/ 2
THE LIBRARY
OF
THE UNIVERSITY
OF CALIFORNIA
LOS ANGELES
"7,
IRA.
C A IE A.
A NOVEL.
BY
WM. DUGAS TKAMMELL.
NEW YORK:
UNITED STATES PUBLISHING COMPANY,
13 UNIVERSITY PLACE.
1874.
Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1874, by
WM. DTJGAS TRAMMELL,
in the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington.
JOHN F. TROW & SON,
PRINTERS AND BOOKBINDERS,
205-213 East i2/A St.
NEW YORK.
PS
<fof dedicate this Book to the
WORKINGMEN,
and to the memory of all who have ever suffered
in their Cause, hoping that the energies of the liv
ing, and the inspiration of the dead, may unite to
peacefully accomplish that Great Revolution to
which all Humanitarians must look with the great
est concern,
u
THE AUTHOR.
March, 1874.
1318620
Book 1.
PAGE.
ELKTON... 9
Book 2.
DAUGHTER AND SON 71
Book 3.
ST. ANTOINE f 187
Book 4.
PEACH-TREE'. 215
Book 5.
GLENCOE .. 307
\.
CHAPTER I.
"Thee thy handmaid Necessity ever precedes."
HOEACE.
The beggars Tiers-ctat Tennis-Court The pikes Tocsin Alarm
gun Phrygian cap Forward march Robespierre Level 9 a
Ira ! And has the world got so far ? Doubtless Even to a
Ira- But it was not done in a day Some say it required six
thousand years Others, as many millions No matter It re
quired a long time to get there So it may, doubtless will, re
quire the people of this book some time to get there Nineteenth
century is inquisitive Must know the whys and wherefores
Must know how as well as why things happen Nor is this a bad
thing for the nineteenth century ; rather, quite a good thing-
It indicates progress ; that the nineteenth century wants to get
more knowledge into its head Have not the Democrats of the
State of Alabama lately made a law to tax each dog twenty-five
cents for school purposes ? And that is not a bad thing either,
one thinks Alabama will not rest here Believes in "march of
mind "Must get herself educated, at all costs ! Has it ever been
said, " As goes Alabama, so goes the Union? " If not, let it be
said now ; at least as concerns progress and education Mani
festly, among such a people, it would not be wise to omit the
whys and wherefores Allons !
MIRABEAU HOLMES was captain of a company. It was
in time of the great war between the States, in which the
Southerners lost their negroes and jewelry. Mirabeau was
1*
10 A IRA.
not captain of a company in the war, but of a company of
boys at the old country school. The boys wore white pants
with red stripes, and they were armed with whistles
whistles that boys make in spring-time out of bits of chest
nut by slipping the bark off when the sap is up and wooden
pikes, somewhat like the pikes afterwards invented by the
famous war-governor of Georgia. But the captain wore a
genuine dress-sword, of which he was very proud, because it
came from a revolutionary ancestor. Mirabeau looked as
well as he could, for Kate Fletcher was there among the girls
looking on, delighted with the drill. He was in love with
Kate, a pretty girl, some years older than himself.
Mirabeau's father, Dr. Holmes, was a cotintry physician,
a man of intelligence and much reading. In spite of their
pronounced atheism, he could not help admiring the great
men of the French Revolution. Mirabeau he hated especially,
because he was not only an atheist but a sad dog, vastly im
moral, always given up to debauchery, running away with
Sophie de Ruffey, in the night, to Holland, getting himself
into Castles of Vincennes, and endless, scrapes. But Dr.
Holmes had a passionate admiration for great orators. La-
martine said that Mirabeau was the greatest of modern ora
tors. Cousin affirmed that he was the greatest of all orators ;
and so thought Dr. Holmes. And so it came to pass that, in
spite of atheism, Castles of Joux, and Sophie de Ruffey s, the
first-born of Dr. Holmes was duly sent forth upon society
with so big a name as Mirabeau.
The boy was baptized at home. -L have heard him speak of
it often in after years. He said he was quite young, just able
to stand alone. His father had fetched a " big preacher " a
long way to perform the important ceremony. He said he
had a distinct recollection that he was stripped entirely naked,
stood upon top of the dining-room table, and then the pious
ELKTON. 11
man blessed him and poured a pitcher full of cool water
just brought from the spring by Harry upon his head. It
was on a hot day in August, " And," added he, with a sigh,
" I can almost feel the thrill of it now, as it trickled over my
shoulders, back, and belly, even down to my heels, in a per
fect network of streams, settling about, here and there, into
ponds, coves, ports, and armlets." But this was long, long
afterwards. He would not have spoken so irreverently on
that day we have seen him at school commanding a company
of boys armed with whistles and "pikes." These two inci
dents the baptizing and commanding the company in the
very early life of Mirabeau, I have taken as representative.
His religion was put upon him by circumstances over which
he had no control. His intellect and his ambition were his
own. No matter what he went into, he was sure to be a
leader. If he joined a debating society at school, he was
made chairman ; if he joined a drill company, he was elected
captain. If there was an honor to be competed for, and the
school was divided, he was sure to be the candidate of his
party.
Before the war the chief occupations of our young men in
the country were fast reducing themselves to this : to go to
camp-meetings, barbecues, associations, the " springs," pro
tracted meetings, and to " ride around." As to what might
have been the history of this Mirabeau, if that of the coun
try had taken a different course, concerns us not to specu
late ; but the probability is that, in spite of his intellect, in
spite of his ambition, he would have been held firmly but
unconsciously down by that atmosphere of do-nothingness and
know-nothingness which was settling like a pall upon the
South. But, happily for Mirabeau Holmes, happily for his
people, and thrice happily for humanity, this pestilential at
mosphere with the negroes and jewelry was swept from
12 gx IRA.
the face of the earth. And at the close of the war he found
himself, though without money, and in the midst of ruin and
chaos, young and strong and hopeful ; a very king in the
empire of his own mind, and glowing with ambition to ex
tend his dominions.
Some years after we have seen Mirabeau captain of a com
pany, if you had been standing one September morning on.
the Common of the University, by the terrace just in front of
the "Ivy Building," you might have heard the following
conversation :
" Have you seen this new man ? "
" Yes ; saw him in the library this morning. How he
got up there though is the question."
" Why so ? "
" Consider his legs."
What of his legs ? "
" Do you know anything of winding blades ? "
" No."
" Have you heard of pipe-stems ? "
" Yes."
" His legs are like 'em."
" But what do you know of him, in fact, Fred ? "
" Why, I have just been telling you what I know of certain
systems of matter, which, according to Bishop Butler, he is
' very nearly related to and interested in.' "
" There you are again. But come now, as to those ' large
masses of extraneous or adventitious matter distending the
several parts of his solid body,' "
" Hold there ! ' Large masses ! ' Did I not tell you they
were pipe-stems ? And being pipe-stems, how can you call
them large masses ? "
" Take a cigar."
" Thank you. As for this man, seeing that his legs, accord-
ELKTON. 13
ing to Butler, are no part of himself and truly they would
be a very small part, if they were not stretched out to the
crack of doom he came up to see Hall last night."
" What does Hall know of him ? "
" Used to go to school with him somewhere. Says he is a
cat of a fellow. But that's like Fullerton's hog. Do you
know Captain Pinter's story of Fullerton's hog ? "
" No. What is it ? "
" Well, you know old Fullerton that lives up here in Cob-
ham the grand-daddy of Charles Augustus. He used to
live in one of the eastern counties. He was poor then ; and
stole a hog. He came here and got to be mighty rich. He
was just the kind of a man for the Democrats to run for the
Legislature ; so they put him up. Now the other candidate
was old man Pinter, Captain Pinter's parent. Fullevton
thought that nobody here knew of the hog-stealing you see
it was not kleptomania then, Fullerton being poor, but plain
theft or if anybody did know of it, he would not dare to
mention it. But old man Pinter knew all about it, and
thought he would fix the old chap. So he waited till the
crowd had gathered on election-day, and then, mounting upon
a goods-box, he called out : ' Oh yes ! Oh yes ! Fullerton,
back where he came from, stole a hog ! ' Everybody looked
at Fullerton. He was not fat from good living yet, and so
he jumped upon a barrel, and called out in turn : ' Oh yes !
Oh yes ! That's a long time ago.' But the Democrats sent
him to the Legislature though."
" And so it's been ' a long time ago ' since Hall and this
man were in school."
" /Si. But in fact Hall says he's a cat."
" Yes, but you know how it is with these village heroes :
they stand at the head of the class, not because they are
sharper than others, but because their mothers have more
14 gA IRA.
vanity than most children's mothers which is saying a good
deal. The village hero's mother wants to see him stand first
at the 'examination,' so she bribes him to study just enough
to get there, and it generally takes precious little. When he
comes here, where he finds the very best men in the State, and
many of the best from other States, what has he to distin
guish him from the second and third rate men ? Nothing but
the swell-head."
" And what has he to distinguish him from the first-rate
men ? Swell-head will not answer for that."
The force of this last remark will be observed when it is
understood that it was made to an ' honor man.' The ' honor
man ' proceeded to the library. ' Fred ' was Fred Van
Comer. The ' new man ' was a student who had just entered
the University ; and as he was said to be a ' cat of a fellow ; '
and as there was much rivalry among the ' secret societies,'
which in this University only ' took in ' the ' best men ; '
and as he came out of the regular time, he naturally attract
ed some attention. He was Mirabeau Holmes.
And as we have not seen him since he was a boy, and only
got a glimpse of him then ; and as we shall have much to say
of him hereafter that is, unless he dies, marries, gets himself
into the State prison, or Noodledom it may be well enough
to take his picture now. He wore a pair of pants thirty-six
in the leg and twenty-eight in the waist. In other words, he
was six feet two, and his legs entirely too small to think of
tights. Fred Van Comer was wrong to speak of his legs, as
the politicians say, in connection with winding blades. Still
he was slightly gangling. But as for this gangling business,
I suppose he thought of it pretty much as Captain Pinter
thought of his turned-up nose : Captain Pinter's nose turned
up 'just about as much as a gentleman's nose ought to turn
up.' He had black hair, a long, angular, nervous face, un-
ELKTON. 1 5
certain chin, and cold, gray eye. It may as well be stated
here, for the benefit of all who at this moment are mentally
making comparisons, and trying if they cannot find something
in themselves more remarkable than anything in this Mira-
beau, that there was nothing very striking about his appear
ance at all. He was not one of those men, who, as novelists
tell us, seem in nothing remarkable at first sight, but who, if
you look at them the second time, and closely, gradually im
press you as being somewhat out of the ordinary way, some
thing strange, rather fascinating, not to say positively won
derful. I rather think you might have looked into this man's
face several times without discovering anything greatly won
derful. Maybe the reader expects to hear that he at least had
" an enormous head " possibly so large and so irregularly
shaped that he never thought of finding a hat to fit it in an
ordinary store ; but always had to have them made to order
by Messrs. Blinkum, Slick & Co., New York. Nothing of
the sort ; he wore a number seven. But his head was all
forehead like Plato's and Ben Hill's. For the rest, he held
himself as erect as Jeff Davis ; and there was a very percep
tible dash of scorn in his face. When he saw another do any
work he was a shade disappointed, especially when he had
expected something particularly good ; when he heard another
speak he thought he could have done it better. He had a
comfortable opinion of himself ; even thought himself good-
looking, which is scarcely to be wondered at, seeing that he
was very far from good-looking. But he also had a good
opinion of his intellectual qualifications, which is rather to be
wondered at ; for in this he was, in truth, not wide of the
mark.
When Mirabeau met in the library the venerable Chancel
lor of the University, he recognized at once his ideal of a
man. His long silvery hair, his noble head, his large, dark
16 gA IB A.
eyes beaming with the subdued fire of eloquence and poetry,
his thoughtful and reverent brow, his whole face lit up with
the largest and rarest human sympathy, in all this Mira-
beau thought he saw the stamp of the loftiest character.
And Mirabeau was not at all mistaken. The venerable Chan
cellor was a man of the broadest and most catholic culture,
of liberal opinions, and boundless benevolence. But what
do words signify ? Scattered over this broad land there are
many young men, and this book will come into their hands,
aided in their first struggles in life's battle by this noble
man, who are already pressing forward to wield the energies
and mould the civilization of our people, who can testify
that the " old doctor's " benevolence was not an empty sen
timent. He was a man of the most exalted piety and an
universal sympathy : his sympathy knew no limit whatever ;
from the tiniest flower to the towering Alps, from the lowest
child of darkness to the highest seraph of light ; in all things,
like the Psalmist, whom he loved, he saw reflected the image
of the Creator. The " old doctor " at once took the student
by the hand, called him " my son," and exhibited such an
interest in him as made this man his fast friend forever
after.
" I have always loved to know," says M. Lamartine, " the
home and the domestic circumstances of those with whom I
have had anything to do in the world. It is a part of them
selves it is a second external physiognomy, which gives
the key to their disposition and their destiny." Mirabeau
Holmes was a religious man ; I may say even deeply reli
gious. Not that he had ever passed through that great con
flict between Reason and Belief which every deep and skep
tical mind and all deep minds are skeptical must, at some
time or other, pass through. But he was religious because
his parents were pious people, and got him baptized in time.
ELKTON. 17
Moreover, before he was thirteen he had read the whole of
the six enormous volumes of Clarke's " Commentary." No
wonder he never doubted any portion of Scripture it was
all made so plain to him. Then, again, his father died about
this time; his father, whom he had greatly loved. Indeed,
everybody loved the good, always gentle, always sympathetic
Dr. Holmes. Especially was he beloved by the poor people,
and by the slaves upon the neighboring plantations, whom
he attended in their sickness. And I lay this down here as
the best test of gentleness and generosity of character : To
be beloved by your inferiors. Would you, sir, forfeit the
love of your faithful dog for the good-will of an emperor ?
You would ? " Oh that the sexton were here to write you
down an ass." Pass on to the Penitentiary. Dr. Holmes
and Elizabeth Barclay had married quite young, as was then
the custom ; and until the Dr.'s death had never been less
than lovers, which was not then the custom. They had three
children, two of whom died in infancy, leaving only Mira-
beau. Dr. Holmes was buried, according to his own request,
in the burying-ground of his own church, " Olivet ; " and
every morning you might see upon his grave a wreath of
rare flowers. For the mistress of " Ashton " had the most
beautiful flower gardens in all the country, and she loved
them now more than ever. On summer evenings, when
Mirabeau was a boy, and when he would be at home on
" vacation," she would take him by the hand and walk across
the fields to " Olivet." Many years afterwards, when his
dear mother was sleeping happily in the little churchyard,
by the good Doctor's side ; when storms had swept over the
land, and others were threatening ; when " Ashton " had
fallen into the hands of strangers, and not a vestige was left
of the beautiful gardens ; when he himself had passed through
more than one of the crises of life, he sometimes looked back
18 gA IKA.
to these walks across the fields with his mother. Who shall
say how much they had to do in the shaping of this man's
life-history ?
And this is a most important fact in the life of this man :
not that he believed in a particular church, or even a parti
cular religion, for that is a matter of but little consequence,
but that his religious feelings were deep. Had he been con
ventionally religious, the probability is that he would have
lived and died a conventional man, rising, perhaps, to that
"mediocrity of respectability," which, according to the prince
of modern philosophers, " is becoming a marked characteris
tic of modern times." He believed in the Christian religion
because he had been so taught.
Mirabeau Holmes was a representative man of the most
intellectual and best-educated class of young men of the
"New South," and as such I shall trace his history. Of
what impression, if any, he made upon the world, or even a
small portion of the world; of the stand-point from which he,
at different periods, regarded Humanity, what he considered
his relations thereto, and the consequent resolves as to how
he should conduct himself so as not only to pay in full Hu
manity's account against him, but to leavg a large balance in
his favor ; of what he resolved to do, and, which is of far
more importance, of what he did, and how: on the other
hand, of what effect the world had upon himself; of how his
resolves, his aspirings, and his work, were in any manner
modified by the atmosphere of that portion of the world im
mediately around him, with its conflict of old and new ideas,
prejudices, stupidities, reforms longed for and worked for by
the few, and bigoted " conservatisms," ignorantly, blindly
clung to by the many ; in a word, of what this man did in
the world, and what the world did in him, we shall see some
what in the course of this history.
ELKTON. 19
CHAPTER II.
" Yond' Cassius has a lean and hungry look.
Seldom he smiles, and smiles in such a sort,
As if he mock'd himself, and scorn'd his spirit
That could be mov'd to smile at anything."
Julius Caesar.
IK the city of Nashville, in a room of the Capitol, one
night in the year 186-, was held a convention of young men.
As you entered the room and glanced around, you perceived
that here were men from different parts of the country.
Here was the polished, aristocratic Virginian ; the well-
made, healthy-looking, brusque Kentuckian; the nervous,
fiery South Carolinian; the intellectual, energetic, wide
awake Georgian; the sallow, silent Floridian; the self- as
serting Texan in short, men from every Southern State
were here. But different in everything else, all were alike
in this, that they seemed earnest and thoughtful. These
men were not only representative of the people of the differ
ent States they were representative of the highest educated
thought and feeling of the South. This was a convention of
a college " secret society," the largest and most powerful
in the South ; indeed, it was the largest and oldest in the
United States ; but the Northern and Southern wings, sepa
rated by the war, had not resumed friendly relations. No
one could be a member unless he was distinguished for
scholarship or oratory, and social excellence. It was made
up of the best material ; of men likely to wield a large influ
ence, not only in colleges and universities, but in the general
civilization of the country. In this convention every college
20 gA TEA.
and university of any importance in the South was repre
sented, and ably represented.
Mirabeau Holmes was chairman of the convention. This
was the second night of the convention. One of the members
rose, approached the rostrum, and whispered something in
the president's ear. The president handed him a slip of
paper ; and when he returned to his place he said : " Mr.
President, I propose the following amendments to the Con
stitution : 1st. The separation of the Southern from the
Northern wing of the society shall be final ; and no chapter
shall ever be established north of Mason and Dixon's line.
2dly. It shall be the sacred and paramount duty of this so
ciety, and of every member of it, to oppose, by all possible
means and measures, the Federal Government; looking al
ways to the reasserting of the independence of the Confede
rate States." And this wild scheme was born of the brain of
Mirabeau Holmes ; he was its father and champion. Here
was a very great change ; for the " objects of the society," here
tofore, had been solely to cultivate the intellectual and social
qualities of its members. It was here proposed, by a sweep
of the pen, to change the society from this to a secret political
revolutionary power. Some thought of the " Mary Anne,"
some of Danton, Robespierre, the clubs of Paris, and seemed
to hear the " Ca Ira " of those terrible revolutionary times.
The member had taken his seat. According to the arrange
ment, the president was to have called some member to the
chair, and made a speech in favor of the amendments. But
seeing no signs of opposition, he-put the questions promptly,
and both were carried unanimously. And thus by a small
body of young men the oldest not over thirty, the youngest
probably under twenty, who had met quietly in this city of
Nashville, unheralded, save by a short notice in the daily
papers was passed a measure of more significance, destined
ELKTON. 21
to have a greater effect upon the thought, feeling, and action
of the country, than any number of pompous acts of the Con
gress of the United States. It might be that on this very
day it was enacted by the Congress of the United States of
America " that three hundred and fifty dollars be appropri
ated for the improvement of the harbor at Savannah, in
the State of Georgia ; " or " four millions and five hundred
thousand dojjars for the erection of Government buildings
at Duluth such as should be worthy of that metropolis, and
commensurate with the dignity of the United States and the
financial aspirations of the stockholders of the Northern
Pacific Railroad." And if so, possibly at this very hour a
thousand wires were spreading the important news through
every state' and city on the continent ; and old Ocean himself
kept respectful silence for a moment while the great words,
Congress of the United States, flashed along the cable. And
next morning ten thousand newspapers, some of them in bar
barous and guttural type, repeated the wondrous tale. But
this measure of which I am speaking was not telegraphed to
any kingdoms, principalities, or newspapers ; to certain pow
ers, however, it was mentioned, though in a very quiet way.
Late in the night two of the members walked to the telegraph
office, and sent the following message to every chapter in the
society : " Rejoice ! The great measure passed unanimously."
Almost simultaneously this message was received by a small
knot of the most influential men in every college and univer
sity Soxith. And they all rejoiced. Acts of Congress, law
yers' parchments, indeed. Bah !
" Strange they don't come on. It's almost ten o'clock."
" I reckon they'll come. The secretary counts on 'em ;
and you know he don't make wrong calculations. He says
the main man among them will be sure to be here ; but he
don't look for them before ten."
22 A LEA.
" I reckon there must be some understanding, else the cap
tain would have reported before now."
" Curious man, the secretary is. I wish I knew all about
his life. Never sleeps with anybody ; won't even sleep with
anybody in the room with him. The other night at Jackson
the hotel was crowded some railroad meeting there. They
had to put him and old ' Cassius ' and me all in one room. He
stayed up all night. He told us he had a goodijleal of writ
ing to do, and if he got through he would come TO bed. But
he didn't come."
" What did old ' Cassius,' as they call him, say ? "
" Nothing. He's about as strange a one as the other.
Never has anything to say. Does anybody know anything
about him ? "
" I don't. What do they call him Cassius ' for ? They
say that's not his name."
" You are a pluperfect heathen, you are. Where's your
Shakespeare ? They call him ' Cassius,' because he's so lean
and hungry-looking. And, hang me, if he don't look like he
could eat apunkin through the crack of a lawful fence. I
wish I knew all about both of them."
" For the secretary, no matter about his life. He knows
everything ; all our men believe in him ; he's the very man
for us. And I tell you, they call him the secretary, but it's
my opinion that he's running this machine."
" You are right there, else, as old Veller says, you are one
Dutchman, and I'm another; that's all."
" Where is General Cyclops ? ""
" In Tennessee."
" Ever see him ? "
" Once."
"At a meeting?"
" No."
ELKTON. 23
" Well, it don't matter. I reckon Arnot knows about as
much what to do as Cyclops does. Look at his face the
devil couldn't tell what he's thinking about."
" If he was to hear a toot of Gabriel's horn right now, you
couldn't tell any more from his face than if it was a piece of
white putty."
" He seems to know all about this fellow that's coming
here to-night."
11 And, by the way, I've been thinking about it, and I tell
you this is the biggest kind of a thing we are getting into.
You fellows had no idea of its getting to be such a huge con
cern when you started it up there in Tennessee."
"No, sir."
" I wish they would come on. Cassius over there seems
to be getting restless."
The individual spoken of got up, and came across the
room to where the two speakers were.
" What time ? Ten ? Arnot's just got some news from
your State," said he, addressing one of the speakers, who
was from South Carolina. " Rapid times Savannah river
lively ; your people want a meeting called over there right
away. Some rough work '11 have to be done, I guess." And
the lean and hungry-looking Cassius moved on. This was
more than he had ever been known to say before at one
time.
Some telegraphic knocks were heard at the door. Almost
instantly all the lights in the hall were lowered ; and the
door-keeper, after a short colloquy with the operator outside,
half opened the door. Two men entered, locked arms. One
of them, a small, dark man, who would be taken for a Creole ;
the other, our friend, the chairman of the Nashville Conven
tion. The two men proceeded to the opposite end of the
hall, and Mirabeau had time to look around him. The hall
24 A IKA.
was long, narrow, and low, with a row of seats on each side,
and with something like a speaker's stand at the furthest
end. In an uninhabited old street of the great city, silence
without, silence within, save the measured foot-falls of the
two men as they proceeded from one end to the other of the
hall ; all the lamps turned down to a graveyard twilight, save
that on the table in front of the chairman, which, suddenly
elevated, threw a defiant glare upon the bare walls ; all com
bined to add to the deep, silent sombreness of the place.
Here were about a score of men. But Mirabeau, after the
first moment, scarcely looked to the right or left, his attention
being caught and held by the person they were approaching.
It was a face calculated to arrest the attention, especially as
it was now glared upon by the single light, which seemed
half surprised at the intrusion of the stranger. The small
dark man, when they met the chairman, who had risen and
advanced a few paces towards them, simply bowed, without
saying a word, and went to a seat. The chairman introduced
himself as " James Arnot," of South Carolina, and when he
shook Mirabeau's hand, the latter started in surprise, but in
stantly recovered himself.
""Ecr/xev" -
Where have we met ? "
" In the Temple."
These enigmatical expressions passed between them in a
low voice, and quickly. And then they seated themselves.
" I knew of the meeting in NaShville," said Arnot ; " knew
what you intended to do there. I wanted to be with you ;
but looking to the work before us to-night, I concluded it
best for me not to be there. You can readily see that it will
not do for our men to know that I am a member of the
society. Seeing that very few of them could become mem*
KLKTON. 25
bers, for tliem to know that some of us were, might create
jealousy, insubordination, and lead to the ruin of every
thing."
During this speech Mirabeau had a moment for observa
tion. He saw that his new acquaintance was almost as
youthful as himself, certainly under thirty, of small figure,
and features almost as delicate as a woman ; of pale' face, and
rich black hair, which was combed back without parting;
the face was immobile, and, in spite of the intellectual brow
and deep eye, seemed utterly expressionless. But it did not
require an acute physiognomist to tell that these features
were immobile not from any lack of activity of intellect and
feeling, but from the most perfect and absolute self-control.
It might be that this man had given years to the accomplish
ment of this purpose, that his features should never be sur
prised or provoked in any way to give the slightest clue to
what was passing within. When he had finished, Mirabeau
replied :
" I agree with you perfectly."
" And so I telegraphed you to get the convention to send
one or more members here to consult with our people if some
agreement could not be entered into which might be service
able to both of us."
" Our people " was the " K. K. K.," and this was a meeting
of some of their chiefs. When Mirabeau had been intro
duced to all present, Arnot explained to them what was pro
posed to be done, and suggested that one or more members
be appointed to confer with Mr. Holmes, and report to the
meeting on the following night ; meanwhDe he hoped not one
of them would leave the city. Arnot knew well enough that
it would be the wish of all that he himself should undertake
this business with Mirabeau Holmes.
When the meeting broke up they went to their hotel
2
26 gA IEA.
these two men conspirators, if you will and talked long of
the business that had brought them together. Mirabeau had
heard a good deal of late of a certain secret organization
known by the mystical title of " Klu Klux Klan." The
papers of the North were full of accounts of their horrible
doings. It was charged that this was an extensive organisa
tion ; that a large number of the most prominent Confederate
chiefs belonged to it ; that it was purely political ; that its
object was the destruction of the Union; finally, that every
member took a most solemn oath never to scruple at anything,
however criminal, that would forward the interest of the
Klan, or of the party whose servant the Klan was ; all obsta
cles must be removed without counting the cost ; in a word,
that they looked to the end, not to the means, and pursued it
with the disciplined zeal of a Jesuit. They charged that it
was dangerous for a Northern man to go South. (And as for
this, there is abundant evidence that it was dangerous enough
to the State treasuries.) It was said that the highways
were nightly traversed by armed bands, moving noiselessly
about, dressed in long black gowns, their faces fantastically
painted, and carrying crosses, miniature coffins, curiously
worked banners, skull-bones, and other things symbolical of
their business. All of which was indignantly denied by the
Southern papers ; and they retorted too with more reason
that the Southern people, though hounded, persecuted, and
oppressed with an energy of vindictive malice sufficient
among any people less loyal to raise the stones to mutiny,
were the most peaceable, law-abiding, and long-suffering people
in the universe. Still Mirabeau had regarded the whole mat
ter as little more than newspaper warfare, gotten up for po
litical party purposes. Nothing, therefore, could have been
more genuine than his surprise when the whole scheme was
unfolded to him.
ELKTON. 27
" The Klan," said Arnot, " originated in Tennessee, and its
object was to protect the people against old Brownlow. But
it was soon found that our people in every State were al
most in as much need of protection as the people of Tennes
see."
" And does your object still extend no further than
that ? "
" That is understood to be our object ; still there are a
few of us who look a great deal further to independence ! "
" In that I will be with you. But you say some of you
look to this ; is there not danger, then, of disagreement
among yourselves ? "
" We are too well organized for that. Officers and men
are sworn to obey the orders of their superiors without
question. We have a General Council which meets once a
year in the capital of your own State. Theoretically this
Council is supreme ; but practically all power is in the hands
of a very few men I may almost say one person."
Mirabeau found that, nominally, the supreme chief of the
Klan was a .distinguished general ; and that Arnot was,
nominally, only secretary. But he had soon seen enough to
convince him that, however it might be nominally, the real
power was in the hands of the calm, intensely pale-faced in
dividual before him. Mirabeau was shown letters and des
patches from many leading generals and politicians. Arnot
was an individual who seemed to know precisely what to
say, and when. And so here, the moment Mirabeau seemed
to miss something, he remarked :
" I suppose you are looking for something from our bravo
old chief; that is the only thing we have ever failed in.
We know his heart is with us ; for he has frequently said
that < the principles for which we contended will reassert
themselves, though it may be in a different form, and at a
28 A TEA.
different time.' And I suppose that for this very reason,
probably, he has not consented to join us. We mean to
make another effort to get him, and think we have hit upon
a plan that will succeed."
And thus these two conspirators, having authority, that
night, in the name and on the part of their respective organ
izations, entered into a firm alliance for the accomplishment
of a certain definite object of the greatest significance.
Here, then, was a combination between the men of thought
and the men of action ; always a most powerful combination,
and here a most dangerous.
It was nearly morning when the conference between these
two persons broke up. Mirabeau was much interested in
James Arnot. He, too, would have liked to know his history.
But Arnot let no word drop likely to give any idea at all of
his life. When they went down from Arnot's room, Mira
beau asked him to take a glass of wine. " He never took any
thing." Wouldn't he take a cigar ? "He never smoked."
The next day, and the day after, as Mirabeau rode over the
splendid fields of Louisiana and Mississippi, the coal regions
of Alabama, and the magnificent scenery of North Alabama
and Georgia, he reflected upon what a grand country we
should have when free of the Puritan Yankees ! We should
not want any written constitution then ; no " checks and bal
ances ; " our interests would be identical ; in thought, feeling,
education, sympathy, purpose, blood our people should be
one ; then there could be a real, not a bungling, mechanical
Union, as we now have !
ELKTON. 29
CHAPTER III.
Where Yonah lifts his bald and reverend head
The humbler Alleghany peaks above,
Beneath its shadows pleasantly is spread
Nacooche's vale sweet as a dream of love."
' Tis a valley of peace, rich in every soft feature,
In sunshine or shade, in its own verdant green,
' Tis Georgia's Egcria, most lovely by nature,
Carved out of a chaos of wild mountain scene."
B. JACKSON.
" WE are going to have a friend of mine with us to-night,
Marian ; guess who ? "
" A friend of yours can anything be more indefinite than
that ? "
" More indefinite than that Mend ? Nothing that I know
of."
" See, now, how you are caught ! If you don't tell me
without guessing, I mean to tell him what you said about
him."
" A college chum. You might know now, by just a slight
reference to that wonderful process of ' putting two and two
together.' "
" A most indefinite college friend it must be Fred Van
Comer."
" A decimal fraction to a theory in metaphysics ! But
you will be glad to see him Mirabeau Holmes."
" Mirabeau Holmes ! I am glad he is coming. You have
told me so much about him. But I never heard you say be
fore that he was the most indefinite of men."
" I will not insist on it, then, but leave you to judge."
30 CA IRA.
I
" Where did you see him ? "
" In town, yesterday. He had either been, or was going,
to the Falls. I would have brought him with me last night,
but he had some business there with a friend of his who
would not come. I wish I could have got him to come. He
made me think of a grown-up page in some old play. You
know Sophie Montcalm ? Well, this man is just like her."
" What is his name ? "
" Arnot."
" A pretty name. And he must be good-looking himself
if he is like Sophie Montcalm."
" So he is ; but here comes Pompey with my horse.
Holmes is going to stay with us to-morrow. I am going to
ride a little way to meet him."
Mirabeau was delighted with the unceremonious, cordial
manner of his reception by the ladies at " Elkton." And
when Mrs. Malcomb remarked that they had heard Robert
and his friend Henry Broughton speak of him so often that
they had almost come to i^egard him as a friend of the fam
ily before they had ever seen him, that young gentleman im
mediately felt comfortable. Mr. Malcomb soon came and
joined the party on the veranda. And there, for awhile,
we shall leave them to interest themselves as best they may.
Meanwhile, I shall proceed to talk about Mr. Malcomb,
hoping to make him at least as well known to the reader as
he was to many who had voted for him to fill the highest
offices.
Mr. Malcomb could smile from -ear to ear without a mo
ment's notice. He had been for many years an eminent
lawyer and political leader. Before the great war in which
the people of New Orleans lost their silver spoons he had
been a politician. After said war he had risen to the dig
nity of statesman. He was also now deeply engaged in the
ELKTON. 31
profession of money-getting. He was not an aristocrat in
truth there were not half so many aristocrats in this part
of the world as some people seem to imagine. Mr. Malcomb
was the representative native Southern statesman of the new
order of things. He wore rusty alpaca pants, a black coat
that reached to his heels, and upon his head he carried,
slightly pitched forward, the tallest and roundest beaver-hat
in this or any other State, with the same precision that a
darkey carries a pail of water. In religion he was a strict
Baptist ; and when he walked he jerked himself along as if
bound to a twisted board up and down his back. He was a
leading man in his church ; and indeed many people said
that he had, on many occasions, led his whole church to vote
for him for high political offices, and thought his great suc
cess mainly attributable to this fact. Be that as it may, he
never failed to give liberally to any institution of his church
occasionally, indeed, he would give considerable sums to
institutions, especially educational institutions, of other
churches. And here again it was charged that he never did
anything but from the very deepest policy that for whatever
he gave he was absolutely sure of a return vastly larger than
ordinary money-lenders could reasonably hope ever to get.
In short, it was said that this man never made a miscalcula
tion that he never failed to put his money " where it would
do the most good."
It was also said that this man could beat any man in
(Georgia, or elsewhere, at " covering up his tracks." It was
currently believed, by some, that he was always engaged
with governors, legislatures, city councils, railroad officials,
and great speculators, in certain mysteries ; and many peo
ple seemed to have a vague feeling some of them expressed
it with great clearness and unction that these mysterious
transactions, if the truth was known, were of the very dark-
32 gA TEA.
est character, enormously swindling at all points ; and that
if the mask could only be torn off, this saint of the church,
this man who was always ready to give more than anybody
else to all religious, educational, and charitable institutions
this man, with his honeyed words and gracious smile blandly
spreading from shore to shore, would be found to be the
wiliest hypocrite, the most hardened, skilful, practised, un
conscionable knave on the face of the earth. Others, mys
tical and literally, affirmed, " I know not well what he is ;
but a precise villain he is that I am sure of." If he was
on speaking terms with the Governor, some people were duly
qualified to swear that, according to the best of their knowl
edge and belief, he was the real Governor ; that lie was " run
ning the government ; " that the man in the Executive man
sion was a mere puppet in his hands ; nay, that in all proba
bility said puppet was put where he was by the influence of
this man himself, in order that he might with greater secrecy
and safety make his " raids upon the treasury." If Ms car
riage was -seen in front of a printing-office, it was positively
asserted that that paper had been paid a round sum to pub
lish two columns of lies, editorially, for him at an early day ;
for which he was sure, somewhere, at some time, to receive
at least ten times what he paid the paper. If he was seen to
whisper in the ear of a member of the legislature, the mem
ber was bribed beyond the shadow of a doubt; if he took
him by the hand if you were sharp enough you could get
the glimpse of a greenback sticking to the clumsy legislator's
hand when he withdrew it/ If th~a City Council had a con
tract to let out, or city property to sell, and his name ap
peared anywhere in the transaction, said council was de-
bounced for having "sold out" to him. If a newspaper
said a good word for him, no doubt it was paid to say it ;
but if it was consistently friendly towards him, manifestly
ELKTON. 33
he either owned the whole thing or a large interest in it.
Finally, when he deemed it necessary to reply, through the
public print, to his accusers, and did so, to all appearances
positively unanswerably, this was only another evidence of
his wonderful astuteness in "covering up his tracks." He
was said to have the advantage of everybody else in this ;
that he kept a stenographer constantly on hand to take down
everything you said ; all of which could be so artfully mani
pulated as always to make for himself a clear case. But the
clearer his case the worse it was for him clearly there was
something dark behind ; nay, for that matter, he could make
black white, or white black, with the utmost precision
and despatch. The man was fearfully and wonderfully
made !
But these were simply the assertions of this man's enemies ;
and it may be laid down as a rule not to be lost sight of, that
it will never do to trust what one's enemies say. Meanwhile
Mr. Malcomb's friends remained silent, not deeming it neces
sary to say anything. Not that these enemies were all per
sons to be despised ; indeed, some of them were individuals
of the largest pretentious. Notably, one of them declared,
heroically, that he could trace his blood back through four
centuries of ancestors, upon whose escutcheon there was never
a stain ! for which, probably, he deserved the greatest credit.
