes pains,
also, to tell her so. He admires her pretty
gowns, and is glad to speak appreciatively
of the becoming things she wears. He
knows instinctively that it is the thought-
fulness and the little tenderness which
make a woman's happiness, and he tries
to make her realise that his love for her
grew brighter, instead of fading, when the
sweetheart blossomed into the wife. For
every woman, old, wrinkled, and grey, or
young and charming, likes to be loved.
The ideal man will do his utmost to
make his wife realise that his devotion
intensifies as the years go by.
What greater thing is there for two hu-
man souls than to feel that they are joined
208 tEfjreafc* of <rep an& <olt>
for life to strengthen each other in all
labour, to rest upon each other in all sor-
row, to minister to each other in all pain, to
be one with each other in silent unspeak-
able memories at the moment of the last
parting?
God bless the ideal man and hasten his
coming in greater numbers.
(BooMRigbt, Sweetheart
GOOD-NIGHT, Sweetheart; the winged
hours have flown;
I have forgotten all the world but thee.
Across the moon-lit deep, where stars have
shone,
The surge sounds softly from the sleeping sea.
Thy heart at last hath opened to Love's key;
Remembered Aprils, glorious blooms have
sown,
And now there comes the questing honey
bee.
Good-night, Sweetheart; the winged hours
have flown.
My singing soul makes music in thine own,
Thy hand upon my harp makes melody;
So close the theme and harmony have grown
I have forsaken all the world for thee.
Before thy whiteness do I bend the knee;
Thou art a queen upon a stainless throne,
Like Dian making royal jubilee,
Across the vaulted dark where stars are blown.
209
2io tEljrea&s of <@rep anb
Within my heart thy face shines out alone,
Ah, dearest! Say for once thou lovest me!
A whisper, even, like the undertone
The surge sings slowly from the rhythmic sea.
Thy downcast eyes make answer to my plea ;
A crimson mantle o'er thy cheek is thrown
Assurance more than this, there need not be,
For thus, within the silence, love is known.
Good-night, Sweetheart.
flfceal HCloman
THE trend of modern thought in art and
literature is toward the real, but
fortunately the cherishing of the ideal has
not vanished.
All of us, though we may profess to be
realists, are at heart idealists, for every
woman in the innermost sanctuary of her
thoughts cherishes an ideal man. And
every man, practical and commonplace
though he be, has before him in his quiet
moments a living picture of grace and
beauty, which, consciously or not, is his
ideal woman.
Every man instinctively admires a
beautiful woman. But when he seeks a
wife, he demands other qualities besides
that wonderful one which is, as the proverb
tells us, "only skin deep. "
If men were not such strangely inconsis-
211
212 tEfjreafca of <@rep anb
tent beings, the world would lose half its
charm. Each sex rails at the other for its
inconsistency, when the real truth is that
nowhere exists much of that beautiful
quality which is aptly termed a "jewel."
But humanity must learn with Emerson
to seek other things than consistency, and
to look upon the lightning play of thought
and feeling as an index of mental and moral
growth.
For those who possess the happy faculty
of "making the best of things," men are
really the most amusing people in existence.
To hear a man dilate upon the virtues and
accomplishments of the ideal woman he
would make his wife is a most interesting
diversion, besides being a source of what
may be called decorative instruction.
She must, first of all, be beautiful. No
man, even in his wildest moments, ever
dreamed of marrying any but a beautiful
woman, yet, in nine cases out of ten when
he does go to the altar, he is leading there
one who is lovely only in his own eyes.
He has read Swinburne and Tennyson
Jfceal in oman 213
and is very sure he won't have anything
but "a daughter of the gods, divinely tall,
and most divinely fair. " Then, of course,
there is the "classic profile," the "deep,
unfathomable eyes," the "lily-white skin,"
and "hair like the raven's wing," not to
mention the "swan-like neck" and "taper-
ing, shapely fingers."
Mr. Ideal is really a man of refined taste,
and the women who hear this impassioned
outburst are supremely conscious of their
own imperfections.
But beauty is not the only demand of this
fastidious gentleman ; the fortunate woman
whom he deigns to honour must be a
paragon of sweetness and docility. No
"woman's rights" or "suffrage rant" for
him, and none of those high-stepping
professional women need apply either
oh, no! And then all of her interests must
be his, for of all things on earth, he "does
despise a woman with a hobby!" None
of these "broad-minded women" were ever
intended for Mr. Ideal. He is very certain
of that, because away down in his secret
214 tKiiteab* of (Step anfc
heart he was sure he had found the right
woman once, but when he did, he learned
also that she was somewhat particular
about the man she wanted to marry, and
the applicant then present did not fill the
bill ! He is therefore very sure that ' ' a man
does not want an intellectual instructor:
he wants a wife."
Just like the most of them after all,
is n't he?
The year goes round and Mr. Ideal
goes away on a summer vacation. There
are some pleasant people in the little town
to which he goes, and there is a girl in the
party with her mother and brother. Mr.
Ideal looks her over disapprovingly. She
is n't pretty no, she is n't even good-
looking. Her hair is almost red, her eyes
are a pale blue, and she wears glasses. Her
nose is n't even straight, and it turns up too
much besides. Her skin is covered with
tiny golden-brown blotches. "Freckles!"
exclaims Mr. Ideal, sotto wee. Her
mouth is n't bad, the lips are red and full
and her teeth are white and even. She
3beal 8Homan 215
wears a blue boating suit with an Eton
jacket. "So common!" and Mr. Ideal
goes away from his secluded point of
observation.
A merry laugh reaches his ear, and he
turns around. The tall brother is chasing
her through the bushes, and she waves a
letter tantalisingly at him as she goes, and
finally bounds over a low fence and runs
across the field, with her big brother in
close pursuit. "Hoydenish!" and Mr.
Ideal hums softly to himself and goes off to
find Smith. Smith is a good fellow and
asks Mr. Ideal to go fishing. They go, but
don't have a bite, and come home rather
cross. Does Smith know the little red-
headed girl who was on the piazza, this
morning?
Yes, he has met her. She has been
here about a week. "Rather nice, but not
especially attractive, you know." No, she
is n't, but he will introduce Mr. Ideal.
Days pass, and Mr. Ideal and Miss
Practical are much together. He finds her
the jolliest girl he ever knew. She is an
2i6 threat) g of <0ret> anb
enthusiastic advocate of "woman" in
every available sphere.
She herself is going to be a trained nurse
after she learns to "keep house." "For
you know that every woman should be a
good housekeeper," she says demurely.
He doesn't exactly like "that trained
nurse business, " but he admits to himself
that, if he were ill, he should like to have
Miss Practical smooth his pillow and take
care of him.
And so the time goes on, and he is often
the companion of the girl. At times, she
fairly scintillates with merriment, but she
is so dignified, and so womanly so very
careful to keep him at his proper distance
that, well, "she is a type!"
In due course of time, he plans to return
to the city, and to the theatres and parties
he used to find so pleasant. All his friends
are there. No, Miss Practical is not in the
city ; she is right here. Like a flash a reve-
lation comes over him, and he paces the
veranda angrily. Well, there 's only one
thing to be done he must tell her about it.
Che iilical liBcman 217
Perhaps and he sees a flash of blue
through the shrubbery, which he seeks
with the air of a man who has an object
in view.
His circle of friends are very much sur-
prised when he introduces Mrs. Ideal, for
she is surely different from the ideal woman
about whom they have heard so much.
They naturally think he is inconsistent,
but he is n't, for some subtle alchemy has
transfigured the homely little girl into the
dearest, best, and altogether most beauti-
ful woman Mr. Ideal has ever seen.
She is domestic in her tastes now, and
has abandoned the professional nurse idea.
She knows a great deal about Greek and
Latin, and still more about Shakespeare
and Browning and other authors.
But she neglects neither her books nor
her housekeeping, and her husband spends
his evenings at home, not because Mrs.
Ideal would cry and make a fuss if he
did n't, but because his heart is in her
keeping, and because his own fireside, with
2i8 SEbreaba of
its sweet-faced guardian angel, is to him
the most beautiful place on earth, and he
has sense enough to appreciate what a
noble wife is to him.
The plain truth is, when "any whatso-
ever " Mr. Ideal loves a woman, he
immediately finds her perfect, and trans-
fers to her the attributes which only exist
in his imagination. His heart and happi-
ness are there not with the creatures of
his dreams, but the warm, living, loving
human being beside him, and to him,
henceforth, the ideal is the real.
For "the ideal woman is as gentle as
she is strong." She wins her way among
her friends and fellow human beings, even
though they may be strangers, by doing
many a kindness which the most of us are
too apt to overlook or ignore.
No heights of thought or feeling are
beyond her eager reach, and no human
creature has sunk too low for her sym-
pathy and her helping hand. Even the
forlorn and friendless dog in the alley
Sfceal Ionian 219
looks instinctively into her face for
help.
She is in every man's thoughts and
always will be, as she always has been
the ideal who shall lead him step by step,
and star by star, to the heights which he
cannot reach alone.
Ruskin says : "No man ever lived a right
life who has not been chastened by a
woman's love, strengthened by her courage
and guided by her discretion. "
The steady flow of the twentieth-century
progress has not swept away woman's
influence, nor has it crushed out her
womanliness. She lives in the hearts of
men, a queen as royal as in the days of
chivalry, and men shall do and dare for
her dear sake as long as time shall last.
The sweet, lovable, loyal woman of the
past is not lost; she is only intensified in
the brave wif ehood and motherhood of our
own times. The modern ideal, like that
of olden times, is and ever will be, above
all things womanly.
She 10 not jfair
SHE is not fair to other eyes
No poet's dream is she,
Nor artist's inspiration, yet
I would not have her be.
She wanders not through princely halls,
A crown upon her hair;
Her heart awaits a single king
Because she is not fair.
Dear lips, your half-shy tenderness
Seems far too much to win!
Yet, has your heart a tiny door
Where I may peep within?
That voiceless chamber, dim and sweet,
I pray may be my own.
Dear little Love, may I come in
And make you mine alone?
She is not fair to other eyes
I would not have it so ;
She needs no further charm or grace
Or aught wealth may bestow;
220
3* not Jfair 221
For when the love light shines and makes
Her dear face glorified
Ah Sweetheart ! queens may come and go
And all the world beside.
IRfloman
T^HE world has fought step by step the
* elevation of woman from inferiority
to equality, but at last she is being recog-
nised as a potent factor in our civilisation.
The most marked change which has
been made in woman's position during the
last half century or more has been effected
by higher education, and since the uni-
versities have thrown open their doors to
her, she has been allowed, in many cases,
to take the same courses that her brother
does.
Still, the way has not been entirely
smooth for educated and literary women,
for the public press has too often frowned
upon their efforts to obtain anything like
equal recognition for equal ability. The
literary woman has, for years, been the
target of criticism, and if we are to believe
J?tn-fce-$i>tcclc VHoman 223
her critics, she has been entirely shunned
by the gentlemen of her acquaintance;
but the fact that so many of them are
wives and mothers, and, moreover, good
wives and mothers, proves conclusively
that these statements are not trustworthy.
It is true that some prefer the society
of women who know just enough to appre-
ciate their compliments women who de-
precate their "strong-minded" sisters, and
are ready to agree implicitly with every
statement that the lords of creation may
make; but this readiness is due to sheer
inability to produce a thought of their own.
It is true that some men are afraid of
educated women, but a man who is afraid
of a woman because she knows something
is not the kind of a man she wants to
marry. He is not the kind of a man she
would choose for either husband or friend ;
she wants an intellectual companion, and
the chances are that she will find him, or
rather that he will find her. A woman
need not be unwomanly in order to write
books that will help the world.
224 lE&reaba of <@rep anb
She may be a good housekeeper, even
if she does write for the magazines, and
the husbands of literary women are not,
as some folks would have us believe,
neglected and forlorn-looking beings. On
the contrary, they carry brave hearts and
cheerful faces with them always, since
their strength is reinforced by the quiet
happiness of their own firesides.
Thefin-de-siecle woman is literary in one
sense, if not in another, for if she may not
wield her pen, she can keep in touch with
the leading thinkers of the day, and she
will prove as pleasant a companion during
the long winter evenings as the woman
whose husband chose her for beauty and
taste in dress.
The literary woman is not slipshod in
her apparel, and she may, if she chooses,
be a society and club woman as well.
Surely there is nothing in literary culture
which shall prevent neatness and propriety
in dress as well as in conduct.
The devoted admirer of Browning is not
liable to quote him in a promiscuous com-
Jfin-fce-^tccle Sloman 225
pany and though a lady may be familiar
with Shakespeare, it does not follow that
she will discuss Hamlet in social gatherings.
If she reads Greek as readily as she does
her mother tongue, you may rest assured
she will not mention Homer in ordinary
conversation, for a cultivated woman
readily recognises the fitness of things, and
accords a due deference to the tastes of
others. She has her club and her friends,
as do the gentlemen of her acquaintance,
but her children are not neglected irom the
fact that she sometimes thinks of other
things. She is a helpmeet to her husband,
and not a plaything, or a slave. If duty
calls her to the kitchen, she goes cheer-
fully, and, moreover, the cook will not
dread to see her coming ; or if that import-
ant person be absent, the table will be
supplied with just as good bread, and
just as delicate pastry, as if the lady of
the house did not understand the chemicals
of their composition.
If trouble comes, she bears it bravely, for
the cultured woman has a philosophy which
226 (Efircabs of <&rep anU
is equal to any emergency, and she does
the best she can on all occasions.
If her husband leaves her penniless, she
will, if possible, clothe her children with her
pen, but if her literary wares are a drug
on the market, she will turn bravely to
other fields, and find her daily bread made
sweet by thankfulness. She does not
hesitate to hold out her hands to help a
fellow-creature, either man or woman, for
she is in all things womanly a wife to her
husband and a mother to her children in
the truest sense of the words.
Her knowledge of the classics does not
interfere with the making of dainty drap-
eries for her home, and though she may be
appointed to read a paper before her club
on some scholarly theme, she will listen
just as patiently to tales of trouble from
childish lips, and will tie up little cut
fingers just as sympathetically as her
neighbour who folds her arms and who
broadly hints that "wimmen's spear is
to hum!"
Whether the literary woman be robed
Jfm-&e->iecle KSoman 227
in silk and sealskin, or whether she rejoices
in the possession of only one best gown, she
may, nevertheless, be contented and happy.
Whether she lives in a modest cottage,
or in a fashionable home, she may be the
same sweet woman, with cheerful face and
pleasant voice with a broad human sym-
pathy which makes her whole life glad.
Be she princess, or Cinderella, she may
be still her husband's confidant and
cherished friend, to whom he may confide
his business troubles and perplexities,
certain always of her tender consolation
and ready sympathy. She may be quick
and versatile, doing well whatever she
does at all, for her creed declares that
"whatever is honest is honourable."
She glories in her womanhood and has
no sympathy with anything which tends
to degrade it.
All hail to the woman of the twentieth
century; let fin de siecle stand for all that
is best and noblest in womanhood: for
liberty, equality, and fraternity; for right,
truth, and justice.
228 vEfireabs of <0rcp anil
All hail the widespread movement for
the higher education of woman, for in
intellectual development is the future of
posterity, in study is happiness, through
the open door of the college is the key cf a
truer womanhood, a broader humanity, and
a brighter hope. In education along the
lines of the broadest and wisest culture is
to be found the emancipation of the race.
Gbe flDoon
THERE 's a wondrous land of misty gold
Beyond the sunset's bars.
There 's a silver boat on a sea of blue,
And the tips of its waves are stars.
And idly rocking to and fro,
Her cloud robes floating by,
There 's a maiden fair, with sunny hair,
The queen of the dreamy sky.
1ber Son's TOife
venerable mother-in-law joke ap-
pears in the comic papers with
astonishing regularity. For a time, per-
haps, it may seem to be lost in the mists
of oblivion, but even while one is rejoicing
at its absence it returns to claim its original
position at the head of the procession.
