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
 
 HUH IB""" _ . 
 
 A 000123052