But Mr. Malcomb remarked, with characteristic pungency,
that he had known many better men, possibly a few worse
men, perhaps some as vain upstarts, who traced their ancestry
back six thousand years ; the question of this gentleman's an
cestry therefore was peculiarly a question for the pithacholo-
gist. i
But the case was this : Mr. Malcomb wanted money ; so he
worked hard to make it. He worked with great skill and
energy ; so he made money rapidly. He was deeply religiousj
34 <?A IKA.
believed strongly in education, and he was wealthy; so he
gave liberally to all religious and educational institutions.
In a word, he was eminently successful ; therefore not with
out enemies. They said to themselves : This man has no bet
ter business capacity than I have ; he does not work as hard
as I do ; he has no more energy not so much and I know
he has no more sense than I have ; and yet he makes ten times
as much as I do ! How is this ? Why, I, like a fool, have
been honest all my life ! He is dishonest. But Mr. Mai-
comb was chiefly assailed as a public man. He had the rare
sagacity to perceive at the close of the war that the civiliza
tion peculiar to the South had passed away, and forever. He
advised the people to accept the terms offered them ; they
might consider them hard, but if they did not accept them
they would surely go further and fare worse. But this man
was not only a most sagacious observer of events ; he was
also a most acute and just judge of character. He saw in
General Grant in the beginning what he has since abundantly
proved himself to be : a most generous man, and friendly to
wards the South. Also he saw that General Grant was not
only the most powerful, by the course of events, but the
coolest and clearest-headed man in the Republic ; that he
was probably the only man who could bring the country out
of the chaos in which it then was. So he advised the people
to accept him. What an Iliad of woes might thus have been
escaped ! The bitterness of those times will long be remem
bered. One may as well attempt to bottle up the force of
gravity in glass jars, as to estimate the fierceness of this bit
terness. Upon this man it spent its utmost fury. But what,
in such circumstances, is the greatest consolation ? It is
even this : to know that what you are denounced for is solely
the good that is in you. What, in such circumstance, is
the greatest solace to human pride ? It is even this : to
ELKTON % 35
know that time will not fail to furnish you a sure vindica
tion. And both of these Mr. Malcomb had. He knew that
he was right ; he knew that time would prove it.
Mrs. Malcomb was universally beloved. As if to make up
for the many bad things said about her husband, everybody
lavished upon her their praises. She had a certain independ
ence and originality of thought rarely seen in a woman. It
seemed to be the object of her existence to make all about
her happy. An earnest, common-sense, practical, pure, high-
minded woman ; a woman who had comprehended this im
portant truth, that she had a work to do ; who saw clearly
what it was, and went straight forward to its accomplish
ment. No sham, no semblance, no make-believe, no falsity,
but a really true woman, who felt that she was what she was
by the grace of God, and that she should do the work well ap
pointed her to do. She called her husband " Mr. Malcomb."
Why did she not call him, especially when in presence of
strangers, by some of his titles ? For Mr. Malcomb had filled
more, than one of the highest offices. But she called him
" Mr. Malcomb." Could any thing be prettier ? Many years
before, these two had begun life, as the saying goes, at the
foot of the ladder, as plain Mr. and Mrs. Malcomb. She
called him Mr. Malcomb then, and she called him so yet.
Mirabeau Holmes was pai-ticularly struck with this. He
thought it had a bearing not only upon the character of the
wife, but also upon that of the husband. Ten to one, if both
had not been made of the best material, she would have called
him by his most distinguished title.
To be sure Mirabeau was not prepared to think the best in
the world of Robert's father. But his sister ah ! that was
different. He had heard much of her. She was not reputed
beautiful ; but she was universally beloved, even by her own
sex, and said to possess every amiable quality. She was said
36 gA IEA.
to be a second edition of her mother, which was thought to
be the highest praise.
The day after Mirabeau's arrival Henry Broughton came
by in the afternoon, and left his sister at "Elkton." That
night, after Betty Broughton had gone, they were all seated
out on the veranda, in the moonlight and breeze, when Mr.
Malcomb said :
" So you have had Betty Broughton with you this after
noon. How did Mr. Holmes like our mountain beauty ?
Carried his heart away with her, I doubt not."
"From circumstances over which I had no control, but
which Robert can probably explain, I saw very little of her.
As for carrying away with her the article you have men
tioned, why that had just been disposed of," said Mirabeau.
" But if you say you did not wish the title-deeds cancelled
when you saw Betty Broughton, I think it will require at
least two witnesses to establish a fact so unlikely," said Mr.
Malcomb.
" If one would be sufficient, I think possibly the old oak
out there might be made to answer," suggested Robert.
" If it had not been too well taught to think of ever tell
ing secrets," said Marian.
" Fortunate training, Marian, or else I think it might re
fresh the recollection of a very near relative of ours," said
Mrs. Malcomb, glancing towards Robert.
" Well then," said Mr. Malcomb, " the case is clear that
we have not even one trustworthy witness. So Mr. Holmes
must remain at ( Elkton ' until events furnish circumstantial
evidence. And to-morrow morning, while Robert is gone to
town, I will show him the ' Evening Star.' "
" But yovi must not show him the ' River,' father ; you
must leave that to me ; I must take Mr. Holmes there we
shall be there just at sunset," said Marian.
ELKTON. 37
" How could I have hoped for so much pleasure in one
day ! " exclaimed Mirabeau.
" AVhat," said Robert, " that I have to ride nearly a half-
day's journey, among other things ! But I hope you may be
as well entertained as you seemed to be this afternoon."
" As if he had any time to observe whether others were
well or ill entertained," observed his mother.
" He was willing to trust that to his sister, mother," said
Marian.
" What time does the moon rise ? " asked Robert, gravely.
" About an hour after dark," answered his mother, who
noticed everything.
"Why, what can you want to know that for?" asked
Marian.
" Because you will stay at the ' River ' to see the sun set ;
and I thought if the moon, or even any particular star, should
rise in a couple of hours, you would stay to see that. And I
tell you, Holmes, it is poetical to see from the River the
moon rise over the Blue Ridge. It will inspire you to write
some verses," said Robert.
" I can answer for not needing that inspiration," said
Mirabeau.
" Clearly I shall find you at the River, if I am till ten
o'clock getting back," added Robert.
The morrow came, and the people of " Elkton " were up
early. They were not what are called " fashionable people."
The case is that there are very few, if any, of what are conven
tionally known that is in novels as " fashionable people "
in this country. And this was what Mirabeau thought next
morning, when, pretty soon after sunrise, he was called to
breakfast. He remembered that this had always been the
case with him in his ramblings through this and neighboring
States. And it struck him more forcibly this morning than
38 gA IKA.
ever before, that it would be well enough to have it at once
and clearly understood, that when the honest people of this
country speak of ""breakfast" they mean a meal generally
taken at any hour from day-break to eight o'clock in the
morning, the main stake of said meal usually being beefsteak
when comeatible with biscuits, butter, and cofi'ee. He was
also of opinion that it was a safe thing to remember that " din
ner " with this people always means such soups, bread, vege
tables, bacon, roast-beef, pork, chickens, sour-krout, cakes, cus
tards, puddings, pies, tarts, jellies, what not, all or any as the
case may be, even down to pea-soup, with or without a napkin,
as it is their custom to eat at any time from half after eleven to
two o'clock in the day. He also considered that there was a
third meal known as " supper," sometimes taken before sun-
set~-that is, by people who go to bed by dark to save candles,
but usually from seven to eight P.M., devoted mainly to
such mutton-chops, waffles, butter, coffee, and tea as one may
be abR to afford. In short, by the time he had got to the
end of buttoning up his vest he had come to the conclusion
that one of the commandments in this country was this : If
thou art an honest, working man, and canst by any means con
trive to keep thyself clear of the State prison, thou shalt have
three meals per day breakfast, dinner, and supper ; besides
these three thou shalt have no other meal before thee. As
for " luncheon " though, there was no such institution at
" Elkton ; " neither had he come across it in his travels. To
be sure, when he was a boy, his mother had been constantly
engaged in giving him something cold out of the safe " be
tween meals." If that was " luncheon," why, " luncheon "
was well enough ; nay, if that was " luncheon," " luncheon "
was a good thing ; peace be with " luncheon ! " But as for
" luncheon " in the English sense of the word, away with
it ! We have none of it in this country ; neither are we
ELKTON. 39
likely to have. As for John Bull that is, the John Bull
of English novels, especially Mr. Disraeli's all his time, like
Gaul, is divided into three parts : dancing, four hours ; sleep
ing, nine,; eating, eleven ! And may the Lord have mercy
upon his soul.
40 A IKA.
CHAPTER IY.
" H history is the government of God, made visible, then everything is there in
its place ; and if everything is there in its place, everything is there for good."
OOTTSTN.
" Do you think," said Mirabeau to Mr. Malcomb next day
as they rode over his splendid farm, " do you think the
negroes are much worse off now than when they had masters
to provide for and protect them ? "
" On the contrary, my j udgment is that they are much
better off now than then. I think the next census will de
monstrate that they are growing both in population and in
the comforts of life."
" What of their future ? "
" That is a very large question. In fact, of all the great
questions before us, in my judgment, that is the most impor
tant. But, like all other great qxiestions, it can best be dealt
with by the very simple plan of ' accepting the situation,'
making the very best of it you can, looking to the future and
not to the past. It seems to me that it needs no great
amount of wisdom to teach us that in all the affairs of life,
public or private, to accept the inevitable as inevitable, and
strive for the best that is before you, ought to be admitted
on all hands to be the true policy."
" But there might be a difference, of opinion as to what is
the inevitable, as to what are accomplished facts."
" I see the drift of your remark. There have been the
greatest and most unfortunate differences of opinion among
our people on this subject. But they will not last very long ;
in a little while the hottest Bourbons among us will accept
ELKTON. 41
the situation. They will get up many excuses, and try hard,
perhaps not without success with some, to make people be
lieve they are consistent. But the core of the matter will be
the same. Your question about the future of the black race,
which we are about to get away from, I can only answer in
a general way. I do not believe they are going gradually to
die out, or go back into barbarism and idolatry, as some seem
to think. On the contrary, my judgment is that they will
grow more and more prosperous, and make as good free
laborers as any country has. But we must treat them kindly,
deal honestly with them, and do all we can in our present
impoverished condition to educate and elevate them."
" What of miscegenation in the distant future ? "
" I have not much fear of that. The antagonism between
the white and black races is too great. But if there should
come in a third race, that would act as a kind of middle
ground, I would not answer for the consequences. We
might then, in the distant future, go the way of Mexico and
South America. But I have little fear of that."
" Upon the whole, I see you are hopeful of our future."
" Yes ; we have a great future, if our people will only rise
to meet it. But they must learn several things. They must
learn to look at things as they are, and try to make the best
of them. Why should we look back ? We have neither
time nor strength to waste in defence of theories and systems
that have been forever swept away by the progress of actual
events. They must learn that we cannot live by the defeated
past. They must learn that we cannot possibly gain any
thing either by declaiming against or mourning over the
past ; but that is precisely what most of our leading men are
doing, instead of striving to arouse in the people an ambition
to bring their country forward, even after all its misfortunes,
to be the peer of the greatest and foremost in civilization,
42 A TEA.
Two things we must have before we can hope to do much,
skilled labor and popular education. These are the springs
of power and wealth in modern civilization. I have no
laments to make over the past. My religion teaches me that
whatever is in history is there under Providence, and must
be for good."
They were riding over the finest farm of the most beauti
ful valley in the world. Here were fields of hundreds of
acres, level as a floor, square, and with rows running clear
across, straight as a " bee-line," and regular as to width. In
slavery times the chief end of a ploughboy's existence was to
get the overseer to put him to laying oft* rows ! It was
striven for as a post of honor, and they had the best mules.
When learning the art they* kept at each end of the row a
measure for making all the same width, and a slender staff
with a tuft of cotton on the end. They drove the staff down
at the proper place, and when driving towards it kept the
tuft of cotton steadily in view, looking between the ears of
the mule. After a while they dispensed with the measure,
and for the staff substituted any object which happened to be
in the right place.
They rode through sweet meadow-lands and great fields of
grain and cotton. The cotton-plants, with their dark, rich
leaves, were as high as the horses ; here and there was a full
white blossom on the very summit of the stalk, and the long
limbs, reaching from row to row, bent to the earth with
great speckled bolls. Here and there, say four or five in a
field of an hundred acres, were great shady oaks. On a hot
summer day nothing could look more cool and watery.
These splendid shade-trees were doubtless left for the con
venience of overseers and masters. For, manifestly, Provi
dence never intended shade-trees for ' niggers and mules.' Nay,
is was for this that they had been placed in Africa instead
ELKTON. 43
of a cold country : that they might have the benefit of some
thousands of years' training under tropical suns, the better to
fit them for the fulfilment of the designs of Providence ; that
they should, in due time, be exalted from their heathen bar
barism, and brought over here to be taught the wondrous
story of the cross ; made happy and sleek upon the fat of the
land a peck of potatoes, or three pounds of bacon and a
peck of meal per week, according as the master happened to
be saint or sinner and industrious by being often reminded
of the divine injunction, " Whatsoever thy hands find to do,
do it with all thy might." All of which was duly considered
and ordered by Providence some years before the foundation
of the world.
As for mules ! Talk about harmony of design in giving
cranes long necks, and ducks and geese web-feet. Cranes
and geese, indeed ! They were nothing to ' niggers and
mules.' Suppose we had got all these negroes over here and
had no mules. Cotton would have been impossible, and the
world would have gone naked. (Oh that we had never seen a
mule !) Horses ? Horses, indeed ! The whole breed would
have been killed out in ten years. Horses were made for
white folks ; white folks were not made for cotton-fields ;
therefore, horses were not made for cotton-fields ! Mules
were made for negroes ; negroes were made for cotton-fields ;
ergo, design, design nothing like design !
" We follow this path now," said Marian that afternoon as
she and Mirabeau were going to the ' River,' " and at the
gate, where you see the large oak, we go out into the wood
land. Father said he would make a wide walk all the way
to the * River,' with shade and grass and hedges, but to
humor a whim of mine he left it as it is. See what a hard
path it is ; it is an old Indian trail. Should you not have
left it so ? "
44 A IKA.
" I think I should like a compromise between yours and
your father's plans ; that is, I wish the Indians had made the
path wide enough for two people to walk in. See ! look back
over your shoulder ; there is your mother looking at us ;
laughing, I reckon. How absurd we must look, walking
along here single-file like the Indians."
" Isn't that pretty enough ? Sautee and Nacoochee may
have walked along this very path, like we are now."
" Shouldn't you think the young chief must have carried
the ' Evening Star ' upon his back that night ? "
" Tradition has it that she herself was as fleet as the ante
lope."
" Still he might have carried her, to make sure of her and
to show his love."
" In that case I think he would have taken her in his
arms."
" How stupid in me not to have thought of that. Sautee
himself might have known that much."
" I suspect Sautee could have taught you more lessons
than one."
" If he could teach me how to win the ' Queen of the
Valley,' I wish he might be induced to visit his old hunting-
grounds again."
" Oh, he would not come to the hunting-grounds to teach
you that lesson."
" Where would he come ? "
" Why, to that pretty grotto in the side of old Yonah there."
" That was their bridal chamber. He would come right
down here on the river, where they gathered muscadines to
gether."
" They never gathered muscadines together. The old
chief kept strict watch over his daughter. He wouldn't let
them go off together."
ELKTON. 45
" I don't remember the legend. Will you tell it me? "
" To-morrow, when we go to Yonah and see their ' bridal
chamber,' I will see what you know about it."
They had now reached the " River." It was a spot to
linger in. Doubtless many a Cherokee youth had told his
tale of love beneath these very shades. Nacoochee and her
maidens have bathed in these waters, plucked the jessamine
flowers that grow upon the banks, and mingled their evening
songs with the lays of the zephyr and murmuring Chatta-
hoochee. The breeze which springs up about noon had died
away to a soft zephyr, as if weary of its burden of sweets
from the meadows. And the splendid October sun lingered
a moment upon the western hills for a last look upon this
loveliest spot in all his dominions, and then, gathering about
him his curtains of russet and gold, sank to rest. They were
seated upon the river-bank.
" Do you not like the setting better than the rising sun ? "
asked Marian.
" That is as much as to ask me if I like subdued senti
ment better than display and triumph."
" To me there always seemed something bizarre about the
rising sun ; not only a kind of pompous pride, a haughty
insolence, but even a certain amount of vanity, rejoicing in
fine speeches and compliments."
" But suppose the sun had consciousness, what a grand
life it would live ! Just think ; we have only now witnessed
a gorgeous setting : to think that every hour of the twenty-
four, and every minute of each hour, repeats the phenome
non. What a succession of grandeurs ! Or rather what a
continued double glory. Ever rising and ever setting. If
we had been in 1 Japan just now, which God forbid we should
have been, we had seen the rising sun."
" Provided we had been up."
46 gA ERA.
" Yes, provided we had been up, which we would have
been if ' Elkton ' had been there."
"9r < Ashton' either?"
" Yes ; or any other sensible place. But not being in
Japan, but here in America, at ' Elkton' (for which exalted
be the name Allah !), we have seen the mellowest sunset I
have ever witnessed."
" The rising sun the world flies to meet, and when it gets
near enough it falls down and cries, All hail ! The setting
sun the world turns its back upon and hurries from."
" Pity to spoil such a pretty sentiment, but this is a sci
entific age. The king of day comes rejoicing to fill the
earth with warmth, and clothe it in beauty ; and so nature
welcomes him with music, and scatters flowers before him.
But the setting sun deserts the world, leaving it to shiver in
the cold and darkness ; why should not nature turn its back
upon such a monster ? "
" Oh, you have not spoilt the sentiment."
" The more disgraceful, then, the attempt."
" The sun does not desert the earth, but the earth the
sun ; that is, unless you have a new astronomy since I went
to school, which indeed you might have, for that was a long
time ago."
" What a pity the setting sun cannot express its gratitude
to you for your championship ! Are there not some inani
mate objects that you wish were possessed of consciousness
and a language?" ' f
" Yes ; this river, for instance, wh^ch I love dearly."
" What a pretty story it could tell of its own life and
wanderings ! "
" Yes, it rises away up among the mountain's. What a little
history it has by the time it gets to the sea ! Nacoochee, In
dian hunting-grounds, wheat fields of Cherokee, ' Lovers' leap,'
ELKTON. 47
cotton plantations, magnolia and orange groves wouldn't it
be pretty ? But then the river of yesterday is not the river
of to-day. The river we see here now is leaving us going
on to the sea."
" Oh, no. You might as well say that we ourselves are
not the same beings we were some years ago, because the
bones, muscles, and tissues are continually wearing out, the
atoms giving place to new ones."
" I had not thought of it in that way."
" But you asked just now," said Marian, after a moment's
silence, " if I did not wish sone inanimate objects had feeling,
and language to express it. Might they not have a language
and ourselves not be able to understand it ? "
" Yes, look at the river here. See how gently the little
waves rise and fall, and listen to the low rhythmic hum. Cer
tainly there is music maybe a language. It reminds one of
that pleasurable subdued content with which the mind con
templates the conflicts and crises of life which lie back behind,
fought and won."
" Just above here is the great gorge where the river had to
cut its way through the mountain that was one of its great
conflicts. But some encounter a great many more, and
harder obstacles than others."
" So it is with men and women."
" Some are muddy and some clear ; but so it is in human
character. Let me see. But rivers cannot change their
course ; many are compelled to lose themselves in wastes
and horrible marshes." And her great dark eyes showed
that she was curious to know what he would say to this.
" I am not sure but the analogy may go on. The dogma
of necessity, in its theological sense, may or may not be true.
I rather think we are under the special dominion of geog
raphy."
48 gA IEA.
" Do you believe in * necessity ? ' '
" Not much since I read Bledsoe's ' Theodicy.' But how
do you prove that the will is free ? "
" Oh, I don't prove it. But "
" Well as old Dr. Johnson said ' "-
" Yes ; as old Dr. Johnson said : ' We know our will is
free, and there's an end on't.' "
" Ay. You know it because you feel it ; but if some one
should tell you that he knew just the opposite, and from the
same reason ? "
" I should not believe it."
" Well, sure enough, there's an end on't."
" But suppose all plants had feeling ? "
" The most beautiful, the most highly organized, would
have the most delicate feeling."
" Then I should not pluck any more flowers, I could not
make any more bouquets."
" I was only supposing a case. Will you make me a
bouquet in the morning ? "
" Yes ; and we will talk about it afterwards whether it
was wrong or no."
" As the French do in their Revolutions, when they try
men for their lives."
" I think we had better return, if only to meet Robert
before he gets here. See ! the stars have been out a long
time."
" Why, they are just coming out. I fear the air feels too
cold to you."
" No, it does not. But suppose it did, what could you
do?"
" I could wish it felt warmer."
" If that would do any good you might wish we had re
turned half an hour ago."
ELKTON. 49
" Never. T should ask you to stay till the moon is up, if
I was not afraid you might take the croup."
" Croup indeed ! Children have croup. I have been out
of danger from that many, many years. You would .feel
shocked if I should tell you how many."
" Not at all. The greater the number the greater the safety.
I should only feel glad."
Mirabeau Holmes had no notion of marrying. He did
not dream of finding himself in love with any woman. Possi
bly, to be scrupulously exact, I ought to qualify this by say
ing that he had certainly dreamed no such dream for some
years, up to the evening we have just seen him at the river
with Marian Malcomb. Once in his life but it was like Cap
tain Piiiter'-s story he had thought of marrying early. In
deed, he had been heard more than once to maintain with
much warmth that men ought to marry, ordinarily, at eigh
teen. Let no one suppose that he had come to this conclusion
because he was, or thought he was, in love with Kate Fletcher,
a pretty girl in the neighborhood of " Ashton " that he used
to " pull candy " with. Kate was some years his senior in
years, but he was confident that they should marry on his
eighteenth birthday. Not that he was seeking a theory
whereby to justify his own intended acts.
But as to this notion of his, that men ought to many at
eightewi, and girls, generally Kate being the only exception
he knew not more than three years later than the tender
age fixed for them by the great Roman lawgiver (in order,
said the good Numa, that the Roman citizen might train up
to his liking a docile and obedient wife), this notion was
honestly come at, and held, as he thought, for the best of
good and sufficient reasons. From eighteen to twenty-five,
he thought, is the great period of temptation. Very few
boys are tempted to ruin before they are eighteen; therefore,
50 gA IRA.
if they should marry at that age, the probability is that they
would turn out to be industrious men, with temperate habits,
comfortable homes, and a plurality of children. Moreover,
marriages between youthful persons are almost sure to be
happy. Their characters being in the inilk, so to speak,
easily run into each other and assimilate. But there are
cases where, from strong differences of character, if parents
are determined quite, it might be advisable to get the mat
ter done with, say, at twelve and fourteen. In this case,
failing to assimilate, Pumpkin would still have time, before
getting palsied, to arrest the attention of the cook ; and poor
Mrs. Pumpkin, after some years of hard but unsuccessful
work at assimilating herself to Pumpkin, would still in a
temperate zone be the possessor of enough lingering charms
to justify a feeble hope of eloping with the Methodist
preacher. Qf course, Mirabeau did not push the argument
to the wall this way. " But," he went on, " if men live to be
twenty-five without marrying, the probability is that their
case is hopeless. They have got themselves into bad habits,
drinking, smoking, billiard-playing, what not. Moreover,
their plans have probably become unfixed, and their charac
ter itself fitful and uncertain. The brain gets crowded with
notions, and by the time one is about to be fashioned into
practice another pops in, and then another, and another, un
til he wakes up some fine morning and finds himself u loafer
and a vagabond at thirty. Then, seeing that he has passed
the age of sentiment, if he marries at all he must make it a
matter of convenience and ten to one it will make itself a
matter of inconvenience.
But by and by there came along a certain wheezy Baptist
preacher, by the name of Squalls Rev. John Ebenezer Squalls.
People had singings in this country then, and " candy pull-
ings ; " and for that matter I think they have them now.
ELKTON. 51
Rev. Squalls was also a singing-master. His sol, fa, la was
too much for Kate Fletcher. She sloped with him, and be
came the mother of his children counting the eleven by his
first spouse, twenty-one in all and at last accounts the cry
was, Still they come. All the Squalls children were girls.
They had white tow-heads, pinched voices, celestial noses,
gander eyes, little hard legs that is, when they were quite
small, I know nothing of them after they were seventeen
little round legs, shiny, long, and of the same size for an in
definite distance northward. They always wore faded calico
frocks, of the bed-curtain variety, the backs being for the
most part generally open to conviction. Invariably they out
grew their paiitlets the first week. Squalls was said to be an
excellent preacher.
But Mirabeau had not thought of these things lately. Prob
ably he could not now tell whether his philosophy had greatly
changed or not. Besides, it mattered little to him personally
any way, because he was a man with a purpose. He had an
idea in his head, and was greatly enamoured of it. He had
read Carlyle. He had his part to play in life. Behold !
even he had a work appointed him to do. He had no time
to be thinking of love, marriage, what not. It had never oc
curred to Mirabeau Holmes that a man of talent and purpose
might be so stimulated,' encouraged, and aided by a wife
worthy of him, as to be able to declare, when he had finished
a great undertaking, that whatever was greatest and best in
his work, as in himself, he owed to his wife. He had never
read Mill's splendid tribute to the memory of his wife. He
had a notion, as I have said, that even if his wife should hap
pen to be a woman of real worth, he would still be cramped
and fettered. He would not be so free to expose himself to
risks either risks of personal danger, or, which is of much
more consequence, risks of poverty. For while he himself
52 g
might be willing to endure any hardship in the pursuit of a
great object; while he might even be willing, like poor Jean
Jacques, to sit on a billet of wood, write on a three-legged
table, and dine off three onions, if thereby he might only
leave some record of the truth ; yet, even if the woman he
married should not only be willing but glad to share such
fortune with him, he could never consent to it on her account.
He would sooner renounce his own ambition and devote him
self to getting the ordinary comforts of life, hoping, the while,
like so many before him, that his son might live to fulfil the
destiny of which adverse fate had thwarted him. Then there
was the question of children. And while it might be very
well for him to burn his last chair and sit on a oillet of wood
though why Jean Jacques should burn the chair and sit on
the billet of wood, rather than burn the billet of wood and
sit on the chair, always has been a mystery to me ; but I
reckon it was because the chair had three legs broken off and
the bottom out it would not be so well for Miss Holmes to
ask her company into a parlor with only a billet of wood for
furniture, even though there should be scattered about here
and there some manuscript pages of a Contrat Social. Better
even a cottage piano, a couple of divans, and cane-bottom
chairs.
Such were the extreme cases that now occiirred to him.
As for the ten thousand petty annoyances much morejikely
to occur in practice, he never thought of them at all. Mira-
beau was reasoning about marriage in the abstract, trying not
to think of any particular woman at all. He was trying to
recall to-night all the philosophy upon this subject he had
ever learned. He thought that marriage was a thing that
could not well be undone ; for even if he had by any possi
bility ever been willing to think of availing himself of its
provisions, he was entirely ignorant of an elegant law they
ELKTON. 53
have in the State of Tennessee, to wit : " If any married man,
not a citizen of Tennessee, shall wish to remove into said
State, and his wife shall treasonably, fraudulently, viciously,
and feloniously refuse to cleave unto him and follow him even
into said State, then, and in that case, said married man may
come, proceed, march, locomote, or otherwise get himself into
said State anyhow, and the refusal of the wife to cleave unto
him and follow him into said State shall be good and sufficient
ground for divorce." This is the standing bid which that noble
State offers for immigration ; only requiring that the immi
grant shall be shrewd enough and one would think it took
precious little shrewdness to conceal himself for a season
among the fastnesses of her mountains and country news
papers.
This was the first night in many that Mirabeau had lain
awake thinking of anything but his political projects. But he
lay awake a long time to-night. And when he went to sleep
his thoughts, like the violet of the spectrum, gliding into the
invisible lavender rays, only faded away into dreams of a little
brown woman with a pair of great dark eyes, the like of which
he had not met with before. But what did the little brown
woman with the deep eyes think ? There was just a per
ceptible wish on her part that the morrow, when they would
go upon Mount Yonah together, would come on. First thing
in the morning, though, Mirabeau was to ride with Robert up
the valley towards the headwaters of the river.
54 QA IRA.
CHAPTER V.
" Black eyes you have left, yon say ;
Blue eyes fail to draw you ;
Yet you seem more rapt to-day
Than of old we saw you."
THE next day they went to Mount Yonah. It is the
testimony of travellers that the grandest views in the world
are to be had from the top of this famous mountain. The
views from the high mountains of Europe and the North are
generally obstructed by mists or cloud. But from Yonah,
which stands like a solemn sentinel at the entrance to Georgia's
Egeria, the atmosphere is clear, and soft as the air of Italy.
The mountain is of granite, and stands in solitary grandeur,
as if scorning the companionship of the baser earth. Over
about one-fourth of the horizon you see a vast plain, stretch
ing away across Carolina and a part of Georgia to the Atlantic
ocean. Over the remaining three-quarters is a perfect world
of mountains. Towards the north the view is grand in the
extreme. You may count as many as a score of ranges of
mountains, rising one above another, until the last seems to
fade away into an unbroken line of cloud. One can imagine
with what wonder and awe De Soto and his followers must
have witnessed this scene. Every vestige of Nacoochee Town,
save a mound here and there, is gone. Nacoochee, queen of
the valley, has vanished with her maidens.
" The mountain echoes catch no more the strain
Of their wild Indian lays at evening's wane ;
No more, where rustling branches intertwine,
They pluck the jasmine flowers, or break the caue
ELKTON. 55
Beside the marshy stream, or from the vine
Shake down, in purple showers, the luscious muscadine."
The El Dorado of the Indian has become the Eden of the
white man. But looking beyond the valley, the view is just
the same as beheld by the Spaniard near three centuries ago.
In all the world of mountains there is not a single evidence
of habitation that meets the vision. No spire gleams in the
sun above, nor castle or ancient tower peeps from among the
giant oaks. There is nothing to remind you that human
hearts are throbbing in the thousand valleys below. Nothing
can be more impressive than the silence which reigns over
these mountains when the shadow of the evening twilight
drops suddenly upon the scene.
" I love to come to this mountain," said Marian to Mira-
beau, while Robert and Betty Broughton had gone on before to
the liberty-pole, planted many years ago on a Fourth of July
celebration ; " I love to come to this mountain, because it
seems so solitary and lonely."
" I wish it would teach me to look so solitary and
lonely."
" That would be too bad, unless we had a perpetual leap-
year."
" No ; for in this case the mountain would be glad to go
to Mahomet."
" Well, only wait, say a score or two of years, and you
may not need to be taught to look as solitary and lonely as
old Yonah."
" That is precisely what I am beginning to fear."
" .Beginning to fear ! Let me see. One takes you to be
about the meridian, and just now beginning to fear? "
" Yes ; since the last rays of sunset played upon this moun
tain. One does not fear anything and wish to avoid it until
one sees some thing better."
56 gA IRA.
" What a beautiful lake this must have been before the
waters cut their way through, the mountains yonder."
" Your father says he is thinking of putting a dam across
where the river breaks through, so as to irrigate the whole
valley. You may then restore the lake at pleasure."
" We should have a little woodland Venice, away over
here among the mountains of Georgia."
They lunched in the bridal chamber of the Indian lovers,
and drank from the spring of pure crystal water that gushes
from a fissure in the granite floor. They visited the preci
pice, a thousand feet high, over which the daring Indian
lover was hurled, and from which Nacoochee, breaking from
the arms of her old father, hurled herself after him, into the
gorge beneath. And then they went upon the mound built
by the broken-hearted father over their grave. The mound
is now covered with ivy, rhododendrons, and wild-flowers. A
solitary pine grew from the summit of the mound, and from
its top, during the war, was displayed a Confederate flag.
The pine is now blasted and dead. It went out with the
Confederacy.
They were driving slowly up the splendid avenue of pines
which leads to Mr. Malcomb's residence, when Marian, tak
ing up a remark of Mirabeau's about the power of the secret
societies, said :
" I heard Robert say you were going to Europe soon."
" Yes ; I am going to found some chapters of our secret
society over there."
" Shall you be gone long ? "
" I hope not longer than five months."
" Then we shall not see you again at Elkton. But I hope
* we shall see you at our house in the city, where we are going
soon. How long before you go ? "
" In two weeks if at all."
ELKTON. 57
" Why do you say, if at all ? "
" Because you hope to see me at your home in the city."
"I mean when you return."
" Then I shall try to make the five months three."
" Then you will not go to Athens and the East ? "
" No ; I shall only go to Paris, Berlin, St. Petersburg, and
London. I shall not have time to go even to Rome. 1 do
not care especially to go there either. A good many years
ago, when I read Lamartine's Pilgrimage, I thought I should
wish to go over the same ground with the poet. And I
do not say that I should not like greatly to do so now ;
only there is too much to be done here in our own coun
try. All that such a pilgrimage could do would be to
afford myself pleasure. I think it would be wrong to spend
months, perhaps years, wandering over the East, gazing and
wondering at the ancient ruins, simply for one's own grati
fication."
" But why need you gaze and wonder, as you say, simply
for your own gratification ? "
" What else should I do ? "
" Write a book."
" Nobody would read it."
*' I would."
" You would read it out of sympathy, because nobody else
read it."
" What impudence ! You think I like you already better
than I should like your book ? "
" I shall be very miserable if you don't like me better than
any book written upon this subject ought to be liked. But
I am going to write a book when I get back that I hope you
will like, not better than its author, though."
" I don't promise, because it might be a very good book."
" I shall make it as poor as can be."
58 gA IRA.
" If you do, it will give me a poor opinion of the author."
" How shall I make it ? "
" As you like it. But what is to be the name of it ? "
" ' Jefferson Davis and His Friends.' "
" An historical novel. That is a magnificent subject. Are
you not afraid somebody will steal the subject from you."
" Yes ; I shall begin it as soon as I get back."
" I am impatient to read it."
" I will begin it to-night."
" Are you two ever going to get to the gate ? " said Robert,
who had been to carry Betty Broughton home, and came up
at this moment.
This was Mirabeau's last night at " Elkton." His thoughts
had become sadly deranged and perplexed since he came here
only a few days ago. And the disturbing element was, of
course, Marian Malcomb. As we have seen, he had no notion
of finding himself in love. If he ever married at all, it must
be several, nay, it must be, probably, many years hence.
He was young, poor, and ambitious. He was bent on mak
ing a name for himself that the world should learn to pro
nounce. He believed in the maxim that " A man can do what
ever he wills to do." And he often thought of what the " old
doctor " said to him one day : " Make yourself, my son, in
dispensable to the world ; and the world will find you, and
honor you too." Afterwards, when he had made his name
and fortune, it might do to think about getting a wife ; but
not now.
Still, even in thinking negatively of the subject, Mirabeau
Holmes had almost unconsciously set up in his mind an
image of the woman he thought he could love, and even wor
ship, if some time in the distant future he should come up
with her. But how were the stars that presided over his
destiny to know whitherward to guide him ? How were they
ELKTON. 59
to know that he had made up his mind never to come across
this ideal woman before he was thirty-five, or perhaps forty ?
But they knew that Marian Malcomb was at " Elkton ; " for
many a time they had danced in at her vine-latticed window ;
or struggled through the high overarching branches to fro
lic in her loosened hair as she walked in the great avenue of
pines. And they knew that this was the very woman. And
lo ! Mirabeau believed as much himself. The ideal was em
bodied before him. The vision had become a living, moving
reality. He said to himself, this is the woman I would have
chosen if I had intended to marry ; this is the woman that
would thoroughly sympathize with me, and I with her ; this
is the woman that I could love, even worship. And when
a man has said this much, it is observed, his remaining single
will usually depend upon her resolution rather than his.
But then a new idea occurred to Mirabeau this last night
of his at " Elkton : " his poverty. He could not take a wife
even if he would. But the woman Mirabeau had already
learned to use the word woman often, as preferable to lady,
which latter always reminded him of copper-plate pictures in
old magazines who had called forth these reflections, and
who was at this very moment viewing the same subject from
quite a different angle, was, fortunately for herself may
be, maybe unfortunately for this Mirabeau, wealthy. But
whether this circumstance of poverty on one side, and wealth
on the other, was fortunate or unfortunate for one or for
both of these two people, whose lives inevitable fate had
now brought within the sphere of mutual effect, where each
should exert an influence over the other for good or for ill,
is a matter purely of opinion, on which I shall leave the
reader to form, after reading their history, his own conclu
sions. But whatever the reader may think, it was all settled
with this Mirabeau. He closed his eyes to go to sleep ; he
60 A IRA.
saw clearly maybe he only thought he saw clearly the end
of the whole business. He had not thought of this subject
for a long time; he would not think of it again. And if
there was a perceptible tinge of regret in this last thought,
it only shows that this man was getting upon exceedingly dan
gerous ground. It indicated a conflict between feeling and
purpose. Who can tell where it will end ? Manifestly, the
man was not out of danger here. For then he thought
again, Am I to go to work to make a fortune for this special
purpose ? By that time the best part of my life may be
gone. Besides, and he was surprised, even indignant, at
himself, this would thwart the whole scheme of my life.