There are two sides to everything,
even to an old joke, and the artist always
pictures the man's dismay when his wife's
mother comes for a visit. Nobody ever
sees a drawing of a woman's mother-in-
law, and yet, the bitterness and sadness
lie mainly there between the mother and
the woman his son has chosen for his
wife.
It is a pleasure to believe that the aver-
age man is a gentleman, and his inborn
respect for his own mother, if nothing else,
230
Milt 231
will usually compel an outward show of
politeness to every woman, even though
she may be a constant source of irritation.
Grey hair has its own claims upon a young
man's deference, and, in the business world,
he is obliged to learn to hold his tongue,
hide his temper, and "assume a virtue
though he has it not. "
The mother's welcome from her daugh-
ter's husband depends much upon herself.
Her long years of marriage have been in
vain if they have not taught her to watch
a man's moods and tenses; when to speak
and when to be silent, and how to avoid
useless discussion of subjects on which
there is a pronounced difference of opinion.
Leaving out the personal equation, the
older and more experienced woman is
better fitted to get along peaceably with a
man than the young girl who has her
wisdom yet to acquire.
Moreover, it is to the daughter's interest
to cement a friendship between her mother
and her husband, and so she stands as a
shield between the two she holds dearest,
232 {Bureaus of <&rep anti
to exercise whatever tact she may possess
toward an harmonious end.
"A son 's a son till he gets him a wife,
But a daughter 's a daughter all the days of
her life."
Thus the old saying runs, and there is a
measure of truth in it, more 's the pity.
Marriage and a home of her own interfere
but little with a daughter's devotion to
her mother, even though the daily com-
panionship be materially lessened. The
feeling is there and remains unchanged,
unless it grows stronger through the new
interests on both sides.
If a man has won his wife in spite of her
mother's opposition, he can well afford to
be gracious and forget the ancient grudge.
It is his part, too, to prove to the mother
how far she was mistaken, by making the
girl who trusted him the happiest wife in
the world. The woman who sees her
daughter happy will have little against her
son-in-law, except that primitive, tribal
instinct which survives in most of us, and
Set gxm'a Milt 233
jealously guards those of our own blood
from the aggression of another family or
individual.
One may as well admit that a good hus-
band is a very scarce article, and that the
mother's anxiety for her daughter is well-
founded. No man can escape the sensa-
tion of being forever on trial in the eyes
of his wife's mother, and woe to him if he
makes a mistake or falters in his duty!
Things which a woman would gladly con-
done in her husband are unpardonable sins
in the man who has married her daughter,
and taken her from a mother's loving care.
A good husband and a good man are not
necessarily the same thing. Many a scape-
grace has been dearly loved by his wife, and
many a highly respected man has been
secretly despised by his wife and children.
When the prison doors open to discharge
the sinners who have served long sentences,
the wives of those who have been good
husbands are waiting for them with open
arms. The others have long since taken
advantage of the divorce laws.
234 Qflbreabs: of <&rep anfc
Since women know women so well,
perhaps it is only natural for a mother to
feel that no girl who is good enough for her
son ever has been born. All the small
deceits, the little schemes and frailties,
are as an open book in the eyes of other
women.
"If you were a man," said one girl to
another, " and knew women as well as you
do now, whom would you marry?"
The other girl thought for a moment, and
then answered unhesitatingly: "I 'd stay
single."
Women are always suspicious of each
other, and the one who can deceive another
woman is entitled to her laurels for clever-
ness. With the keen insight and quick
intuition of the woman on either side of
him, when these women are violently
opposed to each other, no man need look
for peace.
In spite of their discernment, women are
sadly deficient in analysis when it comes to
a question of self. Neither wife nor
mother can clearly see her relation to the
bait's mil t 235
man they both love. Blinded by passion-
ate devotion and eager for power, both
women lose sight of the truth, and torment
themselves and each other with unfounded
jealousy and distrust.
In no sense are wife and mother rivals,
nor can they ever be so. Neither could
take the place of the other for a single
instant, and the wife foolishly guards the
point where there is no danger, for, of all
the women in the world, his mother and
sisters are the only ones who could never
by any possibility usurp her place.
A woman need only ask herself if she
would like to be the mother of her hus-
band to exchange the love which she
now has for filial affection fora tempor-
ary clearness of her troubled skies. The
mother need only ask herself if she would
surrender her position for the privilege of
being her son's wife, if she seeks for light
OH her dark path.
Yet, in spite of this, the two are often
open and acknowledged rivals. A woman
recently wrote to the "etiquette depart-
236 tEfjr^afcjs of tflrep anto
ment" of a daily paper to know whether
she or her son's fiancee should make the
first call. In answering the question, the
head of the department, who, by the way,
has something of a reputation for good
sense, wrote as follows: "It is your place
to make the first call, and you have my
sympathy in your difficult task. You
must be brave, for you are going to look
into the eyes of a woman whom your son
loves better than he does you!" "Better
than he does you!" That is where all the
trouble lies, for each wishes to be first in a
relation where no comparison is possible.
When an American yacht first won the
cup, Queen Victoria was watching the
race. When she was told that the America
was in the lead, she asked what boat was
second. "Your Majesty," replied the
naval officer sadly, "there is no second!"
So, between wife and mother there is no
second place, and it is possible for each to
own the whole of the loved one's heart,
without infringing or even touching upon
the rights of the other.
Milt 237
Few of the passengers on a lake steamer,
during a trip in northern waters a few
years since, will ever forget a certain
striking group. Mother and son, and the
son's fiancee, were off for a week's vacation.
The mother was tall and stately, with
snow-white hair and a hard face deeply
seamed with wrinkles, and with the fire of
southern countries burning in her faded
blue eyes. The son was merely a nice
boy, with a pleasant face, and the girl,
though not pretty, had a fresh look about
her which was very attractive.
She wore an engagement ring, so he must
have cared for her, but otherwise no one
would have suspected it. From beginning
to end, his attention was centred upon
his mother. He carried his mother's
wraps, but the girl carried her own. He
talked to the mother, and the girl could
speak or not, just as she chose. Never
for an instant were the two alone together.
They sat on the deck until late at night,
with the mother between them. When
they changed, the son took his own chair
238 tEfjreabs of <Sp anb
and his mother's, while the girl dragged
hers behind them. At the end of their
table in the cabin, the mother sat between
them at the head. Once, purely by
accident, the girl slipped into the nearest
chair, which happened to be the mother's,
and the deadly silence could be felt even
two tables away. The girl turned pale,
then the son said: "You '11 take the head
of the table, won't you, mother?"
The steely tone of her voice could be
heard by every one as she said, "No!"
The girl ate little, and soon excused
herself to go to her stateroom, but the
next day things were as before, and the
foolish old mother had her place next to
her son.
Discussion was rife among the passen-
gers, till an irreverent youth ended it by
saying: "Mamma 's got the rocks; that 's
the why of it!"
Perhaps it was, but one wonders why a
man should slight his promised wife so
publicly, even to please a mother with
"rocks!"
g>on'* Mile 239
To the mother who adores her son, every
girl who smiles at him has matrimonial
designs. When he falls in love, it is because
he has been entrapped she seldom con-
siders him as being the aggressive one of the
two. The mother of the girl feels the same
way, and, in the lower circles, there is
occasionally an illuminating time when
the two mothers meet.
Each is made aware how the other's
offspring has given the entrapped one no
peace, and how the affair has been the
scandal of two separate neighbourhoods,
more eligible partners having been lost
by both sides.
In the Declaration of Independence
there is no classification of the rights of
the married, but the clause regarding "life,
liberty, and the pursuit of happiness" has
been held pointedly to refer to the matri-
monial state. If the mother would accord
to her daughter-in-law the same rights she
claimed at the outset of her own married
life, the relation would be perceptibly
smoother in many instances.
240 tEfjreafcs of (Ohrep anb
When a woman marries, she has a right
to expect the love of her husband, material
support, a home of her own, even though
it be only two tiny rooms, and absolute
freedom from outside interference. It is
her life, and she must live it in her own way,
and a girl of spirit will live it in her own
way, without taking heed of the conse-
quences, if she is pushed too far.
On the other hand, the mother who bore
him still has proprietary rights. She may
reasonably claim a share of his society, a
part of his earnings, if she needs financial
assistance, and his interest in all that
nearly concerns her. If she expects to be
at the head of his house, with the wife as
a sort of a boarder, she need not be sur-
prised if there is trouble.
Marriage brings to a girl certain freedom,
but it gives her no superiority to her
husband's family. A chain is as strong as
its weakest link, and the members of a
family do not rise above the general level.
Every one of them is as good as the man
she has married, and she is not above any
don'* Mitt 241
of them, unless her own personality com-
mands a higher position.
She treasonably violates the confidence
placed in her if she makes a discreditable
use of any information coming to her
through her association with her husband's
family. There are skeletons in every
closet, and she may not tell even her own
mother of what she has seen in the other
house. A single word breathed against
her husband's family to an outsider stamps
her as a traitor, who deserves a traitor's
punishment.
The girl who tells her most intimate
friend that the mother of her fiance "is
an old cat, " by that act has lowered herself
far below the level of any self-respecting
cat. Even if outward and visible disgrace
comes to the family of her husband, she is
unworthy if she does not hold her head
high and let the world see her loyalty.
Marriage gives her no right to criticise
any member of her husband's family;
their faults are out of her reach except by
the force of tactful example. Her con-
242 GHjreabg of (Step anb <J3olti
cern is with herself and him, not his family,
and a wise girl, at the beginning of her
married life, will draw a sharp line between
her affairs and those of others, and will
stay on her own side of the line.
When a man falls in love with a thought-
less butterfly, his womenfolk may be
pardoned if they stand aghast a moment
before they regain their self-command.
In a way it is like a guest who is given the
freedom of the house, and who, when her
visit is over, tells her friends that the
parlour carpet was turned, and the stairs
left undusted.
Another household is intimately opened
to the woman whom the son has married,
and the members of it can make no defence.
She can betray them if she chooses; there
is nothing to shield them except her love
for her husband, and too often that is
insufficient.
A girl seldom stops to think what she
owes to her husband's mother. Twenty-
five or thirty years ago, the man she loves
was born. Since then there has been no
'a Milt 243
time, sleeping or waking, when he has not
been in the thoughts of the mother who has
sought to do her best by him. She gave
her life wholly to the demands of her child,
without a moment's hesitation.
She has sacrificed herself in countless
ways, all through those years, in order that
he might have his education, his pleasures,
and his strong body. With every day he
has grown nearer and dearer to her; every
day his loss would have been that much
harder to bear.
In quiet talks in the twilight, she teaches
him to be gentle and considerate, to be
courteous to every woman because a
woman gave him life ; to be brave, noble,
and tender; to be strong and fine; to
choose honour with a crust, rather than
shame with plenty.
Then comes the pretty butterfly, with
whom her son is in love. Is it strange
that the heart of the mother tightens
with sudden pain?
With never a thought, the girl takes it
all as her due. She would write a gracious
244 tEfjreafca of dlrep anfo
note of thanks to the friend who sent her a
pretty handkerchief, but for the woman
who is the means of satisfying her heart's
desire she has not even toleration. All the
sweetness and beauty of his adoring love
are a gift to her, unwilling too often, per-
haps, but a gift nevertheless, from his
mother.
Long years of life have taught the mother
what it may mean and what, alas, it does
too often mean. Memories only are her
portion ; she need expect nothing now. He
may not come to see his mother for an
old familiar talk, because his wife either
comes with him, or expects him to be at
home. He has no time for his mother's
interests or his mother's friends; there is
scant welcome in his home for her, because
between them has come an alien presence
which never yields or softens.
Strangely, and without any definite
idea of the change, he comes to see his
mother as she is. Once, she was the most
beautiful woman in the world, and her
roughened hands were lovely because they
Mitt 245
had toiled for him. Once, her counsel was
wise, her judgment good, and the gift of
feeling which her motherhood brought her
was seen as generous sympathy.
Now, by comparison with a bright, well-
dressed wife, he sees what an "old frump"
his mother is. She is shabby and old-
fashioned, clinging to obsolete forms of
speech, hysterical and emotional. When
the mists of love have cleared from her
boy's eyes, she may just as well give up,
because there is no return, save in that
other mist which comes too late, when
mother is at rest.
The wife who tries to keep alive her
husband's love for his family, not only in
his heart, but in outward observance as
well, serves her own interests even better
than theirs. The love of the many comes
with the love of the one, and just as truly
as he loves his sweetheart better because
of his mother and sisters, he may love them
better because of her.
The poor heart-hungry mother, who
stands by with brimming eyes, fearful
246 tCiireab* of <&rep anfc <&olb
that the joy of her life may be taken from
her, will be content with but little if she
may but keep it for her own. It is only a
little while at the longest, for the end of
the journey is soon, but sunset and after-
glow would have some of the rapture of
dawn, if her son's wife opened the door of
her young heart and said with true sin-
cerity and wells of tenderness: "Mother
Come!"
E
Sleep, baby, sleep,
The twilight breezes blow,
The flower bells are ringing,
The birds are twittering low,
Sleep, baby, sleep.
Sleep, baby, sleep,
The whippoorwill is calling,
The stars are twinkling faintly,
The dew is softly falling,
Sleep, baby, sleep.
Sleep, baby, sleep,
Upon your pillow lying,
The rushes whisper to the stream,
The summer day is dying,
Sleep, baby, sleep.
247
2>re00in8*Sacfc Ibabit
QOMEONE has said that a dressing-sack
^ is only a Mother Hubbard with a
college education. Accepting this state-
ment as a great truth, one is inclined to
wonder whether education has improved
the Mother Hubbard, since another clever
person has characterised a college as "a
place where pebbles are polished and
diamonds are dimmed!"
The bond of relationship between the
two is not at first apparent, yet there are
subtle ties of kinship between the two. If
we take a Hubbard and cut it off at the
hips, we have only a dressing-sack with a
yoke. The dressing-sack, however, cannot
be walked on, even when the wearer is
stooping, and in this respect it has the
advantage of the other; it is also supposed
to fit in the back, but it never does.
248
249
Doubtless in the wise economy of the
universe, where every weed has its func-
tion, even this garment has its place
else it would not be.
Possibly one may take a nap, or arrange
one's crown of glory to better advantage
in a "boudoir n6gligee, " or an invalid may
be thus tempted to think of breakfast.
Indeed, the habit is apt to begin during
illness, when a friend presents the ailing
lady with a dainty affair of silk and lace
which inclines the suffering soul to fri-
volities. Presently she sits up, takes
notice, and plans more garments of the
sort, so that after she fully recovers all
the world may see these becoming things !
The worst of the habit is that all the
world does see. Fancy runs riot with one
pattern, a sewing-machine, and all the
remnants a single purse can compass. The
lady with a kindly feeling for colour
browses along the bargain counter and
speedily acquires a rainbow for her own.
Each morning she assumes a different
phase, and, at the end of the week, one's
250 ^Ijreabs of (Step an& <@olb
recollection of her is lost in a kaleidoscopic
whirl.
Red, now is anything prettier than
red? And how the men admire it! Does
not the dark lady build wisely who dons a
red dressing-sack on a cold morning, that
her husband may carry a bright bit of
colour to the office in his fond memories
of home?
A book with a red cover, a red cushion,
crimson draperies, and scarlet ribbons, are
all notoriously pleasing to monsieur
why not a red dressing-sack?
If questioned, monsieur does not know
why, yet gradually his passion for red
will wane, then fail. Later in the game,
he will be affronted by the colour, even as
the gentleman cow in the pasture. It is
not the colour, dear madame, but the shift-
less garment, which has wrought this
change.
There are few who dare to assume pink,
for one must have a complexion of peaches
and cream, delicately powdered at that,
before the rosy hues are becoming. Yet,
251
the sallow lady, with streaks of grey in her
hair, crow's feet around her eyes, and little
time tracks registered all over her face,
will put on a pink dressing-sack when she
gets ready for breakfast. She would
scream with horror at the thought of a
pink and white organdie gown, made over
rosy taffeta, but the kimono is another
story.
Green dressing-sacks are not often seen,
but more 's the pity, for in the grand array
of colour nothing should be lacking, and
the wearers of these garments never seem
to step to think whether or not they are
becoming. What could be more cheerful
on a cloudy morning than a flannel negligee
of the blessed shade of green consecrated
to the observance of the seventeenth of
March?