[f we could just reverse things and here he turned himself
over in bed, as if to give fortune some feeble notion of how
easy a matter it was to reverse things. One thing is settled :
I will leave this place in the morning, and hereafter keep
clear of it.
Meanwhile Marian Malcomb, too, was spinning away from
her own consciousness upon the web of the future. Mira-
beau Holmes was one of the very few men whose University
reputation had extended over the whole State. In fact he
was well known as a young man of the finest abilities, and a
brilliant future was already predicted for him. And women,
are observed to have a rare intuitive, perceptive power, espe
cially in matters of love. It would have been curious to
observe the thoughts of these two that night as they went
scampering forth out of their windows, each troup invisible
to the other, to be jotted down on opposite pages by Destiny,
standing by. It reminds one of a game they have, called
Vexation, in which one writes a question or a sentiment on a
slip of paper, and another, without seeing what is written,
writes an answer on the opposite" side ; while still a third
reads them both.
ELKTON. 61
"Now that you have seen him, what do you think of
Holmes ? " said Robert Malcomb to his sister the afternoon
after Mirabeau left " Elkton." Now, if Marian Malcomb had
been the " average young lady," she would, beyond all doubt,
have made one of these two answers : " Oh, I'm siire I don't
know ; I haven't thought of him at all. I guess he is like
other young men a little more vain, perhaps ; " or, " He's
nice ! Do you know, I think he has an air quite distin~
gue." But, not to complicate matters, seeing that it was
just as it was, and could not have been any other way, that
Marian Malcomb was just herself, and could not have been,
any other girl, even if it had been desirable, which it was
not, it may be well enough to let her answer for herself,
touching a matter, of which however ignorant she might be
at the time, was likely not to be without an influence upon
her own life.
" I rather like him, I believe j or maybe it would be better
to say, he interests me."
" Why does he interest you ? You know you often ask
me for the reasons of things."
" But I don't know that I am as clear as I expect you to
be. I svippose it is because he talks upon interesting sub
jects, and has his own way of looking at things."
" Just so. He saw you were better than most women,
flattered you accordingly, and you give him credit for it. He
talked about art and metaphysics ; but he never talks about
much else to people he cares for, unless he gets off upon his
political hobby."
" Then he was not so complimentary. He said very little
about books ; I wish he had said more. He reminds me
of one of those men that the ' old doctor ' used to tell
you all were the most interesting : you are certain they
keep back a great deal more than they tell. Mr. Holmes
62 QA IE A.
talks about things of interest, such as I would talk to you
about."
" Himself, for example ? That is what you are talking to
me about now."
" I am not talking to you ; you are talking to me. I am
only answering your questions."
" Well, Holmes is an interesting* fellow. But I fear
mind you, I am not certain that he appears much more so
than he really deserves, because he has a way of putting
things."
" What is he going to do ? "
"That's the question. His course is more difficult to cal
culate than was that of a comet to our forefathers. For
they might calculate with certainty that the comet would
not go outside of the universe ; but I should not say so much
of Mirabeau Holmes. In college he had stronger friends
and bitterer enemies than any man there. He never would
be neutral. He was sui-e to be the leader of his party. Some
thought him a genius ; others thought, or pretended to think,
him a vagarist. Still, while he embraced 'an idea' with
ardor, he treated people with cold reserve. When asked by
his friends why he did not cultivate the acquaintance of such
a man, he would say : ' I have not the slightest notion he has
anything to say I want to hear;' or, 'What does he know
that will be worth my while to be bored two hours to hear?'
As for what he intends to do, that is as uncertain now as
then. Once, I think, he intended to be a philosopher : he
read everything from Plato down. Then he thought of
studying law, but the 'old doctor,' who knew him better
than anybody else, advised him so strongly against it that he
gave it up. The 'old doctor' looks to his future with much
interest, and, I think, has great hopes of him. Just now he
is entirely carried away with this political hobby of his. I
ELKTON. 63
have not a doubt but he firmly believes in the resurrection
of the Confederacy, and himself expects some day to be
president of it. But if Jeff' Davis was living, and was not
made first president, he would not consider it more than
half a triumph. But there is no telling what he will think
when he gets back from Europe. He despises the very word
* consistency.' He would not surprise me by going off after
woman's rights, socialism, and even atheism. Did he tell
you about that wild scheme of his for making-cotton king,
and bankrupting the government ? "
" No ; what is it ? "
" Why, he wants all the cotton planters to enter into a
great corporation. They are to have a bank, and issue bills of
credit. They are to build warehouses at the great southern
seaports, in which the cotton is to be stored until the foreign
vessels come after it, and pay the price in gold fixed by the
authorities of the corporation. The Agricultural Congress
meets and fixes the price of the several grades of cotton
beforehand. The planter sends a bale of cotton to OIIH of the
warehouses ; they receive it, grade it, and send him the
money for it one of their bank-bills, payable in gold at the
bank. The English merchant comes, buys a cargo of cotton,
and pays the gold for it, which is sent to the vaults of the
bank. He says he could stop all the spindles in New Eng
land, and bankrupt the Government in two years."
" That is a very large scheme."
" Yes ; and as wild as it is large."
Robert Malcomb, like his father, was cool, calculating, and
clear-headed. He was a good worker ; patient, energetic,
but not likely to waste his energies. He was a man of pur
pose, too, and he had a clear perception of what it was. He
had calculated the distance of the object to be attained, and
knew the number of horse-power necessary to remove the
04 gA IRA.
obstacles and carry him to it. He divided lawyers into petti
foggers, common, good, fine, and great. His purpose was to
be a great lawyer. He looked upon the profession itself as
the greatest of all professions. He regarded it as the guardian
of the liberties bequeathed to us by our fathers the great
" conservative " power in the state. It had not occurred to
him how little thece was in the " institutions of the fathers "
at all worth " conserving." He was a man of purpose; but
there Avas nothing vague and indefinite about his purpose, as
about that of Mirabeau Holmes. It does not follow, though,
that he was more likely to accomplish great things ; far from
it. He was much more sure to succeed ; but what great thing
was there within the limits he had set ? What does the great
est lawyer, only a lawyer when he dies, leave to humanity ?
Nothing.
But as for this Mirabeau, ten to one the man would make
a miserable failure at all points ; get himself into the State
prison perhaps, or maybe die in the poorhouse. But then
there was the one other chance, and it was worth much more
than many smaller certainties. He would do something
great, or fail completely and miserably. I think there was
small danger of this man getting himself mixed up with
Sophie De Ruffeys, absolutely none of your Beatrices and
Lauras. No danger here for him. But it was not impossible
that he should some day, somewhere, write a Contrat Social
or stir up a revolution. He had about a ton of explosive
radicalism in him. There was also a question of castles of
Ham, conciergeries, guillotines, patent improved drops, and
what not, strangely mixed up with arches, columns, mauso
leums, even Pantheons. You might catch the outlines of
these looming up darkly, and scowling at you from among
the restless shadows of this man's horoscope.
Robert Malcomb, clear-headed as he was, had not seen thus
ELKTON. 65
far into Mirabeau's character. He hoped that lie might set
tle down to some profession and become eminent in it. Or
failing in this, that he might turn out to be a sort of Sir
James Mackintosh, a man fitful and uncertain, able to dazzle
but not to illumine ; a man of large capacity but small ability ;
of much learning and brilliant parts, but of so many notions
that they interfered with and neutralized the force of each
other. Robert's private opinion was that he ought to marry.
He thought that would, so to speak, exert a certain cooling
influence upon him. But he would not have liked very well
for the second person in this transaction to be very near to
him. For he was not quite sure but what Mirabeau would
be capable of quitting his wife without a moment's notice,
either for the cloister, the Oneida community, or the State of
Tennessee, which latter offers a standing reward to all dis
contented husbands.
" Well met," said Fred Van Comer, as he shook the hand
of Mirabeau Holmes at the Kimball, in Atlanta, the day after
the latter left Elkton ; "I was just wishing I could see you.
You must come here to live."
" Why must I come here ? "
" Because everybody else is coming. Clarence Hall is here,
and Bramlette, and Van Epps, and Otis Jones, and Burgess
Smith oh my ! everybody is already here but you."
" I intend to come when I get back from Europe."
" Do you ? We must go in and drink a cocktail on that ;
and I will even let you beat me a game of ivory."
They played the game, and were sitting comfortably puffing
their cigars, when Mirabeau said:
" Fred, what do you think of marriage ? "
" I think it is the chief end of life."
" Explain."
" Explain ! Now, by the rood, Master Slender, you are
66 A IEA.
dull. You must be in love. Marriage is the chief end of life
because it is the point where most lives chiefly end."
" Well, I grant you, according to our notions of marriage,
it ought to lessen the number of lives by half; seeing that two
lives are made one."
" Oh, in that sense, if we only had a few Solomons now,
getting nine hundred into one in no time, the population of
the globe would soon be reduced to unity."
" Well, Pascal says that ' plurality which does not reduce
itself to unity is confusion.' "
" In that case I suppose Brigham Young, though only a
feeble imitator of the illustrious king of the chosen people, is
a benefactor of the human race."
" I was serious."
" Were you ? It was not I that said Solomon got nine
hundred into one. I rather think he got one into nine hun
dred if there was any blending of lives at all. But you are
serious ; so will I be, too. Answer me this, then : Why is
marriage like Signor Launce's sweetheart ? "
" Because it ' hath many nameless virtues.' "
" Indeed, you are stuck in love ; you make poetic answers.
Now listen to me. Marriage is like Launce's milkmaid, because
it hath more qualities than a water-spaniel, ' which is much
in a bare Christian.' Now, why is it unlike the milkmaid ? "
" Because the milkmaid was not to be kissed ; and the
married maid is to be kissed."
" Good. But an institution with so many qualities hath
more reasons than one. Look you, here are two more. They
are not alike because the milkmaid's vices followed close at
the heels of her virtues,' while m marriage the virtues follow
close at the heels of the vices, where they are in continual
danger of being trod on. Again, the milkmaid had no teeth ;
but I can tell you marriage hath teeth ; and, for that matter,
ELKTON, 67
nails too ; and, for that matter, sometimes a full head of hair
too in the beginning ; and "
" Stop there ; I'll not have anything to do with it."
Mirabeau had not been away from " Elkton " two days
before he repented of his resolution " to keep clear of that
place hereafter." In less than two weeks he was there again,
fully determined to declare his love to Marian, whatever might
happen in the future. And this resolution he carried out in
the most calm and deliberate manner a manner which he had
for some time been trying to school himself into. He simply
declared his love to her, and his intention to ask her to marry
him when she knew him better. And thus he committed a
grievous mistake. This was the second time he had ever seen
Marian Malcomb ; and yet here he was declaring to her a deli
berate intention to court her some time in the future ! That
will not do -for this country. For here, as in England, before
one marries, it is necessary, as M. Taine says, " to feel a
passion." Marian Malcomb had already begun to like this
man ; but now, she was not at all certain that he was not a
heartless hypocrite. Possibly he had sat in his office and cast
his eye deliberately about among the women he considered
worthy of his notice, and after weighing many in the balance
had concluded that she was the best match he knew, and had
come straight to her, without having seen her before, predeter
mined to declare his love and ask her to marry him. Her
higher feelings were outraged, and she was dissatisfied with
herself not only for allowing herself to be deceived in her
estimate of his character, but because she was conscious of
already liking him better than any man she knew. And
here she placed a very dangerous barrier between herself and
him. See what it is a woman must do, after this, before the
man can hope to be successful in his suit : she must confess to
herself not only that she has deceived herself in a matter of
68 <JA ERA.
judgment, but that sho has greatly "wronged another, and that
other the very last man she ought to have wronged, namely,
the man that loved her. It needs no very great knowledge
of the human mind, I think, to appreciate how difficult a
matter it is for a woman to do this. Moreover, a woman,
coming to this conclusion, deals most unjustly with herself;
for being already decided to be distrustful, she sees through
a false medium, and may even degrade the highest expression
of sentiment into acting able to be detected by a girl of
eighteen.
With Mirabeau Holmes the case was this : he did not feel
that Marian Malcomb was a stranger to him. He simply trans
ferred his acquaintance from the ideal he had set up in his own
mind to the reality before him. And so, instead of regarding
her as a woman whom he had met only yesterday, he saw
in her the woman he had loved, but hardly thought to find.
We are all observed to carry about with us a large amount
of disposable passion ; and when this passion happens to be
in an ozonic state its possessor is apt to fall down and wor
ship the first object which his fancy can fashion into an idol.
But as for Mirabeau, while he had a great amount of love and
worship to bestow upon some woman, he had a clear percep
tion of his ideal, and was so enamoured of it that he would
have regarded himself as no better than a heathen and an in
fidel if he had thoxight it possible for him to bestow it upon
any other than the embodiment of this same ideal. Alto
gether, courtship between these two persons, for the future,
had become needlessly complicated, and for Mirabeau the
case was manifestly dangerous.
Mirabeau returned to the city the night before he was to
leave for Europe. James Arno't, surrounded by some two
dozen officers, on the second floor of an old brick building in
the western portion of the city, was listening to some reports.
ELKTON. 69
If Mirabeau had only heard some of these reports, he would
have deferred his trip to Europe. I think many a swamp
and forest would have stood aghast at the recital of deeds
which had been enacted in their very midst. But when Mir-
abeau entered, the meeting was at once adjourned, and these
two walked to the Kimball together, but they did not walk
arm in arm. It was late that night when they retired. Mir-
abeau, who was much interested in his companion, proposed
that they should occupy the same room ; but Arnot was con
fused, blushed, and made some excuse. They bade each other
good-bye that night.
" Some years ago," said Arnot, " I travelled over portions
of Europe myself; and I almost wish it was so now that I
could be your companion." This was said in a tone so low,
and so full of sadness, with just a shade of mockery, that
Mirabeau was startled. He looked quickly and searchingly
into Arnot's face, and saw the same blush that he had noticed
some moments before. He afterwards remembered that tone
so full of sadness and self-mockery. In a moment Arnot's
face had resumed its frozen stillness.
Mirabeau did not start to Europe Doxt moining. He had
not left his room when he was brought a telegram summon-
ing him to his home at " Ashton."
asoofc 2.
soisr.
CHAPTER VI.
" The night shall bo filled with music,
And the cai-es that infest the day
Shall fold up their tents like the Arabs,
And silently steal away.
" Forgive me, my child ! Keproach not thy unhappy father, whose fondest hopes
have proved visionary."
SCHILLEB, The Robbers.
IF the reader is of an inquiring turn of mind, which
.surely I have no reason to doubt, except the very general
one that this Republic, counting all, without distinction of
race, color, previous or present condition of servitude pre
vious condition of servitude referring to such Africans and
mongrels as the general march of events, slightly aided by
Lincoln's Proclamation, set free, and present condition of
servitude referring to the female half of the American peo
ple, also soon destined to be set free by the general march of
events, somewhat hastened, I hope, by Henry Wilson and
others has six millions of inhabitants who can neither read
nor write, and thirty odd millions more who are biit little
better off, he will doubtless inquire why I have written the
title of this book " Daughter and Son," instead of " Son and
72 gA IRA.
Daughter." Surely the latter is the orthodox arrangement.
I defy any man except, indeed, one profoundly versed in
typology, with whom all things are possible to point to a
single place where it is ever hinted that Abraham, Isaac,
Jacob who cheated his brother out of his birthright in order
to be made head of the chosen people or any patriarch or
prophet whatever, ever " begat daughters and sons." They
" begat sons and daughters sons and daughters begat they
them." And this is what proves the humanity of that race,
that they invariably " begat sons and daughters," just like
other people. But I think we shall not find even in profane
history any precedent whatever to warrant the conferring
of such distinction upon women as giving more prominence
to the daughter than to the son. It is almost as bad as if
one had said " wife and husband." Doubtless the whole race
of forked radishes with breeches on will feel highly indig
nant. Manifestly the publisher of this book, if he love him
self, had best look to his ears. For is it not written that
man is the " head of the woman " ? And is it not plainly
declared in the law-books, with pains and penalties duly
announced, that " the woman shall be subject to the man " ?
Clearly there must be some reason for this kind of proceed
ing, right in the face, as it were, of the law and gospel. But
however it may have been among the patriarchs, or among
the Greeks, where, we are casually informed by the historian,
" women were regarded simply as furniture ; " or among the
Romans, where they were so clearly reckoned as personal
property that the use and possession of them for one year
gave the possessor a good title to them ; in this book it may
be that the daughter is to play-a more important part than
the son. But however that may be, it is not important that
I should give any reason but this, that the last shall be first,
and the first last.
DAUGHTER AND SON. 73
There was a hall at Mrs. Walton's. Stop a moment, dear
reader. Do not skip ten pages just here. I am not going to
treat you to a description of " a girl's first ball." All balls
are some girl's " first ball." I doubt not you have read many
descriptions of " a girl's first ball." They are all alike. If
you have nothing else to do for half an hour but to read a
description of a ball, pray go into the garden and hoe a cou
ple of rows of potatoes or cabbages. Or, if you have abso
lutely nothing to do, why then, though few things could be
more unprofitable, just close the book, ditto your eyes, and
reflect for a few moments upon the mutability of all human
affairs except " a girl's first ball." Technically speaking,
this was not " a girl's first ball ; " it was a ball given young
George Walton on the eve of his departure for a foreign uni
versity. George Walton was the youngest child of Mr.
Walton. Mrs. Walton was, in terms of the statute, the
mother of him. In him had already happened that oft-
repeated phenomenon, the centering of a father's hopes. Not
that Mr. Walton had no other children ; he had three others,
two sons and a daughter. The oldest son was living, and was
here to-night ; the other son was dead ; and the daughter was
also dead. Mr. Walton's hopes now rested in his youngest
child, George, a youth of some nineteen years, of great prom
ise and expectations. Mr. Walton, like many men before
him and after him, had set out in life with an ambition to do
great things. And he had been more successful than most
men in this, that he had learned earlier than most men to
accept the inevitable. He remembered the Spanish proverb,
" Since we cannot get what we like, we must try to like
what we can get." His ambition was not lost, but only
transferred. He could make money ; and he determined to
make more than anybody else. His ambition for fame he
had hoped to see realized in his oldest son. Any one who
1 A IRA.
chooses, provided he has some little knowledge of human
nature, may learn from the census reports of that year time
there was something over a million of parents in this Repub
lic who comforted themselves with similar hopes. But even
here Mr. Walton again saw that he was disappointed. It is
said that hope springs eternal in the human breast. Like
most sayings with which Humanity has either flattered or '
comforted itself, this also is false. There are many men, and
women too, and you may meet some of them on the street, in
whom, if you could ever achieve that utter impossibility of
knowing their inmost being, the springs of hope are long
since dried up ; from which even the tears that were wept in.
their places are gone, leaving nothing but a hardened crust
of bitter and salt. But it was not yet quite so with this
man. His oldest son, Alf, had turned out badly. Of good
mind, good looks, not without ambition, and having all the
advantages of wealth, it seemed not unreasonable to indulge
the highest hopes of his future. He was sent to a German
university, and then travelled extensively. All of which, to
be sure, was a magnificent preparation for the part already
assigned him in the programme of Destiny that he should
be an accomplished gambler and debauchee. Mr. Walton had
given up all hope of him long since. His next son was dead.
His only daughter who ever expected anything of a daugh
ter ? was also dead, or sunk out of sight.
Mr. Walton was not happy to-night. Once during the
evening, as he walked down the great hall alone, he chanced
to meet his wife coming from her own room. He saw in an
instant that she had been weeping, and he knew that at that
moment they were thinking of the same thing. Neither
dared to speak to the other. Sfoe returned to the saloon. He
passed on, out of the door, out of the gate, and on, he knew
not whither. Mr. Walton was thinking of another scene. It
DAUGHTER AND SON. 75
was in a distant State ; but what mattered that ? It was years
ago ; but what mattered that ? What mattered it whether
it was yesterday or an eternity ago ? It was there, in him
self. It was a scene on one of those pi-etty little wood
land lakes, children of the great Mississippi, which seem to
have rambled too far in their chase after the butterflies among
the flowers, and got hemmed and caught among the hills.
There was a ball upon the lake that night. A great gondola
rested in the centre, and numbers of tiny shell-shaped boats
glided hither and thither, or rested under the shade of the
great forest trees that threw their shadows far out upon the
silvery waters. The dance went on, and the soft strains of
music rose and floated away in the moonlight. Mr. Walton
sat down in the shade of a great oak. It was on such a night
as this ; and now he remembered that this was the anniver
sary of the very night. He bent his head upon his knees.
The sad nighi-wind moaned as the spirit of the music, and he
fell into a stupor such as sometimes comes over us when, in
the presence of a great past sorrow, we feel an utter, despair
ing helplessness.
Then there came and stood before him three figures : one,
a beautiful woman, her long black hair falling loosely to her
waist, and a star upon her forehead his own daughter ; an
other, a young man, almost a boy, tall and slender his silk
en-haired RafFaelle ; and then a dark-faced foreigner, that
gazed steadily upon him with a look so burning that he in
voluntarily shaded his eyes with his hand. The group came
towards him ; and the beautiful girl seemed to kneel before
him and take his hand ; he withdrew it, and motioned them
away. The scene changed, and he saw dragged from a river
and laid upon the bank the inanimate form of a woman.
A baby was clasped in her arms, bound to her bosom with
ribbons and plaits of hair. Her rich, black tresses were
76 QA IEA.
fallen upon the ground, and the dripping water ran down the
bank in small streams to the river. From her neck was
taken a small, curiously- wrought locket, in which was found
crumpled up a tiny note. The words seemed to burn into his
brain : " Alone, alone. Alone in this great city, in the wide
world. God himself has forsaken me. I have no friend but
my misery ; that alone has remained with me and my child.
Without friends without money without bread. My
God ! Can it be wrong to die when I can do nothing else ?
For the sake of my child, my sweet, innocent child, last night
I tried to beg. They said she was a rich, Christian woman.
She made the servants drive me away. "What I am about
to do, for myself, is no crime ; but my child God forgive
me ! I cannot leave it in the world without a friend I can
not go into another world without taking it with me I
would be alone there. Father in heaven, if it be a crime
that I am now going to commit, let the suffering of myself
and my innocent child plead with Thee for forgiveness. Of
you, my father and mother, I ask forgiveness for all the
trouble I have given you ; and I thank my God that you arc
ignorant of the depths of your child's suffering. To that
other, if he still lives, I would that the sweet night- wi ad
might bear him my message that I love him to-night as when
he pressed the first kiss of love upon my forehead. One more
prayer : as to-night my little Alberta shall go to sleep in my
arms, so may we both awake in the morning."
The scene changed again, and he saw the dark-faced for
eigner and another, in a wild wood, standing face to face, a few
paces apart. He heard the words, " ready," " one," " two/'
" fire," and two sharp reports, almost simultaneous, rang upon
the air. The dark man stood still ; from the breast of the
other he saw a little whiff of smoke curl slowly upward, and as
the man fell forward, recognizing his own son, he attempted
DAUGHTER AND SON. 77
to rush forward with a cry, and the cry awoke him. Mr.
Walton looked around to see if anybody was near. One man
was passing by at a little distance ; it was James Arnot. Mr.
Walton had been dreaming a dream that was not all a dream.
He looked at his watch ; he had not been here long. When
he returned to the house, he passed a couple of young men
walking in the yard smoking, and heard snatches of their con
versation.
" Rich ! No name for it. They say he's worth over a
million."
" And no children but boys. If the old cit just had a gal
now, some happy nob might make his jack there."
" But they say he did have a gal ; a stunner like that
hell-bound brother in the house. Got topped though by some
black-eyed foreigner Italian, I believe had a baby, run
away, and got to be what the deuce is it the French say ? "
" Fille de joie ? "
"No; not that."
" Nymph du pav6 ? "
" That's it nymph du pave. No wonder she got to be a
nymph du pave, if she was any kin to that child of Satan in the
house there. By the way, they say he's engaged to Ella Leit-
ner. What per cent, would you insure her for, for six months ? "
" Not under a hundred, if that's true, with commissions
extra. I reckon it's not true, though. I don't see how a
respectable woman could like Alf Walton."
" The deuce you don't ! You know none of us stand any
show with him at all. What if he has brought about a ton of
them to a melancholy end, as the parson says; that's just
what they like. I move we take a few lessons from him.
He'll give 'em if we let him win a score or two of williams."
What principally struck you on entering the saloon was
this, that here was a Democratic ball of the first water. Here
18 gA IRA.
were numerous young men, and not a few old ones, and pro
bably not three in the room who did not do something for a
living. Here were clerks, young merchants, lawyers, doctors,
newspaper reporters, editors, politicians, and even two or
three "nobs." There was no exclusiveness. Not that Mr.
and Mrs. Walton deserve any particular credit for it ; for
this was the rule in this Democratic city. 'This was a new
city/ with out landmarks, and made up of all kinds of people
all kinds of good people, like the people under tombstones.
Even the streets here were Democratic. You could never tell
from the direction they started in whither they were going, or
where they might end ; they went in all directions except
right lines. But let us enter the saloon. Here are some
people we must know. There on the right, in a group of
half a dozen, is Bramlette, a poet ; and that superb, brown-
eyed woman is Mrs. Sutherland, known in these parts as a
magazine writer of some repute, but better as a charming
amateur composer and performer of music, and best as leader
of fashion and queen of society. One should not describe
the dress of a beautiful woman ; it looks like sacrilege. There
fore all women ought to be well dressed ; what an amount of
sacrilege it would save ! And men ought, if possible, to be
well dressed too. There, for instance, is poor Bramlette,
with a dozen of the largest-sized rice-buttons in his shirt-
front, and pants a foot too short. Everything is political in
this country. Bramlette's pants were political ; the knees
were radical, and the bottom of the legs conservative ; that
is to say, the knees pushed forward energetically, and the
bottoms hung back doggedly, giving to the legs a curve not
mentioned by Hogarth. There, sitting apart, is Clarence
Hall, a fair-haired young man of twenty-eight or thirty, a
University man, hazel-eyed. The young lady he is talking to
is Annie Deariug, of ruddy face and dark eyebrows, daughter
DAUGHTER AND SON. 79
of an old-time aristocrat, thought to be wealthy, and known
to be pretty. Mr. Hall seems as much alone with the lady he
is talking to as if they were in Mrs. Dearing's parlor, with
the rich, dark curtains down, at that delightful hour when,
the rosy twilight gradually deepening into violet, a richly
furnished parlor has an air of repose not to be enjoyed else
where or at any other hour. There in the dance is one we
have met before, Fred Van Comer, who dances and laughs
like a boy ; a small man, slightly built, with a great head
the top being much too large for the lower portion thick,
curly, blonde hair, and steel-gray eyes.
The message Mirabeau Holmes received from " Ashton "
called him to the death-bed of his mother. When one wit
nesses the last scene in the life of a beautiful, religious woman,
sees her conscious to the last, dispensing a parting blessing and
bidding a kindly adieu to friends, calm in the ineffable hope
of immortality, divinely trustful of meeting in the future life
loved ones gone before and to come after, one sees that Death
may not only be disrobed of his terrors but even clad in ha
biliments of beauty. Such a death was that of Mrs. Holmes.
And now, on this night of the ball at Mr. Walton's, she had
been sleeping for some weeks quietly at " Olivet." Mirabeau
had loved his mother with a love that elevated itself to fer-
\ or. But it was only of late that he had learned how much
she had done for him ; how she had entirely forgotten her
self and looked only to him ; how, in order that he might
have means to continue his studies, she had worked and even
endured the pinch of poverty without letting him know for
he would have on no account sxibmitted to it if he had known
it. And when he did know, he fervently hoped that she might
live to see the day when he could lay at her feet a wealth
of fame. But with her the haven was gained, and the ves
sel's voyage over. On the very day she died she said to him,
80 QA IEA.
" My son, you will show your love to me by not giving way
to sorrow. Remember, I bid you, when you leave me at
' Olivet,' think not of the past, but look only to the future ;
from that moment go forward to do and to win. I have
never for a moment doubted that you would be great and
good ; and, God willing, I shall still be with you to protect
you with my prayers and love, and to rejoice over all that is
good and great in your future." It took Mirabeau but a short
while to arrange his business after his mother's death, and
leaving " Ashton " in charge of his mother's man of business,
he was soon in the city again, where he determined to make
his future home. He must defer his trip to Europe, as it
was necessary he should be at " Ashton" in the winter. But
learning that George Walton was going, he transferred his
commissions to him, promising to be with him in the spring.
That night, after the ball, Bramlette went to Fred Yan
Comer's room. Mirabeau was already there. Fred got there
before Bramlette.
" I wish Bramlette would wear better clothes," said Fred.
" Are not his clothes good enough '? "
" No ; they are bad at all points. I mean to give him a
slight hint when he comes here. He said he would come
directly ; but talk of a man with breeches a foot too short
Comment allez-vous, Monsieur Bram^eWe. Look in that box
there, and get a mild cigar, and light it, and sit down, and
improvise us some poetry."
" An ode to your cigar ; it will crown you with wreaths
of smoke," said Mirabeau.
" We will weave you a triple crown," said Fred.
"Will not someone throw m some flowers? What say
you, Fred, to that bunch of geraniums ? " said Bramlette.
" Capital," said Mirabeau. " Maybe we should then have
two poems an ode from you and a wail from Fred."
DAUGHTER AND SON. 81
" Wail, indeed ! I should not survive to write mine epitaph
I should not live to see whether I was dead or no. These
flowers ! I would not give them to crown Corinna herself
with ! I would not contribute them to the corner-stone of St.
Peter's ! Know, O miserable man, that they were given mo
by Marian Malcomb," said Fred.
" Marian Malcomb ! " involuntarily exclaimed Mirabeau.
" Ah ! whitherward listeth the breeze now ? " said Bram-
lette.
" Humph," said Fred ; " this thing is getting complicated.
I move we resolve ourselve's into a committee of the whole
on poetry, and sing by turns."
" If we proceed now," said Mirabeau, " both of you will
have the advantage of me ; for see there, Bramlette has
flowers too."
" Good ! You play critic then sing us a Dunciad," said
Fred.
" Only a small bachelor-button I have," said Bramlette.
" Who gave it to you ? "
" Mrs. Sutherland."
" Oh ! "
"Ah!"
" Why not put it on your shirt-bosom? " asked Mirabeau.
" I think he has plenty of them there now," said Fred.
" Valley of Jehoshaphat ! Bramlette, what do you want with
fifteen buttons of that size in your bosom ? Do you propose
to keep the women out, as it were ? "
" Maybe he only means to keep his own heart in," sug
gested Mirabeaii.
" It will go down through his breeches' legs," said Fred.
" Mercy ! " cried Bramlette, " or you will send my wits
after it."
" Never overtake it the legs are too short," said Fred.
4*
82 gA IEA.
fo"4
" What else did Mrs. Sutherland give you ? " asked B*ram-
lette.
" A piece of advice to let everything else go, and write
poetry," said Bramlette.
" She deserves no credit for that," said Fred, " except
for agreeing with me. I had just said it to her."
" Let me do myself the credit to agree with both of you,"
said Mirabeau.
" But what did she say to you, Fred ? I saw you talking,"
asked Bratnlette.
" She said if she was queen of some favored region as if
any region would not be a favored region that she was queen
of all the people should go elegantly dressed," said Fred,
returning to his gentle hint.
"To say nothing of political economy," said Mirabeau,
" looking at the matter from an art stand-point, I think it
would require even a longer time to train her people for this
promised land than Moses required for the training of Fred's
ancestors."
" Yes," said Fred, " even though she should occasionally
resort to a trifling miracle."
" What do you mean by a ' trifling miracle,' Fred ? " asked
Bramlette."
" Oh, no barm, no irreverence," said Fred. " A trifling
miracle is not a miracle like what my old ancestors used to
work, with the utmost comfort and despatch such as stopping
the sun, moon, and all the planets, in their circuits around the
earth ; or even the crossing of the Red Sea, which, you re
member, was miraculously allowed to be repeated by Napo
leon and his staff, some thre 1 - or four thousand years after
wards, lest in so long a time there might have grown up some
doubt about the possibility of performing such a feat," said
Fred.
DAUGHTER AND SON. 83
" That is what you do not mean by a c trifling miracle ' ;
but tell us what you do mean ? " said Mirabeau.
" Oh, Babylon ! A Scotch miracle, a Scotch miracle,"
said Fred ; " only a Scotch miracle ; such as John Knox
and the other Presbyterian preachers used to work raising
the dead, for example, which seems to have been rather com
mon among the most eminent divines. But speaking of
Presbyterian preachers, I wonder where Mr. Brooke was to
night ? "
" I reckon he was at Mrs. Harlan's ; I saw him there when
I passed," said Bramlette. And then he explained to Mira
beau that Mr. Brooke was pastor of the Presbyterian charge
of which Mr. Walton was an eminent member. Mr. Brooke
was much thought of in the city, not only as a learned and
eloquent preacher, but as an accomplished member of so
ciety.
Mrs. Sutherland was a woman deserving more than a pass
ing notice. A little more than half a score of years ago,
you might have seen her a tall, graceful, brown-eyed girl of
seventeen. Even then she had probably felt more of what
it is to be alive in the world than most women ever have
cause or power to feel at all. She was then an orphan. Her
father was one of the old-time aristocrats a rare specimen.
There was, in truth, but one Warren Mason. His great
weakness was vanity of hereditary rank. He was proud,
exclusive, narrow-minded, imperious, reckless. Undoubted
ly of great personal honor, still his weakness was stronger
than his honor. He would close his doors to intellect, tal
ent, genius,' unless accompanied, as is seldom the case, by
certain stars, quarterings, azures, gules, and other trumperies
of heraldry. He plunged recklessly into debt, without the
least thought of how he was to get out. Mrs. Mason was a
noble, true woman; but she had been taught in the old
84: A IEA.
school not actively to keep trouble off, but to help her hus
band to endure it when it came. As was sure to be the
case, the time came when the magnificent estate of Warren
Mason was sold under the sheriff's hammer. Then came
family troubles, tragedy, a part of that world of tragedy
which is enacting daily around us, but concealed from the
world, through all of which the noble devotion of the wife
and mother shone with a celestial power and pathos. Mr.
Mason soon died. His wife followed him. It is not to be
supposed that one of so deep and sympathetic a nature as the
daughter, Margaret, passed through all this without being
deeply impressed. This experience of her early life gave
coloring to her future. It was necessary that this woman
should live; and that she should be what she was, this, and
no other, training was necessary. Thus it is that the univer
sal law is ever compensatory ; also looking ever to Human
ity, and never to the individual; caring ^not whether the in
dividual be great or small, happy or miserable, but ever
glorifying Humanity, and looking onward to the time when
the happiness of the whole shall secure the happiness of every
one. Let no one say I am making too much of the early
life of this woman. Consider the future ; and let no one
say this shall lead to great things, that to small, and this
other to none at all. For verily, with our poor understanding
of it, this is a wonderful world we have all somehow been got
into ; and I for one, on this rainy morning in July, an east
wind blowing the while, am right truly glad that among the
more than billion of human players now playing each his al
lotted part in this wonderful play, coming in and going out,
waking and sleeping, eating, drinking, hungering and thirst
ing, resting and toiling, loving and hating, worshipping and
cursinr, even I am one, and have that within me which shall
carry me on and on, it may be through future ]^.ves, in future
DAUGHTER AND SON. 85
worlds and systems. My dear reader, maybe you have a
shilling in your pocket, and intend to go into the next show-
that comes along to see what you can see. Maybe you have
enough to take you to New York, and mean to see Barnum's
Museum. Or, maybe you have thought of going to the Old
World to see the wonders there museums, Louvres, zoologi
cal gardens, ruins of ancient barbarisms, what not. Or,
perhaps, though I hope for the best, you have not any shil
ling at all in your pocket, nor even a solitary nickel, to take
you into the side-show to see the big snake and the monkeys.
Nay, it may even come to this, though I see not any hope of
this book ever coming into the hands of one so poorly off, that
you never heard of a show in all your life, nor ever saw any
thing that you thought more wonderful than a betsy-bug or
a snapjack. But to all, and every one, shilling or no shil
ling, nickel or no nickel, whether you have seen all the won
ders of the East or only a poor snapjack, I say, there is a great
show for you in the future ; truly a most wonderful show ;
it will not cost you as much to see it when you have got
there as you have to pay to see a poor old monkey, so old
that he has worn himself bald-headed behind. Bless you, no !
Kings, princes, aristocracies, parliaments, congresses, all com
bined, shall not be able to prevent you. As sure as you
have lived, no matter how, so sure shall you see this wonder
ful show of the future. "Verily, yes ! you shall see it with
eyes. Tune up your viol, reader ; or, if you have none, then
bones must even answer in its place, and dance for joy that
you, too, are alive in the world !
But to return to Mrs. Sutherland. And right here I may
say that there was not a woman in any area of country you
might mention that one would like better to return to and
remain with. Margaret Mason, as we have seen, was left an
orphan, and what property had been saved to her from the
86 9 A IRA -
wreck of her father's estate, her guardian, according to the
custom, proceeded to convert to his own proper use, benefit,
and behoof. She soon married Dr. Sutherland, at the time
of which we write a most genial man, an eminent physician-
and professor, and devoted to his wife. She now had several
children, of whom, however, it is not my intention to write,
save to wish them all manner of happiness, especially one of
them, a brown-eyed girl, much like her mother, whom some
of our people none more than the author will, doubtless,
be glad to meet again before the close of this history. Mrs.
Sutherland was now devoting herself mainly to music.
In the course of these few pages I have several times men
tioned a pair of brown eyes ; too often, maybe the reader
thinks. Better to be thankful that it is no worse than what
it is ; for if I had mentioned them as often as I have thought
of them, there would be nothing else on the last ,ten pages.
Maybe you have no belief in glorious brown eyes? You
never saw a pair in your life outside of novels. You have
no faith in their existence. Go straight to Mrs. Sutherland,
but expect not to come away whole. Allans !
DAUGHTER AND SON. 87
CHAPTEE VII.
" He is the half part of a blessed man,
Left to be finished by such a she :
And she a fair divided excellence,
Whose fulness of perfection lies in him."
S. John.
" How goes the world, and all the courts thereof, with
thee, Clarence Hall, this night of our Lord ? I hope the said
world hath this day well and truly paid, or caused to be
paid, at least one hundred dollars of what it justly owes
you," said Fred, taking a seat by a bright coal-fire in Cla
rence Hall's office, having already taken a cigar out of the box
on the mantle, and lit it.
" As to what the world has paid me, I can speak very
positively about that not a shilling. As to what the world
owes me, I am getting doubtful on that point."
" Uneasy on that point are you ? as the fly said when he
lit on the point of a needle. Better get off of it, then."
" I was just thinking, as you came in, of what the old ' doc
tor ' used to say to us sometimes ; you have heard him say it :
'You will be valued, my boys, just like a horse, for the work
that can be got out of you.' "
"How else should he be valued ? For what he is indeed?
There might be much difference of opinion as to what he is
endless disputes. But disputes : that word in the ears of
your profession is like all the words of Beatrice tuneful,
sweet."
" Are you ever serious upon any subject ? "
" Not if I can help it. But I am serious sometimes, be-
88 <;A IRA.
cause of circumstances over which I have no control. For
example, I am particularly serious to-night about two things
at the very least."
" Proceed."
" Well, I must get something to do by the end of this
week, or I shall have to call upon you, for the sake of that
which suffereth long and is kind, which believeth all things,
endureth all things, and is not puffed up, to get me out of a
debtor's prison."
" They might send you to the chain-gang for cheating and
swindling, or obtaining goods on false pretences ; but we have
no imprisonment for debt in this State."
" What's done with it ? "
Abolished."
"When?"
" By the new constitution. "
" Do you mean to say that the Rads did it."
"Yes ; that is one good thing they did."
"Umph! I suppose it was a matter of self-defence; abol
ished it to keep themselves oiit."
" What else are you serious about ? "
" Yes, yes, I have seen a woman, and what must be her
daughter. But the beauty of that girl ! It is like the beauty
of a flower in the garden of Kaipha ! The wind of the si
moom sweeps off all other perfumes from the clothing of the
traveller, but it can never sweep off from the heart the odor
of this flower. If the pavement was a bed of flowers, her
fairy feet would not bruise the tiniest violet. Her form is
like a branch of the oriental willow. Her cheek is rich and
full as the dark muscadine. Hej bosom is like the snow-
flake that rests upon the highest mountain, above the atmos
phere of earth, before it is caressed by the zephyr or blushes
at the kiss of the morning sun.
DAUGHTER AND SON. 89
" And her waist is as slender as the letter Alif, her breath
sweeter than the breeze that blows over the Spice Islands ;
and her voice resembles the voice of the harp of David. Ex
tolled be the perfection of Him who created and finished such
beaiity and loveliness !
" Henceforth I am out of danger of atheism. I shall be
lieve in design, and an omnipotent designer evermore. I
can account for watches on a desert island; I can account
for the cedars of Lebanon, the bay of Naples, the Alps, the
valley of Yosemite, the volcanoes in the moon, the spots upon
the sun, the sun itself, and all the stars, without an omnipo
tent Creator. But here is perfect perfection ; nothing but
omnipotent perfection could have designed and finished it.
" If a mere mortal may look upon such beauty and live,
where shall be our Nebo ? "
" Nebo ! No Jordan's waves shall fright me from the shore.
I have come to ask you. You know her mother. She lives
in the little brick house, with the vine-covered veranda, just
around the corner and up the street a little way."
" I know of no Juvenile soon ; so you must wait till Sun
day, and see her at church."
" Church church. I will go. I have not been in two
years, but I will go Sunday. Just the sacrifice I would like
to make for her."
" We must go early to Sunday-school."
" To Sunday-school ! Yes ; I will learn all the catechisms
by heart. Under other circumstances this would be the
death of me. But I am like old Luther now ; I would go
if I knew every tile upon the top of that church was a devil.
Good-night ! "
Clarence Hall was a lawyer had studied at the University
had ideas, you know wanted to raise the profession, as
'Mr. Brooke' would say. He felt that the profession in
90 9 A IRA -
Georgia was sadly in need of elevation. And he thought,
who should elevate it but the better class of young men who
were just then entering it ? men who, having graduated at
the University, and taken their degree at the University Law
School, could not fail to bring into the profession that dignity,
scholarship, and legal learning of which it stood in imminent
need. Clarence Hall occupied the highest round among this
class of young men in his profession. If Clarence Hall's
idea of " elevating " the profession, of (l reforming " it in some
sense, was rather vague, he was clear enough as to what he
should do for himself in the profession. He was determined
to become a great lawyer. Moreover, he would not be so long
reaching the upper story as most who get there. He would
not depend solely upon plodding and rising gradually ; but,
as he would doubtless have some time to spare, say for three
or four years, he would write a law-book which should go far
at a bound to make his reputation. The result of this would
be that he would find himself elevated to such height as to be
able to step right off upon the balcony of the upper story of
the temple, thus finding his way into said upper story by a
new route. This, then, could not fail to attract attention ;
and a large practice follow as a matter of course. And
then and then why, yes. And then O stars, shine out
your brightest ! Sing sweet, ye nightingales ! And then he
would marry Annie Dearing. Then he would grow
great.
Clarence Hall believed in a " female soul," and he be
lieved, too, that the female soul was the " complement " of
the male soul. No wonder, then, he should begin to grow
great in earnest as soon as he wa"s married. One would think
he might widen out ; might spread ; might grow deeper ;
might also be purified and elevated by woman's love and
trust. Verily, there was no end to what he might do ; for he
DAUGHTER AND SON". 91
should then and there become a complete. man a man at all
points ! Of course Clarence Hall did not express the idea in
such style as this; but the co^-e of the thing was all- the
same. Clarence Hall was a man of far better intellect, far
more learning and culture, more generoxis ambition, in a
word, was a far better man at all points than many who
have looked forward, not altogether without reason, to a
seat on the Supreme Bench of the United States. And
although he was not getting on as briskly as he had hoped
for he had hoped that by this time his practice would at least
amount to two thousand a year, while in fact it had not yet
gone beyond four hundred he had still not lost a particle
of his hope and energy. Still he was not getting on as well
as he thought he ought. His book, which he thought ought
to have been finished by this time, was not more than half
completed. And he had begun to see that it is a difficult
matter to write a book, even a law-book, which one would
think any clod-head might write. But if Clarence Hall had
only looked around him, he might have seen that he was
doing well, all things considered. To say nothing of the
score of young attorneys around him, who by regular at
tendance upon all justice-courts, and by dint of "copying,"
barely managed to get some five dollars per week to pay their
board-bills, but whom he, not without reason, considered
below his own standard, there was Van Comer and Bram-
lette, neither of whom was supposed to be doing as well as
himself. Fred Van Comer we have seen something of; he
was determined after a while to try the uncertain field of
literature, but was now employed as reporter for one of the
.city papers. Of Bramlette we have also seen somewhat
his short trousers mainly ; but now it is necessary to look
beyond the man's trousers not that we are to look espe
cially, or even at all, to that eighteen inches of leg and foot
(?A IRA.
which protruded from the bottom of his trousers' legs, nor
that we are to strip him, inversely as a prize-fighter, in order
to look beyond the trousers. ^What we are now to look to is
the man's inner self, his heart not his mere flesh-and-blood
heart, for that we should never get to throiigh the dozen
rice-buttons on his shirt-front, six times as many as there
oiight to have been if he had been a girl, and no better look
ing than he was.
Bramlette was a poet. Do poets wear trousers a foot too
short? Poets wear what they can get. Besides, nobody
that knew this man would have been at all surprised to see
him attired in a solitary toga. He was not like the conven
tional poet long, thin, silky hair, smooth face, delicate fea
tures, slight figure, and tuneful voice. His voice was deep
and harsh, his frame angular, his face rotigh and uneven.
And what a jaw he did have ! Beyond all doubt it was as
large and strong as that sacred bone which, in the hand of
Samson, a judge in Israel and a mighty man of valor ac
cording to the decision of the priests at Nice is reported to
have been the death of vast quantities of Philistines. But
as to how a man, as big as Samson must have been, could find
enough water to drink, and that too when he was very thirsty,
in the bone aforesaid, I leave that to the theologians Rev.
John E. Squalls included feeling satisfied that they will
" reconcile " it with every word in the English language
ending in ology, including typology. But here is some of
Bramlette's poetry :
OVER THE WALL.
Lo ! upon a garden fencing 1
Hung a vine, with pendent bough,
Wooiug, then, the sunlight glancing
From its purple leaflets' glow.
DAUGHTER AND SON. 93
And the winds one day came o'er it,
Sweeping down through brake and vale
Lifted up the vine, and bore it
Out beyond the garden's pale.
Hidden then, the truant cluster,
From the gardener's watchful thrall,
Bloomed in all the rich sun-lustre,
Just beyond the garden wall.
And the gardener ne'er had known it,
But that he, one summer day,
Crossing where the breeze had blown it,
Came to where its branches lay.
And he found it here all laden
With a rich and luscious crown,
Precious fruitage only hidden
Till the harvest breeze had blown.
Mourner ! o'er life's garden railing
God hath borne your dearest love ;
Lifted it to bloom unfading,
'Neath the amber skies above.
You shall find it there before you,
When you leave your earthly thrall,
Ripened into perfect glory, ,
Just beyond the garden wall.
Prove all things. I very much doubt if the reader, in
spite of the most positive assertions, nay, in spite of affida
vits, could have been made to believe, without these verses,
that Bramlette was any poet at all. While in the Univer
sity, Brarnlette had made a prodigious reputation. Would
anybody believe it, statesmen and scholars actually con
tended as to who should be the fortunate individual that
should STipply him with means ! for he was very poor.
And when he set out in the world he found, to his amaze
ment, that he was already well known far and wide, and that
great things were expected of him. Poor Bramlette ! Ten
to one this will be the ruin of him. What right had his
94 A IRA.
friends to believe that he could escape the ten thousand
cares and mishaps that contend with, and, ten to one, over
come the stoutest hearts and clearest heads ? That this
man, in a fortnight's time, should rise to such height of suc
cessful eminence as that they all might join in chorus,
Behold what genius can do ! each one the while thinking
how much credit himself deserved for his part in the trans
action ? Here is what a better than common judge of cha
racter might have written of Bramlette about the time he
left the University : Nervous, wayward genius, vertiginous
from very weight of brow ! Uncertain only of thyself,
while true to principles, to foemen, and to friends, what
shall we say of thee? For thy orbit gyrates in cycloidal
curves beyond the ken of soothsayers' view, or telescope of
astrologers; nor will calculus, sines, cosines, tangents, nor
radii weave out thy thread of destiny. Where look for
the threatened force, the positive or negative attractions
foreboding evil to those gyrating sweeps in thine now un
certain orbit ? But lo ! the inspiration comes hark the
whiffling wings swoop lower, ye whispering mystic nymphs,
and tell us ! Aha ! look yonder ! yonder ! yonder ! See ?
Ay ! There ; we see in each cycloidal centre a polished
shaft of Parian rock the caps, the pedestals of the match
less forms of winged cherubs, each armed with quivers full,
and bows sprung to the ear. Each shoots as the body sweeps
along, and shot after shot tells upon the riven heart : bleed
ing, quivering, dying. Ah ! yet still the impulsive force
of beauty lures along the cj'cloidal curve and on, and on,
and onward sweeps. It is gone ! Alas ! This is p.ll we see !
The questions, At which shaft will you fall ? and when
fallen will you stick ? Yet, whfcii the threatening force is
repelled or absorbed, and the broad and sturdy- pinions
sweep into their annual course, its flight will be ipward,
DAUGHTER AND SON. 95
soaring steadily amidst the galaxies of orators and poets,
theologians or statesmen carving a name on the highest
and most spotless shield of all. Vincit qui se v(ncit !
The same might also, at one time, have been written of
Schiller, who abandoned law and became the Teneriffe of
German poets Goethe always being the Orizaba among
them. Also, it might at one time have been written of poor
Burns, \vho was at length " patronized " by the great, gauged
whiskey-barrels, and ended one of the mournfiilest tragedies
Humanity has ever been called upon to weep or witness ; of
Dickens, too, and god-like Rousseau. Shall I add, that if you
will take your position in front of the post-office you will
probably see a score of men of whom also these words might
once have been written ? Forty years old, and unknown to
their next-door neighbors unless they happen to have vicious
wives or sickly children !
The next Sunday came, and Fred, duly armed with cate
chisms^ went with Clarence Hall to church. They got a seat
where Fred could have a full view of Olive Sutherland she
of the voice of the harp of David, and form of the oriental
willow. Fred wanted to talk, but Hall would not " talk in
church."
Who is that sitting by her, Hall ? "
" That is Emma Harlan ; very pretty ; but I will tell yoii
more of her after church ! "
Emma Harlan was much like Olive Sutherland ; perhaps
slightly more infantine in appearance. But her cheek was
browner, and resembled a luscious ripe peach the sunny side
of it. The class to which the two girls belonged was a favor
ite of the pastor's for Mr. Brooke was a gentleman of taste,
with an ardent admiration for the beautiful and he often
conducted it himself, as he did to-day. Rev. Melancthon
Brooke was universally honored, not less for high Christian
9G A IRA.
piety than for social virtues. He was a man of fine culture,
and, for a Presbyterian preacher, had liberal opinions. He
had the rare good fortune the result of talent, culture, good
manners, and genial disposition to be liberal and good-hu
mored without subjecting himself to the imputation of " world-
liness." Mr. Brooke was not considered a whit less strict in
all essentials than the most fervent follower of John Knox.
If any member of Mr. Brooke's flock had set out to find a
man who, if necessary, would even die at the stake for his
religion a most difficult undertaking then, as now Mr.
Brooke would have been the man selected for such martyr
dom.
Alf Walton a dark-visaged man, probably the most dis
tinguished-looking man in the house except possibly the
preacher himself sat just in front of Mr. Brooke, and scarcely
took his eye off him while he was hearing the class. Alf
Walton had been here for several Sundays past, and Mr.
Brooke had observed more than once his eye fixed keenly upon
himself. And Mr. Brooke, though a man of easy grace, and
utmost self-control, grew a little nervous under the scowling
gaze. Alf Walton thought that Mr. Brooke was his rival.
Not only so, but in his own mind he accused Mr. Brooke of
having no purer motive in seeking to gain the favor of Emma
Harlan than himself. Forgetting all about, or paying no
attention to, Mr. Brooke's high character as a clergyman and
Christian gentleman, he placed him on a level with, and as no
better than, himself an epicurean debauchee and saw that
here was a rare case for scandal. It was not a difficult matter,
he thought, to find a clergyman engaged in the devilish work
of seeking the ruin of the innocent lambs of his flock. Pray
do not put down Mr. Brooke -a very bad man, full of the
blackest plots, murders, arsons, thefts, seductions, and all the
catalogue of crimes, because Alf Walton thought so. Mr.
DAUGHTER AND SON. 97
Brooke was a man of splendid physique, of high and noble
forehead, intellectual brow, and full, open, gray eye, beaming
with culture, good-humor, and benevolence. Alf Walton
thought he had one advantage over Mr. Brooke, even if he
had not the livery of heaven in which to Serve the devil.
Mr. Brooke was a married man. He well knew that vice, to
approach innocence with any hope of finding favor, must be
carefully hid beneath the spotless robes of virtue, or ob
scured by the very glow of love. Moreover, he had one other
great advantage, or what might be so, gold yellow, glitter
ing, precious gold ; " the yellow slave that can knit and break
religions ; " gold " the ever young, fresh, lov'd, and delicate
wooer, whose blush doth thaw the consecrated snow that lies on
Dian's lap ! " But it was for the former rather than the latter
purpose that Alf Walton hoped he might use this yellow
slave, that will " lug your priests from your side." How shall
this simple girl escape this accomplished villain ? And if
Alf Walton's conjecture was true, would there be any hope
for her at all ? Would not her greatest security against the
one be her greatest danger from the other ? There was one
hope she might marry ; but this was away out in the laven
der ; because she was very young, very poor, and yet of an
intelligence and culture that raised her up into the circle
where men make money a consideration.
Mrs. Harlan, Emma's mother, was a widow, and an inva
lid. She lived in a neat little cottage on Ivy street. She
had been left a widow about the beginning of the great war
between the States in which we all lost our negroes and
trinkets with five children, Emma and four brothers. One
by one the four manly boys had all fallen upon the battle-
scarred hills of Virginia. She was left destitute, and came to
this city with her little girl. She received assistance from
the Freemasons. At first she was able to do needlework,
98 A IRA.
but soon her health gave way, and she was a confirmed inva
lid. She was a good woman, and bore her hard lot with such
unmurmuring resignation as touched the hearts of all who
had any to be touched. She was not sick enough to be in
bed ; and Emma, according to her earnest wish, was kept in
school by her friends. It was not far to school, and so
Emma came home every day ; and afternoons, when returned
from school, she sang to her mother, and frequently brought
her pretty bouquets and flowers ; for Emma was a favorite of
the girls, and they knew of her sick mother at home, and
how glad she was for Emma to bring her flowers. They
lived alone ; but there never passed a day but some one
called. Besides, Mrs. Harlan could always find company in
the little library of books she had collected. Mr. Brooke
was her pastor, and always came twice or three times a
week. Dr. Sutherland came every few days, ,and some
times ' his noble wife, who, I doubt not, if by her viva
city and sympathy she helped to lighten the weight of sor
row that pressed heavily upon this poor widow, felt better
than when she received the highest praises of her admirers.
If there was a children's party at Mrs. Sutherland's, she
was sure to have Emma there ; and as far as was in her
power, which we have seen was considerable, she saw to
it that in society Emma was treated with the considera
tion due to herself, without regard to the accident of her
surroundings.
But the friend whom Mrs. Harlan always welcomed most
gladly was the Christian soldier and minister, General
Clement. Alas, alas ! that language, even the best, is so
trite, land the noblest epithets so often applied to the com
monest men, there are none left worthy to apply to this one.
There was a tie between them which the reader will under
stand. All four of Mrs. Harlan's sons had gone out to the
DAUGHTER AND SON. 99
war in General Clement's old company. Ever in front of
the battle, he had seen them all die faithfully at their
posts. Every one of them he himself had promoted for
gallantry upon the field. The last that died was on the
final, fatal day at Petersburg, and the brave General felt
his heart wrung as it had seldom been before. This was the
youngest. The General came up with him while his life
was leaping away. Is it strange, O reader, that in this
last supreme moment he thought of his home instead
of glory and successful war ? He had scarcely breath to
speak.
" Dear General, you know I am the last of us you will
see my poor mother, and little sister say a word of comfort
to them. I had hoped to live ; but " The young soldier
had passed over the river to join his great Capt'ain. The
noble General Clement never forgot the words of the dying
soldier. And not many days now passed that he did not call
in to " say a word of comfort to the mother and sister."
In the afternoon of the Sunday we have been speaking of,
Mr. Brooke called at the cottage on Ivy street. Bramlette
was there. In the course of conversation Mr. Brooke found
that his new acquaintance had a head on his shoulders much
better filled than his breeches' legs were ; and that he was also
a iniin of much better taste than one would think from a
superficial view of his shirt-bosom. As to how Bramlette
came there, why, he just happened to stop there a few minutes
one afternoon with General Clement, and Emma came in
while he was there. This explains why he had been there
several times since. The next day an elegant phseton stopped
before the little cottage on Ivy street, from which a distin
guished-looking gentleman emerged and entered the house.
He introduced himself, and begged to leave a large, richly
bound Bible, on the fly-leaf of which were these words : " To
100 gA IRA.
the best student of the Bible-class, from one who has watched
her course with interest," And on a slip of paper between
the pages, " For Miss Emma Harlan." With the utmost
grace the gentleman begged Mrs. Harlan would not mention
his name.
DAUGHTER AND SON. 101
CHAPTER VIII.
"There was a time when I could not have slept, had I forgotten my evening prayers.
.... There was a time when my tears flowed so freely oh, those days of peace 1
Dear home of my fathers ye verdant, halcyon vales ! O, all ye Elysian scenes of my
childhood ! will you never return ? Will your delicious breezes never cool my burn
ing bosom ? Mourn with me, Nature, mourn ! They will never retuni 1 never will
their delicious breezes cool my burning bosom ! They are gone ! gone ! irrevocably
gone 1 " SCHILLER, T/ie Robbers.
JAMES ARNOT lived in the wildest and most solitary region
of the Blue Ridge mountains. The square, old-fashioned,
wooden house was built upon the summit of what had been a
towering conical peak ; but the top of the cone was cut off,
as if by the levelling sword of some plebeian god, for its
haughty insolence, and had rolled down the side of the
mountain, and dashing itself across the small stream which
flowed between the adjacent hills, formed a small but beaxiti-
ful mountain-lake. From the truncated summit there had
sprung, as if before held down, by the superincumbent pres
sure, a great forest of pine and chestnut. There was now no
road leading to the summit of the hill. The hoxise had been
built many years before by a family in the South, intending
to spend part of the summer in these wilds. But it was
scarcely finished when one of those " accidents " came along
which stand for nothing in our calculations, but for much in
the book of fate. So the house had never before been inhab
ited by human beings. There had been a road leading up to
the house. Beginning at the base, it wound spirally around
the mountain, and came to the summit on the side from
which it started. You might see traces of it now ; and ou
the esplanade, which was perfectly level, containing some
102 9 A IEA -
five or six acres, without shmb or flower except native ones,
and without a sign of fence or garden, might still be seen
remains of a circular drive.
There was not another house in ten miles of this place.
Not an echo of civilization was heard here. But you might
hear the dismal howl of the wolf upon the neighboring hills ;
and on a still night you might catch a few notes of the wild
chorus from Indian Swamp, where the treble of the eagle and
the nighthawk mingled with the wailing of the panther, and
the low bass of the deep-hooting owl. This fearful swamp
was some miles distant, and was so called from a wild Indian
legend connected with it. Arnot lived here without any ser
vant, and with no companion but the old man we have seen
with him. The walls of the rooms were curiously painted ;
the rough pictures corresponding with the wildness of the
surroundings. There were some pictures of the mpst splen
did natural scenery. Hei-e was a chaos of mountain-scene ; as
of mountains of all sizes, and all shapes, from the polished
cone to the most jagged bear, hurled pellmell at each other
by contending giants, and left just as they had fallen or rolled
against each other, crushing and tearing themselves into the
most grotesque shapes. Here were also mountain-lakes, and
waterfalls, and streams with banks covered with water-oaks
and stunted cottonwood, matted with vines of grape and
muscadine. On the walls of one room were pictures of rare
birds of the American forests, and wild animals ; while on the
walls of another were representations of various Indian rites
and ceremonies the green-corn dance, war-dance, council of
peace, courts of justice, games, and marriage ceremonies.
Arnot's sleeping-room was on the second floor; and here
were representations of several Indian legends. On one side,
at the head of his bed, the well-known legend of " The
Evening Star," than which not the mystic fancy of the
DAUGHTER AND SON. 103
North, nor the gorgeous imagery of the Southern Orient, has
furnished any legend more beautiful. The scene upon Yonah
was given just at the moment when, the death-dance ended
and the daring young lover hurled over the precipice, Na,-
coochee breaks from the arms of her old father and leaps
from the height. Sublime love ! Heroic death ! This is
the grandeur of humanity. And it may glow in the breasts
of Indians. Verily, there is a common brotherhood of spiri
tual, as well as animal, humanity !
On the wall opposite was a representation of the legend of
Indian Swamp. Scene, a wild wilderness : a beautiful young
white man, apparently a Spaniard, stands upon a round pole,
which is supported at one end by the fork of a tree, and at
the other by a stake about which a fire has been kindled.
The young man stands erect, and part of his rich, black hair,
which seems to have been tucked under, has come down, and
falls over his shoulder almost to his waist. He has a cord
about his neck, which is fastened to a limb overhead ; and a
circle of Indians, who seem to have been dancing around
him, are just in the act of running away. A great hawk
rests upon a broken branch of a dead tree ; and an eagle is
poised for flight from, his perch upon the top. The head of
a wolf was seen through a neighboring thicket.
It was one night soon after his return from Georgia ; and
James Arnot was alone in his room. Without, the night
was dark ; and the fitful wailing of the wind about the eaves
and corners of the house, and through the low branches of
the great chestnuts, mingled strangely with the monotonous,
solemn, dirge-like notes of the lofty pines. Above all was
heard the impatient roar of winds lost among the chaos of
hills and valleys around. Arnot sat in a large arm-chair
before the fire. The logs had burned down to a great bed
of coals, which sent forth that fierce, red glare that reminds
104 gA TEA.
one of a dying Indian. "Why ft it that people in trouble
will think aloud ?
" I said I would reach the bottom I have done it. But
I wish there was more to do or else yes or else I had
not begun. Suppose but why suppose ? Can the num
bered years be called back ? Can mortals pluck leaves from
the book of Fate ? or can I unwrite even one little chapter ?
And yet, I will suppose speculate upon what good was
present to Jehovah's eye, and dismissed for the present ill.
See yes that night and the consequent years. Could not
disgrace and scorn of fortune be endured for one little life ?
I would accept it now, though it should last a thousand
years. Failures, poverty, death of relatives, desertion of
friends, buffetings of fortune all that many fret and mag
nify their poor lives with ye are less than trifles, scarce
worth a thought in the endurance. Misfortune is but coun
terfeit, and puts on the royal robes of suffering. ' But shall
a few years stand against eternity ? Only three years or
has the past been at all ? Maybe it is only in the mind
itself. We cheat ourselves with fear of this phantasm mem
ory, as by hopes of what, like fools, we call the future we
prick ourselves on. No ! memory is a lie there is no past
there is no future. And yet I fear. There. I will
write it down, that I will not fear. But there's a pen can
only write in blood ha ! and a dagger too, could tell a tale
would freeze' living coals to arctic adamant."
Then he closed his eyes, and his thoughts went far out
upon the other side of silence. So he sat for an hour.
Then he got up, went to a trunk, and brought out a small
volume. He turned to the fly-leaf " * My mother ' yes,
' from mother to ' me. . I will fancy myself a child again I
will read a chapter then I will say the old prayer we used
to .say at home and go to bed." He read the chapter, and
DAUGHTER AND SON. 105
in a few moments the silent figures iipon the walls looked
upon a scene they had never witnessed before. James
Arnot was kneeling at his bedside, and his head rested upon
the little book sanctified by a mother's prayer. He meant
to repeat the simple prayer, which, as children, they used to
repeat at home long ago. But when he came to the words,
" God bless father and mother," he thoiight of his own child,
and there went forth from, the abyss of his soul a wail that
might have made the dead pictures shudder. " Lost lost
lost." The cry came from the last depth of agony. Blasted
and riven, this human soul had clung to one hope. It felt
within itself a spark of the everlasting it could not be
destroyed it was beyond the power of fate ; somewhere in
the infinite world of spirit there was one soul with which
this could claim, and from which it could receive, sympathy ;
there was but one there never would be another ; but there
was one and that too was indestructible by God or fate :
it was James Arnot's child. Here was a human soul with-
ont hope in time, and with but one in eternity, looking for
ward to the time when it should meet its own child, and re
ceive that sympathy without which, it seems, the immortal
spirit itself would die. How true it is that things the most
palpable will frequently not occur to the mind when con
trary to its strongest hope. It was only now that it occurred
to Arnot that this meeting might never be that they might
be in worlds apart.
It is only the sense of companionship that makes life at all
endurable. Were there but one man on the earth, he would
be a terror to himself. Were there biit one spirit in heaven,
heaven itself would be a dismal solitude. And what solitude
more solitary than the solitude of the utterly unsympathizing
crowd ? What then must be the supreme agony of the soul
that suddenly feels itself utterly alone forever ! No wonder
106 gA IRA.
Arnot rose almost mad with terror and despair. He looked
down at himself as he would upon some strange animal, and
started ; he saw his shadow upon the wall, and started again.
Then he walked across the room, and sat down before the lire.
" Lost lost lost ; alone alone alone. My sweet baby,
I will never see thee more." And then, after a silence :
" But the soul it is immortal =-and they say the mind
can never lose anything. The thoughts and feelings that en
ter it are not coloring-matter to be bleached out by the dews
of time, but the very threads woof and warp the mind it
self. And death cannot destroy it cannot change it not
one memory can it touch, or one feeling. I will not forget
thee there, my pretty child my own sweet baby-girl. And
that thou art happy I will be glad, though I never see thee
more."
How is it, O reader, that a strong man should thus be
overcome thus mourn the inevitable ? James Arnot was
not a strong man. Arnot laid another log on the fire and
went to bed.
While the scene I have been describing was enacting in the
room, there was quite as strange a one going on outside. A
window on the north side of Arnot' s room opened upon the
roof of a back porch. The blinds of this window had been
securely nailed, but by accident they had been left so they
could be sprung, so that if there was a light in the room one
from without might see what was doing within, without being
himself visible. Growing here by this porch was a great
spreading chestnut, and some of the branches reached over
upon the roof, so that nothing was easier than to go from
them upon the roof, and to-_Arnot's window. It seems
strange that Arnot, so cautious, had not seen this, and ciit
the limbs off. But if Dr. Webster had only broken the leg-
bone of his victim, making it impossible to identify the
DAUGHTER AND SON. 107
height, he could not have been convicted of murder. In
nothing does fate mock endeavor more than in this, that, do
all we can, study and calculate as we will, something so plain
as to be staring us in the face will be left unobserved. So it
was with Arnot. Not for the half of his fortune would he
have left his room so that he could be watched from without.
And yet here was the tree, with branches almost like a
flight of steps, from which you might step upon the roof,
and to the window. And the blinds were left so that they
might be sprung ; and, as if to make everything perfectly
secure against himself, the blinds were shut and nailed,
so that one on the outside would not be in any danger of
discovery from having the blinds suddenly opened from
within.
The old man stood at the window, and watched the scene
I have been describing. He heard what Arnot was saying,
and followed him thus : " ' No memory ' ha ! I woulu you
had a thousand ; for that ever you did one good thing I will
not believe. ' Suppose it had not been ' why, then, I had
not been here I had been at home, my children with me
and you been hung for some lesser crime than that you'll
shortly die for. ' Three years ' ha ! I think it's three
times three three years, sayest thou ? bring it nearer make
it three months three days. ' Misfortune only counter
feit of suffering' good, my Lord. ' Who hath seen the past ? '
two of us here, iny Lord, I think have seen something
of it. ' There is no future ' ay, my Lord, there by chance
you have once hit upon the truth, for I think there is little
left for thee. There. You will sleep, will you ? I will watch
thee for this have I followed thee. I would thou hadst ten
thousand lives, that thou mightst thus be forever living and
dying. But my soul so thirsts for thee, it will not be delayed.
No ! Though a legion of hissing adders pursued thee, thou
108 A ERA.
shouldst not live another day. Now he wakes. 'Fancy
thyself a child ' will you? Why, so thou canst but not a
devil for that thou art already. ' Prayer ! ' now thai^k thee,
my Lord, for this. We'll niock thee. ' Lost lost ' nay,
thou shalt not be so lost but what the hawks and wolves
will find thee. 'Alone in eternity' oh, be not troubled,
the devil will provide thee company. ' But the soul's immor
tal ' why, so it is but the body's mortal and that thou
shalt know before another moon shall rise and set. ' What
is death ? ' Ay ay I think you can answer that better when
the moon shall hang over Indian Swamp, and thou under
it. ' My child ' what's here ? I would I had not lost that
I would I had heard it. ' My pretty child ! ' will you say
that again? No he is going to bed."
" I'll not forget thee there, my pretty child my own
sweet baby-girl." This was what Arnot said. But the latter
part of the sentence was not heard by the old man. Why ?
Only a gust of wind. Was this gust of wind, then, a special
providence ? Not at all. Or was it which some will
doubtless think more likely a special interference of the
devil? No more than the other. And yet these words
" My own sweet baby-girl " were most important to be
heard. They were the very words, of all that was said by
James Arnot that night, that ought to have been heard, one
would think, for more lives than one depended upon them ;
and but for that vicious gust of wind the next chapter, and
all the succeeding chapters of the lives of these people, had
been wholly different. Thus do we often come near to our
better destiny, and then are whirled forever away by things
as light as a gust of wind. But think not that this was
special providence or devil's trick. The wind would have
blown just the same if Arnot had said anything else, just the
same as if he had made any common observation, or the kit-
DAUGHTER AND SON. 109
ten mewed. The old man descended from the roof. Two
dusky figures from the thick shade of a great oak hard
by approached him. The three walked off together some
hundred yards, and sat down in a thick clump of under
growth.
110 A LKA.
CHAPTER IX.
" For my part, I am certain that God hath given us onr reason to discern between
truth and falsehood ; and he that makes not this use of it, but believes things he knows
not why, I say it is by chance that he believes the truth, and not by choice ; and I can
not but fear that God will not accept of this sacrifice of fools." CmmNGWOKTH.
"And thus the whole world forms a necessary chain, in which indeed each man may
play his part, but can by 110 means determine what that part shall be." BUCKLE.
" I FEAR you have been reading infidel works too much,"
said Clarence Hall to Mirabeau Holmes, taking up the remark
of the latter that he found himself involved in an " involun
tary skepticism."
" The truth is, Hall, and I cannot shut my eyes to it, that
religion with individuals is a matter of geography, and with
nations a matter of civilization."
" You must admit, though, that there is some one religion
which is true, and being true, agreeable to God."
" If there is such religion it must follow that God has so
distinguished it, by signs and tokens, from all other religions,
as to be recognized by the commonest minds."
" So He has manifested it, by miracles that can only be
attributed to the Author of Nature."
" Yes ; but these manifestations ought to be equally obvi-
otis to all mankind, and common to all times and places. As
for miracles alas, alas ! I never saw a miracle in my life ;
and I never saw anvbody that e"ver saw one."
" But others have seen them ; there are crowds of wit
nesses. These facts are as well attested as any historical
facts whatever."
DAUGHTER AND SON. Ill
" Pardon me ; I have not found them so well attested. All
religions have rested their credibility upon miracles, and their
most learned followers at least believe that they rest firmly ;
for they say there can be no doubt about the authenticity of
the miracles. But then suppose they did occur, how are
we to know whether they are from God or from the devil ?
for the Bible itself tells us that they may be performed also
by the latter. You tell me that God hath spoken. He hath
not spoken to me. You say He hath appointed others to
teach me His word. How am I to know that they are not
impostors ? You say that I am secured from that by His
manifesting the mission of His messengers by miracles and
prophecies. But those who claim to be such messengers do
not work miracles. If one of them should come and ha
rangue us in the following manner : ' I come, ye mortals, to
announce to you the will of the Most High ; acknowledge in my
voice that of Him who sent me. I command the sun to move
backwards, the stars to change their places, the mountains to
disappear, the waves to remain fixed on high, and the earth
to wear a different aspect ! ' Who would not believe this
man to be a messenger of God if he should work such mir
acles ? As for prophecies : how am I to know they were
not written after the events prophesied ? Or how am I to
know that, even if the event did happen as prophesied, there
was not an accidental concurrence ? to say nothing of the fact
that if the prophecies in the Bible have any meaning at all, it
is so vague as to escape anybody but a most profound typolo-
giaii. But all these things are related in books. Who wrote
these books ? Men. But many others, besides those we have,
claim to be genuine ; who decided which were genuine and
which not ? Men. They are written in languages that are
dead, nowhere understood. Who translated them ? Men.