It looks as well as many things which
are commonly welded into dressing-sacks;
then why this invidious distinction?
When we approach blue in our dressing-
sack rainbow, speech becomes pitifully
weak. Ancient maidens and matrons, with
252 {Rftreab* of <&rep anb
olive skins, proudly assume a turquoise neg-
ligee. Blue flannel, with cascades of white
lace could anything be more attractive?
It has only one rival the garment of
lavender eiderdown flannel, the button-
holes stitched with black yarn, which the
elderly widow too often puts on when the
tide of her grief has turned.
The combination of black with any
shade of purple is well fitted to produce
grief, even as the cutting of an onion will
bring tears. Could the dear departed
see his relict in the morning, with lavender
eiderdown environment, he would appre-
ciate his mercies as never before.
The speaking shades of yellow and
orange are much affected by German
ladies for dressing-sacks, and also for the
knitted tippets which our Teutonic friends
wear, in and out of the house, from Octo-
ber to July. Canary yellow is delicate and
becoming to most, but it is German taste
to wear orange.
At first, perhaps, with a sense of the
fitness of things, the negligee is worn only
253
in one's own room. She says: "It's so
comfortable!" There are degrees in com-
fort, varying from the easy, perfect fit of
one's own skin to a party gown which
dazzles envious observers, and why is the
adjective reserved for the educated but
abbreviated Mother Hubbard?
"The apparel oft proclaims the man,"
and even more is woman dependent upon
her clothes for physical, moral, and in-
tellectual support. An uncorseted body
will soon make its influence felt upon the
mind. The steel-and-whalebone spine
which properly reinforces all feminine
vertebra is literally the backbone of a
woman's self-respect.
Would the iceman or the janitor hesi-
tate to "talk back" to the uncorseted
lady in a pink dressing-sack? Hardly!
But confront the erring man with a
quiet, dignified woman in a crisp shirt
waist and a clean collar verily he will
think twice before he ventures an excuse
for his failings.
The iceman and the grocery boy see
254 QQbreafcg of <&rep anb
more dressing-sacks than most others, for
they are privileged to approach the back
doors of residences, and to hold conversa-
tions with the lady of the house, after the
departure of him whose duty and pleasure
it is to pay for the remnants. And in the
lower strata they are known by their
clothes.
"Fifty pounds for the red dressing-sack,"
says the iceman to his helper, "and a
hundred for the blue. Step lively now!"
And how should madame know that her
order for a steak, a peck of potatoes, and
two lemons, is registered in the grocery
boy's book under the laconic title, ' ' Pink ' ' ?
After breakfast, when she sits down to
read the paper and make her plans for the
day, the insidious dressing-sack gets in its
deadly work.
"I won't dress," she thinks, "until I get
ready to go out." After luncheon, she is
too tired to go out, and too nearly dead to
dress.
Friends come in, perhaps, and say : " Oh,
ZEIje Bre**tng-&at& Habit 255
how comfortable you look! Is n't that a
dear kimono?" Madame plumes herself
with conscious pride, for indeed it is a dear
kimono, and already she sees herself with
a reputation for "exquisite negligee."
The clock strikes six, and presently the
lord of the manor comes home to be fed.
"I'm dreadfully sorry, dear, you should
find me looking so," says the lady of his
heart, " but I just have n't felt well enough
to dress. You don't mind, do you?"
The dear, good, subdued soul says he is
far from minding, and dinner is like break-
fast as far as dressing-sacks go.
Perhaps, in the far depths of his nature,
the man wonders why it was that, in the
halcyon days of courtship, he never beheld
his beloved in the midst of a gunny no, a
dressing-sack. Of course, then, she did n't
have to keep house, and did n't have so
many cares to tire her. Poor little thing !
Perhaps she is n't well !
Is n't she? Let another woman tele-
phone that she has tickets for the matinee,
and behold the transformation! Within
certain limits and barring severe head-
aches, a woman is always well enough to do
what she wants to do and no more.
As the habit creeps upon its victim, she
loses sight of the fact that there are other
clothes. If she has a golf cape, she may
venture to go to the letter-box or even to
market in her favourite garment. After
a while, when the habit is firmly fixed, a
woman will wear a dressing-sack all the
time that is, some women will, except on
rare and festive occasions. Sometimes in
self-defence, she will say that her husband
loves soft, fluffy feminine things, and can't
bear to see her in a tailor-made outfit.
This is why she wears the "soft fluffy
things," which, with her, always mean
dressing-sacks, all the time he is away from
home, as well as when he is there.
It is a mooted question whether shift -
lessness causes dressing-sacks, or dressing-
sacks cause shiftlessness, but there is no
doubt about the loving association of the
two. The woman who has nothing to do,
and not even a shadow of a purpose in life,
257
will enshrine her helpless back in a dressing-
sack. She can't wear corsets, because,
forsooth, they "hurt" her. She can't
sit at the piano, because it 's hard on her
back. She can't walk, because she "is n't
strong enough. " She can't sew, because it
makes a pain between her shoulders, and
indeed why should she sew when she has
plenty of dressing-sacks?
This type of woman always boards,
if she can, or has plenty of servants at her
command, and, in either case, her mind is
free to dwell upon her troubles.
First, there is her own weak physical
condition. Just wait until she tells you
about the last pain she had. She does n't
feel like dressing for dinner, but she will
try to wash her face, if you will excuse her!
When she returns, she has plucked up
enough energy to change her dressing-
sack!
The only cure for the habit is a violent
measure which few indeed are brave enough
to adopt. Make a bonfire of the offensive
garments, dear lady ; then stay away from
258 3>I)tealis of <Srcp anb
the remnant counters, and after a while
you will become immune.
Nothing is done in a negligee of this sort
which cannot be done equally well in a
shirt waist, crisp and clean, with a collar
and belt.
There is a popular delusion to the effect
that household tasks require slipshod gar-
ments and unkempt hair, but let the frowsy
ones contemplate the trained nurse in her
spotless uniform, with her snowy cap and
apron and her shining hair. Let the doubt-
ful ones go to a cooking school, and see a
neat young woman, in a blue gingham
gown and a white apron, prepare an eight-
course dinner and emerge spotless from
the ordeal. We get from life, in most cases,
exactly what we put into it. The world
is a mirror which gives us smiles or frowns,
as we ourselves may choose. The woman
who faces the world in a shirt waist will get
shirt-waist appreciation, while for the
dressing-sack there is only a slipshod
reward.
In tbe ffceabow
THE flowers bow their dainty heads,
And see in the shining stream
A vision of sky and silver clouds,
As bright as a fairy's dream.
The great trees nod their sleepy boughs,
The song birds come and go,
And all day long, to the waving ferns
The south wind whispers low.
All day among the blossoms sweet,
The laughing sunbeams play,
And down the stream, in rose-leaf boats
The fairies sail away.
259
One Udoman'0 Solution of tbe
Servant problem
/
OEING a professional woman, my re-
*~^ quirements in the way of a house-
maid were rather special. While at times
I can superintend my small household,
and direct my domestic affairs, there are
long periods during which I must have
absolute quiet, untroubled by door bell,
telephone, or the remnants of roast beef.
There are two of us, in a modern six
room apartment, in a city where the
servant problem has forced a large and
ever-increasing percentage of the popula-
tion into small flats. We have late break-
fasts, late dinners, a great deal of company,
and an amount of washing, both house and
personal, which is best described as ''un-
holy."
Five or six people often drop in inform^
260
dotation of tfje >erbant problem 261
ally, and unexpectedly, for the evening,
which means, of .course, a midnight
"spread," and an enormous pile of dishes
to be washed in the morning. There are,
however, some advantages connected with
the situation. We have a laundress be-
sides the maid ; we have a twelve-o'clock
breakfast on Sunday instead of a dinner,
getting the cold lunch ourselves in the
evening, thus giving the girl a long after-
noon and evening; and we are away
from home a great deal, often staying
weeks at a time.
The eternal "good wages to right party "
of the advertisements was our inducement
also, but, apparently, there were no
"right parties!"
The previous incumbent, having de-
parted in a fit of temper at half an hour's
notice, and left me, so to speak, "in the
air," with dinner guests on the horizon a
day ahead, I betook myself to an intelli-
gence office, where, strangely enough, there
seems to be no intelligence, and grasped the
first chance of relief.
262 Cfjreabs of <J5rcp anb <&olb
Nothing more unpromising could pos-
sibly be imagined. The new maid was
sad, ugly of countenance, far from strong
physically, and in every way hopeless and
depressing. She listened, unemotionally
to my glowing description of the situation.
Finally she said, "Ay tank Ay try it."
She came, looked us over, worked a part
of a week, and announced that she could n't
stay. "Ay can't feel like home here,"
she said. "Ay am not satisfied."
She had been in her last place for three
years, and left because "my's lady, she go
to Europe. ' ' I persuaded her to try it for a
while longer, and gave her an extra after-
noon or two off, realising that she must be
homesick.
After keeping us on tenter-hooks for two
weeks, she sent for her trunk. I discovered
that she was a fine laundress, carefully
washing and ironing the things which were
too fine to go into the regular wash; a most
excellent cook, her kitchen and pantry were
at all times immaculate; she had no
followers, and few friends; meals were
Solution of ttc g>erbant -problem 263
ready on the stroke of the hour, and she
had the gift of management.
Offset to this was a furious temper, an
atmosphere of gloom and depression which
permeated the house and made us feel
funereal, impertinence of a quality difficult
to endure, and the callous, unfeeling, al-
most inhuman characteristics which often
belong in a high degree to the Swedes.
For weeks I debated with myself
whether or not I could stand it to have her
in the house. I have spent an hour on my
own back porch, when I should have been
at work, because I was afraid to pass
through the room which she happened to
be cleaning. Times without number, a
crisp muffin, or a pot of perfect coffee,
has made me postpone speaking the
fateful words which would have separated
us. She sighed and groaned and wept at
her work, worried about it, and was a
fiend incarnate if either of us was five
minutes late for dinner. We often hurried
through the evening meal so as to leave her
free for her evening out, even though I had
264 tEfjrcabJf of (Step anb
long since told her not to wash the dishes
after dinner, but to pile them neatly in the
sink and leave them until morning.
Before long, however, the strictly human
side of the problem began to interest me.
I had cherished lifelong theories in regard
to the brotherhood of man and the up-
lifting power of personal influence. I had
at times been tempted to try settlement
work, and here I had a settlement subject
in my own kitchen.
There was not a suggestion of fault with
the girl's work. She kept her part of the
contract, and did it well ; but across the wall
between us, she glared at and hated me.
But, deliberately, I set to work in defence
of my theory. I ignored the impertinence,
and seemingly did not hear the crash of
dishes and the banging of doors. When
it came to an issue, I said calmly, though
my soul quaked within me: "You are not
here to tell me what you will do and what
you won't. You are here to carry out my
orders, and when you cannot, it is time for
you to go."
of tf)c g>erbant problem 265
If she asked me a question about her
work which I could not answer offhand, I
secretly consulted a standard cook-book,
and later gave her the desired information
airily. I taught her to cook many of the
things which I could cook well, and im-
bued her with a sort of sneaking respect for
my knowledge. Throughout, I treated
her with the perfect courtesy which one
lady accords to another, ignoring the
impertinence. I took pains to say ' ' please' '
and "thank you." Many a time I bit
my lips tightly against my own rising rage,
and afterward in calmness recognised a
superior opportunity for self-discipline.
For three or four months, while the
beautiful theory wavered in the balance,
we fought not outwardly, but beneath
the surface. Daily, I meditated a sum-
mary discharge, dissuaded only by an
immaculate house and perfectly cooked
breakfasts and dinners. I still cherished
a lingering belief in personal influence,
in spite of the wall which reared itself
between us.
266 Cbrcabs of terep anb
A small grey kitten, with wobbly legs
and an infantile mew, made the first breach
in the wall. She took care of it, loved it,
petted it, and began to smile semi-occa-
sionally. She, too, said "please" and
"thank you." My husband suggested
that we order ten kittens, but I let the
good work go on with one, for the time
being. Gradually, I learned that the
immovable exterior was the natural pro-
tection against an abnormal sensitiveness
both to praise and blame. Besides the
cat, she had two other "weak spots"
an unswerving devotion to a widowed
sister with two children, whom she partially
supported, and a love for flowers almost
pathetic.
As I could, without seeming to make a
point of it, I sent things to the sister and
the children partially worn curtains, bits
of ribbons, little toys, and the like. I made
her room as pretty and dainty as my own,
though the furnishings were not so expen-
sive, and gave her a potted plant in a brass
jar. When flowers were sent to me, I
Solution of tfjc iberbant problem 267
gave her a few for the vase in her room.
She began to say "we" instead of "you."
She spoke of "our" spoons, or "our"
table linen. She asked, what shall "we"
do about this or that? what shall "we"
have for dinner? instead of "what do you
want?" She began to laugh when she
played with the kitten, and even to sing
at her work.
When she did well, I praised her, as I
had all along, but instead of saying, "Iss
dat so?" when I remarked that the muffins
were delicious or the dessert a great success,
her face began to light up, and a smile take
the place of the impersonal comment.
The furious temper began to wane, or, at
least, to be under better control. Guests
occasionally inquired, "What have you
done to that maid of yours? "
Five times we have left her, for one or
two months at a time, on full salary, with
unlimited credit at the grocery, and with
from fifty to one hundred dollars in cash.
During the intervals we heard nothing from
her. We have returned each time to an
268 ^Jjrcabs of <0rcp anti <Solb
immaculate house, a smiling maid, a
perfectly cooked and nicely served meal,
and an account correct to a penny, with
vouchers to show for it, of the sum with
which she had been intrusted.
I noticed each time a vast pride in the
fact that she had been so trusted, and
from this developed a gratifying loyalty
to the establishment. I had told her once
to ask her sister and children to spend the
day with her while we were gone. It
seems that the children were noisy, and
the lady in the apartment below us came
up to object.
An altercation ensued, ending with a
threat from the lady downstairs to "tell
Mrs. M. when she came home." Annie
told me herself, with flashing eyes and
shaking hands. I said, calmly: "The
children must have been noisy, or she
would not have complained. You are
used to them, and besides it would sound
worse downstairs than up here. But it
does n't amount to anything, for I had
told you you could have the children here,
Solution of tijc &erbant problem 269
and if I had n't been able to trust you I
wouldn't have left you." Thus the
troubled waters were calmed.
The crucial test of her qualities came
when I entered upon a long period of
exhaustive effort. The first day, we both
had a hard time, as her highly specialised
Baptist conscience would not permit her
to say I was "not at home," when I was
merely writing a book. After she thor-
oughly understood that I was not to be
disturbed unless the house took fire,
further quiet being insured by disconnect-
ing the doorbell and muffling the telephone,
things went swimmingly.
"Annie," I said, "I want you to run
this house until I get through with my
book. Here is a hundred dollars to start
with. Don't let anybody disturb me."
She took it with a smile, and a cheerful
"all right."
From that moment to the end, I had
even less care than I should have had in a
well-equipped hotel. Not a sound pene-
trated my solitude. If I went out for a
270 <E(jreab of dlrep anb (feolb
drink of water, she did not speak to me.
We had delicious dinners and dainty
breakfasts which might have waited for
us, but we never waited a moment for
them. She paid herself regularly every
Monday morning, kept all receipts, sent
out my husband's laundry, kept a strict list
of it, mended our clothes, managed our
household as economically as I myself
could have done it, and, best of all, in-
sured me from any sort of interruption with
a sort of fierce loyalty which is beyond
any money value.
Once I overheard a colloquy at my
front door, which was briefly and decisively
terminated thus: "Ay already tell you
dat you not see her! She says to me,
'Annie, you keep dose peoples off from
me,' and Ay keep dem off!" I never have
known what dear friend was thus turned
away from my inhospitable door.
Fully appreciating my blessings, tae
night I finished my work I went into the
kitchen with a crisp, new, five-dollar bill.
"Annie," I said, "here is a little extra
Solution of tfje g>erbant problem 271
money for you. You Ve been so nice
about the house while I Ve been busy."
She opened her eyes wide, and stared.
"You don't have to do dat," she said.
44 1 know I don't, " I laughed, 44 but I like
to do it."
4 'You don't have to do dat," she re-
peated. 4 ' Ay like to do de housekeeping."
" I know," I said again, "and I like to do
this. You Ve done lots of things for me
you did n't have to do. Why should n't
I do something for you?"
At that she took it, offering me a rough
wet hand, which I took gravely. "Tank
you," she said, and the tears rolled down
her cheeks.
44 You Ve earned it," I assured her,
44 and you deserve it, and I 'm very glad
I can give it to you."
From that hour she has been welded to
me in a bond which I fondly hope is in-
destructible. She laughs and sings at her
work, pets her beloved kitten, and diffuses
through my six rooms the atmosphere of
good cheer. She " looks after me," antici-
272 tEIjreabs of <0rep anb (Solb
pates my wishes, and dedicates to me a
continual loyal service which has no
equivalent in dollars and cents. She
asked me, hesitatingly, if she might not
get some one to fill her place for three
months while she went back to Sweden.
I did n't like the idea, but I recognised
her well-defined right.
"Ay not go, " she said, " if you not want
me to. Ay tell my sister dat I want to
stay wid Mrs. M. until she send me
away."
I knew she would have to go some time
before she settled down to perpetual
residence in an alien land, so I bade her
God-speed. She secured the substitute
and instructed her, arranged the matter
of wages, and vouched for her honesty,
but not for her work.
Before she left the city, I found that the
substitute was hopelessly incompetent and
stupid. When Annie came to say "good-
bye" to me, I told her about the new girl.
She broke down and wept. "Ay sorry Ay
try to go, " she sobbed. "Ay tell my sister
Solution ot ttje &erbant ffrotlem 273
dere iss nobody what can take care of
Mrs. M. lakAydo!"
I was quite willing to agree with her, but
I managed to dry her tears. Discovering
that she expected to spend two nights in
a day coach, and remembering one dread-
ful night when I could get no berth, I
gave her the money for a sleeping-car
ticket both ways, as a farewell gift. The
tears broke forth afresh. "You been so
good to me and to my sister" she sobbed.
"Ay can't never forget dat!"
"Cheer up," I answered, wiping the
mist from my own eyes. "Go on, and
have the best time you ever had in your
life, and don't worry about me I '11 get
along somehow. And if you need money
while you are away, write to me, and
I '11 send you whatever you need. We '11
fix it up afterward. "
Once again she looked at me, with
the strangest look I have ever seen on the
human face.
"Tank you," she said slowly. "Dere
iss not many ladies would say dat. "
274 tEftreafeg of <Srep anb
"Perhaps not," I replied, "but, remem-
ber, Annie, I can trust you."
"Yes," she cried, her face illumined as
by some great inward light, "you can
trust me!"
I do not think she loves us yet, but I
believe in time she will.
The day the new girl came, I happened
to overhear a much valued reference to
myself: "Honestly," she said, "Ay been
here more dan one year, and Ay never
hear a wrong word between her and him,
nor between her and me. It 's shust
wonderful. Ay is n't been see anyting
like it since Ay been in diss country."
"Is it so wonderful?" I asked myself,
as I stole away, my own heart aglow with
the consciousness of a moral victory, " and
is the lack of self-control and human
kindness at the bottom of the American
servant problem? Are we women such
children that we cannot deal wisely with
our intellectual inferiors?" And more
than all I had given her, as I realised then
for the first time, was the power of self-
Solution of tfje g>erbant ^problem 275
discipline and self-control which she, all
unknowingly, had developed in me.
I have not ceased the "treatment,"
even though the patient is nearly well.
It costs me nothing to praise her when she
deserves it, to take an occasional friend
into her immaculate kitchen, and to show
the shining white pantry shelves (without
papers) , while she blushes and smiles with
pleasure. It costs me nothing to see that
she overhears me while I tell a friend over
the telephone how capable she has been
during the stress of my work, or how clean
the house is when we come home after a
long absence. It costs me nothing to send
her out for a walk, or a visit to a near-
by friend, on the afternoons when her
work is finished and I am to be at home
nothing to call her attention to a beautiful
sunset or a perfect day, or to tell her some
amusing story, that her simple mind can
appreciate. It costs me nothing to tell
her how well she looks in her cap and
apron (only I call the cap a "hair-bow"),
nor that one of the guests said she made
276 (Ebreafc* of <5rcp anb <6olb
the best cake she had ever eaten in her
life.
It costs me little to give her a pretty
hatpin, or some other girlish trifle at
Easter, to bring her some souvenir of our
travels, to give her a fresh ribbon for her
belt from my bolt, or some little toy "for
de children."
It means only a thought to say when she
goes out, ' ' Good-bye ! Have a good time !"
or to say when I go out, "Good-bye! Be
good!" It means little to me to tell her
how much my husband or our guests have
enjoyed the dinner, or to have him go
into the kitchen sometimes, while she is
surrounded by a mountain of dishes, with
a cheery word and a fifty-cent piece.
It is n't much out of my way to do a bit
of shopping for her when I am shopping
for myself, and no trouble at all to plan
for her new gowns, or to tell her that her
new hat is very pretty and becoming.
When her temper gets the better of her
these days, I can laugh her out of it.
"To think," I said once, " of a fine, capable
dotation of tfje derbant problem 277
girl like you flying into a rage because
some one has borrowed your clothesline
without asking for it!"
The clouds vanished with a smile.
" Dat iss funny of me, " she said.
When her work goes wrong, as of course
it sometimes does, though rarely, and she
is worrying for fear I shall be displeased,
I say: "Never mind, Annie; things don't
always go right for any of us. Don't
worry about it, but be careful next
time."
It has cost me time and effort and
money, and an infinite amount of patience
and tact, not to mention steady warfare
with myself, but in return, what have I?
A housemaid, as nearly perfect, perhaps, as
they can ever be on this faulty earth,
permanently in my service, as I hope and
believe.
If any one offers her higher wages, I
shall meet the "bid," for she is worth as
much to me as she can be to any one else.
Besides giving me superior service, she
has done me a vast amount of good in
278 tEIjreafca of <$rcp anb <olb
furnishing me the needed material for the
development of my character.
On her own ground, she respects my
superior knowledge. Once or twice I
have heard her say of some friend,
"Her's lady, she know nodding at all
about de housekeeping no, nodding at
all!"
The airy contempt of the tone is quite
impossible to describe.
A neighbour whom she assisted in a
time of domestic stress, during my absence,
told me amusedly of her reception in her
own kitchen. "You don't have to come
all de time to de kitchen to tell me,"
remarked Annie.
"Does n't Mrs. M. do that?" queried
my neighbour, lightly.
"Ay should say not," returned the
capable one, indignantly. "She nefer
come in de kitchen, and she know, too!"
While that was not literally true,
because I do go into my kitchen if I want
to, and cook there if I like, I make a point
of not intruding. She knows what she is
Solution of tfje ^erbant $rtblcm 279
to do, and I leave her to do it, in peace and
comfort.
Briefly summarised, the solution from
my point of view is this. Know her work
yourself, down to the last detail; pay the
wages which other people would be glad
to pay for the same service; keep your
temper, and, in the face of everything, be
kind! Remember that housework is hard
work that it never stays done that a
meal which it takes half a day to prepare
is disposed of in half an hour. Remember,
too, that it requires much intelligence and
good judgment to be a good cook, and
that the daily tasks lack inspiration. The
hardest part of housework must be done at
a time when many other people are free
for rest and enjoyment, and it carries with
it a social bar sinister when it is done for
money. The woman who does it for her
board and clothes, in her own kitchen, does
not necessarily lose caste, but doing it for
a higher wage, in another's kitchen, makes
one almost an outcast. Strange and un-
reasonable, but true.
280 {Efjreatis of 3rej> anb
It was at my own suggestion that she
began to leave the dishes piled up in the
sink until morning. When the room is
otherwise immaculate, a tray of neatly
piled plates, even if unwashed, does not
disturb my aesthetic sense.
Ordinarily, she is free for the evening at
half-past seven or a quarter of eight
always by eight. Her evenings are hers,
not mine, unless I pay her extra, as I
always do. A dollar or s-o counts for
nothing in the expense of an entertainment,
and she both earns and deserves the extra
wage.
If I am to entertain twenty or thirty
people the house will hold no more, and
I cannot ask more than ten to dinner I
consult with her, decide upon the menu,
tell her that she can have all the help she
needs, and go my ways in peace. I can
order the flowers, decorate the table, put
on my best gown, and receive my guests,
unwearied, with an easy mind.
When I am not expecting guests, I can
leave the house immediately after break-
Solution of tije &erbant $rafelem 281
fast, without a word about dinner, and
return to the right sort of a meal at seven
o'clock, bringing a guest or two with me,
if I telephone first.
I can work for six weeks or two months
in a seclusion as perfect as I could have in
the Sahara Desert, and my household,
meanwhile, will move as if on greased
skids. I can go away for two months and
hear nothing from her, and yet know that
everything is all right at home. I think
no more about it, so far as responsibility
is concerned, when I am travelling, than as
if I had no home at all. When we leave
the apartment alone in the evening, we
turn on the most of the lights, being
assured by the police that burglars will
never molest a brilliantly illuminated
house.
The morose countenance of my ugly
maid has subtly changed. It radiates,
in its own way, beauty and good cheer.
Her harsh voice is gentle, her manner is
kind, her tastes are becoming refined, her
ways are those of a lady.
282 (E^reatJS of
My friends and neighbours continually
allude to the transformation as "a mira-
cle." The janitor remarked, in a burst of
confidence, that he "never saw anybody
change so." He "reckoned," too, that
"it must be the folks she lives with!"
Annie herself, conscious of a change, re-
cently said complacently: "Ay guess Ay
wass one awful crank when Ay first come
here."
And so it happens that the highest
satisfaction is connected with the beauti-
ful theory, triumphantly proven now,
against heavy odds. Whatever else I
may have done, I have taught one woman
the workman's pride in her work, shown
her where true happiness lies, and set her
feet firmly on the path of right and joyous
living.
a IDtolin
(Antonius Stradivarius, 1685.)
WHAT flights of years have gone to fashion
thee,
My violin! What centuries have wrought
Thy sounding fibres! What dead fingers
taught
Thy music to awake in ecstasy
Beyond our human dreams? Thy melody
Is resurrection. Every buried thought
Of singing bird, or stream, or south wind,
fraught
With tender message, or of sobbing sea,
Lives once again. The tempest's solemn roll
Is in thy passion sleeping, till the king
Whose touch is mastery shall sound thy soul.
The organ tones of ocean shalt thou bring,
The crashing chords of thunder, and the whole
Vast harmony of God. Ah, Spirit, sing !
283
<>R>
of the best things the last century
has done for woman is to mr ke
single-blessedness appear very tolerable
indeed, even if it be not actually desirable.
The woman who did n't marry used to be
looked down upon as a sort of a " left-
over" without a thought, apparently, that
she may have refused many a chance to
change her attitude toward the world.
But now, the "bachelor maid " is welcomed
everywhere, and is not considered eccen-
tric on account of her oneness.
With the long records of the divorce
courts before their eyes, it is not very
unusual for the younger generation of
women nowadays deliberately to choose
spinsterhood as their independent lot in
life.
A girl said the other day: "It 's no use
284
fflatd 285
to say that a woman can't marry if she
wants to. Look around you, and see the
women who have married, and then ask
yourself if there is anybody who can't!"
This is a great truth very concisely
stated. It is safe to say that no woman
ever reached twenty-five years of age, and
very few have passed twenty, without hav-
ing an opportunity to become somebody's
mate.
A very small maiden with very bright
eyes once came to her mother with the
question: "Mamma, do you think I shall
ever have a chance to get married?"
And the mother answered: "Surely you
will, my child ; the wx3ods are full of offers
of marriage no woman can avoid them."
And ere many years had passed the
maiden had learned that the wisdom of
her mother's prophecy was fully vindi-
cated.
Every one knows that a woman needs
neither beauty, talent, nor money to win
the deepest and sincerest love that man
is capable of giving.
286 tKljreaW of (Step anb
Single life is, with rare exceptions, a
matter of choice and not of necessity ; and
while it is true that a happy married life
is the happiest position for either man or
woman, there are many things which are
infinitely worse than being an old maid,
and chiefest among these is marrying the
wrong man!
The modern woman looks her future
squarely in the face and decides according
to her best light whether her happiness
depends upon spinsterhood or matrimony.
This decision is of course influenced very
largely by the quality of her chances in
either direction, but if the one whom she
fully believes to be ^e right man comes
along, he is likely to be able to overcome
strong objections to the married state.
If love comes to her from the right source,
she takes it gladly; otherwise she bravely
goes her way alone, often showing the
world that some of the most mother-
hearted women are not really mothers.
Think of the magnificent solitude of such
women as Florence Nightingale and our
tS3je <l& jflatb 287
own splendid Frances Willard ! Who shall
say that these, and thousands of others of
earth's grandest souls, were not better for
their single-heartedness in the service of
humanity?
A writer in a leading journal recently
said: "The fact that a woman remains
single is a tribute to her perception. She
gains an added dignity from being hard
to suit."
This, from the pen of a man, is somewhat
of a revelation, in the light of various
masculine criticisms concerning superflu-
ous women. No woman is superfluous.
God made her, and put her into this
world to help her fellow-beings. There is
a little niche somewhere which she, and
she alone, can fill. She finds her own
completeness in rounding out the lives of
others.
It has been said that the average man
may be piloted through life by one woman,
but it must be admitted that several of
him need somewhere near a dozen of the
fair sex to wait upon him at the same time.
288 fjrealjs of (Step anb
His wife and mother are kept "hustling,"
while his "sisters and his aunts" are
likely to be "on the keen jump" from the
time his lordship enters the house until he
leaves it!
But to return to the "superfluous
woman," although we cannot literally
return to her because she does not exist.
Of the "old maid" of to-day, it is safe to
say that she has her allotted plane of
usefulness. She is n't the type our news-
paper brethren delight to caricature. She
does n't dwell altogether upon the subject
of "woman's sphere," which, by the way,
comes very near being the plane of the
earth's sphere, and she need not, for her
position is now well recognised.
She does n't wear corkscrew curls and
hideous reform garments. She is a dainty,
feminine, broad-minded woman, and a
charming companion. Men are her friends,
and often her lovers, in her old age as well
as in her youth.
Every old maid has her love story, a
little romance that makes her heart young
289
again as she dreams it over in the firelight,
and it calls a happy smile to the faded
face.
Or, perhaps, it is the old, sad story of
a faithless lover, or a happiness spoiled
by gossips or it may be the scarcely less
sad story of love and death.
Ibsen makes two of his characters, a
young man and woman who love each
other, part voluntarily on the top of a
high mountain in order that they may be
enabled to keep their high ideals and up-
lifting love for each other.
So the old maid keeps her ideals, not
through fulfilment, but through memory,
and she is far happier than many a woman
who finds her ideal surprisingly and dis-
agreeably real.
The bachelor girl and the bachelor man
are much on the increase. Marriage is
not in itself a failure, but the people who
enter unwisely into this solemn covenant
too often are not only failures, but bitter
disappointments to those who love them
best.
290 SEijreaJis of <0rcj> anb (Solb
Life for men and v/omen means the
highest usefulness and happiness, for the
terms are synonymous, neither being able
to exist without the other.
The model spinster of to-day is phil-
anthropic. She is connected, not with
innumerable charities, but with a few well-
chosen ones. She gives freely of her time
and money in many ways, where her left
hand scarcely knoweth what her right
doeth, and the record of her good works is
not found in the chronicles of the world.
She is literary, musical, or artistic. She
is a devoted and loyal club member, and
is well informed on the leading topics of
the day, while the resources of her well-
balanced mind are always at the service
of her friends.
And when all is said and done, the
highest and truest life is within the reach
of us all. Doing well whatever is given us
to do will keep us all busy, and married
or single, no woman has a right to be idle.