Always human testimony ! It is always men that tell me
112 A IE A.
what other men told them ! What a number of these are
always between me and the Deity ! We are always reduced
to the necessity of examining, comparing, and verifying such
evidence. I tell you, Hall, I have almost said with the Savoy
ard, ' Oh, that God had deigned to have saved me all this
trouble ! Should I have served Him with a less willing heart ? '
1 scarcely know what I believe ; but I know one thing that I
do not believe. I cannot believe that the dark, vindictive,
partial, jealous, angry, bloody God of the old Hebrews is the
all-wise and all-benevolent God of the universe. I cannot
believe in Judaism ; every God-implanted principle of my
being revolts at it. I wish that Jesus had cut loose from it
entirely ; the problem would have been easier. There, I have
said more to you on this subject than I ever have said to any
body else. God knows how I long to know the truth ; and
He knows, too, that I have sought it earnestly, and shall con
tinue to. Will He condemn me if I fail to find it ? "
Hall was just going to answer this long speech, when Fred
Van Comer entered with
" I heard you say something about ' my old ancestors' as I
came up the steps. No remarks. Remember, as Disraeli says,
* Mine were princes in the temple, when yours were naked sav
ages on the British Islands.' But I am thinking now more
about posterity than ancestry. 1 think I shall marry."
" Ah ! I think you said some time ago that marriage was
the chief end of life," said Mirabeau.
" Yes ; but to change one's opinions is generally to cor
rect one's errors. After consulting my attorney I say that
marriage ought to be, according to the statute, the chief be
ginning of life. I have been thinking if ever any bachelors
became great. How is it, Hall ?""
" Well, there is your great exemplar and apostle, Buckle,
who is a bachelor."
DAUGHTER AND SON. 113
" So lie is. But one must look to tlie French Revolution
for great men. Let me see. There was Mirabeau. He had
to make temporary arrangements with Sophie De Rufley, and
others too numerous to mention. I reckon he was never out
done by anybody but Solomon. Voltaire tried bacheloring,
I believe ; but he had to take up, in a more quiet way,
though, than the man of the Tennis Court, with that old coun
tess. And look there at Jean Jacques. If he had not had
any children to send into the street maybe he would not
have written the Contrat iSociale / and one cannot see how a
man so simple as never to be able to tell the difference be
tween the price of three onions and a leg of mutton, was
ever to get any at all, without some sort of a wife to help him.
But I just came in here to tell you, Holmes, that I have made
an engagement for xis to go to Mrs. Malcomb's to-night."
" The mischief you have ! Why, I have an engagement
myself to go to General Clement's."
, " Nobody going with you ? "
" lS T o."
" You must break it. Of two evils choose the lesser. I
signed your name to the note, and mine too. If you break
the engagement you made, there will be but one word
broken ; but if you break the one both of us made, there will
be two lies told."
" What are you going to do when you get back from Eu
rope ? " said Fred, as he and Mirabeau walked home from
Mr. Malcomb's next evening.
" That depends. What do you think of journalism ? "
" That is going to be the biggest thing in this country.
The orator's occupation's gone. The newspaper press will
make pi-esidents and congresses from this on."
" But you have some experience as an editor ; why did
you come back here from Etowah ? "
114 9 A IK A.
" You see they got it out up there that I did not believe
in the Trinity, and they ruined my business. That village has
two thousand inhabitants mostly Methodist preachers. Now
it so happened that I had three partners, and all three of
them Methodist preachers. They pretended to think I was
about to be lost ; they prayed for me in public and cheated
me out of my part of the profits in private. One of them,
old Watt, would never let an advertisement of a liquor-
house go in the paper, while he was a regular red-nosed
toper. They never had any amusements up there ; they
said first-class people didn't dance. They had what they
called sanctification meetings. And because I would not go
to them they considered me as good as damned already. But
one of them bought two large lexicons from me, Greek and
Latin, worth, you know, about twelve dollars apiece. I told
him to take them on witli him to college, and some time he
might pay me what they were worth. He said they were
worth two dollars apiece down there, and cheated me out of my,
books accordingly. He was one of the sanctification leaders.
One Stinday the preacher preached a sermon at my partners
from the text, ' Be ye not unequally yoked with unbelievers,'
calling us by name all the way through. One day I loaned
one of my books it was Buckle's Essays to a young fellow
there, and it was all over town in no time that John Moon
was reading Yan Comer's infidel books. That night he was
seized upon by half a dozen the fellow that cheated me out of
my books among them and carried by prayers and a sufficient
amount of main force as Yoltaire said of the incantations,
administered with arsenic, destroying a flock of sheep to a
* sanctification ' meeting. But when T went to Washington,
and wrote back to my paper that I had called upon President
Grant, and intimated my belief that he was a gentleman, that
was the feather that broke the camel's back. They wanted to
DATTGHTEK AND SON. 115
tar and feather me for it. In short, that little ville is like the
prince of the Spanish breed, devout, orthodox, and ignorant.
" But surely, they did not carry all their sectarian zeal
into business ? "
" I reckon they did. Not that they were also ignorant in
business they were shrewd enough ; they prayed with one
eye open. I heard a lawyer say that he had to go up to be
prayed for at every ' protracted ' meeting, else his practice
would be broken down. Bless you ! they sing sol fa la and
shout up there yet ! "
" Have you ever been up there since you left ? "
" Bless my soul ! I haven't told you about it. Yes ; I just
got back from up there this morning. I went there to write
up a scandal case the local paper would not publish it be
cause a preacher was into it the worst case you ever heard
of. You will see it in the morning. I put it in great black
letters this way : ' In the lurch ' ' A preacher trapped '
' Beautiful maiden seduced by a Rev. brother-in-law ' ' A
case of eight years' standing' 'Begun when the girl was
only fourteen ' ' Moonlight rides to night-meetings ' ' The
scoundrel fled ' ' The girl arrested and bound over to
Court' 'Two of the best families plunged in grief ' &c.,
&c.' The mischief! I wish I had shown it to you before it
was put in. I have not told you half of the heading even."
" You have an awful array of it. But who on earth can
they be ? "
" The man's name is Squalls, and "
" Stop ! Squalls Squalls did you say ? "
" Yes ; Squalls John E. Squalls, I believe."
"Well, well! Who would have thought it* of that little,
tallow-faced, wheezy scamp V "
" What ! did you know him ? "
"I have seen him. His present wife was Kate Fletcher,
116 <JA IRA.
one of the prettiest girls I ever saw. I went to school with
her once. She was my sweetheart when I was a boy. I
would like to see her now. I am so sorry for her. How
does she look ? "
There is something inexpressibly tender about a school
boy's love. It is the purest, most ethereal, most utterly un
selfish feeling ever experienced by the human heart. And
when the remembrance of it comes back to us, hallowed by
time, nothing can be more beautiful or more touching.
Like the most distant star, its light will struggle, it may bo,
for scores of years through the gloomiest voids, the rays
never wandering to mar its beauty, and come straight to us,
beaming upon the heart with ineffable tenderness. It may
be, dear reader, that you have already gone far into the
winter months of life. But that matters nothing. Look
back to your school-boy days, and for a moment you may be
a boy again. Think of your school-girl sweetheart. It may
be fifty winters since you have seen her. She may be old,
and wrinkled, and gray. Suppose you met her on the street
to-morrow ? You would not see the age, nor the wrinkles,
nor the gray. For you have loved her once; and you would
see the pretty girl on the old playground. Let me tell you
I hope you know it already if your heart did not throb
with a feeling it has not known for all these years, you are
yet a stranger to the rarest flower that ever bloomed in the
garden of the heart, the sweetest notes that ever melted
from its tenderest chords. . . .
Arnot went to bed, and was soon in a troubled sleep.
And now we may look around us. The door was strongly
bolted and double-barred. Under his pillow Arnot had
placed an unsheathed dagger-and a large pistol, the mate to
which was laid on the bed within reach of his right hand.
A repeating-gun rested against the head of the bed, and oa
DAUGHTER AND SON. 117
the table were two other large army-pistols. On the mantel
was a looking-glass and a pair of vases full of wild-flowers
gathered that morning from some nooks and coves in the
hills where they had been protected from the cold winds.
There were also upon the table a small escritoire and the Bible
we have seen. A couple of chairs, an old wardrobe, a trunk,
and some pieces of carpet, completed the furniture of the room.
When Arnot waked he was shaking with cold and fright.
He sat upon the side of the bed. He looked at the pistol
which he had tightly grasped in his hand, and found that he
had broken off the trigger. It was this that had waked
him. He had dreamed a horrible, fearful dream. He tried
to recall it : a band of armed negroes seemed to enter his
room from the north window. He saw them plainly ; saw
them hoisting the window, entering, and approaching, and yet
he could not stir in his bed. It seemed that there was one
old friend among them; one that mocked and jeered him
bitterly. It was a clear, bright night. They carried him,
with a cord about his neck, to Indian Swamp. They placed
him upon a cross-piece supported by forks, and tied the cord
to a high limb overhead. There was a great crowd of them.
They had pans and bones, and they danced and sang around
him. Suddenly he seemed to think of his power of ven
triloquism. He made a noise as of some one approaching ;
repeated it louder and louder and from different quarters,
till fear seized upon the negroes, and they fled in all direc
tions. What then? His arms were bound tightly at his
back. To die to die to die alone in that dreadful
swamp ! Days and nights passed. He was perishing of
hunger. He grew fainter and fainter. His eyes grew dim.
He was blind. He felt the flapping of the wings of the night-
birds. He heard the chilling scream of the eagle overhead
the cries of the hawk and panther the growling, barking,
118 ^A IRA.
and fighting of a thousand wolves, all around and under
him ; he felt them clawing and gnawing at the stakes which
supported him. Then there came a lull dimness and
silence. He fell and the darkness rolled over him.
Arnot knew not how long he had slept. The gusty wind
had sunk into a monotonous dirge. The moon rested in the
fringe of the western mountains. The log he had lain upon
the fire when he went to bed had burnt down, and there was
no light in the room except the red glare of the dying coals.
The moon shone in through the blinds of the western win
dows ; and its shadows, mingling and contending with the
deeper ones of the coals in the hearth, formed many a weird,
fantastic figure upon the walls and floor. Arnot looked
around the room ; his eyes fell upon the picture on the oppo
site wall, and almost started from their sockets. Horror of
horrors! He seemed to see among the fantastic shadows his
own name. It was plain, perfectly plain, for an instant, and
then vanished. It was directly under the young Spaniard
with the long hair, in the picture. Then he saw his whole
dream in the picture. He was transfixed with dread. There
was the very pole he had stood upon ; it was full of small
knots that hurt his feet. The negroes had run away, just us
the Indians were in the act of doing here. The veiy eagle on
top of the dead tree seemed to scream. And there was a flap
ping of wings among the trees. He got off the bed. He was
numb and cold. He went and sat down before the fire. Why
did he not make a light ? Only because he never thought of
it. And yet it would have altered things strangely if he had.
He put his feet to the coals, and tried to think over all that
had happened that night. He went over his dream again
and again ; and now for the "first time their coming in at the
north window impressed itself upon his mind. Why at the
window ? Why at the north window ? And then, quick as
DAUGHTER AND SON. 119
thought, he was at the window examining. He seemed to
take in the whole situation at a glance. The chestnut tree ;
the limbs reaching upon the roof; the blinds sprung, so that
one from without could observe all that was going on within ;
the blinds nailed, so that there was no danger of being sud
denly opened from within. Moreover, nothing would be easier
than to come upon this roof, draw out the two poor little
nails, and rush or slip in and murder him in his bed. What
a fool he had been ! All his precautions had gone for noth
ing. He put on his clothes ; went to get one of the pistols
from the table to put in his belt, in place of the one he had
broken in his dream, and his eye fell upon the Bible he had
left there. He picked it up, muttering to himself, " The first
time. I have read a word of it in years, and see what a night
it has brought me." Then he thought to throw it in the fire.
He stopped.
" But my mother gave it me. She would not have had me
pass a night like this, for she always loved me and God
knows she may even be thinking of me to-night, somewhere.
Her name is in it I cannot burn that."
Then Arnot quickly turned to the fly-leaf; he tore it out,
folded it neatly, kissed it, and put it into his pocket-book. The
rest he threw into the fire, where it began to smoulder among
the coals and ashes. But he could not but think of the win
dow. And thinking how easy it was to draw the nails and
open it, it occurred to him to examine it again. He did ex
amine it ; and he not only found that the nails were already
loosened, but he thought he detected that they had been tam
pered with from the inside instead of the out. He thought
of the old man in his dream, and the whole truth seemed to.
ish into his mind. Quick, quick ! There was not a mo-
Bnt to be lost. They might even now be in sight. Arnot
glided quickly down-stairs. He looked cautiously around
120 gA IKA.
him, and not seeing or hearing anything, he went to the old
man's door and knocked. Getting no answer, he turned the
bolt and entered. The bed had not been slept upon. His
suspicions were now confirmed. He believed there was a
plot on foot to murder him, and that the old man was at the
head of it. And now he remembered a fierce, half hungry,
half-mocking gleam he had sometimes seen in the old man's
eye, at times when he thought himself unobserved. He be
lieved that the work was to be done this very night, for he
had never known the old man to leave his room before at
night. He looked to where his pistols were accustomed to
hang at the head of his bed, and they were not in their place.
He was quite sure that if they came at all they would come
to his window.
The moon had now gone down behind the mountains, whose
vast shadow rested upon the lower hills and valleys. Arnot
came out of the old man's room, and keeping as much as pos
sible in the deeper shade of the trees, moved off some distance
and lay flat upon the ground. He watched, and listened.
He would have gone to a clump of trees further off and di
rectly in front of his window, but his quick perception told
him that that would probably be the very covert from which
they would come. It was, in fact, just where the three men
had gone. Suddenly there was a light in Arnot's room ; and
one of the three men, coming out of the thicket to see what it
meant, was himself seen by Arnot. The light soon went out.
It was probably only a leaf from the book Arnot had thrown
into the fire. Arnot's heart thumped against his ribs as he
saw three men emerge from the thicket and Advance towards
the house. They walked slowly. They were talking low ; but
Arnot heard them. Two of them were negroes.
" They ought to have been here to-night. This delay may
ruin everything. I only loosened the window this morning
DAUGHTER AND SON. 121
while he was off down there under the hill after flowers. He
goes down there every morning when he is here. If I had
known they were not coming, I would have waited till to-mor
row. He sees everything, and may look to the window be
fore to-morrow night."
" S'pose we git him when he goes down thar ? "
" That will not do, for two reasons : in the first place, we
might miss him ; and if we did, I can tell you he would not
miss us. In the next place, we want to take him to the
Swamp." .
They now came to the great chestnut, and stopped. The
old man then pointed out to them how they were to go upon,
the roof, and in at the window. The night was still, and
Arnot could hear every word they said.
' Remember just at twelve. The moon, from that chestnut
by the thicket, will be just in the top of yonder pine. I will
be there with the shadow from that tree. Don't bring more
than six with you. Any number may meet us at the Swamp
but don't bring more than six here."
" But dat devil shore yer got der winder loosen ? "
Yes. He will not have time to turn in his bed. I have
lot followed him this long for nothing ; and many a one of
u has he sent home."
" He won't send no mo'. What we guine do wid him when
dead ? "
u Leave him to the hawks and wolves, as the fortune-teller
lid must be done."
Arnot placed himself behind the tree from them, and
jounded forward, swift as the wind, sure as the spring of the
inther, and noiseless as a tiger on carpet of felt. Quick and
clear the shots rang upon the midnight air. Two of the men
3!! upon the spot. One negro fled, crying, " Murder, mur-
ler ! " Another shot he seemed to spring into the air, and
fi
122 <?A IEA.
fell heavily upon his face and James Arnot knew well its
meaning. He went to see, and he was not mistaken. When
he returned, the old man was sitting bolt upright against the
tree. Arnot approached him. He was stone dead. As to
what led the old man to this fifth act in his life-tragedy,
Arnot could not conjecture. The truth never occurred to
him that it was all a mistake. So it is, in deepest tragedy,
and in lightest comedy ; the parts we play ai- our own by ne
cessity.
DAUGHTER AND SON. 123
CHAPTER X.
" Seek a good wife of thy God, for she is the best gift of his providence."
"Oh, two such silver currents, when they join,
Do glorify the banks that bound them in."
K. John.
I AM going to relate, perhaps, the most important event
since Adam. If men were prophets, such as many of the
old Hebrews are reported to have been, or if they could
take any ordinary act whatever and trace it out to its remo
test consequences, would it afford them more matter for
thought and wonderment than they now find in tracing back
wards? or even than the taking of any small historical fact
and tracing it to its known consequences ? Take the mar
riage of two German peasants, Luther's parents. Could
anything be more in the ordinary way ? And yet see the
consequences ! Not, to be sure, but what the Reformation
would have been, even if Luther had never been born ; for it
would. But not like it was. It is quite certain that if
Martin Liither's parents had never been married ; or, con
sidering the laxity of the times, if they had never seen each
other ; or, to make the matter perfectly safe, remembering
that some people prefer darkness to light, because, etc., if
they had never come within ten statute miles of each other,
Martin Luther never would have been the head of the
Reformation. Consider for a moment it is worth your
while the extraordinary state of the case. The father
would probably have married some other woman ; the
mother some other man. Or, failing in this, they would
124 gA IRA.
naturally have adopted a policy as nearly like it as the
circumstances would admit. In either case it is easy to
perceive that it would have been with the child, Martin, at a
somewhat earlier period though, pretty much as King Solo
mon proposed to do with that one for which the women
contended. But in such case, as to which half, upper or
lower, would have gone this way, and which that, I leave to
be speculated upon by the curious reader; being myself only
certain of this, that if the common people of Germany of
that day were no better off than the people of this Republic
at this six millions of whom can neither read nor write,
and twice that number having no more notion of the multi
plication table than an infant clam has of the binomial theo
rem there was not much choice either way, head or heels.
The capital of Georgia, at that notable period of its his
tory of which I am now writing, had twenty thousand
inhabitants, counting the women, and one hundred anil
twenty lawyers; that is, six lawyers to every thousand
people. Now, take out the women, and you have six law
yers to every five hundred people. Take out the four chil
dren which statisticians allow to each family, and you have
six lawyers to every one hundred people ; that is, three law
yers to every fifty people ; that is, one lawyer to every
sixteen and two-thirds people but as this fraction of a man
was likely to be hung where there were so many lawyers, he
may be left out of the calculation altogether. One hundred
and twenty thousand dollars, divided variously, from boring
expenses, up to ten thousand dollars, among the one hun
dred and twenty lawyers, was what it annually cost this
devoted little city to get its~-disputes settled, hang two-thirds
of a man, and set free several whole ones who deserved
hanging. Annually, then, it was necessary for this demo
cratic, whirligig little city to put its hand into its small
DAUGHTER AND SON. 125
breeches' pocket but here I beg pardon ; it becomes neces
sary to explain. They never did do things here as they did
anywhere else. The rule is for cities to grow too big for
their leg-apparel ; but here it was just the other way. It
happened in this wise. The Council, having their own
patriotic ends in view but as to what their patriotic ends
were, neither grammarians nor rhetoricians have provided
any decent way of expressing; but it can be abundantly
proven that the Council had no more patriotism in their
heads than a Pennsylvania Legislature the Council, having
their own patriotic ends in view, took a pair of large, second
hand pants, cut the legs off to make them short enough, put
the pieces where they would do the most good after the
manner of economical housewives and thrust into them the
tiny legs of this infant committed to their charge. But the
Fathers believed in the eternal fitness of things. And so they
immediately formed several small credit mobiliers for stuffing
these empty legs with bran ; for the trousers hung shabbily
about the infant's legs, presenting a disgraceful appearance.
The legs were duly stuffed with bran; that is, the Fathers
pretended to each other that it was bran, but in fact it was
nothing but shavings and sawdust. J>ut as for the part
above the confluence of the legs, that fell to Mr. Keener, a
drygoods merchant. Now this Keener had a certain piece
of damaged checks ; so instead of stuffing the part in ques
tion, he simply made a blouse that should reach below it ;
and for raw and gusty days the pieces cut off the legs had
already been put where they did the most good. And so it
happened that this city was duly dressed out in a traly pictu
resque, independent, democratic fashion. And so it hap
pened that this capital had to put its hand, not into its
small, but into its large, and, as it were, empty pocket, and
take out one hundred and twenty thousand dollars for its
13fl
lawyers, out of which sum Clarence Hall received about
five hundred. This was not enough for Clarence Hall to
marry on. But it has been observed that where there's a
will there's a way. It was so here, at any rate. And it all
happened in manner and form following :
Among all the scores of washerwomen about town, who
should Clarence Hall have but Betsy Wiley ? Betsy Wiley
looked up to Clarence Hall as the very highest development of
the man and lawyer, for Hall had learned this lesson, that if
you wish to be popular with your inferiors you must make them
believe that you consider them of some importance. Betsy's
husband was a well-to-do mechanic, and lived down in Oak
street. It so happened, one Monday morning, that Betsy was
unwell, though such a thing had not happened, so far as any
body outside the family knew, since the birth of her last baby;
and her lord and master thought himself not too good a
thing which cannot be said of many of his betters to do for
one morning what his wife had done for scores. So, taking
her large basket, he went forth. to gather together the soiled
garments of the young gentlemen who weekly trusted their
fortunes to Betsy. That was a fatal day for Dick Wiley. He
was caught among the numerous railroads which infest the
central portion of this city, and was killed. Luckily, he was
killed while returning home ; after he had been seen by re
spectable witnesses who could testify that he was not drunk.
Now if Betsy had only gone after the goods that morning,
which she would have done if, of all the mornings of the year,
she had not been sick on that identical morning, the whole
matter would have turned out just as differently as could be
conceived even by the imagination of a Hindu or a Typolo-
gian.
Not many days after the event just recorded, Van Comer
was in Hall's office.
DAUGHTKK AND SON. 127
" I believe, Hall." said Fred, " you are glad the poor negro
got killed."
" Not at all. But as he did get killed, I am glad his wife
was my washerwoman, and knew me well enough to employ
me against the road. It is a good case, and if they do not
compromise with me at three thousand dollars, I will sue
them for ten, and eventually get half of it."
" Why then should you be willing to take three now ? "
" Because of the delay, and some uncertainty. Besides, I
am needing money, and I get half of what I recover."
" Needing money ! Why, I hear everywhere how prodi
giously you are doing. Some say you are making money like
a mint ; others, more definite in their knowledge perhaps, say
you are making six thousand a year."
" I am making some money ; I am saving a little, but not
six thousand a year."
Fred could have gone on and told his friend that it was not
only occasionally to be heard on the street, but that it was
even believed, and probably acted upon, by some friends, in
whom he, Hall, was much interested. Fred knew that the
Dealings themselves entertained the most extravagant notions
of Hall's progress in getting both reputation and money.
Manifestly this was a thing vastly important for Hall to
know. But one never sees things but from one's own stand
point. How was Fred to know anything of the importance
of this matter to his friend ? In the first place, he did not
know the difference between Hall's reported and his actual
income ; he did not dream, however, that it was so great as to
be almost ludicrous. As for Hall himself, how was he, being
in love with Annie Dearing, and looking at things from a high
moral standpoint, to know that the Dearings ever even so
much as thought of what his income might be ? Here then
was something of the last importance for Clarence Hall to
128 gA IKA.
know, and his friend conld make him know it ; but the one,
from his standpoint, seeing not its significance, and the other,
from his, not even knowing of its existence, it was passed by.
Fred supposed, rightly, that any information Hall wanted to
give, lie would volunteer, and so said nothing more on the
subject.
" In such cases as this, can you sue the road for as much
as you like ? "
" Yes ; and the jury determines how much the man was
worth to his family, and assesses the damage accordingly."
" Some lives, according to that rule, would bankrupt the
Erie. There is Mrs. Sutherland "
" When will you cease to be extra vagent in your praises ? "
"When I cease to find objects deserving more than I can
imagine."
" But in your high estimate upon your chief of women,
the law would come in as a great gulf between you and the
jury."
" Not, I hope, like that between Dives and my old grand
father Abraham's bosom is reported to have been. But that
was an ignorant and barbarous age; we have had pro
gress since then development march of mind. If poor
Dives had only put off being born, say three or four thou
sand years provided, you know, as Sterne says, it could
have been done with any convenience to his father and
mother if he was as well off as he is reported to have been,
some enterprising engineer would have bridged that gulf for
him in no time. But why should there be any such gulf be
tween me and a sensible jury? "
** Because under the law a tusband cannot recover for the
killing of his wife."
" Do you mean to say that under the laws of this country,
if a woman's husband is killed by a railroad she can make
DAUGHTER AND SON. 129
the company pay ; but if a man's wife is killed by the same
railroad, under the same circumstances, there is no harm,
no damage done at all ? "
" In law, none. And not only under the laws of this coun
try, but of England also. But you must hear the reason of
it."
" Oh, hang the reason of it ! Any reason for injustice
must be absurd. Once I thought there was reason in all
things outside of a Theological Institute, except a Scotch
miracle. But I am beginning to think I shall have to make
another exception against the law of the land. Look, for
instance, at Bramlette's case. Dp you know how that was ? "
"No; how was it?"
a Why, Bramlette's father was wealthy, and had but two
children. But as nearly all of his property had come by his
wife, it was a whim of his to leave everything to his wife,
and trust her to provide for their two children. Bramlette's
mother married again Judge Yelverton, a widower, who
had not a dollar. By fair promises he prevailed on her to
put off signing the marriage contract until after they were
married. Well, you know when they were married the law
made all her property his. Then he refused to make any
settlement. He soon died, leaving all of Bramlette's and his
mother's property to some of his own children by a former
marriage. Of course, she could dower the property ; but she
soon died ; and Bramlette, the only one of the children living,
was turned out of his own home without a penny. The law
handed all of his property over to strangers.
" That was very hard. But the law is altered now."
" Yes ; I suppose it is. And it was done by that same
radical convention that abolished imprisonment for debt,
was it not ? "
" No ; but it was done by a radical legislature."
130 gA IRA.
" What is Bramlette doing now ? I scarcely ever see
Lim," continued Hall.
" I don't know what he has been doing. I see him in
the library every night. But he is going up on the State
road soon, he told me, to edit a country newspaper."
" I am beginning to fear for Bramlette. The more I ob
serve, the more strongly am I convinced that for a man to
do anything great it is first necessary for him fully to believe
that the world has a special use for him, that there is some one
work which he must do with all his might, and purely for its
own sake. Without that conviction, and the energy to put it
to practice, he may become the pleasantest of friends, and a
most learned man ; but while he may be much, he will cer
tainly not do any great work."
" Yes, he may, if he has genius, even become a Hamilton
or a Mackintosh. In any case, such a man as Bramlette ought
to trust to literature ; he might do something, iight even
do much for the world, comparatively, in literature ; but he
would do nothing at anything else."
" Suppose we go to supper ? It is just eight."
" Let us wait a few minutes, by all means. Have you
not learned yet that all the clerks are there until five min
utes past eight ? "
" No ; but what if they are V "
" Why here comes Holmes. See here, Holmes, I waa
just telling Hall always to wait till after eight o'clock to go
to supper, when all the clerks have left. If we go before,
we shall have to hear all twenty of them ask every other
* How's biz ? ' I had rather eat thistles. I tell you how
we will fix them to-morrow night. We must get there first ;
and when they all come in,-_we must start up a clatter
ing conversation in French ; we will talk about them, of
course call them names. They will not say a word ; but I
DAUGHTER AND SON. 131
fear they will giggle. When they giggle they mean, ' biz is
biz ; ' only the letters all get tangled in their throats and
noses."
"But, now I think of it, I am a little skittish of my
French ; suppose we break down ? " said Mirabeau.
"Ah, now that gives me a new idea. We must do like
they did with that scamp Parolles you know Parolles, in
All's Well that Ends Well speak what terrible language you
will, no matter what, or whether it has any meaning or not.
Let us have it that way part of the time anyhow, so we may
laugh at ourselves too. I say : Throca mouvousus, cargo car
go, cargo. Holmes says: JBoscus thromuldo boscus. Then
Hall puts in, with great dignity and gravity : JS^erelebonto
blonederdonedergewdenstronke. Then we laugh at ourselves ;
and they laugh, too ; and we proceed to make fun of them
for laughing at what they know nothing about."
When Clarence Hall informed the railroad company that
he would accept three thousand dollars, as damage for the
killing of Dick Wiley, and let the matter drop, they express
ed the greatest surprise that he should think of even finally
getting so much for the life of a mere negro, even though an
honest and thrifty mechanic. Hall said nothing to this, but
quietly intimated that if his demand was not acceded to he
should not only pxirsue them by the ordinary methods of the
law, but that he should also bring suit for 'damages against
the City Council, because they allowed so many tracks and
cross-tracks to be run through the heart of the city. The
railroad men began to think seriously of the offer to compro
mise ; for they feared that such a suit might have the effect
of calling forth an ordinance prohibiting the running of
freight-trains up to the car-shed. The railroad men asked
time to consider. He could only give them till next day.
The next day Hall was informed that his proposition was ac-
132 gA IEA.
cepted, and that the three thousand dollars awaited his
order.
Clarence Hall was one of those men who seem to be in
spired in early life with the belief that the world has some
special use for them ; that there is some particular work for
them to do. Clarence Hall believed this even when a boy ;
and by the time he had left the University, and set out in
Itfe, the belief was almost raised to fervor.
" The crises of life," said the " old doctor " to us once at the
University, " are very silent." And most men of eminence
will agree that the whole bent of their lives was determined
by something seemingly of the smallest importance : a book,
a word, a look, may have been sufficient. When Clarence
Hall was a boy, he read the " Lives of the Lord Chancellors."
Endless vistas of greatness opened up before him. From
that day he determined to be a great lawyer. Is it strange
that a young man of rare intellect and daring ambition
should almost worship this profession ? If Hall had seen
the profession in its true light, as only a mass of prepos
terous quibbles and barbarous conservatisms, of course he
would not have thought it possible for it to furnish meat for
greatness to feed upon. But we must view the subject from
his standpoint. With him it was the noblest of all professions.
The mission of the true lawyer was " to vindicate the truth
to maintain justice to assail wrong to defend right to de
tect fraud expose crime protect virtue, and shield inno
cence." Clarence Hall saw* that in his own country the
legal profession was most powerful. And he saw that, being
so powerful, itself ought to be elevated to the highest stand
ard of Christian morals. It was the mission of this profes
sion to preserve civil liberty _ It was the mission of this
profession to lead the people into paths of honor, integrity,
virtue, prosperity. It had been confided to this profession
DAUGHTER AND SON. 133
to mould the institutions of the country for good or ill.
Arid Clarence Hall wished to rise to the head of this profes
sion in his country. Was it not a worthy and a generous
ambition ?
When Hall got the three thousand dollars he felt better than
he had thought it possible for money ever to make him feel.
He now had about two thousand dollars. Moreover, he got
the credit of managing the affair with the railroad with ability
and tact ; and his practice received a considerable impetus.
The negroes were especially well pleased, and brought him
most of their business. Hall had now learned to discard
fancy figures ; and so, in estimating his next year's practice
he did not put it at five thousand dollars, but thought he
might calculate upon one-fifth of that sum. Clarence Hall
had long had a settled determination to marry as soon as his
income would permit. He thought the time had now come.
He had two thousand in cash ; he could calculate upon an
income of one thousand the next year ; and there was his
book besides. To be sure, his book was not much, if any, more
than half done. But he would complete it now ! We have
seen that Hall believed that there was such a thing as a " female
soul," and that the male and female were " complements "
of each other. What might not a man do under the inspira
tion of such companionship as he should have ? He should
have somebody to work for, making every labor a labor
of love. He would have somebody to love, trust, and
lean upon him. All tha.t was highest and best in him
would be called forth. He felt that he should be a better
man, a better Christian, a better lawyer ; that his sym
pathies should be enlarged and deepened, his ambition ele
vated and purified. He would finish his book immediately ;
maybe he might write two or three others. In the fer
vor of the moment he thought he should then be equal
134 CA IRA.
to any work whatever, from plodding energy to soaring
genius. Let not the reader suppose that Clarence Hall
was deceived in himself, for he was not. You might have
searched any area of territory and not found any man on
whom the shrewdest observers of human lots would sooner
have risked a favorable prophecy.
Nor was Hall likely to be deceived in his ordinary calcula
tions. He was not one of those visionaries whose eyes are so
fearfully and wonderfully made as to see only phantasms and
figments, and never objects of denser stuff at all. This was
not among his faults. Besides his intense orthodoxy which
some indeed will consider a virtue, but others a fault his
chief fault has already been indicated : a most refined, yet
strong, selfishness ; and yet I dare say it may be a question
whether this refined selfishness be not the inevitable result
of such speculative belief, when the speculative belief itself
is refined. Clarence Hall was not vulgarly selfish, but rather
generous and liberal. His selfishness was of a very high or
der, it was beautified by the poetry of his nature, and sancti
fied by the religion of his geographical situation. He believed
that woman was in deed and in truth, as well as in poetry,
Heaven's last, best gift to man. And he believed fervently,
religiously, and particularly, that Annie Dealing was made
especially for him, Clarence Hall. He decked o\it this essen
tially low idea though perhaps unconsciously to himself in
such garb of poetic imagery that it seemed to rise before him
as a beautiful ideal reality. Such was the magic lantern with
which this man deceived himself. He believed that he also
was created for her. But her sphere was an entirely subor
dinate one. She must lean upon him wholly, and in perfect
trust. She must draw her lifojrom him as the earth does
from the sun ; and, like the earth, she must strew his path
way with flowers and enliven it Avith music. The will and
DAUGHTER AND SON. 135
purpose, the responsibility, the work and grand ambition
of life, were all his.
Clarence Hall and Annie Dearing were married. He did
not " take her to wife," as our worthy ancestors used to do in
their day and generation. " Nous avons change toute cela."
That is, we have changed all the form of announcement.
Me an while, the thing itself remains pretty much as it was.
"Wo go on '' taking to wife " just as ever only we do not take
so many, according to the statute, as first-class people are re
ported to have done in the fervid era of King Solomon. Clar
ence Hall and Annie Dearing were married ! Said I not that
I was going to relate perhaps the most important event since
Adam? Who shall say that it was not? Think of Luther's
parents! The world, at the time of which I write, was cer
tainly in as great need of a reformer as it was in the day
of Luther, and is still so. A world reformer, Humanity
may scarcely look for from the legal profession. But then
such reformer might owe his paternity even to a lawyer.
Clearly, Hall stands a better chance than did old Luther.
The trouble is, they might all be girls ! Still, let 110 one
affirm yet that this was not the most important event since
Adam.
Mirabeau Holmes was already in Europe, and was writing
back to Marian Malcomb. When he was in London he went
to see Carlyle. Carlyle's Essays had been to him what the
" Lives of the Lord Chancellors " had been to Clarence Hall.
It was these " Essays " that first inspired him with a restless
ambition to " do somewhat " in the world. They opened up
to him a whole universe, but full of mist and dream and
shadow. And these two books were fit types of the destinies
as well as the ambitions of these two men.
Bramlette was going to try his hand a while at editing a
country newspaper, and correspond with Emma Harlan the
136 A IRA.
while. She might look for many a true poetic gem from this
man of rough exterior.
Fred was going to Sunday-school, and everywhere else that
he thought he should see the flower of the garden of Kaipha ;
carrying always with him one of the liveliest, j oiliest, and
best-filled heads you might meet with in any scope of country.
Mr. Malcomb had been prevailed upon to become mayor
of the city ; and, with the assistance of Mr. Walton and Dr.
Sutherland, who were councilmen, and one or two other men
of influence, was just beginning a crusade against conservatism,
to establish in the city a complete system of free, public
schools, and to build a hospital.
Mr. Alf Walton continued his machinations, and Mr.
Brooke his fine sermons and visits to the little cottage on
Ivy street.
James Arnot left his wild home in the mountains, and
went ? Allons !
3.
ST. AJSTTOINE.
CHAPTER XI.
" Which is the true culprit, the Assembly or the Commune ? History will tell. I
accept the principle of the Commune. If any one comes to my house to take a fugi
tive of the Commune, they will take me also. If he is given up, I will follow him.
I will share his seat. And for the defence of right, by the side of the man of the
Commune, vanquished by the Assembly of Versailles, will be seen the man of the
Republic, proscribed by Bonaparte." VICTOB HUGO.
THERE is a place in Paris which I love above all others.
No other spot on the globe is so able to excite the highest
emotions. Is it, perhaps, that Democratic Paradise the
Champs des Elysees ? No ! Nor the Tuileries, nor the
Louvre, nor the Luxembourg, nor the Jardin des Plantes, nor
even the Hotel des Invalides. It is the old Faubourg St.
Antoine. Gamins, sans-culottes, proletaires, dwell here.
Here is the hotbed of insurrection. At certain periods
aristocrats and tyrants may lose their heads here without a
moment's notice. The tocsin of war will sound here when
the substratum will no longer be crushed. 7a ira has been
chanted here, and will be again. The cry of Vive la Revo
lution ! has been heard in these parts ; also, Vive VHu-
manitel
Gamins and sans-culottes. Vive VHumamte indeed !
138 <?A ERA.
Had you not better cry & has VJIumanite ? Or had you not
better hurrah for the Flood and pray for another! five
VJIumanite f Wherefore ? What has Humanite done for
you ? Made you miserable. Answer this : How much of
life have you enjoyed? Have you, or your ancestors for a
thousand years, ever known exactly what it is to be entirely
clear of hunger? Do you expect your children ever to
know ? Better to hurrah for the Flood ! But there also is
the Place Bastile, and beyond, Pere la Chaise. Still, let
Humanity be thankful to the Poor Quarter of Paris.
Thankful for the Revolution. Thankful for the Commune.
If the time ever comes when it can no longer be said that,
in the midst of all manner of wealth and plenty, by far the
greater portion of the human race are still condemned to the
lowest battle of animal life the battle with hunger much
will be due to the Poor Quarter of Paris. Which, think
you, will stand for most on the balance-sheets of Humanity
Arc de Triomphe or Belleville, Tuileries or Montmartre ?
I think there can no longer be any doubt upon this point.
I reckon this also to be settled, that civilization owes more
to the proletaires of Faubourg St. Antoine than to all
priests, lawyers, and politicians together. So of Humanity ;
for Humanity owes everything to Civilization. Not that
Humanity owes anything to the priests, lawyers, and poli
ticians. On the contrary, I am much disposed to put them
along with princes, of whom the Commune said : " Society
has only one duty towards princes death. It is only bound
to observe one formality proof of identity."
It was late in the afternoon of 17th March, the eve of a
day that will be remembered in. history. Three persons, one
at least of whom we have seen before, were walking slowly
through the Faubourg towards Place Bastile. They turned
up the broad Boulevard Richard Lenoir, and went across to
ST. ANTOINE. 139
Place Royale, where they sat down to rest. One of them
was Mirabeau Holmes. Another was an Italian, young, of
coal-black eye, and singular beauty both of feature and
figure ; his name was Simona. The third was a small man,
not above middle age ; his face exhibited a calmness upon
the surface, but below you might recognize evidences of
strong feeling : this man was Cluseret, afterwards Delegate
of War, and almost Dictator of Paris. Cluseret was a
naturalized American. He came to the Confederate States
on the breaking out of the war between the States, and
fought under General Lee in "Virginia. It was this that
furnished the basis of the friendship between him and Mira
beau. They had been together several times since Mirabeau
had been in Europe. A few days before they had met, in
Londoil, Simona and Assi a name already famous through
out Europe whither they had gone from the chiefs in Paris
to consult with the General Council of the Internationale
upon the present grave state of afi'airs in the French capital.
Mirabeau, for what at least appeared to him to be good and
sufficient reasons, had already joined the Internationale.
They had all just this day returned to Paris. They had
been sitting here but a short time when they were approached
by one whom they all seemed to recognize ; they all rose to
meet him.
There are some faces which, like a great work of nature
or art, fill one with emotions of the sublime. One feels
oneself in the presence of something great and good ; one
is elevated, and feels a lofty pride. If Robert E. Lee had
lived among the ancients they woxild have deified him.
Wh.iover has stood in his presence has felt himself thrilled
and elevated with grand emotions. One felt oneself ii.
n -hence of the highest humanity ; bordering upon the di-
iue. And here was a face strikingly like that of the great
140 9 A mA -
Southern hero. It was the citizen Delescluze, Tancred of
the Commune. A meeting of the chiefs was to be held that
night to learn more fully the result of the late conference in
London, to decide upon some course of action, and to organize
for the immediate execution of whatever should be deter
mined upon. The meeting was held in No. 6 of the Rue
des Hosiers, the same in which the Central Committee of
Montmartre was holding its sittings. It was necessary to
be in close communication with the Committee, for this Com
mittee had now assumed control of the National Guard.
And although the chiefs could, if it became necessary, even
crush the authority of the Committee, from the threatening
aspect of affairs it judged best, indeed of the utmost import
ance, that all the leaders should act in concert. Some of the
most influential of the chiefs were also members of the Cen
tral Committee, notably Assi, Jourde, Lullier, Billioray, and
Babick.
Mirabeau Holmes was present at this meeting, of such in
finite significance to Paris and to the cause of Humanity.
Flourens, Delescluze, Assi, Cluseret, Dombrowski, Rigault,
Gambon, all the leaders were there. Outside circumstances
now furnished the immediate cause, or occasion, of an insur
rection. The question was, whether the times were propi
tious for launching the country into that great Revolution,
to which the brave and enlightened friends of Humanity havo
long been looking as the fearful but necessary remedy for
those evils which civilization thus far, instead of destroying,
seems only to have made more unendurable, and more ap
palling in their now almost cosmic magnitude. It was de
cided here to-night, as it had already been by the General
Council, that the times were not yet ripe. But this conclu
sion was not reached without much sadness. Most of thoso
chiefs were young. Some, however, were not. There was
ST. ANTOINE. 141
the virtucms and upright Gambon. He had labored for a
generation in the cause of Humanity. He had learned the
completest self-abnegation. During the whole course of his
life he had been altogether occupied in the cause of the poor
and suffering. Totally forgetful of self, disdaining honors,
fame, wealth, and fearless of poverty, imprisonment, death, he
had been all his life looking forward to the time when he
might lay down his always devoted life in the cause of the peo
ple. Here evidently was an opportunity, even if not the most
propitious. Possibly he might not live to see another. But
once more the promptings of self were put aside. So be it !
And there too was the stoical Delescluze, heart and head
of the Commune; Flourens, the ardent, universal democrat;
Felix Pyat, the friend of Garibaldi ; and Dombrowski, exiled
to Siberia by the Russian government because he dared to be
the friend of the people and the enemy of tyrants. The lead
ers decided that, as ma.tters now stood, Paris should not rise.
The committee, however, to which was now added several
others of the leaders, was to sit all night, for there was no
telling what unexpected emergency might arise. Paris was
full of rumors that a gigantic conspiracy had been formed at
Versailles for the overthrow of the Republic and establish
ment of the monarchy. Many were confident that the rumora
were true. And some, even among those who had the best
right to knoWj believed that this coup d'etat might be looked
for at any moment. One thing, though, was pretty certain :
the conspirators would not attempt this without first disarm
ing the National Guard. On the other hand, any forcible
attempt to disarm the Guard would be considei'ed proof of the
conspiracy, and the first act of the dreaded coup cPetat. In
this case Paris would rise ; but in any case the times were not
ripe for the great Revolution. On the signing of the treaty
of peace by the National Assembly of Versailles, fifty thou-
142 A IRA.
sand National Guards had been allowed to retain their organ
ization and their arms. Not because the Assembly wished
it far from it ; but because it feared the Nationals, and
knew that they would even refuse to be disbanded or to give
Tip their arms. But why should the Assembly fear them ?
Were they not Frenchmen ? Were they not fellow-citi
zens ? Both. But they were also ardent republicans, and
under the influence of the most vigilant and active democratic
leaders. These leaders had not yet forgiven the conspirators
of 4th September. Delescluze had declared publicly that he
only took his seat in the Assembly to impeach them. But
why should the Nationals refuse to disband or to be dis
armed ? Because they distrusted the Government of Ver
sailles. They believed that the conspirators of 4th September
meant to overthrow the Republic and bring back the mon
archy. They had since been confirmed in this belief. Sev
eral plans had been proposed at Versailles for disarming
them. But the Assembly had not yet dared to try to execute
any of them. For a few days past, especially, the excitement
in Paris had been high. The Nationals claimed the right to
elect their own officers. The Government attempted to force
upon them a commander appointed by the Executive. The
Nationals refused to recognize him. Matters were getting
dangerous. The atmosphere was ominous of insurrection and
war. The leaders were in hourly communication with Ver
sailles.
On the 16th a great meeting of the Nationals had been
held at Montmartre in the open air. They protested against
the appointment of a commander over them by the Executive.
They unanimously elected Garibaldi commander-in-chief of
the Guard. They elected members of the Central Committee,
and pledged themselves to obey it till Garibaldi could be
heard from. They declared that the National Guard would
ST. ANTOINE. 143
not surrender its arms ; that it would defend the Republic.
Meanwhile the Internationals throughout the world were in
constant communication for what purpose, and with what
result, we have already seen. It was far in the night when
the conference of leaders at No. 6 Rue des Rosiers broke up.
The committee was to sit all night. Couriers were constantly
coming in from Belleville, La Villette, Montmartre, Faubourg
St. Antoine, and other quarters. If the Nationals were at
tacked during the night they were to give the signal three
guns.
The meeting at No. 6 Rue des Rosiers was not the only
one held in Paris that night. The Mayors of Paris met at
the Mairie of the second arrondissement to discuss the situa
tion. All of the members of the Assembly from Paris were
also in council. And the Republican clubs had met in every
quarter of the city ; some counselling moderation, others curs
ing the Assembly, and demanding the Revolution; but all
agreed in this that the Central Committee would not betray
them, and that it should have their utmost obedience. It was
quite late when the clubs and other meetings broke up. The
city was quiet. The chiefs, however, at No. 6, did not go home.
Of those who were not upon the Committee, some went to
Belleville, some to La Villette, others to Montmartre and
Place Bastile ; Delescluze remained with the Committee. It
was three o'clock in the morning. Hark ! Boom ! A single
gun, in the direction of Belleville. Half a minute boom !
in the direction of La Villette. Boom ! from Place Bastile.
And then all three in concert Boom ! Boom ! Boom ! It
seemed to wind and tremble and growl, every street, wall, and
cellar sending forth a roar, and to roll grandly forth over
the fields and hills of France, waking the sleepers. A rattle
of musketry in the direction of Montmartre. A rocket rose
high in the air from the neighboring Buttes de Chaumont,
144 A IEA.
stood still for a moment, glaring with its blx e flame upon the
frightened air, then burst, the varicolored sparks flying in all
directions. Montmartre was attacked. Fifty National
Guards had been stationed there to guard the artillery. There
were more than a hundred pieces, and it was this that the
Versailles Government especially dreaded, and determined to
capture at all costs. M. Thiers and his associates and the
generals commanding the department had been in consultation
all the day before to decide how these guns were to be secur
ed, and with the guns the Heights of Montmartre, which
overlooked the whole city.
A band of picked men, soldiers of the line, was placed un- .
der the command of a trusty ofiicer, fearless, quick, and cun
ning. The men were ordered to disperse themselves through
the city, and exactly at half-past three to take positions al
ready assigned them, as sentinels, guarding every approach to
the Buttes. Gen. Susbielle then quietly advanced and placed
seven-pounder guns in every avenue leading to the Heights.
At a given signal the first band rushed upon the fifty Nation
als who were guarding the Heights. And so cautiously had
the attack been arranged, and so promptly and silently was
it executed, that the Nationals were seized and disarmed be
fore they dreamed of the presence of an enemy. They had
no time to give the signal agreed upon three guns if any
quarter should be attacked. At this moment all seemed lost
to the Nationals. The Heights, their main stronghold, was
taken. This position commanded all others. But the chiefs
were active and vigilant. Couriers were continually passing
and repassing. At .this very moment one was approaching
the Heights. He saw what had been done ; flew to the neigh
boring Heights, still in possession of the Nationals, and sent
a rocket hissing into the air. Boom ! replied Belleville ; and
Boom ! Boom ! answered Villette and Faubourg St. Antoine.
ST. A^TOINE. 145
It was now four o'clock. Alarm bells were ringing. Drums
were beating. People rushed into the streets, and instinctively
cried, Vive la Mepublique ! Vive la Liberte ! A heavy force
of Nationals from Belleville now came thundering along
Boulevard Rochechouart, crying, Vive la, Republique ! Nation
als now began to arrive from all directions. They seemed to
come forth from every corner ; nay, to rise out of the earth.
The General, seeing that it would be impossible to hold the
position, now determined to abandon it and to remove the
guns with him. But there were now great crowds in the
streets, and the troops were surrounded l)y the Nationals.
The troops started. The crowd refused to give way, and
Borne of them cut the horses' traces. The intrepid officer, with
the select band of Chasseurs d'Afrique, ordered his men to ad
vance and open a way for the guns. He commanded them
to draw. A hundred sabres leaped from their scabbards.
" Eu avant" shouted the officer. The Chasseurs hesitated.
The crowd shouted, Vive la T/igne ! and Vive la Garde
Nationale ! The troops of the line now began generally to
fraternize with the Nationals. The excitement was su
preme. " En avant ! " again shouted the officer, and single
and alone he dashed into the seething crowd. Some were
crushed beneath the hoofs of his frightened horse, and many
fell beneatk the rapid blows of his sabre. Cries of terror
were heard in the crowd. The daring officer fell, riddled by a
score of bullets. The infuriated crowd now fell upon him
and rent him limb from limb.
At this moment General Lecomte appeared upon the scene.
The Central Committee had also sent orders to the Nationals
to retake the guns at all costs. General Lecomte placed him
self at the head of a regiment of the line and ordered them to
advance upon the crowd. The crowd cried, Vive la Ligne !
and the troops elevated the but-ends of their muskets in the
146 A ERA.
air, and cried, Vive la Garde Rationale ! But the troops hav
ing possession of the guns had not yet fraternized with the
Nationals. General Lecomte ordered them to forward, and
if the crowd did not make way, to fire upon them. The troops
advanced. The crowd shouted, Vive la Ilepublique ! Vive la
Ligne! The troops moved, arms at "charge bayonets."
The Nationals were fired upon. The firing became general,
and many were killed and wounded. General Lecomte was
killed. The troops abandoned the guns, and retreated in the
direction of Place de Clinchy. Suddenly a terrific roar was
heard in the direction of Place Pigalle. Boom ! Boom ! Boom !
A score of cannon were pouring forth fire and death. Shot
and shell came whizzing and shrieking up the Boulevard. The
Nationals at Place Pigalle, seeing the retreating troops com
ing briskly towards them, thought themselves attacked, and
fired upon them. The mistake was soon discovered, and the
troops continued their retreat towards Place de Clinchy.
rlt was now nine o'clock. The last of the troops of the line
were gone. Montmartre, the intrenched camp, and all the
guns, were in the hands of the Nationals. The troops had also
left their artillery in the hands of the Nationals. But ono
of the most fearful incidents of the day has not been men
tioned. General Thomas, formerly commander of the Guard,
was recognized by some of the crowd. He was approaching
the scene of action. It was just at that unfortunate moment
when the troops had fired into the dense mass of people.
Many, including some women and children, were killed, and
the wounded and dying filled the air with fearful cries. Tho
crowd was frenzied. General Thomas approached. They
recognized him. They fell upon him. He was hurried against
a wall and shot. It was not done by the National Guards.
There was not a National among them. It was done by the
infuriate mob. General Thomas was said to be a good officer
ST. ANTOINE. 147
How much was his life "worth ? Say ten thousand of the
lives of the canaille. Let us hope that Satory furnished an
altar large enough for the expiatory sacrifice. Fearful enoiigh,
too, one would think. Still, being, I hope, a better man than
the traitors at Versailles, let us mourn over the fate of Gen
eral Thomas. Not because he was General Thomas. No !
But because he was a man, like the rest of us a man of
flesh and blood. The killing of General Thomas was a crime.
It was murder, perhaps. But consider the circumstances.
Above all, remember it was done by the mob, not by the
Nationals. Remember, especially, that it was not by order
of the " Central Committee." The Committee knew nothing
of it. Not one of the leaders knew anything of it, officially
or otherwise. It was done by the mob the raging, frenzied,
mad mob in the midst of terror, revenge, shrieking, wounds,
and death.
Two other officers came near suffering the same fate. It
was afterwards announced that they were saved by " a young
man not more than seventeen." This " young man " was an
American. It was James Arnot ; for he too was here, and
happened to be looking upon this tragedy. " Good Heaven !
Shall the men be killed without a hearing ? " This was said
too low to attract attention. He made his way through the
crowd to where the self-appointed executioners were. He re
solved to make an effort to save them at the risk of his own
life. " Hold ! " he cried, " the Committee orders that these
men be brought before them. Here is the order. Quick !
I have other orders to carry." Quick as thought he took out a
paper from among several others, thrust it into the hand of one
of the men, and darted through the crowd. He calculated
that the men, on seeing that the paper was no order from the
Committee, would suppose that he had simply made a mistake,
that he had given them the wrong paper. But the mail was
14:8 A TEA.
not able to read. So he merely pretended to read the papor,
and then stuck it in his pocket. He had no doubt but it \vas
all right. " These men are to be carried before the com
mittee," said he ; and off they marched with them. Arrived
at No. 6, the man handed the paper to a stern-looking young
man who was standing in the door. It was Simona. Ho
read the paper, and turned pale as death. It was the fly-leaf
that we have seen James Arnot, on a memorable night, tear
from his mother's Bible.
" Who gave you this ? "
" A young man with orders from the Committee."
" Would you know him if you were to see him again ? "
" No. I hardly saw him at all."
Then, to himself, " Impossible impossible."
A guard was called. The men with their prisoners were
taken before the Committee. The prisoners -were aides-de
camp of General Lecomte. By order of the Committee
they were immediately set at liberty.
By the middle of the day the Central Committee had as
sumed complete control not only of the National Guard, but
of Paris. The red flag of the Commune floated from Mont-
martre, from the column of Place Bastile, and numerous
other points. A committee of barricades had been appointed
early in the morning. Many had been erected. They had
gone up as if by magic. There were several in Faubourg
St. Antoine ; an almost impregnable one in Place Bastile ;
another at Rue de la Roquette ; another at the junction of
Boulevards Voltaire and Richard Lenoir ; another near the
Chateau d'Eau. ; and several in the quarter of Montmartre.
The excitement seemed to -increase instead of wane as the
day advanced. Early in the afternoon five thousand Nation
als formed in the Montmartre quarter, and from then till
midway the afternoon they traversed the principal thor-
ST. AXTOINE. 149
ouglifares of the city. By four o'clock they were probably
ten thousand strong. They carried red flags and beating
drums. Alternately they muttered "treason," "conspira
tors," and cried, " Vive la Mepublique ! " They were followed
by vast crowds of men, women, and children. Some of the
men had on red caps ; and the women and children chanted
snatches of the Marseillaise Hymn, Ca Ira, and other revolu
tionary songs. At four o'clock the vast procession turned
down the Rue de la Paix, and, after a slight show of resist
ance from the commandant, took possession of Place Vendome.
Thence they proceeded to the Hotel de Ville. They at once
took possession of it, and the Central Committee installed
themselves therein. The Ministry of Justice was also taken
possession of, and everywhere the tri-color flags were hauled
down and the red hoisted.
Late in the day all the Mayors of Paris (Paris is divided
into twenty arrondissements, each having a Mayor) and all
the Deputies of Paris present in the city, met at the Mairie of
the second arrondissement to discuss the situation. They first
waited upon Ernest Picard, Minister of the Interior, and sub
mitted a plan of settlement. But nothing came of it. Then
they waited upon the General commanding the Department,
De Paladines. The General declared he could do nothing.
Finally they went to Jules Favre. The basis of settlement
proposed by the Mayors and Deputies was simple enough, and
furnished an easy solution of the difficulty between Paris and
the Versailles Government. This was what they proposed :
(1.) The nomination of M. Langlois as the Cornmander-in-
Chief of the National Guards. (2.) M. Edmond Adam as
Prefect of Police. (3.) M. Dorian as Mayor of Paris. (4.)
The Deputy, M. Billot, as Commander of the Army of Paris.
In a word, they wanted to name their own officers. They
demanded officers whom they could trust ; officers who would
150 gA IRA.
not betray Paris into the hands of the Government of
Versailles, which, they were now firmly satisfied, was plot
ting the overthrow of the Republic and the return of the
monarchy. It was well known the world over that if such a
coup cCetat was contemplated and it is certain that it was
Paris was the only obstacle in the way of the conspirators.
And though the chiefs have been killed murdered in cold
blood upon the order of any petty officer into whose hands
they happened to fall ; though the poor people, prisoners
men, women, and children have been mowed down by the
thousand on the plain of Satory, as a huge offering for the
crimes of the Commune ; and though the very name has been
branded with every epithet of infamy that ingenuity could
devise, the truth is, that even the Republic of to-day owes
its existence to the Commune ! It may be who can tell ?
that it was this very consideration, as much as any other,
that swelled the sickening sacrifice into such barbarous pro
portions.
Think you, perhaps, that it is strange that I, an American
and a Southerner, should say so much for the Commune ?
Know, then, of a certainty, that I would go farther to grasp
the hand of a poor exiled Communist, than of all the kings
in or out of Christendom. I would rather place a wreath of
flowers upon the grave of Delescluze than any in France ! If
the propositions submitted by the Mayors and Deputies of
Paris had been accepted and they ought to have been, of
right, independent of the great issues which were imme
diately involved the Republic would not have siiffered ;
there would have been no " War of the Commune ;" there
would have been no triumphsyfor the Republic on the field
of Satory ! M. Jules Favre submitted them to his col
leagues. They accepted the propositions. They sent them
to the Journal Oj/iciel for publication. The war was over.
ST. ANTOINE. 151
Paris was saved. The Republic was saved. But there was
more consultation. M. Thiers and his associates recon
sidered their previous action. They undid what they had
done ; sent to the office of the Journal Officiel / counter
manded the order fco publish the basis of settlement;
plunged Paris in blood and civil war. For this crime they
are responsible. They pretended that they did this on hear
ing of the death of Generals Thomas and Lecomte. But
this could not be ; for this was in the afternoon, and all
Paris had heard of the death of the Generals early in the
morning. But even supposing they told the truth which
they did not who is such an idiot as to say that this was
sufficient reason for plunging the country in civil war?
152 gA m A.
CHAPTER XII.
"Qui meurt pour le peuple av6cn,"
LE CHANT DU DEPABT.
ON the morning of the 19th, instead of publishing the
basis of settlement agreed upon, the Government posted on
the walls of Paris a proclamation calling upon Paris to lay
down its arms, and surrender unconditionally to the As
sembly ! The last of the troops of the line had quitted
Paris, and were on the road to Versailles. The red flag of
the Commune had everywhere taken the place of the tri
color. The members of the Government present in Paris
also left for Versailles. If the Central Committee was a
band of outlaws and assassins, if their only object was blood
shed and pillage, as was charged by the traitors at Versailles,
and spread over the world by tyrants and their dupes ; why,
in the name of reason, why were these men, against whose
traitorous machinations Paris had taken up arms, suffered to
remain in Paris, not only after the terrible events of the
18th, but until noon of the 20th a whole day after the last
of their soldiers had quitted Paiis ? Why were they then
suffered peaceably to depart? Why did not the populace
rend them in pieces ? Nay, why did not the Committee
incendiaries and assassins (!) have them arrested and brought
before their bloody tribunal, and shot without ceremony, as
was the custom with themselves ?
Let any man say what wou!3- have been the course tsiki'ii
by the great Republicans of '92. All the army of Versailles
could not have protected them ; every man of them would
ST. ANTOINK. 153
have been taken, and summai-ily shot. But the great men
of '89 and '92 were successful, and have been deified. Justly
too. This would have been their course. They would have
done well. That this course was not taken by the men of '71
must ever be regarded as a strong proof of their moderation ;
nay, perhaps, of their too great consideration for tyrants
when the cause of the people was in danger. The Central
Committee issued the following :
" HOTEL DE VILLE, March 19th.
" CITIZENS : You had charged us with organizing the de
fence of Paris and of its rights, and we are convinced that
we have fulfilled this mission. Aided by your generous
courage, we have expelled the Government which was betray
ing us. At this moment our mandate has expired, and we
again deliver it up to you, as we do not pretend to take the
place of those whom the popular breath has just overthrown.
Prepare yourselves, and immediately hold your communal
elections, and give us for recompense the only one we ever
hoped for the true Republic. In the meantime we retain,
in the name of the people, the Hotel de Ville."
And to show that this was no make-believe, intended sim
ply for effect, another decree was immediately issued that the
elections for the communal council should be held on the
following Wednesday, March 22d, and the municipalities of
the several arrondissements were charged with the execution
of the decree. It was said afterwards that this was only a
pretence of surrendering power on the part of the Committee,
as two-thirds of the members got themselves elected members
of the Commune. But this saying itself is a mere pretence,
a most intense pretence. It lies very near to the supreme
bluck in the spectrum of truth. The Committee anticipated
154 gA IRA.
this ; and so they decreed that the elections should be held by
the various municipalities. That most of themselves were
elected only shows that they had hitherto done their duty faith
fully, and that they retained the confidence of the people.
But the elections were not held on the 22d. The Mayors and
Deputies objected. They wished to make one more effort to
save the Republic, and at the same time prevent civil war.
The elections were postponed until the 26th.
Mirabeau Holmes found himself treated with the most
distinguished consideration by the members of the Committee
and all the Republican leaders. The simple fact that he was
an American had much to 'do with that, of course. An ar
dent democrat, and a member of the Internationale, he was
little like the Mirabeau Holmes of a few years ago, except in
the passion for finding out the cause of right and justice and
enlisting fully and for life on its side. But even his enthu
siasm had grown larger and solider. He had not been in
Europe all this while a mere looker-on. He had read much,
and had been studying civilization in its native soil. He
felt as one feels when one visits those places which are the
birthplaces of events which have shaken ancient systems
and created new ones. If one desii'es to study civilization,
one must go to the Old World. Mirabeau Holmes had also
seen much. He had little conception before of the prodi
gious amount of human suffering even in the midst of the high
est civilizations. If Professor Huxley had declared " that even
in the city of Liverpool there were forty thousand savage
men and women, and that they were more savage than the
savages of India," he was inclined to think the dark picture
borrowed unreal blackness by-J>eing placed alongside of the
light of English civilization. But he found that the half had
not been told. It was not long before he came to the conclu
sion that there must be something wrong in the civilization
ST. ANTOINE. 155
which produced side by side such astonishing and various lux
ury, and such infinite depths of wide-spread suffering and de
spair. Then he inquired if there might not be something
wrong even with the first principles of that civilization. He
joined the Internationale. That he was an American, an
ardent democrat, and a member of the Internationale ; that he
was already the friend of Cluseret and Delescluze, could not
fail to give him a warm welcome among the chiefs at Paris.
They proposed that he should allow himself to be chosen a
member of the Commune. This he declined ; but lest it
should be thought that it was for lack of sympathy, he signi
fied his readiness to accept any suitable position that might
be tendered him after the election of members of the Com
mune. He had already conceived a high admiration for the
character of Delescluze, a brave, virtuous, unselfish man,
wholly given to the cause of the people. Moreover, Deles
cluze was a man of the noblest intellect, and the most gene
rous culture. Nor have the most reckless defamers of the
Commune been able to deny that he was a thinker of a high
order. His stoical enthusiasm and purity is acknowledged
by the strongest enemies of the cause for which he laid down
his life.
It was the day before the Mayors and Deputies of Paris
went to Versailles to make one more effort for peace and the
Republic, and on the very day that the Versailles people
had succeeded in getting up a small procession of " respect
ables " to march up and down the principal streets and cry,
Vive Vordre ! Vive V Assetilblee Rationale ! that Delescluze
said :
" The people at Versailles do not want peace. What they
do want is the monarchy. Until the 18th they were still
uncertain of the means to be employed. They kne^'thttt
Paris was in their way. They knew
156 A IRA.
What they did not know was, whether Paris would succumb
to treachery. They now know that Paris cannot be betrayed
for the monarchy. Paris must be crushed. To-morrow the
Mayors and Deputies go to Versailles to try to avert civil
war. See what reception they will meet with. They will
not be tolerated except by a few Deputies of the Left.
They will be insulted. Possibly they will be driven from
the chamber. What is certain is, they will not be allowed
to speak, because they would speak not only to the Assembly,
but to France and the world. The Assembly will not have
peace."
On the following day the "respectables," the party of
" order," again paraded the streets. They carried a tri
color flag with the inscription, " Union of the J\fen of
Order / Vive la Hepublique ! " They promenaded the prin
cipal streets on both sides of the river, crying Vive Vordrel
Vive VAssemblee Rationale! Early in the afternoon the
crowd, which now amounted to about a thousand, marched
down the Rue de la Paix, giving evidences that it was their
intention to occupy Place Vendome, which was guarded by
a battalion of National Guards. The Nationals guarding
the entrance were formed in three ranks, and expressly
ordered not to fire on the crowd. . The first line had orders
to raise the but-ends of their muskets in the air (a token of
peace), and if broken by the crowd to retire behind the third
line. The second line had received the same orders. The
third line was to cross bayonets and remain firm ; but they
were not to fire. The crowd advanced. The first line raised
the but-ends of their muskets and gave way. The crowd
continued to press upon the Guards. The second line fol
lowed the example of the fitgt. The third now stood at
" charge bayonets," and refused to give way. The crowd
shouted Vive Vordre ! Vive VAssemblee Nationale ! and con-
ST. ANTOINE. 157
tinned to press forward. Seeing the Nationals would not
give way, they became violent, swaying to and fro, and re
doubling their cries. They raised the cry of A. bas les
Assassins/ A bas le Comitel Several individuals seized
the muskets and attempted to wrench them from the hands of
the Guards. One of the crowd recognized Maljournal, an
officer of the Guards and a member of the Central Com
mittee. He seized a revolver, fired upon him, and Maljour
nal fell, seriously wounded. General Bergeret, commandant,
now ordered the great drum of the Place to be beat. For
several minutes it rolled, mingling with the furious cries of the
crowd. Again and again they were ordered to retire. An
individual in the crowd fired upon an officer. He was cut
down by a sabre in the hands of a lieutenant of the Guard.
At this moment several shots were heard from the neigh
boring houses, which had been occupied by the crowd, and
several of the Nationals fell wounded. Everything was now
uproar and confusion. The Nationals advanced slowly, fixed
bayonets. The crowd now rushed upon them and attempted
to disarm them. The firing from the rear was repeated.
Two of the Guards were killed, and the firing from both
sides became general. To disperse the crowd was but the
work of a few seconds ; but many of them were killed and
wounded. It was afterwards pretended that the Guards fired
first, and then wantonly slaughtered a great number of
peaceful and orderly citizens ; that the Rue de la Paix was
filled with blood and carnage.
There were but two Americans present General Phil.
Sheridan and Mirabeau Holmes one from the North, one
from the South ; of course they would have disagreed if
possible. They saw the whole affair from the Westminster
Hotel, Rue de la Paix. Both affirm that the account here
given is positively the true one. It may be objected that
158 A IRA.
Mirabeau Holmes was, or afterwards became, an interested
party ; but General Sheridan was not likely to make it
light on the Nationals from any misgivings as to the
possibility of an armed soldiery wantonly firing upon and
slaughtering a crowd of unarmed, peaceable citizens. At
least one would judge so from the record he made during the-
great " war between the States," in which the Southerners
were unfortunate enough to lose their negroes and silver
spoons. General Bergeret whose sayings deserve consider
ation, not only because he was Commandant of the Place
and afterwards a prominent member of the Commune, but
because also of his known uprightness of character gave,
in effect, the same account of the affair. In concluding his
report, General Bergeret used the following language :
" We do not want war, nor do we want to kill each other,
for our enemies are scarcely out of the city, What can we
do ? The Government attempted to take our cannon and to
prepare for a monarchy. The Assembly has a fixed deter
mination to force a king upon us. Let us avoid further
bloodshed."
Meanwhile, the Mayors and Depiities had gone to Ver
sailles ; and there was enacted such a comedy as France her
self has seldom been called upon to witness. It was dis
graceful. It was criminal.
In the great wars of the Fronde, which for years desolated
France, the questions at issue were mainly these three :
Who should sit, and who should stand, in the presence
of Royalty ? Who should hand the king his napkin to
wipe his fingers with ? (for kings have fingers too, just like
other people, and get them greased if they eat chicken-wings).
Was it lawful for anybody but a princess of the blood to
help the queen on with her shift ? Not that this last is
such an insignificant question either provided the queen
ST. ANTOINE. ] 59
be young and good-looking. In this case I am clearly of
opinion that it would be extremely lawful, in fact highly
proper, for somebody other than a princess of the blood to
help the queen on with her shift, or off with it either. As
for my part, being an American and a Georgian, I would
scorn to live in a country where it was not lawful for a gen
tleman to be a gentleman at all points. But can the mind
of mortal man conceive of questions more ridiculous than the
first two given above ; or more absurd than the last after
the queen has lost her teeth ? But it was reserved for the
National Assembly to decide that it was strictly lawful and
imperatively necessary to plunge the country in civil war,
because the Mayoi-s of Paris on entering the chamber re
sponded with similar exclamations to Vive la France! Vive
la Repiiblique ! from the Deputies. If it had been proposed
by a Deputy that the Mayors should be allowed to say Vive
la Hepublique in the chamber, the case would be vastly dif*- t
ferent. In the case supposed 110 one who knows the Assem
bly would be at all surprised that the Deputies should de
nounce each other with the utmost eclat, break up in the
wildest confusion, and proceed to declare several Republics,
Empires, Monarchies, and Provisaires, one and indivisible.
Biit here it is entirely different. The Mayors had already
said their Vive la HepuUique ! and all the gods of the Pan
theon could not unsay it. The case was this : M. Arnaud,
a Mayor and a Depiity, said that " he, in common with
his colleagues, Mayors of Paris, in view of the gravity
of the situation, had come to Versailles to place him
self in communication with the Assembly. He knew
that none but members had the right to a seat on the
floor, but asked that, under existing circumstances, an ex
ception be made in favor of the Mayors. (Violent pro
tests on the Right.) It would be sufficient that one of
160 q\ IRA.
them, who "was also a Deputy, should make the communi
cation, so as to prevent any idea of disorder. He merely
wished to observe that, as they had all come together, and
been jointly delegated
On the Right : " By whom? " (Great noise.)
"Voices from Right : " Was it by the existing Executive ? "
M. Flouquet (Republican) " You desire, then, civil
war?" (Renewed and continued uproar.)
Finally, after much disturbance, it was decided by the
President, who had more sense than most of the Deputies,
that a tribune should be placed at the disposal of the Mayors,
and that their communication could be read by some one of
them, who was also a Deputy. He observed that this could
be done without infringing upon their rights, prerogatives,
and interests a thing that must not be thought of implying
that civil war was far preferable. The Mayors then entered,
each wearing a tricolored scarf, the insignia of their office.
The whole Assembly rose and welcomed them with ci'ies of
Vive la JReptiblique ! from the Left, and Vive la France ! from
the Right. But when the Mayors responded with similar
exclamations, immediately there arose a great tumult. The
Right : " Order ! Order ! They do not respect the Assembly !
They have no right to speak ! Treason ! Invasion ! Out !
Out*! Clear the hall ! "
M. Flouquet and several on the Left : " Hear us, we im
plore you ! You are plunging France in civil war ! "
But the Right only redoubled their cries. Many of them
put on their hats. And finally the Assembly broke up in.
the midst of the greatest confusion and tumultuous uproar.
The Mayors immediately returned to Paris, and- agreed with
the Central Committee that the" elections should be held on
the 26th. The next day Louis Blanc made a final effort to
avoid civil war. He stated that the Mayors had determined,
ST. ANTOINE. 161
under the exigencies of the times, to hold the elections
on the 26th ; and he asked, in the name of the Deputies of
the capital, the Assembly to declare that the Mayors had
acted like good citizens in consenting to that course. M.
Blanc added that he himself thought there was great dan
ger in postponing the elections. The proposition was rejected
by a large majority, only a few members on the Left voting
in the affirmative.
The Communal Council was elected on the 26th. It was
composed of one hundred and six members. Those princi
pally known to fame were Assi, Blanqui, Delescluze, Flourens,
Felix Pyat, and Gambon ; also Generals Bergeret and Clu-
seret, and afterwards Dombrowski. Cluseret was made del
egate of war, and Bergeret commander-in-chief of the forces
in the field, with Flourens second in command. Forts Tssy
and Vanves, and all on the south, were in the hands of the
Commune. Mont Valerien on the west, which was finaMy
the ruin of the Commune, was in the possession of the enemy.
The Commune had now organized an army of a hundred
thousand men. The war between the people of Paris and
the conspiring monarchists at Versailles had begun in earnest.