The old maid may be womanly and mother-
hearted as well as the wife and mother.
Spinster's IRubaipat
WAKE! For the hour of hope will soon
take flight
And on your form and features leave a blight ;
Since Time, who heals full many an open
wound,
More oft than not is impolite.
II
Before my relatives began to chide,
Methought the voice of conscience said inside :
" Why should you want a husband, when
you have
A cat who seldom will at home abide?"
Ill
And, when the evening breeze comes in the
door,
The lamp smokes like a chimney, only more;
And yet the deacon of the church
Is telling every one my parrot swore.
291
292 QDfjrealig of <@rep anb
IV
Behold, my aunt into my years inquires,
Then swiftly with my parents she conspires,
And in the family record changes dates
In that same book that says all men are liars.
Come, fill the cup and let the kettle sing!
What though upon my finger gleams no ring,
Save that cheap turquoise that I bought
myself?
The coming years a gladsome change may
bring.
VI
Here, minion, fill the steaming cup that clears
The skin I will not have exposed to jeers,
And rub this wrinkle vigorously until
The maddening crow's-foot wholly disappears.
VII
And let me don some artificial bloom,
And turn the lamps down low, and make a
gloom
That spreads from library to hall and stair;
Thus do I look my best but ah, for whom?
IRigbts of Doge
"\ X TE hear a great deal about the "rights
* * of men" and still more, perhaps,
about the "rights of women," but few
stop to consider those which properly
belong to the friend and companion of
both the dog.
According to our municipal code, a dog
must be muzzled from June 1st to Septem-
ber 3Oth. The wise men who framed this
measure either did not know, or did not
stop to consider, that a dog perspires and
"cools off" only at his mouth.
Man and the horse have tiny pores
distributed all over the body, but in the
dog they are found only in the tongue.
Any one who has had a fever need not
be told what happened when these pores
ceased to act; what, then, must be the
sufferings of a dog on a hot day, when,
293
294 Cftreabs of <rep anb
securely muzzled, he takes his daily ex-
ercise?
Even on the coolest days, the barbarous
muzzle will fret a thoroughbred almost to
insanity, unless, indeed, he has brains to
free himself, as did a brilliant Irish setter
which we once knew. This wise dog would
run far ahead of his human guardian, and
with the help of his f orepaws slip the strap
over his slender head, then hide the offend-
ing muzzle in the gutter, and race onward
again. When the loss was discovered, it
was far too late to remedy it by any
search that could be instituted.
And still, without this uncomfortable
encumbrance, it is unsafe for any valuable
dog to be seen, even on his own doorsteps,
for the "dog-catcher" is ever on the look-
out for blue-blooded victims.
The homeless mongrel, to whom a pain-
less death would be a blessing, is left to
get a precarious living as best he may
from the garbage boxes, and spread pesti-
lence from house to house, but the setter,
the collie, and the St. Bernard are choked
l\tg!its of Dogs 295
into insensibility with a wire noose, hurled
into a stuffy cage, and with the thermometer
at ninety in the shade, are dragged through
the blistering city, as a sop to that Cerberus
of the law which demands for its citizens
safety from dogs, and pays no attention
to the lawlessness of men.
The dog tax which is paid every year
is sufficient to guarantee the interest of the
owner in his dog. Howells has pitied
"the dogless man," and Thomas Nelson
Page has said somewhere that "some of
us know what it is to be loved by a dog. "
Countless writers have paid tribute to
his fidelity and devotion, and to the con-
stant forgiveness of blows and neglect
which spring from the heart of the com-
monest cur.
The trained hunter, who is as truly a
sportsman as the man who brings down the
birds he finds, can be easily fretted into
madness by the injudicious application of
the muzzle.
The average dog is a gentleman and does
not attack people for the pleasure of it,
296 djreabs; of <>rcj> anb <&olb
and it is lamentably true that people who
live in cities often find it necessary to keep
some sort of a dog as a guardian to life
and property. In spite of his loyalty,
which every one admits, the dog is an
absolute slave. Men with less sense, and
less morality, constitute a court from which
he has no appeal.
Four or five years of devotion to his
master's interests, and four or five years
of peaceful, friendly conduct, count for
absolutely nothing beside the perjured
statement of some man, or even woman,
who, from spite against the owner, is
willing to assert, "the dog is vicious. "
" He is very imprudent, a dog is," said
Jerome K. Jerome. " He never makes it his
business to inquire whether you are in the
right or wrong never bothers as to whether
you are going up or down life's ladder never
asks whether you are rich or poor, silly or
wise, saint or sinner. You are his pal. That
is enough for him, and come luck or mis-
fortune, good repute or bad, honour or shame,
he is going to stick to you, to comfort you,
guard you, and give his life for you, if need
be foolish, brainless, soulless dog!
Bigljts of JDogg 297
"Ah! staunch old friend, with your deep,
clear eyes, and bright quick glances that take
in all one has to say, before one has time to
speak it, do you know you are only an animal
and have no mind?
" Do you know that dull-eyed, gin-sodden
lout leaning against the post out there is
immeasurably your intellectual superior? Do
you know that every little-minded selfish
scoundrel, who never had a thought that was
not mean and base whose every action is a
fraud and whose every utterance is a lie ; do
you know that these are as much superior to
you as the sun is to the rush-light, you hon-
ourable, brave-hearted, unselfish brute?
" They are men, you know, and men are
the greatest, noblest, wisest, and best beings
in the universe. Any man will tell you that."
Are the men whom we elect to public
office our masters or our servants? If the
former, let us change our form of govern-
ment; if the latter, let us hope that from
somewhere a little light may penetrate
their craniums and that they may be
induced to give the dog a chance.
THE birds were hushed into silence,
The clouds had sunk from sight,
And the great trees bowed to the summer
breeze
That kissed the flowers good-night.
The stars came out in the cool still air,
From the mansions of the blest,
And softly, over the dim blue hills,
Night came to the world with rest.
298
Tttflomen'0 Clothes in flDen's Boofcs
\ X THEN asked why women wrote better
* novels than men, Mr. Richard
Le Gallienne is said to have replied, more
or less conclusively, "They don't"; thus
recalling Punch's famous advice to those
about to marry.
Happily there is no segregation in litera-
ture, and masculine and feminine hands
alike may dabble in fiction, as long as the
publishers are willing.
If we accept Zola's dictum to the effect
that art is nature seen through the medium
of a temperament, the thing is possible to
many, though the achievement may differ
both in manner and degree. For women
have temperament too much of it as
the hysterical novelists daily testify.
The gentleman novelist, however,
prances in boldly, where feminine feet
299
300 tEfjrcafcs of <Srcp anb
well may fear to tread, and consequently
has a wider scope for his writing. It is
not for a woman to mingle in a barroom
brawl and write of the thing as she sees it.
The prize-ring, the interior of a cattle-ship,
Broadway at four in the morning these
and countless other places are forbidden
by her innate refinement as well as by the
Ladies' Own, and all the other aunties who
have taken upon themselves the guardian-
ship of the Home with a big H.
Fancy the outpouring of scorn upon the
luckless offender's head if one should write
to the Manners and Morals Department
of the Ladies' Own as follows: "Would it
be proper for a lady novelist, in search of
local colour and new experiences, to accept
the escort of a strange man at midnight if
he was too drunk to recognise her after-
ward?" Yet a man in the same circum-
stances would not hesitate to put an in-
toxicated woman into a sea-going cab,
and would plume himself for a year and a
day upon his virtuous performance.
All things are considered proper for a
8 omen 's Clotfjea in 4Ben'* JSoofes 301
man who is about to write a book. Like
the disciple of Mary McLane who stole a
horse in order to get the emotions of a
police court, he may delve deeply not only
into life, but into that under-stratum which
is not spoken of, where respectable journals
circulate.
Everything is fish that comes into his
net. If conscientious, he may even under-
take marriage in order to study the fem-
inine personal equations at close range.
Woman's emotions, singly and collectively,
are pilloried before his scientific gaze.
He cowers before one problem, and one
only woman's clothes!
Carlyle, after long and painful thought,
arrives at the conclusion that "cut be-
tokens intellect and talent; colour reveals
temper and heart."
This reminds one of the language of
flowers, and the directions given for
postage-stamp flirtation. If that massive
mind had penetrated further into the
mysteries of the subject, we might have
been told that a turnover collar indicated
302 fjrca&s of rcj> anb
that the woman was a High Church Epis-
copalian who had embroidered two altar
cloths, and that suede gloves show a
yielding but contradictory nature.
Clothes are, undoubtedly, indices of
character and taste, as well as a sop to
conventionality, but this only when one
has the wherewithal to browse at will in
the department store. Many a woman
with ermine tastes has only a rabbit-fur
pocket-book, and thus her clothes wrong
her in the sight of gods and women, though
men know nothing about it.
Once upon a time there was a notion to
the effect that women dressed to please men,
but that idea has long since been relegated
to the limbo of forgotten things.
Not one man in a thousand can tell the
difference between Brussels point at thirty
dollars a yard, and imitation Valenciennes
at ten or fifteen cents a yard which was
one of the "famous Friday features in the
busy bargain basement. "
But across the room, yea, even from
across the street, the eagle eye of another
IHomen'* Cloflje* tn Jflen'g JSoofesf 303
woman can unerringly locate the Brussels
point and the mock Valenciennes.
A man knows silk by the sound of it and
diamonds by the shine. He will say that
his heroine "was richly dressed in silk."
Little does he wot of the difference be-
tween taffeta at eighty-five cents a yard
and broadcloth at four dollars. Still less
does he know that a white cotton shirt-
waist represents financial ease, and a silk
waist of festive colouring represents pov-
erty, since it takes but two days to "do
up" a white shirt waist in one sense, and
thirty or forty cents to do it up in the
other !
One listens with wicked delight to men's
discourse upon woman's clothes. Now
and then a man will express his preference
for a tailored gown, as being eminently
simple and satisfactory. Unless he is
married and has seen the bills for tailored
gowns, he also thinks they are inexpensive.
It is the benedict, wise with the acquired
knowledge of the serpent, who begs his
wife to get a new party gown and let the
304 {Eijreafc* of <&rep anb
tailor-made go until next season. He
also knows that when the material is
bought, the expense has scarcely begun,
whereas the ignorant bachelor thinks that
the worst is happily over.
In A Little Journey through the World
Mr. Warner philosophised thus: "How a
woman in a crisis hesitates before her
wardrobe, and at last chooses just what
will express her innermost feelings!"
If all a woman's feelings were to be
expressed by her clothes, the benedicts
would immediately encounter financial
shipwreck. On account of the lament-
able scarcity of money and closets, one is
eternally adjusting the emotion to the gown.
Some gown, seen at the exact psychologi-
cal moment, fixes forever in a man's mind
his ideal garment. Thus we read of blue
calico, of pink-and-white print, and more
often still, of white lawn. Mad colour
combinations run riot in the masculine
fancy, as in the case of a man who boldly
described his favourite costume as "red,
with black ruffles down the front!"
Clotfje* in 4Hen'* 28oofea 305
Of a hat, a man may be a surpassingly
fine critic, since he recks not of style.
Guileful is the woman who leads her liege
to the millinery and lets him choose, tak-
ing no heed of the price and the attendant
shock until later.
A normal man is anxious that his wife
shall be well dressed because it shows the
critical observer that his business is a great
success. After futile explorations in the
labyrinth, he concerns himself simply with
the fit, preferring always that the clothes
of his heart's dearest shall cling to her as
lovingly as a kid glove, regardless of the
pouches and fulnesses prescribed by Dame
Fashion.
In the writing of books, men are at their
wits' end when it comes to women's clothes.
They are hampered by no restrictions
no thought of style or period enters into
their calculations, and unless they have
a wholesome fear of the unknown theme,
they produce results which further inter-
national gaiety.
Many an outrageous garment has been
306 {Efjreab* of <@rep anfc
embalmed in a man's book, simply because
an attractive woman once wore something
like it when she fed the novelist. Un-
balanced by the joy of the situation, he
did not accurately observe the garb of the
ministering angel, and hence we read of
"a clinging white gown" in the days of
stiff silks and rampant crinoline; of "the
curve of the upper arm" when it took five
yards for a pair of sleeves, and of "short
walking skirts" during the reign of bustles
and trains !
In The Blazed Trail, Mr. White observes
that his heroine was clad in brown which
fitted her slender figure perfectly. As
Hilda had yellow hair, "like corn silk,"
this was all right, and if the brown was of
the proper golden shade, she was doubtless
stunning when Thorpe first saw her in the
forest. But the gown could not have
fitted her as the sheath encases the dagger,
for before the straight-front corsets there
were the big sleeves, and still further back
were bustles and bouffant draperies. One
does not get the impression that The
Clot&e* in ^Hen'g $ooiiS 307
Blazed Trail was placed in the days of
crinolines, but doubtless Hilda's clothes
did not fit as Mr. White seems to think
they did.
That strenuous follower of millinery, Mr.
Gibson, might give lessons to his friend,
Mr. Davis, with advantage to the writer, if
not to the artist. In Captain Macklin,
the young man's cousin makes her first
appearance in a thin gown, and a white
hat trimmed with roses, reminding the ad-
venturous captain of a Dresden statuette,
in spite of the fact that she wore heavy
gauntlet gloves and carried a trowel.
The lady had been doing a hard day's
work in the garden. No woman outside
the asylum ever did gardening in such a
costume, and Mr. Davis evidently has the
hat and gown sadly mixed with some other
pleasant impression.
The feminine reader immediately hides
Mr. Davis' mistake with the broad mantle
of charity, and in her own mind clothes
Beatrice properly in a short walking skirt,
heavy shoes, shirtwaist, old hat tie$ down
of
over the ears with a rumpled ribbon, and a
pair of ancient masculine gloves, long since
discarded by their rightful owner. Thus
does lovely woman garden, except on the
stage and in men's books.
In The Story of Eva, Mr. Payne an-
nounces that Eva climbed out of a cab in
"a fawn-coloured jacket," conspicuous by
reason of its newness, and a hat "with an
owl's head upon it!"
The jacket was possibly a coat of tan
covert cloth with strapped seams, but it is
the startling climax which claims atten-
tion. An owl! Surely not, Mr. Payne!
It may have been a parrot, for once upon
a time, before the Audubon Society met
with widespread recognition, women wore
such things, and at afternoon teas where
many fair ones were gathered together
the parrot garniture was not without
significance. But an owl's face, with its
glaring glassy eyes, is too much like a
pussy cat's to be appropriate, and one
could not wear it at the back without
conveying an unpleasant impression of
Hlomen's Clotfjesf in 4Hen'* 28ook$ 309
two-facedness, if the coined word be per-
missible.
Still the owl is no worse than the trim-
ming suggested by a funny paper. The
tears of mirth come yet at the picture of a
hat of rough straw, shaped like a nest, on
which sat a full-fledged Plymouth Rock
hen, with her neck proudly, yet graciously
curved. Perhaps Mr. Payne saw the
picture and forthwith decided to do some-
thing in the same line, but there is a
singular inappropriateness in placing the
bird of Minerva upon the head of poor
Eva, who made the old, old bargain in
which she had everything to lose, and
nothing save the bitterest experience to
gain. A stuffed kitten, so young and
innocent that its eyes were still blue and
bleary, would have been more appropriate
on Eva's bonnet, and just as pretty.
In The Fortunes of Oliver Horn, Margaret
Grant wears a particularly striking costume :
" The cloth skirt came to her ankles,
which were covered with yarn stockings,
and her feet were encased in shoes that gave
3io QDijreafcg of <&rep anb
him the shivers, the soles being as thick as
his own and the leather as tough.
" Her blouse was of grey flannel, belted to
the waist by a cotton saddle-girth, white and
red, and as broad as her hand. The tam-o-
shanter was coarse and rough, evidently
home-made, and not at all like McFudd's,
which was as soft as the back of a kitten and
without a seam."
With all due respect to Mr. Smith, one
must insist that Margaret's shoes were all
right as regards material and build. She
would have been more comfortable if they
had been "high-necked" shoes, and, in
that case, the yarn hosiery would not have
troubled him, but that is a minor detail.
The quibble comes at the belt, and know-
ing that Margaret was an artist, we must
be sure that Mr. Smith was mistaken. It
may have been one of the woven cotton
belts, not more than two inches wide,
which, for a dizzy moment, were at the
height of fashion, and then tottered and
fell, but a "saddle-girth" never!
In that charming morceau, The Inn of
the Silver Moon, Mr. Viele puts his heroine
's Closest in ^Hcn'jf 2Books 311
into plaid stockings and green knicker-
bockers an outrageous costume truly,
even for wheeling.
As if recognising his error, and, with
veritable masculine stubbornness, re-
fusing to admit it, Mr. Viele goes on to
say that the knickerbockers were "tailor-
made!" And thereby he makes a bad
matter very much worse.
In The Wings of the Morning, Iris, in
spite of the storm through which the
Sirdar vainly attempts to make its way,
appears throughout in a "lawn dress"
white, undoubtedly, since all sorts and
conditions of men profess to admire white
lawn!
How cold the poor girl must have been !
And even if she could have been so in-
appropriately gowned on shipboard, she
had plenty of time to put on a warm and
suitable tailor-made gown before she was
shipwrecked. This is sheer fatuity, for
any one with Mr. Tracy's abundant
ingenuity could easily have contrived ruin
for the tailored gown in time for Iris to
312 Qi)reai!* of <J5rct> anto <>alb
assume masculine garb and participate
bravely in that fearful fight on the ledge.
Whence, oh whence, comes this fond-
ness for lawn? Are not organdies, dimi-
ties, and embroidered muslins fully as
becoming to the women who trip daintily
through the pages of men's books? Lawn
has been a back number for many a weary
moon, and still we read of it !
"When in doubt, lead trumps," might
well be paraphrased thus: "When in
doubt, put her into white lawn!" Even
" J. P. M.," that gentle spirit to whom so
many hidden things were revealed, sent
his shrewish "Kate" off for a canter
through the woods in a white gown, and,
if memory serves, it was lawn !
In The Master, Mr. Zangwill describes
Eleanor Wyndwood as "the radiant appari-
tion of a beautiful woman in a shimmering
amber gown, from which her shoulders rose
dazzling."
So far so good. But a page or two
farther on, that delightful minx, Olive
Regan, wears "a dress of soft green-blue
's! Clones tn ^len'g $oofe* 313
cut high, with yellow roses at the throat."
One wonders whether Mr. Zangwill ever
really saw a woman in any kind of a gown
"with yellow roses at the throat," or
whether it is but the slip of an overstrained
fancy. The fact that he has married since
writing this gives a goodly assurance that
by this time he knows considerably more
about gowns.
Still there is always a chance that the
charm may not work, for Mr. Arthur
Stringer, who has been reported as being
married to a very lovely woman, takes
astonishing liberties in The Silver Poppy:
" She floated in before Reppellier, buoyant,
smiling, like a breath of open morning itself,
a confusion of mellow autumnal colours in
her wine-coloured gown, and a hat of roses
and mottled leaves.
" Before she had as much as drawn off her
gloves and they were always the most spot-
less of white gloves she glanced about in
mock dismay, and saw that the last of the
righting up had already been done."
Later, we read that the artist pinned an
American Beauty upon her gown, then
314 3f)reafe of <tep anb
shook his head over the colour combina-
tion and took it off. If the American
Beauty jarred enough for a man to notice
it, the dress must have been the colour
of claret, or Burgundy, rather than the
clear soft gold of sauterne.
This brings us up with a short turn
before the hat. What colour were the
roses? Surely they were not American
Beauties, and they could not have been
pink. Yellow roses would have been a
fright, so they must have been white ones,
and a hat covered with white roses is
altogether too festive to wear in the
morning. The white gloves also would
have been sadly out of place.
What a comfort it would be to all
concerned if the feminine reader could
take poor Cordelia one side and fix her
up a bit! One could pat the artistic
disorder out of her beautiful yellow hair,
help her out of her hideous clothes into a
grey tailor-made, with a shirt waist of
mercerised white cheviot, put on a stock
of the same material, give her a "ready-
ZHomen's Clotfjes m glen's JSoofeg 315
to-wear" hat of the same trig- tailored
quality, and, as she passed out, hand her
a pair of grey suede gloves which exactly
matched her gown.
Though grey would be more becoming,
she might wear tan as a concession to Mr.
Stringer, who evidently likes yellow.
In the same book, we find a woman who
gathers up her "yellow skirts" and goes
down a ladder. It might have been only a
yellow taffeta drop-skirt under tan etamine,
but we must take his word for it, as we did
not see it and he did.
As the Chinese keep the rat tails for
the end of the feast, the worst clothes to
be found in any book must come last by
way of climax. Mr. Dixon, in The Leo-
pard's Spots, has easily outdone every
other knight of the pen who has entered
the lists to portray women's clothes.
Listen to the inspired description of Miss
Sallie's gown !
" She was dressed in a morning gown of a
soft red material, trimmed with old cream
lace. The material of a woman's dress had
316 Cfjrea&s of 0rep anb
never interested him before. He knew calico
from silk, but beyond that he never ven-
tured an opinion. To colour alone he was
responsive. This combination of red and
creamy white, with the bodice cut low, showing
the lines of her beautiful white shoulders, and
the great mass of dark hair rising in graceful
curves from her full round neck, heightened
her beauty to an extraordinary degree.
" As she walked, the clinging folds of her
dress, outlining her queenly figure, seemed
part of her very being, and to be imbued
with her soul. He was dazzled with the new
revelation of her power over him."
The fact that she goes for a ride later
on, "dressed in pure white," sinks into
insignificance beside this new and original
creation of Mr. Dixon's. A red morning
gown, trimmed with cream lace, cut low
enough to show the "beautiful white
shoulders" ye gods and little fishes!
Where were the authorities, and why was
not "Miss Sallie" taken to the detention
hospital, pending an inquiry into her
sanity?
It would seem that any man, especially
one who writes books, could be sure of a
Women's Clotted in fUcn's #oofe* 317
number of women friends. Among these
there ought to be at least one whom he
could take into his confidence. The gen-
tleman novelist might go to the chosen
one and say: "My heroine, in moderate
circumstances, is going to the matinee
with a girl friend. What shall she wear?"
Instantly the discerning woman would
ask the colour of her eyes and hair, and
the name of the town she lived in, then
behold!
Upon the writer's page would come a
radiant feminine vision, clothed in her
right mind and in proper clothes, to the
joy of every woman who reads the book.
But men are proverbially chary of their
confidence, except when they are in love,
and being in love is supposed to put even
book women out of a man's head. Per-
haps in the new Schools of Journalism
which are to be inaugurated, there will be
supplementary courses in millinery elec-
tive, for those who wish to learn the trade
of novel writing.
If a man knows no woman to whom he
3i8 Cf)ftati0 of tf^rep and
can turn for counsel and advice at the
critical point in his book, there are only
two courses open to him, aside from the
doubtful one of evasion. He may let his
fancy run riot and put his heroine into
clothes that would give even a dumb
woman hysterics, or he may follow the
example of Mr. Chatfield-Taylor, who
says of one of his heroines that "her pliant
body was enshrouded in white muslin with
a blue ribbon at the waist. "
Lacking the faithful hench-woman who
would gladly put them straight, the ma-
jority of gentlemen novelists evade the
point, and, so far as clothes are concerned,
their heroines are as badly off as the
Queen of Spain was said to be for legs.
They delve freely into emotional situa-
tions, and fearlessly attempt profound
psychological problems, but slide off like
frightened crabs when they strike the
clothesline.
After all, it may be just as well, since
fashion is transient and colours and ma-
terial do not vary much. Still, judging by
Clotfje* in ^flen's Roofed 319
the painful mistakes that many of them
have made, the best advice that one can
give the gallant company of literary crafts-
men is this: "When you come to millinery,
crawfish!"
flDaibene of tbe Sea
FAR out in the ocean, deep and blue,
Where the winds dance wild and free,
In coral caves, dwells a beautiful band
The maidens of the sea.
There are stories old, of the mystic tide,
And legends strange, of the deep,
How the witching sound of the siren's song
Can lull the tempest to sleep.
When moonlight falls on a crystal sea,
When the clouds have backward rolled,
The mermaids sing their low sweet songs,
And their harp strings are of gold.
The billows come from the vast unknown
From their far-away unseen home;
The waves bring shells to the sandy bar,
And the fairies dance on the foam.
320
Ebe ^Technique of tbe Sbort ton>
A N old rule for those who would be well-
** dressed says: "When you have fin-
ished, go to the mirror and see what you
can take off. " The same rule applies with
equal force to the short story: "When you
have written it out, go over it carefully,
and see what you can take out. "
Besides being the best preparation for
the writing of novels, short-story writing
is undoubtedly, at the present time, the
best paying and most satisfactory form of
any ephemeral literary work. The quali-
ties which make it successful are to be
attained only by constant and patient
practice. The real work of writing a
story may be brief, but years of prepara-
tion must be worked through before a
manuscript, which may be written in an
hour or so, can present an artistic result.
321
322 3H)reabg of <@rep anb
The first and most important thing to
consider is the central idea. There are
only a few ideas in the world, but their
ramifications are countless, and one need
never despair of a theme. Your story
may be one of either failure or success,
but it must have the true ring. Given the
man and the circumstances, we should
know his action.
The plot must unfold naturally; other-
wise it will be a succession of distinct
sensations, rather than a complete and
harmonious whole.
There is no better way to produce this
effect than to follow Edmund Russell's
rule of colour in dress : "When a contrasting
colour is introduced, there should be at
least two subordinate repetitions of it. "
Each character should appear, or be
spoken of, at least twice before his main
action. Following this rule makes one
of the differences between artistic and
sensational literature.
The heroine of a dime novel always finds
a hero to rescue her in the nick of time,
{Eerfjnigue of tfjc &fjort g>torp 323
and perhaps she never sees him again.
In the artistic novel, while the heroine may
see the rescuer first at the time she needs
him most, he never disappears altogether
from the story.
Description is a thing which is much
abused. There is no truer indication of
an inexperienced hand than a story be-
ginning with a description of a landscape
which is not necessary to the plot. If the
peculiarities of the scenery must be under-
stood before the idea can be developed, the
briefest possible description is not out of
place. Subjectively, a touch of landscape
or weather is allowable, but it must be
purely incidental. Weather is a very com-
mon thing and is apt to be uninteresting.
It is a mistake to tell anything yourself
which the people in the story could inform
the reader without your assistance. A
conversation between two people will
bring out all the facts necessary as well as
two pages of narration by the author.
There is a way also of telling things
from the point of view of the persons
324 CfjreatiJJ of (Srep anfc <&olb
which they concern. Those who have
studied Latin will find the "indirect dis-
course " of Cicero a useful model.
The people in the story can tell their
own peculiarities better than the author
can do it for them. It is not necessary
to say that a woman is a snarling, grumpy
person. Bring the old lady in, and let her
snarl, if she is in your story at all.
The choice of words is not lightly to be
considered. Never use two adjectives
where one will do, or a weak word where a
stronger one is possible. Fallows' 100,000
Synonyms and Antonyms and Roget's
Thesaurus of Words and Phrases will prove
invaluable to those who wish to improve
themselves in this respect.
Analysis of sentences which seem to you
particularly strong is a good way to
strengthen your vocabulary. Take, for
instance, the oft-quoted expression of
George Eliot's: "Inclination snatches
argument to make indulgence seem judi-
cious choice." Substitute "takes" for
"snatches" and read the sentence aga*?*-
of tfjc g>fjort g>torj> 325
Leave out "seem" and put "appear" in its
place. "Proper" is a synonym for "judi-
cious"; substitute it, and put "selection"
in the place of "choice. "
Reading the sentence again we have:
"Inclination takes argument to make
indulgence appear proper selection." The
strength is wholly gone although the
meaning is unchanged.
Find out what you want to say, and then
say it, in the most direct English at your
command. One of the best models of
concise expressions of thought is to be
found in the essays of Emerson. He com-
presses a whole world into a single sentence,
and a system of philosophy into an epigram.
"Literary impressionism," which is
largely the use of onomatopdetic words, is
a valuable factor in the artistic short story.
It is possible to convey the impression of a
threatening sky and a stormy sea without
doing more than alluding to the crash of
the surf against the shore. The mind of
the reader accustomed to subtle touches
will at once picture the rest.
326 {Eijreafc* of <&rep anb
An element of strength is added also by
occasionally referring an impression to
another sense. For instance, the news-
paper poet writes: "The street was white
with snow," and makes his line common-
place doggerel. Tennyson says: "The
streets were dumb with snow," and his line
is poetry.
"Blackening the background" is a com-
mon fault with story writers. In many
of the Italian operas, everybody who does
not appear in the final scene is killed off
in the middle of the last act. This whole-
sale slaughter is useless as well as inartistic.
The true artist does not, in order that his
central figure may stand out prominently,
make his background a solid wall of gloom.
Yet gloom has its proper place, as well as
joy.
In the old tragedies of the Greeks, just
before the final catastrophe, the chorus is
supposed to advance to the centre of the
theatre and sing a bacchanal of frensied
exultation.
In the Antigone of Sophocles, just before
tEecfjmque ot tfje g>fjort g>torp 327
the death of Antigone and her lover, the
chorus sings an ode which makes one won-
der at its extravagant expression. When
the catastrophe occurs, the mystery is
explained. Sophocles meant the sacri-
fice of Antigone to come home with its
full force; and well he attained his end
by use of an artistic method which few of
our writers are subtle enough to recognise
and claim for their own purposes.
"High-sounding sentences," which an
inexperienced writer is apt to put into the
mouths of his people, only make them
appear ridiculous. The schoolgirl in the
story is too apt to say: "The day has been
most unpleasant," whereas the real school-
girl throws her books down with a bang,
and declares that she has "had a perfectly
horrid time!"
Her grammar may be incorrect, but her
method of expression is true to life, and
there the business of the writer ends.
Put yourself in your hero's place and
see what you would do under similar cir-
cumstances. If you were in love with a
328 tEJjreabtf of rej> anfc
young woman, you would n't get down on
your knees, and swear by all that was
holy that you would die if she did n't
marry you, at the same time tearing your
hair out by handfuls, and then endeavour
to give her a concise biography of your-
self.
You would put your arm around her,
the first minute you had her to yourself, if
you felt reasonably sure that she cared for
you, and tell her what she meant to you
perhaps so low that even the author of the
story could n't hear what you said, and
would have to describe what he saw
afterward in order to let his reader guess
what had really happened.
It is a lamentable fact that the descrip-
tion of a person's features gives absolutely
no idea of his appearance. It is better to
give a touch or two, and let the imagina-
tion do the rest. "Hair like raven's
wing," and the "midnight eyes," and many
similar things, may be very well spared.
The personal charms of the lover may be
brought out through the mediations of
{Technique of tfje >f)ort g>torp 329
the lovee, much better than by pages of
description.
The law of compensation must always
have its place in the artistic story. Those
who do wrong must suffer wrong those
who work must be rewarded, if not in the
tangible things they seek, at least in the
conscious strength that comes from strug-
gling. And "poetic justice," which metes
out to those who do the things that they
have done, is relentless and eternal, in art,
as well as in life.
"Style" is purely an individual matter,
and, if it is anything at all, it is the expres-
sion of one's self. Zola has said that,
"art is nature seen through the medium of
a temperament," and the same is true of
literature. Bunner's stories are as thor-
oughly Bunner as the man who wrote
them, and The Badge of Courage, is nothing
unless it be the moody, sensitive, half-
morbid Stephen Crane.
Observation of things nearest at hand
and the sympathetic understanding of
people are the first requisites. Do not
330 tEfjreabs of ^rep anb
place the scene of a story in Europe if you
have never been there, and do not assume
to comprehend the inner life of a Congress-
man if you have never seen one. Do not
write of mining camps if you have never
seen a mountain, or of society if you have
never worn evening dress.