The red Hag floated from the palace of the Tuileries. The
Government at Versailles issued a decree that all prisoners
falling into their hands should be immediately shot. This
was the beginning ; Satory was the end. And these are the
men who call the Communists assassins ! The Commune,
hoping to prevent such murder, decreed that for every pris
oner thus assassinated, four of the Versaillese should be
shot.
On the afternoon of Sunday, the second of April, a splen
did body of fifty thousand soldiers set out towards Versailles.
l)rums were beating. The people were singing and shouting.
The army was reviewed by General Bergeret before it set
162 gA IRA.
out. It was here that Mirabeau Holmes, being at the side
of the General, witnessed one of those stirring scenes never
seen save among the French or Italian people. A most
beautiful woman, mounted upon a superb white chai-ger, and
displaying the red flag of the Commune, advanced into the
midst of the soldiers. Her hair, that would shame a raven's
wing, bound loosely at the back with a fillet, fell to her
waist, and from her forehead glittered a diamond star. She
waved her banner, and sang the Marseillaise. She sang as
she had sung once before to the heroes of Garibaldi. When
she ceased, the very air seemed to glow and tremble with the
enei-gy of inspired fervor. For a moment there was silence ;
and then the vast multitude sent their caps into the air, and
the heavens and eai-th seemed frenzied with enthusiasm.
Full of the most active sympathy, Mirabeau Holmes was al
ready seized with the ardor of the French people. Here a
most happy thought struck him, and from this moment his
place in the heart of Paris was secured. He proposed that
the whole people, citizens and soldiers, vote the beautiful
woman a crown ; and the proposition was adopted amid a
perfect fury of applause. The beautiful woman was Alberta
Simona, sister of the Italian patriot. Having signified her
wish, Mirabeau was immediately presented to her, by her
brother, the Colonel.
The column moved forward. Some were shouting "A
Versailles ! " "A Versailles ! " while others were chanting
snatches of their wonderful hymn :
Aliens, enfants de la patrie,
Le jour de gloire_est arriv^ ;
Centre nous de la tyrannie
L'etendard sanglant est leve.
Aux armes, citoyens ! etc.
ST. ANTOINE. 163
Tremblez, tyrans, et vous, perfides,
L'approbe de tous les partis.
Tremblez ! vos projets parricides
Vont enfin recevoir leur prix.
Aux armes, citoyenb ! etc.
Amour sacre de la patrie,
Conduis, soutiens, nos bras vengeurs !
Liberte, liberte cherie,
Combats avec tes defenseurs !
Aux armes, citoyens ! etc.
The army was divided into three corps, commanded by
Generals Duval, Eudes, and Gustave Flourens General
Bergeret commander-in-chief. The main body of the enemy,
in all some fifty thousand, was strongly intrenched upon the
heights of Meudon. The Nationals attacked them. Again
and again the Nationals charged ; again and again they were
forced back by the storm of bullets and grape and canister
from the heights. Five thousand picked men were gathering
for a final charge. Alberta Sisnona had been watching the
battle ; but now she would stay no longer. She advanced,
standard displayed, to where the General and some officers
were standing, in a perfect shower of balls, in front of where
the column was forming. She was in a few paces of them
when she was struck, and fell from her horse. The whole
army uttered a cry of pain. Officers and soldiers gathered
for a moment around her. The General was wounded and
was bleeding profusely. Mirabeau's hand was shattered,
and he was also bleeding from a sabre-cut. Alberta begged
her brother to go, and leave her with the General and Mira-
beau, both of whom had to be borne from the field.
Simona placed himself at the head of the five thousand
men. There was no yelling, no shouting. Not a sound
broke the roar of cannon and musketry. "En avant ! "
164 <?A IRA.
And this splendid column swept swiftly across the plain and
up the heights, to do or to die. In the trenches. Hand to
hand, and steel to steel. A shout of victory rends the air.
The red flag floats from the battlements ! But the Nationals
are almost spent with fatigue. Half their number lie dead
upon the plain and in the trenches. The enemy is reinforced.
The red flag is torn from its place. And the Nationals arc
again forced back down the hill and across the plain.
General Flourens was also defeated at Rueil. That bravo
man was surrounded, and compelled to surrender himself a
prisoner. When asked who he was, he replied : K One who
has spent his life in the service of the people. I am Gustavo
Flourens." He had already thrown down his arms. Tho
gallant officer, Captain Desmere, to whom he had surren
dered, rushed upon him, and cut him over the head with his
sabre. Then all fell upon him, and the brave old man was
riddled with balls. His body was taken to Versailles and
placed on exhibition. " Qui meurt pour le peuple a vecu ! "
A place in the Pantheon awaits it !
The more one reflects the more one wonders at the extra
ordinary moderation of the Commune under the most trying
circumstances. It was decreed that the public treasures of the
Paris churches should be seized. Concerning this seizure tho
Mot cC Ordre Henri Rochefort's paper said : " As for tho
sacred vases studded with emeralds, or the emeralds enriched
with finely-chased vessels, we do not hesitate to declare them
public property, from the simple reason that they are, derived
from the generosity of those to whom the Church promised
Paradise ; and that an assurance of imaginary blessings, given
to extort money or articles of- value, is designated in all codes
as swindling. We cannot say how the first Christians under
stood religion ; it has since been strangely revised, corrected,
and augmented ; but at this hour, and for many centuries
ST. AXTOIXE. 1C5
past, it has become the pretext for all sorts of extortions and
intimidations. For this reason we infinitely prefer seeing
the Commune make requisitions on the churches rather than
on merchants and manufacturers." Of course, M. Rochefort
was speaking of the Catholic Church, which never fails by all
sorts of threats and death-bed terrors to extort money or
other valuables from its blind and ignorant devotees. Still,
an intimate acquaintance with New England witcheries and
" Scotch miracles " as Fred Van Comer termed them would
not probably have softened his judgment. But M. Rochefort
was not the Commune, not even a member of it. The Com
mune seized the public treasures of the churches, because it
was that, or let the people starve ! Was not that sufficient
reason ? The only wonder is, that all the treasures were not
seized. There was a proof of its moderation. From the great
Bank of France, with its two thousand millions of dollars, it
only demanded the pitiful sum of twenty odd millions ! They
only wanted enough to keep the brave defenders of Paris
from starving. They themselves were serving without pay.
The following decree was also issued :
"Paris, April 12, 1871.
" THE COMMUNE OF PARIS Considering that the Imperial
Column in the Place Vendome is a monument of barbarism,
a symbol of brute force and false glory, an affirmation of
militarism, a negation of international law, a permanent in
sult cast by the victors upon the vanquished, a perpetual
attack upon one of the great principles of the French Revolu
tion, Fraternity decrees the Column of the Place Vendome
shall be demolished."
It was right and proper. I appeal to any man not a
Frenchman, at all capable of exalted hopes for the future of
166 gA IKA.
Humanity, if the logic of the Commune is not unanswerable.
I say "any man not a Frenchman." For even Victor Hugo
of whom it has been truly said, " In a better world than
this Victor Hugo would be a grand man " has been so far
blinded by the National vanity as to declare " The Column
destroyed was a sad hour for France." But let Victor Hugo
be forgiven ; for he also said " I was not with them (the
men of the Commune). But I accept the principle of the
Commune." The Column was overthrown on the 16th May.
The following description may be interesting to my readers.
" In 1806 Napoleon had this monument erected in honor
of the victories of the Imperial armies. The column was of
Tuscan order, copied after Trajan's pillar. Height 135 feet,
circiimference at the base 35 feet, base 21 feet high and 20
square. The column was covered with bas-reliefs in bronze,
composed of 276 plates made out of cannon taken from the
Russians and Austrians in the Imperial campaign of 1805.
The bas-reliefs were three feet eight inches high and circled
the column 22 times, making a spiral 840 feet long. They
were a series of tableaux, 76 in number, having for their
subjects the principal incidents of the Austerlitz campaign.
The bas-reliefs begin with the breaking up of the camp de
Boulogne. The first represents the troops in review and the
Havre flotilla rounding Cape d'Alpreck. The commentator
construes the appearance of the ships while Napoleon was
inspecting his army into a desire on the part of Ocean to pay
also its tribute to the emperor. Then we have the departure
of the various corps from Boulogne, Brest, Utrecht, and
Hanover, on the great converging march, which, until last
yea^r, was perhaps the finest campaign opening ever planned.
The troops are represented as taking farewell of the sailors,
who were to have ferried them over to the battle of Dorking ;
we see them on the march, crossing rivers, entering towns,
ST. ANTOINE. 1G7
and in their various arms of artillery, cavalry, and infantry.
In the sixth tableau the Emperor appears before his servile
Senators at Paris, and informs them that the war against the
third coalition has beg\m. The will of the eternal enemies
of Europe is accomplished (said the Emperor on that occa
sion), the peace I hoped would continue is broken, blood will
flow, but the French name will win a new lustre. A few
words like these were quite sufficient to cover the demand
for 80,000 men of the next year's conscription. The tab
leaux continue ; the soldiers are still on their road, crossing
the Rhine at Mayence, Manheim, Spires, Dourlach, and
Strasburg. Then comes the Emperor himself, riding over
the bridge of Kehl, with his headquarter staff, on the 1st Oc
tober, exactly one month after the breaking up of the camp.
The submissive Electors of Baden and Wurtemberg, who are
rewarded with crowns after Austerlitz, receive their bene
factor; and in the loth tableau the first blow is struck at
Donowerth by the 4th corps, thirty-six days from Boulogne.
Then we have Murat clearing the road to Augsburg and Ulm
by the combat at Wertingen, and the passage of the Danube
at Xewburgh by the 2d and 3d corps. The plot thickens.
Augsburg is entered, and the Emperor harangues the troops,
' after the manner of the Roman Emperors ' upon the immi
nence of a great battle. The 24th tableau depicts Soult's
success at Meningen ; a spirited relief and a long inscription
tell how Ney forced the bridge at Elchingen, which gave him
his title of Due. The enemy are driven back upon their in-
trenchments before Ulm, and the Emperor arrives at head
quarters on the 15th October. Two days afterwards 31st
tableau Berthier, surrounded by his staff, receives the capit
ulation of General Mack. The panorama continues ; the
garrison of Ulm file out and lay down their arms. The
Emperor receives General Mack in tableau 33, and then
168 A IKA.
comes what the legend calls ' a superb and ingenious allegory,
dedicated to the glory of the Emperor Napoleon.' The alle
gory is as simple as superb, being nothing more nor less than
Victory writing on a shield the words, ' Capitulation d'Ulm.'
A few more scenes, among which is the desperate fight at
Krems, where Frenchmen met Russians in a narrow defile,
and were so crowded together that they could not use their
muskets, and fought with unfixed bayonets brings the spec
tator to the quarters at Schonbrunn, the entry into Vienna,
and the surrender of the keys of the capital. A deputation
from Paris arrive with felicitations, and then the Emperor is
seen quitting Vienna with many of his Generals for Braun.
The great blow is impending ; a reconnaissance is pushed on as
far as Olrnutz ; Presburg is entered ; the heights of Saiiton are
occupied by the artillery. On the night of the 1st December
the Emperor, wrapped in his cloak, visits the advanced posts ;
it is the anniversary of his coronation [A BAS LA RPUBLIQUE ?]
and the soldiers light pine torches till the whole camp is
illnminated. High up the column began the series of bas-
reliefs in which its climbing glories culminated. The Sun of
Austerlitz rises, and the Emperor was to be seen on horse
back, giving orders to the Marshals and Generals. A furious
cavalry charge breaks a column of the enemy's infantry, cap
tive Generals surrender their swords, and Oudinot's foot-
guards drive a body of Russians into the icy lake of Augerd.
[Poor devils ! was it for this they were born ? For this, in part,
that the Column was erected by the victors ?] In the next
scene the battle is won, the Emperor of Austria has craved
an interview, and is asking his bon frere to grant an armistice.
Further on still, French soldiers carry off cannon and other
arms from the Vienna Arsenal. Talleyrand arrives at Pres
burg to negotiate the treaty, which is signed by Napoleon the
day after Christinas-day [and by which some considerable area
ST. ANTOINE. 169
of territory, and goods and chattels such as horses, sheep,
men, cattle, women, hogs, furniture, children, etc., were dis
posed off Down with the Column!] St. Mark's Lion and
some richly decorated gondolas denote the cession of the
Venetian States, the Electors of Bavaria and Wurtemberg
receive their crowns, the Imperial Guard enters France bear
ing captured standards, the Emperor returns to Paris, and
passes under the Arc de Triomphe, a car laden with spoils of
war follows, and last of all, hundred-voiced Fame proclaims
the high deeds of the campaign of 1805, while old Seine, re
clining on his flood, listens to the story of so many glorious
battles."
Just so ! " The Electors of Bavaria and Wurtemberg re
ceive their CROWNS." What do the people receive ? Death,
for the most part. Some receive the loss of one or more
limbs. Others, various glorious wounds. As for the rest,
why, one half of them receive each a knapsack full of " spoils of
ar." Where do these spoils of war come from ? Well, from
rtain poor, miserable, oppressed devils, pretty much like the
ictors. But there is one glorious consideration both for the
iving and the dead among the victors it is OFFICIALLY de
clared that they " deserve well of the Country." Ought not
at to be enough to satisfy reasonable men, not to say patriots,
for the loss of legs or heads ? Ungrateful dogs ! To your
holes ! in the Faubourg St. Antoine. But whenever you get
a chance, remember to tear down the Imperial Column, and
,11 else like it. The Column was demolished on the 16th May.
Meanwhile several changes had taken place. Dombrowski
had succeeded Bergeret as Commandant of Paris. Citizen
irabeau Holmes had become a member of x the Commune.
ossel had succeeded Cluseret as Delegate of War. Forts
anves and Issy were demolished, and the Versailles army
gradually closing in upon Paris. Deputations from all
170 QA IKA.
the principal cities of France had gone to Versailles to in
tercede for Paris ; but the invariable reply was : " Some
more houses will be shelled, and more men will be killed ;
but Paris must be crushed."
On the 9th May, Rossel, Delegate of War, resigned. He
was arrested next day, and escaped to be afterwards igno-
miniously shot at Versailles. Poor Rossel ! He presents the
most pitiful figure in all the history of the Commune. One
day Colonel Lepreche, commanding the trenches, summoned
Rossel to surrender Fort Issy " within the space of one quar
ter of an hour," else " the whole garrison shall be put to the
sword." Rossel sent the following reply :
" PARIS, May 1, 1871.
" To Citizen Lepreche, major of the trenches before Forfc Issy :
" MY DEAR COMRADE : The next time you venture to send
us so insolent a communication as your letter of yesterday,
I will have your messenger shot, in conformity with the
usages of war.
" Your devoted comrade,
" ROSSEL,
" Delegate of the Commune."
Citizen Delescluze succeeded Rossel as Delegate of War.
On the 29th April there was a grand demonstration of all
the Freemasons of Paris. The grand procession, with music
and flags, entered the Hotel de Ville about noon, which had
been decorated for the occasion. All the members of the
Commune, wearing their red scarfs, were present. The walls
were adorned with devices oj flowers and olive branches.
Upon the floor of the Court of Honor, and upon the stair
ways, were carpets of crimson. When the court was full,
Felix Pyat rose to pronounce an address. Shouts arose
ST. ANTOINE. 171
from every side : Vive la franc-Maponnerie I Vive la Com
mune ! Vive la Republique Universelle ! " Brothers, citi
zens of the great country of the universal country," said
Felix Pyat, " faithful to our common principles, Liberty,
Equality, and Fraternity, having posted your manifesto
manifesto of the heart on the walls of Paris, you go now
to plant your banner of humanity on the ramparts of our
besieged and bombarded city. You go to protest thus
against homicidal balls, in the name of right and universal
peace. (Shouts of Vive la Republique! Vive la Commune!)
You go to stretch out to the men of Versailles a disarmed
hand disarmed, but only for the moment and we, the man-
da taires of the people and defenders of its rights; we, the
elected by vote we wish to join ourselves with you the
elected by ordeal in this fraternal act. Five favored names
members of the Commune have been designated by lot to
accompany you in this glorious, victorious act. (Renewed
shouts of Vive la Commune ! Vive la franc- Ma ponnerie /)
Your act, citizens, will remain in the history of France and
of Humanity. Long live the Universal Republic ! " (Loud
and continued shouts of Vive la Commune ! Vive la Repu
blique Universelle /)
Citizen Beslay, member of the Commune : " Citizens,
the whole Commune of Paris wish to take part with you in
this great manifestation. I was not one of the fortunate
five yesterday ; but I asked, nevertheless, to go before you
as senior of the Commune of Paris, and also of the Free
masonry of France, of which I have been a member during
fifty-six years. What can I say to you after the eloquent
words of Felix Pyat ? Citizens, Brothers : Permit me to
give to one of you the fraternal embrace." (Citizen Beslay
embraces one of the Freemasons. Great applause Vive la
Republique f)
172 <?A IRA.
A Freemason, banner in hand : " I claim the honor of
planting the first banner on the ramparts of Paris the
banner of Perseverance, which has existed since 1790."
(Applause.)
The Band played La Marseillaise.
Citizen Leo Meillet, member of the Commune : " It is
the flag of the Commune of Paris which the Commune is
about to confide to the Freemasons. This flag should accom
pany your pacific banners ; it is the flag of universal peace,
of our federative rights. It will be placed in front of your
banners, and before the homicidal balls of Versailles."
(Citizen Terifocq, Freemason, takes the flag from the hands
of Citizen Leo Meillet.)
Citizen Terifocq : " Citizens, Brothers : I see at our head
the white banner of the Lodge of Vincennes, on which are
inscribed these words : ' Let us love one another.' We will
go and present first this banner to our enemies' ranks ; we
will stretch our hands to them, since Versailles will not hear
us ! Yes, Citizens, Brothers, we will address ourselves to
the soldiers, and we will say : ' Soldiers of the same country,
come and fraternize with us ; we will have no bullets for
you so long as you send us none of yours. Come and em
brace us, and let peace be made.' (Prolonged applause.)
And if this peace is accomplished, we will return to Paris
convinced that we have gained the most glorious victory
that of humanity ! If, on the contrary, we are not heard, but
fired upon, we will call every vengeance to our aid. We are
certain that we shall be heard, and that the Masonry of
all the provinces of France will follow our example. If
we fail in our attempt for 'peace, and if Versailles gives
the order not to fire upon us, but to kill only our brothers
of the ramparts, then we will mingle with them we, who
until now have taken service in the National Guard only
ST. A.NTOINE. 173
as a service of order, those who have hitherto not be
longed to it, as well as those already in its ranks and
all together we will join the companies of war, to take
part in the battle, and to encourage by our example the
brave and glorious soldiers defenders of our city." (Gen
eral applause, and prolonged shouts of Vive la Commune !
Vive la franc- Mayonnerie !) Citizen Terifocq waved the
flag of the Commune and cried, " Now, Citizens, no more
words to action ! "
The Band struck up La Marseillaise, and the procession
of Masons, accompanied by the delegation of the Commune,
filed out of the Hotel de Ville. The flags were planted upon
the ramparts at Porte Maillot. When the Masonic banners
were seen, General Montaudon, commander at that point, and
himself a mason, ordered the firing to cease for a short time.
Meanwhile a deputation was sent to Versailles. They re
ceived from the Versailles lambs only the stereotyped answer :
" More houses will be shelled and more men killed, but Paris
must submit to the Assembly." The firing recommenced. The
masonic banners were riddled. The cannonade was now fear
ful in the extreme, far more terrible than the Prussian bom
bardment. Many of the shells, passing over the Arc de
Triomphe, went crashing and screaming along Avenue Champs
Elysees.
The following was published by Delescluze, the Delegate
of War : " We point out to public indignation the conduct of
the Colonel commanding the 39th of the line. When the
Versailles troops took possession of the Park of Neuilly, that
infamous butcher ordered eighteen prisoners to be shot, swear
ing that he would do the same with every man from Paris
that fell into his hands. Let him beware on his side of
fal ling into theirs." The following was also published by the
Comnrane :
<?A IRA.
" Paris, May 27.
"The Government of Versailles has just disgraced itself
with a fresh crime, the most frightful and most dastardly of
all. Its agents set fire to the cartridge manufactory on the
Avenue Rapp, and produced a frightful catastrophe. The
number of victims is estimated at more than a hundred.
Women were blown to pieces, as well as a child at the breast.
Four of the criminals are in custody."
This was indeed a fearful crime. What object could there
be in blowing up this factory ? Paris had more arms and
munitions of war than there was any need for. The blowing
up of this large manufactory could accomplish nothing but
the fearful death of some hundreds, perhaps, of women and
children. I say, " perhaps some hundreds," for there were
ordinarily about one thousand women employed in the estab
lishment ; and from some apparently mere accidental circum
stance nearly all of them had left the establishment at five
instead of seven o'clock, their usual hour. The enormity of
the crime must still be measured by the intention. The Ver
sailles lammies ! The Commune demolishes the Column.
The lamblings of Versailles blow up, a house containing a
thousand women, and many children : (i bas les assassins !
In a dark, still room, in the beautiful Rue de la Paix, a
beautiful girl lay wounded and dying. It was the Italian
patriot girl, Alberta Simona. Her brother was not there.
There were only two or three attendants in the room, besides
two visitors ; the visitors were the Citizen Delescluze and
Mirabeau Holmes. The terrible roar of artillery shook the
house. Simona had been sent for ; he was defending the Porte
Maillot; he could not leave his post. His beautiful sister,
whom he loved with a passionate devotion worthy of himself
and of her, must even die without a parting adieu, without a
ST. ANTOESTE. 175
\
last sweet kiss from the brother she idolized. Such sacrifices
the cause of liberty demands. For once, the stoical face of
Delescluze was wet with tears. What did he see before him ?
A beautiful young girl, who had left her own country and
come, in obedience to a divine sentiment, to offer up her pvire
young life upon the altar of liberty. As for Mirabeau, he had
from the very first been attracted to this girl. So much beauty,
such sweetness, such inspired sentiment had awakened in him
the highest feelings of devotion and love. And no wonder.
Even that is the beauty of life. That it is that makes life
divine. And there was something divine, too, in the feeling
with which she inspired him. There was nothing selfish in
it. Indeed, he could not have defined his own feeling; it was
too ethereal. Language expresses the thoughts and feelings
of common Humanity. And Humanity has scarcely yet had
need of language to express the most exalted and ethereal
sentiments. It was now several days since she had received
the fatal wound ; and more than once had Mirabeau been at
her bedside. He was here to-day for the last time. She
wi.shofl. for her brother. They had made a promise to each
other in Italy, when they were with the patriot army of Gari
baldi, that when either of them came to die it should be, if
possible, in the arms of the other. But even this sweet con
solation was denied them. Bien !
The Commune of Paris, with uncovered heads, followed the
sacred dust of this girl to Pere-la-Chaise. And that dust, too,
when the great time comes, shall receive a sacred niche in
the Pantheon. Meanwhile, let a shaft of polished marble,
pure and white, rise high in the air ; and let a golden railing
enclose the spot where she fell. Carve Excelsior upon the
marble ; but plant no weeping willow there !
176 A IRA.
CHAPTER XIII.
" Serrez vos rangs, qu'on se soutienne I
Marchons ! chaque enfant de Paris,
De sa cartouche citoyenne
Fait une offrande a son pays."
THE most trying times had now come upon Paris. All
hope was gone of succor from the other large cities. Faith
ful to their traditions, Lyons, Marseilles, and one or two
others had displayed the red flag, and demanded to be led
to the rescue of Paris, the Republic, and the principles of
'89. But the Assembly, having the name of the Republic
on its side, and having the confidence of the rural districts,
to say nothing of armed forces at every point, the risings in
the cities were speedily put down. Paris was left to its
fate. The cities had also sent deputations to Versailles.
" Some more houses will be shelled, and some more men
killed, but Paris must submit," was the answer they re
ceived. Bien ! So also say we. There may be, doubtless
will be, some more triumphs for oppression and injustice
yet. Some more cities may be shelled, doubtless will be ;
some millions more of unfortunates will be slain in the field
or starved in the cellar ; there may even be a few more
Satorys yet, but the grand time will come ! Humanity will
triumph at last ! Close up the ranks ! Destiny approaches,
and victory sits upon her banners !
Delescluze received the following :
%
"PABIS, May 16, 1871 (Tuesday, 7 P. M.).
" CITIZEN DELESCLUZE : A citoyenne who is entirely de-
ST. ANTOINE. 177
voted to you has a most serious comnvunication to make
you ; only as she wishes to make it to you alone, she begs
you to keep absolutely secret the reception of these lines,
and also to find yourself to-morrow (Wednesday, 17th) in
the Rue Neuve-des-Petits-Champs, at No. 48, under the
entrance to the Ventadour Baths. You must appear to be
strolling, and no one will pay you any attention. Be there
at four o'clock. You may have to wait five or six minutes
at the most. A carriage will stop before you, and you must
enter. Be without fear ; the person who wishes to speak
to you will be alone. Put a flower of some kind in your
left button-hole, so that the coachman may distinguish you at
once. Above all, discretion. Not a word of this to those
surrounding you.
" Yours, with all my heart,
" JEANNE LACASSIERE.
" P.S. Burn this."
/
Delescluze was " without fear." He met the citoyenne at
No. 48, and had disclosed to him a dark conspiracy of four mem
bers of the Commune for delivering up the city to Versailles.
One of the conspirators was Cerisier, a weak, timid man. De
lescluze immediately went to Cerisier, and got from him knowl
edge of the whole affair. They were to open the gates at one
o'clock at night. When the troops appeared that night, ex
pecting to meet the conspirators, and to have the gates opened,
they were fired upon, and most of them killed. These were
the darkest days of the Commune, and through them the
character of Delescluze shone with the noblest and most con-
spicuoiis lustre. Now in the War Office, issuing orders ; now
upon the battlements, in the midst of iron and blood, and
pointing the cannon with the utmost coolness and precision
of aim ; and now assisting and encouraging at the barricades ;
178 A IRA.
everywhere showing a stoical grandeur of character worthy
of an acient hero. He knew that the decree had gone forth
Paris must fall ! And he knew, too, that, whatever others
might do, there was one man in Paris that should be faithful
to his promises. And that man was himself. If he had
been less unselfish, not wholly devoted to the cause of Hu
manity ; if he had found pleasm-e even in his own glory, he
might have looked beyond the din and smoke of the final
struggle, and found cause to rejoice. For fate had already
unrolled the long list of Humanity's martyrs, and there,
high up on the sacred scroll, might be seen the name of
" DELESCLUZE " in a coronal of glory.
On the night of Sunday, the 21st of May, the gates having
been opened by treachery not, however, by any member of
the Commune, but by one Monsieur Ducatel the Versailles
army entered Paris. In consequence of the conspiracies
and defections, and the changes of officers resulting there
from, there seems to have been such confusion that there
was a considerable portion of the army within the walls be
fore it was known even at the War Office. Indeed, it was
not till Monday morning, late, that it was generally known
in the city. By this time the enemy had penetrated as far
as the Arc de Triomphe, and the tricolor floated from the
summit of that monument. And now came the times of
terror and death. The Committee of Public Safety issued
the following :
"PARIS, May 22.
" Rise up, patriotic citizens ! To the barricades ! The
enemy is within our walls! No hesitation ! Forward for
the Republic, the Commune, afid Liberty ! To arms ! "
They also published an appeal to the Versailles troops.
" Like vis," said the appeal, " you are proletaires, and like
ST. ANTOINE. 179
us, you have an interest in not allowing to the conspiring
monarchists the right to drink your blood, as they profit by
the sweat of your brow." They were appealed to to imitate
the course they pursued on the 18th of March, to come and
fraternize with the people. But the assailants showed them
selves only too ready to carry out the bloody programme of
Versailles. There is but one recorded instance where the
men refused to obey their brutal officers. It deserves to be
recorded. In the Rue du Temple a barricade, after repeated
charges and a most heroic defence, was finally taken. The
brave defenders fought to the last, and several hundred were
taken prisoners with arms in their hand. This circumstance,
instead of arousing the admiration of the officer, determined
him to have them all murdered on the spot. There were
several women among them, and one child, a boy about
twelve years old. They were all turned over to a captain,
with a corps of execution, with orders that they should all
be immediately shot child, women, and all. The turn of the
child came. He was pushed against the wall to be shot.
He asked to be allowed to speak to the captain. The captain
advances, and asks what he wants.
" I should like," said the child, drawing a watch from his
pocket, " to carry this to the concierge who lives opposite ;
he would know to whom to give it."
The captain looked at the men ; for he was only executing
orders, and it was necessary that he be careful lest he be
placed against the wall himself for disobeying orders. They
all seemed to understand that the child only wished to make
his escape. " Let him go," said the men with one voice.
" Well, go ! and hurry yourself ! " said the captain.
What was their amazement, when, suddenly, running as
for life, and almost breathless, the child reappeared, and
placing himself with his back to the wall, exclaimed " Me
ISO A IKA.
voiltif" This was too much for them. Some of the men
threw down their rnuskets ; some looked to the captain, and
then at the boy, lost in admiration. The captain seized the
boy by the shoulders, gave him a furious kick, saying, " Get
out of the way, you wretched little imp ! " But the several
hundred men, and the women too, whose heroic bravery
ought only to have called forth admiration, were all shot, and
their bodies, some of them still quivering and writhing in
death, thrown into a heap. The following was issued from
the War Department:
"PARIS, May22d.
" The citizen Jacquet is authorized to requisition all in
habitants, and all objects necessary to him, in the construc
tion of the barricades in the Rue du Chateau d'Eau and of
the Rue Alhouy.
" Wine and whiskey alone are and remain excepted.
" All citizens, men or women, who refuse their aid, shall
be immediately shot.
" DELESCLUZE,
" Delegate of War."
Orders were issued to erect barricades everywhere. The
Faubourg St. Antoine bristled with them. Several were
erected in the Rue de Rivoli, Rue St. Honore, and on the
Quai. They were also numerous in the neighborhood of
Pere-la-Chaise, Chateau d'Eau and Montmartre, in the north
and east, and at Pont Neuf, Place St. Michel, and in the
Boulevard St. Germain, in the south and west. And they
were not such either as usually spring up in a single night.
They were constructed mainly of paving stones and sacks of
sand, and were very strong. " Ah ! (ja ira, 5a ira, <;a ira,"
was not heard in the streets. All men, women, and chil
dren went silently, swiftly, desperately to work to build bar-
ST. ANTOINE. 181
ricades and die behind them. At one time thirty women
appeared at the War Office, and demanded guns to arm a bar
ricade in the Place du Palace Royale. They were all in
mourning. Each one of them had lost a husband, lover,
son, or brother. There were no horses to drag the guns.
The women hitched themselves to the guns and dragged them
to the barricade. They carried displayed the red flag of
the Commune. Citizen Jules Valles delivered them the
guns, the flag, and an order from Delescluze commissioning
them to aid in the defence of Paris. One of them also re
ceived the embrace of citizen Valles in the name of all, and
they departed to the barricade.
Then came the mistresses of the primary schools established
by the Commune. They desired to employ the children under
their charge in making bags to be filled with sand and used in
constructing barricades. Thus it was that everybody sol
diers, citizens, masons, women, boys, and little girls wanted
a part in the defence of their city. I, for one, wish the name
of every one was preserved. I think I could read the bare
record of their names with as much interest, and with as
sacred a fervor, as the grand deeds of any patriot that has
shed his blood for the Right, that has died in the cause of
Humanity. Verily, verily, I wish the dust of every one of
them, whether they died behind the barricades ; whether they
were hurried against the wall and shot ; whether they were
slaughtered at Satory ; or whether they survived the con
flict and shall die hereafter at home, or in exile, no matter
how nor where, I wish the dust of them all might be gather
ed into some Pantheon of the world !
On Tuesday afternoon there were five men met together
in the War Office of the Commune. I think you might
take any known area of country, through any number
of recorded centuries, and you would not find a company
182 gA IKA.
more venerable than that. Five men embodying so much
exalted heroism, so much fidelity, so much stoical yet enthu
siastic emotion, coming from countries so far removed from
each other, of lives and fortunes so different in everything
but in laboring and hoping for the same grand result ; five
such men as these in the War Office, I reckon, had never
before come together. I wish the group was put upon can
vas and placed in some Louvre of all nations. These five
men were Gambon, Delescluze, Mirabeau Holmes, Dom-
browski, and Simona. Gambon and Delescluze were both
Frenchmen. Gambon, upright, pure, ardent, wholly de
voted ; Delescluze, simple, stoical, and grand as a Doric
column. Mirabeau was the only native American of any
prominence in the Commune. He was representative of his
countrymen ; fervid, free, generous, ambitious, always ready
to sacrifice himself in a just cause. Dombrowski was a
Pole. He had served with great distinction in the Russian
army ; but that Despotism, dreading his liberal opinions and
his fiery patriotism, had exiled him to Siberia. Simona was
an Italian patriot and scholar, a friend of Mazzini, an officer
in the army of Garibaldi, and had surrendered himself to
the royalists with that great man.
It was of no use now for the leaders to try to deceive
themselves. They had met here for half an hour's consulta
tion. What else could they do but fight to the last ? If
they surrendered, they would all be shot forthwith, without
trial or ceremony. Not only the leaders that, to them, was
matter of the smallest consideration but, judging from the
past, all of the National Guards, besides thousands of citi
zens men, women, and children would be shot also. No !
They would all die at their posts. They would leave such a
heritage of triumphant devotion as Humanity had not seen
before. They would astonish the world by their resistance.
ST. ANTOESTE. 183
The defenders of every barricade would die with arms in
their hands.
" And yet," said Delescluze, " it is necessary we look only
to the good of the cause. It may be that it does not demand
this sacrifice of every one. It may even demand that some
shall save themselves. You, citizen (turning to Mirabeau),
I think are one of them. Yours is a great country ; in fact
(mournfully), it seems our greatest hopes for the future rest
with you. I see, too, that the Commune will stand in need
of friends strong friends, able to assail as well as defend.
The cause for which it dies, though it be the grand cause of
human freedom, of universal fraternity, will be covered with
every infamy. For the rest, calumny will be heaped upon
us individually too. Allons. That matters nothing. We
must look to America. We can hope for justice only from
the Republic of Washington ; and in that Republic, too,
rests our hope of the future. We must have champions
there. You can save yourself easily with the assistance of
your Minister. You have proven your devotion. The cause
will need you at another time, and, maybe, on another
theatre. For you, citizens (to Dombrowski and Simona),
you who have so often drawn your swords for the good cause,
you both have countries that have struggled, and will struggle
again, for liberty. They will need your swords and your coun
sels. Humanity will accord to you that you did all here but
make the final sacrifice, and that you denied yourselves that
for a greater, perhaps, hereafter. As for us two, my comrade
(to Gambon), our way is clear. I only wish that Delescluze
may be as faithful to his promises as Gambon will be to his."
" Yes ; " said Gambon, " our way is clear. Let the records
of the past indicate the future. If Gambon is the last to
survive, then will Gambon carry the last Red flag that floats
in Paris."
184 $A IRA.
" The dust of an Italian patriot," said Simona, " can ask
no more than to mingle in the same soil with that of the
heroes of '89 and of the Commune."
"As for me," said the brave Dombrowski, "I have no
country. I spoke for liberty once ; I found a home in
Siberia. I have fought for liberty ; I shall find a home in
France. Moreover, I have a special reason. I hasten to
the barricades."
" I will go with you," said Mirabeau. " Shall not my
country have one representative, however unworthy, among
the Immortals ? "
They all, but the Delegate of War, rose to go.
" Comrades," said Gambon, " we shall not all be together
again. Give me the embrace." And these five strong
men, gathered here from the four quarters of the globe,
for a common struggle and a common sacrifice, silently
embraced, and departed in different directions for the bar
ricades, Delescluze remaining a short while to finish some
orders. Dombrowski's " special reason " was, that for some
hours, the day before, he had been deprived of the command
of the army.
Four strong barricades had been erected in the Boulevard
Magenta : one at its junction with the Boxilevard Rochechou-
art ; another at Chateau d'Eau ; and two others at about
equal distances from these severally.
Through the influence, or perhaps by the authority, of De
lescluze, the order to arrest Dombrowski was quickly counter
manded, and that brave man, who at the daily and hourly
risk of his life had traversed alone and on foot the whole
length of frozen Siberia and Russia, that in a foreign country
he might aid in the work denied him in his own, without a
murmur resumed his post of honor and danger. Montmartre
had been taken about noon. Its courageous defenders had
ST. ANTOINE. 185
fought to the last, and died with their arms in their hands.