James Whitcomb Riley has made him-
self loved and honoured by writing of
the simple things of home, and Louisa
Alcott's name is a household word because
she wrote of the little women whom she
knew. Eugene Field has written of the
children that he loved and understood,
and won a truer fame than if he had
undertaken The Master of Zangwill.
Kipling's life in India has given us Plain
Tales from the Hills and The Jungle Book,
which Mary E. Wilkins could not have
written in spite of the genius which
made her New England stories the most
effective of their kind. Joel Chandler
Harris could not have written The Pris-
oner of Zenda, but those of us who have
enjoyed the wiles of that "monstus
of tfje >f)ort g>torp 331
soon beast, Brer Rabbit," would not
have it otherwise.
You cannot write of love unless you
have loved, of suffering unless you have
suffered, or of death unless some one who
was near to you has learned the heavenly
secret. A little touch of each must teach
you the full meaning of the great thing
you mean to write about, or your work
will be lacking. There are few of us to
whom the great experiences do not come
sooner or later, and, in the meantime, there
are the little everyday happenings, which
are full of sweetness and help, if they are
only seen properly, to last until the great
things come to test our utmost strength,
to crush us if we are not strong, and to
make us broader, better men and women
if we withstand the blow.
And lastly, remember this, that merit
is invariably recognised. If your stories
are worth printing, they will fight their
way through "the abundance of material
on hand. " The light of the public square
332 tEfjreafca of &rep anb
is the unfailing test, and a good story is
sure to be published sooner or later, if a
fair amount of literary instinct is exercised
in sending it out. Meteoric success is not
desirable. Slow, hard, conscientious work
will surely win its way, and those who are
now near the bottom of the ladder are
gradually ascending to make room for the
next generation of story-writers on the
rounds below.
Go IDorotbp
THERE 'S a sleepy look in your violet eyes,
So the sails of our ship we '11 unfurl,
And turn the prow to the Land of Rest,
My dear little Dorothy girl.
Twilight is coming soon, little one,
The sheep have gone to the fold;
See ! where our white sails bend and dip
In the sunset glow of gold.
The roses nod to the sound of the waves,
And the bluebells sweet are ringing;
Do you hear the music, Dorothy dear?
The song that the angels are singing?
The fairies shall weave their drowsy spell
On the shadowy shore of the stream;
Dear little voyager say "good-night,"
For the birds are beginning to dream.
O white little craft, with sails full spread,
My heart goes out with thee;
God keep thee strong with thy precious
freight,
My Dorothy out at sea.
333
Writina a Book
TJAVING written a few small books
A which have been published by a
reputable house, and which have been
pleasantly received by both the press and
the public, and having just completed
another which I devoutly pray may meet
the same fate, I feel that I may henceforth
deem myself an author.
I have been considered such for some
time among my numerous acquaintances
ever since I made my literary bow with a
short story in a literary magazine, years
and years ago. Being of the feminine
persuasion, I am usually presented to
strangers as "an authoress." It is at
these times that I wish I were a man.
The social side of authorship is extremely
interesting. At least once a week, I am
asked how I "came to write."
334
Olrtttng a $ooit 335
This is difficult, for I do not know.
When I so reply, my questioner ascer-
tains by further inquiries where I was
educated and how I have been trained.
Never having been through a "School
of Journalism," my answer is not sat-
isfactory.
"You must read a great deal in order to
get all those ideas," is frequently said to
me. I reply that I do read a great deal,
being naturally bookish, but that it is
the great object of my life to avoid get-
ting ideas from books. To an author,
"Plagiarist" is like the old cry of "Wolf,"
and when an idea is once assimilated it
is difficult indeed to distinguish it from
one's own.
I am often asked how long it takes me
to write a book. I am ashamed to tell,
but sometimes the secret escapes, since I
am naturally truthful, and find it hard to
parry a direct question. The actual time
of composition is always greeted with
astonishment, and I can read the ques-
tioner's inference, that if I can do so much
336 {f)teati* of
in so short a time, how much could I do
if I actually worked!
This is always distasteful, so I hasten
to add that the composition is really a
very small part of the real writing of a
book, and that authors' methods differ.
My own practice is not to begin to write
until my material is fully arranged in my
mind, and I often use notes which I have
been making for a period of months.
Such a report is seldom convincing, how-
ever, to my questioners. I am gradually
learning, when this inquiry comes, to smile
inscrutably.
It seems strange to many people that
I do not work all the time. If I can write
a short story in two hours and be paid
thirty dollars for it, I am an idiot indeed if
I do not write at least three in a day!
Ninety dollars a day might easily mount
up into a very comfortable income.
Still, there are some who understand
that an author cannot write continuously
any more than a spider or a silkworm can
spin all the time. These people ask me
ISrtttng a $oofe 337
when, and where, and how, I get my
material.
"Getting material" is supposed to be a
secret process, and I am thought a gay
deceiver when I say I make no particular
effort to get it that it comes in the daily
living like the morning cream! I am
then asked if I rely wholly upon "in-
spiration." I answer that "inspiration"
doubtless has its value as well as hard work,
and that the author who would derive all
possible benefit from the rare flashes of it
must have the same command of technique
that a good workman has of his tools.
The majority learn with surprise that
there is more to a book than is self-evident.
It was once my happy lot to put this fact
into the understanding of a lady from the
country.
With infinite pains I told her of the
constant study of words, illustrated the
fine shades of distinction between syno-
nyms, spoke of the different ways in
which characters and events might be
introduced, and of the subordinate repeti-
338 tEfjreafc* of <&rep anb
tion of contrasting themes. She listened
in breathless wonder, and then turned
to her daughter: "There, Mame, " she
said, "I told you there was something
in it!"
There is nothing so pathetic as the
widespread literary ambition among people
whose future is utterly hopeless. It is
sad enough for one who has attained a
small success to see the heights which are
ever beyond, and it makes one gentle
indeed to those who come seeking aid.
One ambitious soul once asked me if I
would teach her to write. I replied that
I did not know of any way in which it
could be taught, but that I would gladly
help her if I could. She said she had
absolutely no imagination, and asked me
if that would make any difference. I told
her it was certainly an unfortunate cir-
cumstance and advised her to cultivate
that quality before she attempted exten-
sive writing. I suppose she is still doing
it, for I have not been asked for further
assistance.
(Hinting a JSoofe 339
People often inquire what qualities I
deem essential to literary success. Imag-
ination is, of course, the first, observation,
the second, and ambition, perseverance
and executive ability are indispensable.
Besides these I would place the sense of
humour, of proportion, sympathy, insight,
indeed, there is nothing admirable in
human nature which would come amiss
in the equipment of a writer.
The necessity for the humourous sense
was recently brought home to me most
forcibly. A woman brought me the manu-
script of a novel which she asked me to
read. She felt that something was wrong
with it, but she did not know just what it
was. She said it needed "a few little
touches," she thought, such as my experi-
ence would have fitted me to give, and
she would be grateful, indeed, if I would
revise it. She added that, owing to the
connection which I had formed with my
publishing house, it would be an easy
matter for me to get it published, and
she generously offered to divide the royal-
340 {Efjreab* of (Step anb
ties with me if I would consummate the
arrangement!
I began to read the manuscript, and had
not gone far when I discovered that it
was indeed rare. The entire family read
it, or portions of it, with screams of
laughter, and with tears in their eyes,
although it was not intended to be a
funny book at all. To this day, certain
phrases from that novel will upset any one
of us, even at a solemn time.
Of course it was badly written. Char-
acters appeared, talked for a few pages,
and were never seen or heard from
again.
Long conversations were intruded which
had no connection with such plot as there
was. Commonplace descriptions of scen-
ery, also useless, were frequent. Many
a time the thread of the story was lost.
There were no distinguishing traits in any
one of the characters they all talked very
much alike. But the supreme defect was
the author's lack of humour. With all
seriousness, she made her people say and
SBrtting a |8ook 341
do things which were absolutely ridiculous
and not by any means true to life.
I think I must have an unsuspected bit
of tact somewhere for I extricated myself
from the situation, and the woman is
still my friend. I did not hurt her feelings
about her book, nor did I send it to my
publishers with a letter of recommendation.
I remarked that her central idea was all
right, which was true, since it was a love
story, but that it had not been properly
developed and that she needed to study.
She thanked me for my counsel and said
she would rewrite it. I wish it might be
printed just as it was, however, for it is
indeed a sodden and mirthless world in
which we live and move.
As the editors say on the refusal blanks,
41 1 am always glad to read manuscripts,"
although, as a rule, it makes an enemy for
me if I try to help the author by criticism,
when only praise was expected or desired.
Having written some verse which has
landed in respectable places, I am also
asked about poetry. Poems written in
342 3H)reab* ot <5rcp anb
trochaic metre with the good old rhymes,
"trees and breeze," "light and night,"
soldered on at the end of the lines, are
continually brought to me for revision and
improvement.
Once, for the benefit of the literary
aspirant, I brought out my rhyming
dictionary, but I shall never do it again.
He looked it over carefully, while I ex-
plained the advantage for the writer in
having before him all the available rhymes,
so that the least common might be
quickly chosen and the verse made to
run smoothly.
"Humph!" he said; "it 's just the book.
Anybody can write poetry with one of these
books!"
My invaluable thesaurus is chained to
my desk in order that it may not escape,
and I frequently have to justify its exist-
ence when aliens penetrate my den.
"It f s no wonder you can write," was said
to me once. "Here's all the English
language right on your desk, and all
you Ve got to do is to put it together. "
a 23oafc 343
"Yes," I answered wickedly, "but it 's
all in the dictionary too."
Last week I had a rare treat. I met a
woman who had "never seen a literary
person before, " and who said "it was quite
a novelty!" I beamed upon her, for it is
very nice to be a "novelty," and after a
while we became quite confidential.
"I want you to tell me just how you
write," she said, "so 's I can tell the folks
at home. I 'm going to buy some of your
books to give away."
Mindful of "royalty to author," I im-
mediately became willing to tell anything
I could.
"Well, I want to know how you write.
Do you just sit down and do it?"
"Yes, I just sit down and do it."
"Do you write any special time?"
"No, mornings, usually; but any time
will do."
"What do you write with a pen or a
pencil?"
"Neither, I always use a typewriter."
"Why, can you write on a typewriter?"
344 <f)reab* of 4Srep ant)
"Yes, it 's much easier than a pen, and
it keeps the ink off your hands. You
can write with both hands at once, you
know."
"You have to write it all out with a pen-
cil, first, don't you?"
' "No, I just think into the keys."
"Would n't it be easier to write it with
a pencil first and then copy it?"
"No, or I 'd do it that way."
" Do you dress any special way when you
write?"
"No, only I must be neat and also com-
fortable. I usually wear a shirt waist
and take off my collar. Can't write with
a collar on, but I must be well groomed
otherwise. "
There was a long silence. The little
lady was digesting the information which
she had just received.
"It seems easy enough," she said. "I
should think any one could write. What
do you do when it is done? "
" Oh, I go all over it and revise very
carefully. "
a $ook 345
"Why, do you have to go all over it,
after it is done?"
"Certainly."
"Then it takes you longer than it does
most people, does n't it?"
"I cannot say as to that. Everybody
revises. "
"Why, when I write a letter, if I go over
it I always scratch out so much that I
have to do it over. "
"That's the idea, exactly," I replied.
"I go over it until there isn't a thing to
be scratched out, or a word to be changed."
" But you Ve got lots left, " she said,
enviously. "When I go over a letter
there 's hardly anything left. "
Innumerable questions followed these,
but at last she had her curiosity partially
satisfied and turned away from me. I
trust, however, that I shall some day meet
her again, for she too is "a novelty!"
The mechanical part of a book is a
source of great wonder to the uninitiated.
My galley proofs were once passed around
among the guests at a summer hotel as if
346 Cftreafcs of (Srep anb 05 old
they were some new strange animal.
They did not understand page proofs nor
plates, nor how I could ever know when it
was right.
The cover is frequently commented
upon as a thing of beauty (which with my
publishers it always is) , and I am asked if
I did it. I am always sorry that I do not
know enough to do covers, so I have to
explain that an artist does that that I
often do not see it until the first copies
come from the bindery, and that I am of
such small importance that I am not often
consulted in relation to the matter being
merely the poor worm who wrote the book.
There are many people who seem to be
afraid to talk before me lest their pearly
utterances be transformed into copy.
Time and time again I have heard this:
"We must be very careful what we say
now, or Miss will put us into a book!"
People are strangely literal. An author
gets no credit whatever for inventive
faculty his characters and stories are
supposedly real people and real things.
linttng a JSook 347
I am asked how I came to know so much
about such and such a thing. I once wrote
a love story with an unhappy ending and it
was at once assumed that I had been dis-
appointed in love!
When my first book came from the press
I was pointed out at a reception as the
author of it. The man surveyed me long
and carefully, then he announced: "That 's
a mistake. That girl never wrote that
book. She 's too frivolous and empty
headed!"
I have tried, until I am discouraged,
to make people understand that a book
does not have to be a verity in order to
be true that a story must be possible,
instead of actual, and that actual circum-
stances may be too unreal for literature.
There are always people who will ask
that things, even books, may be written
especially for them. People often want
to tell me a story and let me write it up into
a nice book and divide the royalties with
them! During a summer at the coast, I
had endless opportunities to write bio-
348 {i}reab of <8rep anto
graphical sketches of the guests at the
hotel- -to write a story and put them all
into it, or to write something about any-
thing, that they might have as "a sou-
venir!" As a matter of fact, there were
only two people at the hotel who could
have been of any possible use as copy, and
one of these was a woman to whom only
Mr. Stockton could have done justice.
It was hard to be always good-natured,
but I lost my temper only once. We stayed
late into the autumn and were rewarded
by a magnificent storm. I put on my
bathing suit and my mackintosh and went
down to the beach, in the teeth of a north-
west gale. Little needles of sand were
blown in my face, and I lost my cap, but it
was well worth the effort. For over an
hour we stood on the desolate beach,
sheltered from the sand b}^ a bath house.
I had never seen anything so grand it
was far beyond words. At last it grew
dark and I was soaked through and stilt
with the cold. So I went back to the
hotel, my soul struck dumb by the might
a JSoofe 349
and glory of the sea. My heart was too
full to speak. The majestic chords were
still thundering in my ears; that tempest-
tossed ocean was still before my eyes. On
my way upstairs I met a woman whom I
had formerly liked.
"Oh, Miss - , I want you to write me
a description of that storm!" I brushed
past her, rudely, I fear, and she caught
hold of the cape of my mackintosh with
elephantine playfulness. "You can't go, "
she said coquettishly, "until you promise
to write me a description of that storm!"
" I can't write it," I said coldly. " Please
let me go. "
"You 've got to write it, " she returned.
"I know you can, and I won't let you go
until you promise me. "
I wrenched myself away from her, white
with wrath, and got to my room before she
did, though she was still pursuing me. I
locked my door and had a hard fight for
my self-control. From the beach came the
distant boom of the surf, mingled with the
liquid melody of the returning breakers.
350 {Ebreafeg of <&tep anb
Later, just as I had finished dressing for
dinner, there was a tap at my door. My
friend (?) stood there beaming. "Have
you got it done? You know you promised
to write me a description of that storm!"
She remained only three days longer, and
I stayed away from her as much as possible,
but occasional meetings were inevitable.
When the gladsome time of parting came,
she hung about my neck.
"I want you to come and see me," she
said. "You know you haven't done
what you said you would. Don't you
forget to write me a description of that
storm!"
My business arrangements with my
publishers are seemingly a matter of public
interest. I am asked how much it costs to
print a book the size of mine. People are
surprised to find that I do not pay the
expenses and that I have n't the least idea
of what it costs.
Then they want to know if the publisher
buys the book of me. I explain that this
is sometimes done, but that I myself am
(Hinting a $oo& 351
paid upon the royalty basis, per cent.
on the list price of every copy sold. This
seems painfully small to the dear public,
but it is comparatively easy to demon-
strate that the royalty on five or six
thousand copies is quite worth while.
They shortly come to the conclusion,
however, that the publishers make more
money than I do, and that seems to them
to be very unfair. They suggest that if I
published it myself, I should make a great
deal more money!
It is difficult for them to understand that
writing books and selling books are two
very different propositions that I don't
know enough to sell books, and that the
imprint of a reputable house upon the
title-page is worth a great deal to any
author.
"Well," a man once said to me, "how
much did you make out of your book this
year?"
I explained that the percentage royalty
basis was f eally an equal division of the
profits, everything considered, and that all
352 GHjreafc* of
the financial risk was on one side. I
named my few hundreds, with which I
was very well satisfied. He absorbed
himself in a calculation on the back of an
envelope.
"I figure out," said he, at length, "that
they must have made at least a third more
than you did. That is n't fair!"
My ire arose. "It is perfectly fair," I
replied. "Paper is cheap, I know, but
composition is n't, and advertising is n't.
They are welcome to every penny .they
can make out of my books. I 'd be glad
to have them make twice as much as they
do now, even if my own income remained
the same. "
At this point, I became telepathically
aware that I was considered crazy, so I
changed the subject.
I am often asked how I happened to
meet my publishers and "get in with
them, " and as a very great favour to me,
and to them, I am offered the privilege of
sending them some "splendid novel which
was written by a friend" of somebody
BHrittng a JSook 353
as they know me, "they have decided to
let my publishers have the book!"
They are surprised to hear me say that
I have never met any member of the firm,
though I was in the same city with them
for over a year. More than this, there is
nothing on earth, except a green worm,
which would scare me so much as a sum-
mons to that publishing house.
I have walked by in fear and trembling.
I have seen a huge pile of my books in the
window, and on the bulletin board a poster
which bore my name in conspicuous
letters, as if I had been cured of something.
But I should no more dare to go into that
office than I should venture to call upon
the wife of the President with a shawl over
my head, and my fancy work tucked under
my arm.
This is incomprehensible to the unin-
itiated. The publishers have ever been
most courteous and kind. They are
people with whom it is a pleasure to have
any sort of business dealings, but we are
not bosom friends and I very much fear
354 fc&reato of <rep anto
that they do not care to become chummy
with me.
There may be some authors who have
taken nerve tonics and are not afraid to
meet an editor or publisher. I have even
read of some who will walk cheerfully into
an editorial sanctum but I 've never
seen a sanctum, nor an editor, nor a
publisher. I don't even write to an editor
when I send him a piece just put in a
stamp. He usually knows what to do with
it.
Fame, or long experience, may enable
authors to meet the arbiters of their
destiny without becoming frightened, but
I have had brief experience, and still less
fame. The admirable qualities of the
pachyderm may have been bestowed upon
some authors but not on this one.
HDan Bebinb tbe (Bun
NOW let the eagle flap his wings
And let the cannon roar,
For while the conquering bullet sings
We pledge the commodore.
First battle of a righteous war
Right royally he won,
But here 's a health to the jolly tar-
To the man behind the gun!
Now praise be to the flag-ship's spars
To the captain in command,
And honour to the Stripes and Stars
For whose defence they stand;
And for the pilot at his wheel
Let the streams of red wine run,
But here 's a health to the man of steel
The man behind the gun!
Here 's to the man who does not swerve
In the face of any foe ;
Here 's to the man of iron nerve,
On deck and down below;
355
356 threat)* of <@rep anti <&olti
Here 's to the man whose heart is glad
When the battle has begun;
Here 's to the health of that daring lad-
To the man behind the gun!
Now let the Stars and Stripes float high
And let the eagle soar;
Until the echoes make reply
We pledge the commodore.
Here 's to the chief and here 's to war,
And here 's to the fleet that won,
And here 's a health to the jolly tar
To the man behind the gun!
Quaint l> Christmas Customs
/COMPARED with the celebrations of
>*^ our ancestors, the modern Christ-
mas becomes a very hurried thing. The
rush of the twentieth century forbids
twelve days of celebration, or even two.
Paterfamilias considers himself very in-
dulgent if he gives two nights and a day
to the annual festival, because, forsooth,
"the office needs him!"
One by one the quaint old customs have
vanished. We still have the Christmas
tree, evergreens in our houses and churches,
and the yawning stocking still waits in
many homes for the good St. Nicholas.
But what is poor Santa Claus to do
when the chimney leads to the furnace?
And what of the city apartment, which
boasts a radiator and gas grate, but no
chimney? The myth evidently needs re-
357
358 tEtyreab* of <&rep anb
construction to meet the times in which we
live, and perhaps we shall soon see pictures
of Santa Claus arriving in an automobile,
and taking the elevator to the ninth floor,
flat B, where a single childish stocking is
hung upon the radiator.
Nearly all of the Christmas observances
began in ancient Rome. The primitive
Italians were wont to celebrate the winter
solstice and call it the feast of Saturn.
Thus Saturnalia came to mean almost
any kind of celebration which came in the
wake of conquest, and these ceremonies
being engrafted upon Anglo-Saxon customs
assumed a religious significance.
The pretty maid who hesitates and
blushes beneath the overhanging branch
of mistletoe, never stops to think of the
grim festival with which the Druids
celebrated its gathering.
In their mythology the plant was
regarded with the utmost reverence,
especially when found growing upon
an oak.
At the time of the winter solstice, the
(Quaint Ol'Q Christmas; Customs 359
ancient Britons, accompanied by their
priests, the Druids, went out with great
pomp and rejoicing to gather the mistle-
toe, which was believed to possess great
curative powers. These processions were
usually by night, to the accompaniment
of flaring torches and the solemn chanting
of the people. When an oak was reached
on which the parasite grew, the company
paused.
Two white bulls were bound to the tree
and the chief Druid, clothed in white to
signify purity, climbed, more or less grace-
fully, to the plant. It was severed from
the oak, and another priest, standing below,
caught it in the folds of his robe. The
bulls were then sacrificed, and often, alas,
human victims also. The mistletoe thus
gathered was divided into small portions
and distributed among the people. The
tiny sprays were fastened above the doors
of the houses, as propitiation to the sylvan
deities during the cold season.
These rites were retained throughout
the Roman occupation of Great Britain,
360 QHjreab* of <rep anb
and for some time afterward, under the
sovereignty of the Jutes, the Saxons, and
the Angles.
In Scandinavian mythology there is a
beautiful legend of the mistletoe. Balder,
the god of poetry, the son of Odin and
Friga, one day told his mother that he
had dreamed his death was near at hand.
Much alarmed, the mother invoked all the
powers of nature earth, air, water, fire,
animals and plants, and^ obtained from
them a solemn oath that they would do
her son no harm.
Then Balder fearlessly took his place
in the combats of the gods and fought
unharmed while showers of arrows were
falling all about him.
His enemy, Loake, determined to dis-
cover the secret of his invulnerability, and,
disguising himself as an old woman, went
to the mother with a question of the reason
of his immunity. Friga answered that she
had made a charm and invoked all nature
to keep from injuring her son.
"Indeed," said the old woman, "and
(Quaint >lb Christmas Customs 361
did you ask all the animals and plants?
There are so many, it seems impossible."
"All but one," answered Friga proudly;
"all but a little insignificant plant which
grows upon the bark of the oak. This I
did not think of invoking, since so small a
thing could do no harm. "
Much delighted, Loake went away and
gathered mistletoe. Then he entered the
assembly of the gods and made his way to
the blind Heda.
"Why do you not shoot with the arrows
at Balder?" asked Loake.
"Alas," replied Heda, "I am blind and
have no arms. "
Loake then gave him an arrow tipped
with mistletoe and said: "Balder is before
thee." Heda shot and Balder fell, pierced
through the heart.
In its natural state, the plant is believed
to be propagated by the missel- thrush,
which feeds upon its berries, but under
favourable climatic conditions one may
raise one's own mistletoe by bruising the
berries on the bark of fruit trees, where
362 {Efrreabg of <Hrcp anfc
they take root readily. It must be re-
membered, however, that the plant is a
true parasite and will eventually kill
whatever tree gives it nourishment.
Kissing under the mistletoe was also a
custom of the Druids, and in those un-
civilised days men kissed each other.
For each kiss, a single white berry was
plucked from the spray, and kept as a
souvenir by the one who was kissed.
The burning of the Yule log was an
ancient Christmas ceremony borrowed
from the early Scandinavians. At their
feast of Juul (pronounced Yuul), at the
time of the winter solstice, they were wont
to kindle huge bonfires in honour of their
god Thor. The custom soon made its way
to England where it is still in vogue in
many parts of the country.
One may imagine an ancient feudal
castle, heavily fortified, standing in splen-
did isolation upon a snowy hill, on that
night of all others when war was forgotten
and peace proclaimed. Drawn by six
horses, the great Yule log was brought into
uatnt III Cfjrtetmaa Custom* 363
the hall and rolled into the vast fireplace,
where it was lighted with the charred
remnants of last year's Yule log, religiously
kept in some secure place as a charm
against fire.
As the flames seize upon the oak and
the light gleams from the castle windows,
a lusty procession of wayfarers passes
through, each one raising his hat as he
passes the fire which burns all the evil out
of the hearts of men, and up to the rafters
there rings a stern old Saxon chant.
When the song was finished, the steaming
wassail bowl was brought out, and all the
company drank to a better understanding.
Up to the time of Henry VI, and even
afterward, the Yule log was greeted with
bards and minstrelsy. If a squinting
person came into the hall while the log
was burning, it was sure to bring bad luck.
The appearance of a barefooted man was
worse, and a flat-footed woman was the
worst of all.
As an accompaniment to the Yule log,
a monstrous Christmas candle was burned
364 {Efcrcaba of <Srep anb
on the table at supper; even now in St.
John's College at Oxford, there is an old
candle socket of stone, ornamented with
the figure of a lamb. What generations
of gay students must have sat around that
kindly light when Christmas came to
Oxford!
Snap-dragon was a favourite Christmas
sport at this time. Several raisins were
put into a large shallow bowl and thor-
oughly saturated with brandy. All other
lights were extinguished and the brandy
ignited. By turns each one of the con-
pany tried to snatch a raisin out of the
flames, singing meanwhile.
In Devonshire, they burn great bundles
of ash sticks, while master and servants
sit together, for once on terms of perfect
equality, and drink spiced ale, and the
season is one of great rejoicing.
Another custom in Devonshire is for
the farmer, his family, and friends, to par-
take of hot cake and cider, and afterward
go to the orchard and place a cake cere-
moniously in the fork of a big tree, when
(Quaint Oil) Cftrtfitma* Customs 365
cider is poured over it while the men fire
off pistols and the women sing.
A similar libation, but of spiced ale, used
to be sprinkled through the orchards and
meadows of Norfolk. Midnight of Christ-
mas was the time usually chosen for the
ceremony.
In Devon and Cornwall, a belief is cur-
rent that, at midnight on Christmas Eve,
the cattle kneel in their stalls in honour
of the Saviour, as legend claims they did in
Bethlehem.
In Wales, they carry about at Christmas
time a horse's skull gaily adorned with
ribbons, and supported on a pole by a man
who is wholly concealed by a white cloth.
There is a clever contrivance for opening
and shutting the jaws, and this strange
creature pursues and bites all who come
near it.
The figure is usually accompanied by a
party of men and boys grotesquely dressed,
who, on reaching a house, sing some verses,
often extemporaneous, demanding admit-
tance, and are answered in the same fashion
366 ^fjreab* of <&rep anti
by those within until rhymes have given
out on one side or the other.
<" In Scotland, he who first opens the door
on Christmas Day expects more good luck
than will fall to the lot of other members
of the family during the year, because, as
the saying goes, he lets in Yule.
In Germany, Christmas Eve is the
children's night, and there is a tree and
presents. England and America appear
to have borrowed the Christmas tree from
Germany, where the custom is ancient
and very generally followed.
In the smaller towns and villages in
northern Germany, the presents are sent
by all the parents to some one fellow who,
in high buskins, white robe, mask, and
flaxen wig, personates the servant, Rupert.
On Christmas night he goes around to every
house, and says that his master sent him.
The parents and older children receive
him with pomp and reverence, while the
younger ones are often badly frightened.
He asks for the children, and then de-
mands of their parents a report of their
(Suatnt (Dili Christmas; Customs 367
conduct during the past year. The good
children are rewarded with sugar-plums
and other things, while for the bad ones a
rod is given to the parents with instruc-
tions to use it freely during the coming
year.
In those parts of Pennsylvania where
there are many German settlers, the little
sinners often find birchen rods suggest-
ively placed in their stockings on Christ-
mas morning.
In Poland, the Christmas gifts are hidden,
and the members of the family search for
them.
In Sweden and Norway, the house is
thoroughly cleaned, and juniper or fir
branches are spread over the floor. Then
each member of the family goes in turn to
the bake house, or outer shed, where he
takes his annual bath.
But it is back to Old England, after all,
that we look for the merriest Christmas.
For two or three weeks beforehand, men
and boys of the poorer class, who were
called "waits," sang Christmas carols
368 iEtyrealig of (Step anfc
under every window. Until quite recently
these carols were sung all through England,
and others of similar import were heard in
France and Italy.
The English are said to "take their
pleasures sadly," but in the matter of
Christmas they can "give us cards and
spades and still win." Parties of Christ-
mas drummers used to go around to the
different houses, grotesquely attired, and
play all sorts of tricks. The actors were
chiefly boys, and the parish beadle always
went along to insure order.
The Christmas dinner of Old England
was a thing capable of giving the whole
nation dyspepsia if they indulged freely.
The main dish was a boar's head, roasted
to a turn, and preceded by trumpets and
minstrelsy. Mustard was indispensable
to this dish.
Next came a peacock, skinned and
roasted. The beak was gilded, and some-
times a bit of cotton, well soaked in spirits,
was put into his mouth, and when he was
brought to the table this was ignited, so
uaint Ifc Cijmtma* Custom* 369
that the bird was literally spouting fire.
He was stuffed with spices, basted with
yolks of eggs, and served with plenty of
gravy.
Geese, capons, pheasants, carps' tongues,
frumenty, and mince, or "shred" pies,
made up the balance of the feast.
The chief functionary of Christmas was
called "The Lord of Misrule. "
In the house of king and nobleman he
held full sway for twelve days. His
badge was a fool's bauble and he was
always attended by a page, both of them
being masked. So many pranks were
played, and so much mischief perpetrated
which was far from being amusing, that
an edict was eventually issued against
this form of liberty, not to say license.
The Lord of Misrule was especially
reviled by the Puritans, one of whom set
him down as "a grande captain of mis-
chief e." One may easily imagine that
this stern old gentleman had been ducked
by a party of revellers following in the
wake of the lawless "Captaine" because
370 ^ffreafc* of (Step anto
he had refused to contribute to their
entertainment.
We need not lament the passing of Christ-
mas pageantry, if the spirit of the festival
remains. Through the centuries that have
passed since the first Christmas, the spirit
of it has wandered in and out like a golden
thread in a dull tapestry, sometimes hidden,
but never wholly lost. It behooves us to
keep well and reverently such Christmas as
we have, else we shall share old Ben Jon-
son's lament in The Mask of Father Christ-
mas, which was presented before the English
Court nearly two hundred years ago :
" Any man or woman . . . that can give
any knowledge, or tell any tidings of an old,
very old, grey haired gentleman called Christ-
mas, who was wont to be a very familiar
ghest, and visit all sorts of people both pore
and rich, and used to appear in glittering
gold, silk and silver in the court, and in all
shapes in the theatre in Whitehall, and had
singing, feasts and jolitie in all places, both
citie and countrie for his coming whosoever
can tel what is become of him, or where he
may be found, let them bring him back again
into England."
Consecration
spire and lofty architrave,
Nor priestly rite and humble reverence,
Nor costly fires of myrrh and frankincense
May give the consecration that we crave;
Upon the shore where tides forever lave
With grateful coolness on the fevered sense;
Where passion grows to silence, rapt, intense,
There waits the chrismal fountain of the wave.
By rock-hewn altars where is said no word,
Save by the deep that calleth unto deep,
While organ tones of sea resound above;
The truth of truths our inmost souls have
heard,
And in our hearts communion wine we keep,
For He Himself hath said it" God is
Love!"
371
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