Only a few prisoners were taken ; these were overpowered
and their arms wrested from them. They were hurried
against a wall. Vive la Commune ! The prisoners were
dead ! " A. mort les incendiaires ! " one of the bloodthirsty
butchers had cried as they were pushing the prisoners against
the wall. " Liars and assassins ! " said a National Guard,
" had we wanted to destroy Paris, could we not any day, for
the last two months, have done it by turning our guns upon
it ? Cowards ! Cowards ! " Montmartre, Place Pigalle,
Places Clinchy and Europe, and all west were now in the
hands of the Versailles troops ; and they had already begun
a fierce attack upon the strong barricade at the northern
terminus of the Boulevard Magenta. It was necessary to
take this barricade, because it was heavily armed with cannon,
and in the hands of the Versaillese these guns might be
turned upon the other barricades to the south. Boulevard
Magenta being a broad open avenue, and the other barri
cades armed with cannon, it would be almost impossible to
dislodge them, especially from the immense barricade at Cha
teau d'Eau, unless this first one was captured. It was to
this barricade that Dombrowski, Mirabeau Holmes, and
several members of the General's staff" hastened from the
Hotel de Ville alas ! to which one of them was to return
only too soon for the hopes of friends, but not too soon
for the full measure of his glory. When they reached the
barricade it was in the midst of a furious attack. The assail
ants, by crawling along the sidewalks and dodging into the
doors and recesses of the walls, had occupied the neighbor
ing houses, and from the doors and windows of the upper
.stories were pouring a destructive fire over the barricade. The
General saw that the position would not long be tenable.
He immediately sent off the members of his staff present
186 g
with orders to the commandants of the other positions to
mass as many men as possible to be used effectively, behind
the works, and to occupy with small bodies of resolute men.
the houses for some hundred yards in front. He then
mounted upon the barricade, in the midst of a shower of
balls, and lowered and pointed several of the guns, so as, in
case of assault, to rake the street even from the very foot of
the works. This was hardly finished when the quick eye of
the General detected the heads of lines of assailants gather
ing in the cross-streets, as if simultaneously to debouch in
the main street and assault the works. Dombrowski seized
the red flag, and displaying it from the summit of the barri
cade, called out : " Soldiers, you are about to be assaulted.
They are already forming for the charge in yonder streets.
Let us all swear to die here rather than surrender ! " At
this very instant the assailants dashed into the street, and
came forward with a yell. " We swear ! " " We swear ! "
" Vive la Commune ! " was heard on every side amidst the
roar and rattle. The flag was torn from the General's hand.
Mirabeau seized it and remounted to his side. A ball struck
his left arm, by which he held it, firing with his right ; another
ball grazed his forehead and he fell to the ground. Only
stunned by the blow, he was on his feet again in an instant.
" Vive la Commune ! " shouted the gallant General as a bullet
pierced his body, and he also fell to the earth still grasping the
flag. Amid the din and smoke his fall was not immediately
noticed. Mirabeau called to a litter near by. The General
was placed upon it, and Mirabeau, with three National Guards,
carried him to the neighboring hospital of Lariboisiere. As
they were moving oft' with him the General was recognized,
and many came and covered him with kisses. They found
Dr. Cusco, chief surgeon, at the hospital. He asked how
long he should live : he was in great pain. " Not longer
ST. ANTOINE. 187
than two hours," replied the surgeon. " Then give me a
piece of paper," said the General, and the following order
sent to his chief of staff :
SOLDIERS ! CITIZENS ! Hold the barricades ! Let not a
man leave his post ! Let not a man surrender !
" DOMBROWSKI."
I This was Dombrowski's last order. In one hour, between
even and eight, Dombrowski was dead. At half-past eight
the General's chief of staff, Brioncel, came to the hospital,
followed by the escort of the General.
" Where is the General ? " he asked.
" He is dead," replied the attendant.
" Then give me his body."
When the body of the General had been delivered to his
staff, and placed in a cab, the Director of the hospital arrived,
and asked, ' Why they were taking away the body." " It is our
General's," replied Brioncel; "we don't wish the Versaillese
to have his body." As the carriage was about to start to the
Hotel de Ville, several soldiers kissed him on the forehead,
with many expressions of endearment. About midnight the
tody of Dombrowski was taken from the Hotel de Ville to
the cemetery of Pere-la-Chaise. The body was dressed in a
Polish jacket, and wapped in a red flag, the same that the
General had displayed from the barricade, and fallen -with in
his hand. The body was for some time exposed on a litter.
Colonel Dombrowski, brother of the General, was present ;
Mirabeau, Vermorel, several oftier officers and chiefs, and the
commandant of the place, Bruneseau, were also present.. The
Commandant then called in the soldiers who were on guard in
the cemetery, and each in turn kissed the General on the fore-
188 (?A IRA.
head. The body was then placed in an oaken coffin. Some
words were written upon the lid by the General's brother.
The coffin was then closed and placed in a vault.
One more final attempt was made to influence the Versailles
soldiers. The following was posted on the walls :
" COMMUNE OF PARIS.
" Federation of the National Guard.
" SOLDIERS OF THE ARMY OF VERSAILLES : We are fathers
of families. We are fighting to prevent our children from
being, one day, under a military despotism. You will be, one
day, fathers of families. If you draw on the people to-day,
your sons will curse you, as we curse the soldiers who tore
the entrails of the people in June, 1848, and in December,
1851. Two months ago, on the 18th of March, your bro
thers of the army of Paris, their hearts infuriated against
the cowards who had sold France, fraternized with the people.
Imitate them. Soldiers, our children and our brothers,
listen well to this, and let your consciences decide. When
the watchword is infamous, disobedience is a duty !
" THE CENTRAL COMMITTEE."
On the morning of the 24th, thirteen women were shot in
Place Vendome. They were assisting in defending the barri
cade. It was afterwards pretended tha crime was so horri
ble that some pretence was necessary that petroleum wiis
found upon their persons. Ten women and children, some
of the children only ten years old, were also arrested near
the New Opera. They wepe murdered on the spot. There
were many such instances. In no case was there pretence
of trial or investigation. While these butcheries were
enacting in Paris, the gentle Assembly of Versailles, repro-
ST. ANTOINE. 189
sentatives of the people, were engaged in passing the follow
ing :
" The Expiatory Monument, raised to the memory of Louis
XVI., shall be immediately repaired." (Loud applause on
the Right). Bah !
190 <A IKA.
CHAPTER XIV.
This is the very top,
The height, the crest, or crest unto the crest
Of murder's arms : this is the bloodiest shame,
The wildest savagery, the vilest stroke,
That ever wall-eyed wrath, or staring rage,
Presented to the tears of soft remorse."
King John.
ON the 24th, Wednesday, Raoul Rigault, the famous
Prefect of Police, and Procurator of the Commune, was shot.
Rigault was an atheist, without pity, and entirely dominated
by passion. But there was not a man in France so compe
tent as he to fill the office of Prefect of the Paris Police.
So swift and accurate was his knowledge, and so firm his
rule, that during the whole reign of the Commune there was
not a single insurrrection, or even conspiracy, among the
adherents of Versailles. If anybody was hostile to the Com
mune, Rigault knew it almost before he had spoken it to
himself ; and he was immediately arrested. Rigault wanted
to create a " reign of terror," but the Commune would not
hear of it. When he was captured he was just entering his
hotel in the Rue Gay-Lussac. His captors were proceeding
with him toward the Luxembourg, when they were met by a
petty officer. He halted them, and asked Rigault his name.
Rigault replied with a shout of " Vive la Commune ! "
" A bas les assassins ! " He was placed against a wall and
shot. His head and face -were horribly mutilat" 1, and the
body left in the street. All day Wednesday was one contin
ued roar of cannon and mitrailleuse. Place Vendorne, Place
Concorde, and the Tuileries were now in the hands of the
ST. ASTTOINE. 101
enemy. The strongholds still in possession of the people
were the Buttes Chaumonte, Belville Heights, Chateau d' Eau,
Place Bastile, and the heights of Menilraontant.
It was not till night came, and darkness enveloped the
city, that the fearful extent of the conflagrations raging in
different quarters was fully apprehended. The palace of the
Tuileries presented the appearance of the crater of an enor
mous volcano in action ; while ranged about it were con
flagrations of the Palace Royale, Ministry of Finance, Pal
ace of Justice, Central Markets, Hdtel de Ville, Conseil
d'Etat, and Palace of the Legion of Honor, like great irregu
lar jets of flame leaping and whirling from the sides of the
riven mountain. Meanwhile the terrible roar of cannon
continued, and shells were hissing, screaming, and crashing
in every direction. The cannonade was kept up all night.
The people were compelled to abandon the central portion of
the city, and fall back on the Chateau d'Eau and strongholds
throughout that quarter. The outer Boulevards were in
possession of the enemy. There was no escape.
It had also been proclaimed that no mercy would be
shown them. The people saw almost hourly evidences suffi
cient to convince them that this was no idle threat. Men,
women, girls, and boys all, when they fell into the bands ot
the enemy were immediately shot. They were thrown into
heaps about the corners of the streets. Some of them, not
dead, were smothered and crushed beneath the bloody and
frequently mangled bodies. There was nothing left but to
fiirlit with the energy of despair. Is it wonderful that they
sometimes also fought, and even retaliated, with the fury of
d espair ? For all of which the conspiratprs and assassins of
Versailles are alone responsible. And it was not only pri-
3, and such petty officers as that which had Pugault shot,
were guilty of these cold-blooded murders. On Thursday
192 <JA IKA.
Milliere was taken by a sergeant and several private sol
diers in the Rue d'Ulm. This sergeant was a better man
than most of his brother officers. He did not feel that he
had the right to shoot down a disarmed prisoner, though a
member of the Commune, as if he were no more than a beast
of prey. The sergeant felt that such a proceeding would be
very much like murder. Would it not have been murder
itself? Can even the most dimly lighted conscience give
but one answer? Milliere was taken before General de
Cissey. It may be that this gallant General was already
looking forward to preferment. He was afterwards made
Minister of War, possibly for this ,nd many other similar
feats. General de Cissey, of his own royal pleasure, ordered
Milliere to be taken to the Pantheon and shot. Arrived at
the Pantheon, Milliere was made to stand upon the top step.
One officer forced him to turn his face to the wall, another
ordered him to face his executioners, and the two fell to
violent quarrelling. At last the murdered man faced his
executioners. He uncovered his breast. " Vive la IZepv^
Ulique! Vive la JPeuple ! Vive la Commune f Vive
Milliere was dead ; and the body rolled down the
steps.
Jules Yalles was taken prisoner early on Thursday morn
ing. He was immediately led out to be shot. His ferocious
murderers could not restrain themselves till they reached the
place they had fixed upon as the place of execution. One
of them struck him on the back of the head. M. Vallcs
turned upon him, exclaiming, "A Fassassinf" Another
then struck him a violent blow on the back with his musket.
His spine was broken by th^. blow ; and the poor man fell to
the ground, fixing upon his murderers a look of the greatest
horror. All now fell upon him ; some firing upon him, and
some thrusting their bayonets through his hands, neck, aud
ST. ANTOINE. 193
face. Still he was not dead, when one^soldier, perhaps bet
ter than the rest, shot him through the head. Vive V Assem
bles Rationale ?
M. Varlin, Delegate of Finances, was taken prisoner and
shot at Montmartre. Johannard, member of the Commune,
was taken and shot at Vincennes. General Eudes, member of
the Commune and of the Committee of Public Safety, was
taken at Vincennes, and, as was the custom, immediately shot.
Lefrancois, member of the Commune, was taken prisoner at
Rue de la Banque, and^ with lawful haste, immediately shot.
M. Jules Miot was taken on Monday, the 29th, at La
Muette, and, for the sake of consistency, immediately shot.
In the Rue du Temple five hundred of the people many
women and a few children among them were taken while
bravely defending a barricade. They were immediately
shot, and thrown into a heap, there to remain till they
could be carted away. And yet, on Sunday morning, after
all this, and ten thousand times more like it, the Govern
ment of Versailles OFFICIALLY declares, " These expiations
do not (..onsole ws." Bien ! Of course it was highly proper
that the poor lamblings should be "consoled." But where
shall one find perfect " consolation " ? Let us hope that the
gentle Government came as near it at Satory as is consist
ent with the limited resources of poor humanity.
Poor France ! In the conflagration of the Hotel de Ville
the busts of all the monarchs of Europe were lost ! The
busts of Queen Victoria, Prince Albert, the King and Queen
of Portugal, the Kings of Prussia, Belgium, and Italy, the
Czar of Russia, the Sultan of Turkey, and many others were
destroyed ! No wonder " these expiations do not console
us." But let not the good Government despair; for I have
an abiding hope, and I trust a well-founded hope, that they,
the members of the Versailles Government, may some day
9
, gA IRA.
be allowed to gaze upon the oi-iginals of these busts in that
country where go " all that ever reigned."
It was not until Friday that the Versailles troops began
to take many prisoners. And then you might see great
droves of them driven along the streets towards Satory. In
one body there were as many as five thousand men, women,
and children. For the most part they were bareheaded, and
many of them were without shoes. Some had on blouses,
and some no coats at all. Most of them were ragged and
dirty, and many of them were covered with dust and blood.
The women were in tatters, with dishevelled hair, and occa
sionally uttered a wild cry of pain and anguish as they were
pricked by the swords of the Guards to hurry them along.
The drove was several deep, and more than a mile long.
They were driven along between two rows of cavalry. The
dust and smoke was so thick that one could scareely breathe.
Many of them were wounded, and the wounds were still
bleeding ; the blood dripping along the street, or oozing out
and saturating their clothes. Some were exhausted from
loss of blood, and some the old and feeble were exhaiisted
from fatigue and the thick dust. They fell prostrate in the
street, and were either trampled to death or left to die in the
heat and dirt. Blinded by the dust and smoke, the unhappy
creatures would frequently get out of line, which was not
allowed.. They were shot down, or thrust through, or
whacked to death with swords. And then they were either
thrown out upon the sidewalk or left to be trampled into
the earth by the horses of the Guards. Oh ! that the Ver
sailles Government might be " consoled ! "
The members of the Commune those who had not been
killed or were not at the barricades when the Hotel de
Ville was abandoned, retreated to the Mairie of the Eleventh
Arrondissement.
ST. AKTOINE. 195
It was on Friday, about noon, that Citizen Delescluze, the
Delegate of War, embraced his colleagues, who were still with
him, and quietly set out toward the Chateau d'Eau. At
the Chateau d'Eau seven enormous barricades had been
erected. For two days a perfect storm of balls and shells
had been hurled against this stronghold from the batteries
in the Rue de Turbigo and Boulevard Magenta, and for
thirteen hours it had sustained a most terrible attack from
every direction. But one street opening upon the place was
now in the hands of the people Boulevard Prince Eugene,.
The people, profiting by the lessons of the previous days,
had taken possession of the houses in front of the works ;
but the soldiers climbed upon the roofs of the houses, ad
vanced from one to another, and poured a destructive fire
into the ranks of the people behind the works. Delescluze
proceeded silently along the Boulevard Prince Eugene, with
the calm indifference of a stoic philosopher. Shells and
bullets were falling and whizzing in every direction. He
was deep in thought, thinking not of himself, but of the
great cause that now, after so much sacrifice, was lost again.
He met Gambon and Mirabeau Holmes ; Gambon was going
to Belleville ; Mirabeau to .a barricade farther down the
street, to bring up about a hundred men that had been sta
tioned there. Delescluze only said : " Lost again. Hu
manity will look to another time, and, maybe, another place,
but the final triumph cannot now be far off. It will be
sn iHciont reward if we have hastened it." Several officers
and citizens gathered around him and entreated him to turn
back. He only pressed their hands and kept on his way.
Delescluze had probably done more than any other man to
incite the people to resist their oppressors, the conspirators
of Versailles. And when they rose, he promised to remain
with them to the last. He would lead them to success or
196 CA IRA.
he would die in their midst. The cause was now lost.
Delescluze was going to prove his fidelity. He was in citi
zen's dress, and carried in his hand a cane that he had carried
constantly for many years. When he reached the barricade
the battle was at its height, raging with inconceivable fury.
But the people died as resolutely as they fought. There were
no cries of pain or terror. The wounded died without
groans. There was no sound but the roar, the crash, and
the shouting of the assailants. The air was thick with
smoke ; it was stifling. The people had been at their posts
in the midst of this terrible scene, without intermission, for
thirteen hours, many of them for two days. They were
covered with sweat, many with blood, and blackened with
powder. The ground was strewn with splinters, balls, and
fragments of shells. The gutters were flowing with blood.
Broken guns, paving-stones, and pieces of furniture were
also scattered around. When Delescluze reached the barri
cade he was recognized by many of the people, and they
greeted him with a shout of Vive la Commune! Delescluxe
responded with a single shout of Vive VHumanite ! took his
place at the barricade and began to fire with his revolver.
The carnage was now fearful. The walls were battered
almost down, and the people were falling thick under the
fire of the chassepots. About two o'clock the works" were
fiercely assaulted at every point. Exhausted by fatigue,
more than half of them dead upon the ground, and over
powered on every side, the brave people, though they fought
with the fury of despair, were all either killed or disarmed.
Not a man, not a woman, not a child surrendered. Every
one fought to the last; tilf'the soldiers, sick of carnage,
wrested their arms from them.
Late in the afternoon the body of Delescluze was found,
riddled with balls and surrounded by the corpses of twenty-
ST. ASTOINE. 197
eight soldiers. And the next day it was officially announced
by the Versailles Government that " the too guilty Deles
cluze has been picked up dead by the troops of Genera]
Clinchant." If the reader would elevate himself to the last
height of moral sublimity possible for him to reach, let him
contemplate, for a while, Citizen Delescluze on his way to the
barricade to redeem his pledge to the people. In such men
rest the best hopes of Humanity. They may be " picked up
dead by the soldiers of General Clinchant," or the soldiers
of any general, butcher, or tyrant whatever ; yea, their
bodies may be burned to ashes, and the ashes given to the
winds ; their pure, heroic deeds may all be falsified ; their
very names be made the synonyme of every infamy. They
may find no place in the Pantheon, and no monument may
rise to their memory. Nay, no monument will rise ; for the
people for whom such heroes live, and for whom they die,
are all poor, condemned to battle with famine, unable to
raise monuments in brass, or marble, or stone. But will
they die ? Will they be consigned to ignominy, even though
historians add their little mite to the combined powers of
ignorance and tyranny ? Verily, no ! Human feeling is a
wonderful preserver ; immortal as eternity, and more subtle
than the planetary ether, surviving alike the shock of em
pires and successive systems of thought and religion. Nor
can tyranny, with all its manifold appliances, any more ex
tract this subtle and powerful essence from human history,
than can science extract the electric fluid from the globe itself.
No ! only the evil dies ; the good never dies. Have you ever
done one good thing ; one thing for Humanity, completely
forgetting your poor self? Thou art not less than immortal.
The heroism of the Gracchi, branded as sedition, and charged
with every infamy, still lives to warm the great heart of
Humanity. And so with this Delescluze. Forgetful of
198 gA IKA.
self, he lived a life entirely devoted to the cause of the poor
and oppressed ; and when the hour came he embraced death,
as he had devoted his life, without a murmur and without a
regret. He, too, has taken his place in the constellation of
Humanity's gods, enveloped in the glory of Humanity's
love and blessings. And his heroism will ever live, in spite
of all princes and politicians and priesthoods, to elevate the
affections, clear the vision, and strengthen the arms of
heroes that shall come after.
Gambon had said that, unless sooner 'overtaken by death*
he would carry the last red flag that floated in Paris. He
was faithful to his promise. It was on Sunday morning,
about eleven o'clock, that Belleville, the last stronghold of
the people, was taken. Gambon and several other members
of the Commune, escorted by fifteen boys, foundlings from
the hospital, who had formed themselves into ,a company
and joined the forces of the Commune, established themselves
in the Mairie of the Twentieth Arrondissement. Perceiving
this to be untenable, they retreated to the Rue Fontan-au-
lioi. They carried the flag of the Commune. They stopped
at a restaurant and ordered a frugal breakfast, leaving the
foundlings to stand guard, with a bugle, to give the signal if
the enemy approached. When they hud finished their break
fast they began erecting a barricade. Gambon was the only
one who wore in his button-hole the badge of the Commune.
He wore also on his lappel a head of Liberty fixed in a silver
triangle, on the three sides of which were the words " Liber
ty, .Equality, Fraternity, Commune of Paris." The barri
cade was scarcely half finished, when, suddenly, the enemy
was upon them. Gambon seised the flag and mounted upon,
the barricade. He was alone upon the barricade. All the
others had taken to flight. He fired his last charge. The
enemy rushed upon him and secured him. What sort of
ST. AXTOINE. 199
man was this Gambon? and how shcrald he be treated? He
ought to have been given a palace. He 'ought to have been
placed in a triumphal car, and drawn through the streets to
the sound of music. He ought to have seen his portrait in
the Louvre of nations, among the heroes of all ages. His
ears ought to have been greeted with plaudits. Poets ought
to have composed hymns in his praise, and children ought
to have chanted them in the streets. Why ? Because for
thirty years he had been sacrificing himself for the Republic
and Liberty. He was taken to the Rue de la Banque and
shot. Let him rest with his compatriots and the heroes of
'89, till Fame, from the Pantheon's summit, shall welcome
his dust to its rightful home !
It was Sunday morning, the 28th of May, that the sun in
heaven " Liberty's darling " struggled through the clouds
and smoke that enveloped the heights of Belleville, to shed
for the last time his sympathetic beams upon a people who,
in all their lives, had found nothing else to rejoice at. They
had not felt, and could not possibly feel, any other sympathy,
nor see any other smile. With the springs of immortality
within, and longing for the unseen, almost unhoped for,
Better, they were still condemned, as their fathers had been,
by a civilization based upon poverty, ignorance, and fear, to
live without comfort and die without hope.
In a small back room of one of the houses in front of the
barricade a young soldier a citizen-soldier lay in the ago
nies of death. A few minutes before he had fallen, while
defe 11 cling the door against the assailants. The young man
was George Walton. He was too near gone to recognize one
of his attendants. In a few moments he was dead. The
battle was raging furiously; the enemy seemed determined
to occupy this house at all hazards. At this moment an of
ficer entered, and said the house must be abandoned in half
200 g
an hour, as it was necessary to fire it. There were two at
tendants in the room where lay the body of George Walton :
one, an old woman ; the other, a slight figure, dressed in
black, bent over the body, kissing the fair forehead, and
seemed in the greatest grief. When the courier informed
them that the house would be fired in half an hour, the fig
ure kneeling over the body rose and said to the woman :
" Madame, this young man is a near relative whom I have
not seen in many years. I wish to. save the body. I have
money enough to make you and your daughter comfortable,
and I will give it you if you will assist me."
" Bien. But what is one to do ? "
" In the first place, give me, quick, some of your daugh
ter's clothing."
In a few moments James Arnot was dressed in a plain but
neat suit of female apparel ; a light, airy muslin dress, with
lace collar, and belt of black ribbon, contrasting strangely
with the roar of death and the enveloping pall of smoke.
The hair which had seemed to be turned under heretofore,
was loosened and fell in rich tresses upon the shoulders.
And even iu. the midst of that scene, when James Arnot
looked down upon his graceful and symmetrical figure, he
was startled to see how nearly it was still like it was in a
far country, on the bank of a great river, long ago, when
he was last dressed in similar apparel. He went to the dead
body, took off the watch, and the diamond pin from the
bosom. Then he examined the pockets and found a diary
and several letters, two in a large, commercial hand, and one
in an anxious, rather trembling female hand, both of which
he knew full well. Just at this moment an officer entered
a tall, dark-faced man, of high forehead and steady gaze.
And when he ordered the house immediately cleared, and
firod, one saw that his words were low and tuneful, more
ST. AXTOINE. 201
like the voice of a poet or artist than soldier. He walked
on into the back room ; but when he got to the door and
saw the figure at the side of the dead man, he suddenly
stopped, and seemed as one transfixed to the spot. He
leaned against the door-facing, and drew from his pocket a
slip of paper : " To Viola Walton, by her loving mother."
The words were pronounced aloud, but as if to himself.
James Arnot started, looked at the officer, and the steady
light of his eye became wild and shifting. But the heart of
a woman does not need any proof. She rushed forward, ex
claiming, " Alberto ! Alberto ! " and fell upon the Italian's
bosom. Then she drew back, and gazed into his face, fear
fully, almost timidly.
" My own ! My long lost ! My little violet of the Missis
sippi ! " and he kissed her forehead again and again, with the
eloquent fervor of Italy. Their voices were dumb, but
their hearts were active, and, through their own mysterious
medium, soon made themselves known to each other. Flow
ing out like the aroma from the uncased perfume, the life of
each mingled with the other, and they became one. If there
had been any need of it, there was no time to tell of mistakes
and disappointments, and the consequent long, long years of
anguish and suffering that had divided them, and that each
had borne alone. No ! The remorseless, unhasting, but
unresting march of fate, stops not for individuals, however
high or low they may be. The building was on fire, and the
flames were rapidly approaching.
The body of George Walton was placed upon a blanket and
borne out, through the back door, into a neighboi'ing building.
In an inside vest pocket they found a little trinket which
Viola Walton immediately recognized ; a tiny golden neck
lace which she herself had worn when a child. This little
necklace was fastened by a small, richly studded locket. She
<j*
202 PA IRA.
opened one side of it and found the well-known picture of her
mother, and a cloud seemed to pass over her features, and
she hesitated before opening the other side, for she remem
bered now that her own picture had been there, and she was
fearful that her brother, too, had abandoned her, and taken
out the picture, ashamed to wear it. But no ! The boy
had trusted to his own feelings ; this was his own sister if
lost, still his sister. Sometimes he had dreamed that she was
not dead, but still living, somewhere on the broad earth, may
be in poverty and shame. But still she was one of God's
poor suffering creatures, and his own sister. Many and
many a time had he passionately kissed this little picture,
and vowed within himself that if he should ever find her,
though in the lowest den of shame, not all the hideous social
laws framed to disgrace and damn the weak and unfortunate
should prevent him from rescuing her and acknowledging
her as his own sister ; for something vaguely told him that
the misfortune was hers, the fault not her own. But misfor
tune or fault, his course would be the same. The picture
was there : the bare, white arms, the childish face, the short
little curls about the forehead. Again she knelt and covered
the face of the noble boy with kisses. And then she rested
her head upon the Italian's bosom, telling him of this other
joy-
But let no mortal think to escape the iron hand of fate.
A squad of soldiers entered, and Alberto Simona and Viola
Walton were arrested. Bribes were offered in vain ; in vain
Viola, whose face was now again lit up with a parting gleam
of that marvellous beauty whose morning light had waked to
music the hearts of her worshippers, softened by the halo of
a divine pathos, knelt at the captain's feet. He would
not allow them time to bury their dead brother. No !
These two people were necessary to make up the forty thou-
ST. ANTOINE. 203
sand people ; the number which the assassins of Versailles
had determined to shoot at Satory. The captain, for a
large bribe, could only be induced to allow them fifteen min
utes. There was another woman now present, besides the
one that had come with them from the burning house.
They were both mothers, and had both lost sons, fighting for
the Commune. Here, then, was common ground, as misfor
tune ever is. A sum of money was placed in their hands,
and they agreed to take the body, place it in a metal coffin,
and bury it neatly. The body was to be wrapped in a red flag
and buried, dressed just as it now was, in order that it might
the more certainly be identified. The Italian then clasped
the necklace around the right arm, after taking out one of
the pictures that of Viola from the locket and putting a
little lock of his own, Viola's, and their brother's hair in its
place. The tiny picture, with a lock of hair as before, was
then placed in an envelope, with a letter, which was read to
the women, and from which they learned that they would
receive a double reward if they were faithful to their pro
mises, and the envelope was backed to Mr. Walton, at At
lanta, in Georgia. At the suggestion of Simona, this was
placed in another envelope, addressed to the American Min
ister, with a short note that it came from an unfortunate
countrywoman, and the women were charged to deliver it.
Then they gave them a slip of paper on which was written
these words, to which they both signed their names : " George
Walton fell on the 28th of May, 1871, fighting for the liber
ties of that people of Paris who also, in perilous times,
came to the rescue of his own people in their struggle for
Independence."
Their time was now out. Each one knelt down and
kissed their brother a final adieu. Then they embraced the
two women, and marched out among the crowd of prisoners
204: <?A IRA. *
at the door. They were then marched towards the Chateau
d'Eau, where a column of eight thousand prisoners from
Belleville had halted for a few moments to wait for numerous
sqiiads, some of more than a hundred, and some of only two
or three, coming in from all directions. When the vast
drove moved off down the Boulevard St. Martin, it number
ed between nine and ten thousand. When the head of the
column had reached the Arc de Triomphe, prisoners were still
defiling upon the Place Concorde, the rear of the column
reaching as far back as the Madeleine. There were many
old men in this drove of human beings, so old and feeble,
indeed, that few of them ever reached their destination.
There were also many children, some under ten years old.
Also more than two Imndred women. When the column
reached the gate of Satory there were not nine thousand.
The brutal guards were often heard to boast that many acci
dents happened on the way. When an accident happened, the
poor man or woman who had fallen, either from exhaiistion
or loss of blood, was simply whacked through the head and
thrown upon the sidewalk. J3ien !
ST. ANTOINE. 205
CHAPTER XV.
" Formez nne sainto alliance,
Et donnez-vous la main ! '' BERANQEB.
THE largest butcher-pen of modern times is Satory. It is
in the form of a parallelogram, and contains several acres.
It was once used as an artillery park, and there still remain
the stables used for the horses ; but this was before it had
occurred to the Government that they would serve the cause
of justice and Humanity by transporting hither forty thou
sand people exclusive of those who fell on the way by
" accident " to be shot. It is said that these forty thousand
were the poorest animals ever slaughtered in Paris ; which,
indeed, is not wonderful, seeing that in the case of human
animals the ordinary process must be reversed from fatten
ing to starving. It is stated that the Government would
have kept these forty thousand penned longer at least
through the heats of summer but for two reasons. They
were afraid that natural death from starvation and bad
treatment which was at least natural for these poor devils
might rob the muskets of some of their lawful victims.
For one, I give little credit to this, as I cannot imagine the
Government was so short-sighted as not to see that they
could send back to Paris any morning or evening for a couple
of thousands to supply any deficiency or supposed meagreness
of the offering. The controlling reason seems to have been
this, that the Government was in hot pursuit of " consola
tion," and eager for the denouement. Of course, if the
victims had been kept penned they would all have died of
QA IRA.
starvation and fevers after a while. But this diablement
snail-paced " consolation " was as good as no " consolation "
at all! So it was decided that the "expiation" should, if
possible, be huge enough and brisk enough to " console "
themselves and satisfy all reasonable demands of tyranny
and injustice the world over.
The butcher-pen of Satory is surrounded by walls, and
when the great drove of nine thousand victims, less what
had fallen on the way by accident, entered it, there were
numerous holes in the walls through which ferocious cannons
scowled ominously. When the vast drove arrived, the old
stables had already been tilled to suffocation, and many
thousands were huddled together, here and there, and enclosed
by ropes. The drove was marched in a short distance from the
g.ite, and being huddled close together, a rope, tied at conve
nient distances to stakes, was drawn around them, and a
strong guard with chassepots put over them. They were
directly in front of several large guns charged with grape
and canister, which were ordered to fire into the crowd
upon the slightest manifestation of disorder. All the pre
vious night the rain had been falling almost constantly, and
the wheels of artillery and ambulance wagons, together with
the trampling of horses, men, women, and children, had con
verted the pen into a horrible quagmire. One sank over
one's shoes in the mud and water. The rain had now also
commenced to pour again, and beat upon the poor shivering
wretches pitilessly. Many, as I have said, had been
wounded ; some of the wounds were sore, and some still fresh
and bleeding ; so that when a squad was moved from one place
to another for any cause, to be shot mainly, one might see
stains of blood here and there and little pools of bloody water.
Some of these wounded had their friends with them, who
did ail they could for them, which was very little. Others
ST. ANTOINE. 207
neglected. Many were very old, some very yonng ;
lost of them were fainting from fatigue, and all of them
fere hungry. They were too tired to stand. They threw
lemselves upon the ground, and the water settled around
them, sometimes several inches deep. Guards were posted
thickly everywhere ; they were for the most part savage,
lad, covered with wet arid mud ; their faces were begrimed
with smoke and powder, which, mingling with the rain that
beat in their faces, pi'esented 'a frightful appearance. The
wretched prisoners were nearly all bareheaded, many bare
footed, and the great majority scantily dressed or in dirty
tatters. They were shivering, their lips pale and bloodless,
and their teeth chattering in the cold, drifting rain. Simona
pulled off his coat and put it around Viola's shoulders, and
bribed one of the guards to throw him a miserable piece of
puncheon to stand upon. This was not allowable, and so
they resorted to the following stratagem : Simona advanced
towards the rope with an air of insolence; the guard, who.
already had the puncheon in his hand as if .to place it for
his own feet, hurled it violently at Simoiia as if he meant to
knock him down. Thus was Viola kept out of the mud,
which was more than ankle-deep. But this proceeding came
near costing the Italian his life ; for whe^i the guard threw
the puncheon at him another near by exclaimed, " Shoot the
wretch ! " and he was just about to d it himself, when the
guard, with an oath, informed him that he could take care
of his own beat.
Simona regretted that they could not be lodged in one
of the stables, but in truth it was better to be out in the
rain than to be inside of one of these places and have to
breathe the disgusting atmosphere. The atmosphere was
noisome in the last degree ; it seemed impossible to breathe
it an hour and live. To the natural stench of the stable
208 gA IRA.
was added the bad odors 3xhaled from many bodies crowded
together, all dirty, and some sick and dying, and the foul
breaths, many doubly so from most nauseous whiskey which
had been swallowed by the miserable wretches in hopes of
deadening their fearful sufferings. Here were many disgust
ing, or rather say pitiful faces, and they scowled at you
sullenly, silently, as you passed along. Now and then you
found one that tried to smile ; but it was a disheartened,
sickly, hopeless smile. " It was wonderful," says an ob
server, " to see such a number of ignoble faces, and with
such a vile expression, brought together." Considering the
previous history of the Versailles Government, I think it
not wonderful at all that Paris conquered they should be
" brought together" and that, too, just as they were in
these identical horrible pens and stables.
That there should exist " such a number of ignoble faces,
and with such a vile expression ; " nay, that there should
exist even in a single city twenty times " such a number of
ignoble faces, and with such a vile expression," cannot be
wonderful to any man at all acquainted either with the cruel
history of Humanity, or with the pi'esent sickening condition
of the human race even in the most civilized countries.
Wonderful? Just .God ! The only wonder is that the vast
majority of the race in civilized countries have not sunk
into savages and brute%. Condemn a family, or a colony, to
a thousand dismal years of grossest ignorance and darkest
superstition ; sickness without relief, and hunger without
the hope of bread ; winter without fire or clothing, and cou-
-tinued toil without hope of bettering their condition ; sur
round them with every misery ,-and deny them every comfort ;
heap upon them every ill, and shut out from them every
hope save that which gleams once in a century through the
fierce but fitful fires of revolution ; place them, moreover, in
ST. ANTOINE. 209
contact with those whom they regard as their oppressors,
and in the midst of boundless but unlawful plenty and lux
ury, and how should they have any other than " ignoble
faces, with such a vile expression ? " One thing was observ
able on all hands : there were no repentings of what they
had done, no curses, no revilings, no reproaches against their
chiefs ; but when they were shot they unanimously shouted,
Vive la Commune f Every man and woman and child of
them went to heaven for it.
If our friends were sorry that they had not been lodged
in one of the houses, they were glad when they found that
the women's stable Avas already crowded, and consequently
they would not be separated, at least for the night. And
knowing this, they rightly j udged that they would probably
not be separated at all ; for it was certain that a large num
ber of them would be picked out to be shot next morning ;
and Simona, having been an officer and well known, could
hardly hope to escape. Towards night the rain had ceased,
the moon was up and occasionally shone through rifts in the
white clouds scudding away to the west. There was noth
ing to disturb the solemn, prison-like silence, save the
monotonous slush, slush, of the guards, and the occasional
sharp " qui vive " of the sentries outside the gates. Soon
the clouds cleared' away, the stars shone out, and a gentle
wind began to blow. The two lovers, long separated, and ,
made acquainted with every grief, thought not of rest, even
if rest had been possible. Simona now learned for the first
time that their child was dead, or supposed to be, long since.
He did not even know the child's name ; and when she said
" Alberta Simonetta," he covered her with kisses.
" My angel," said he, "we shall be separated in the morn
ing ; I shall be taken away ; I shall be killed ; and you will
be left alone."
210 gA IRA.
She said nothing, but she had i % esolved that this shcmld
not be. He continued " And I am troubled that we have
never yet been united according to the forms of law."
" Trouble not yourself about that, my love ; it will all be
one when we have passed over and met on the other side.
Think you not, dear Alberto, that after all the highest law
is the law of the heart ? "
" Heaven bless you for that, my sweet ! Yes ; and that lias
been my sole comfort through all these miserable years.
Thank you, thank you, my sweet, my precious flower ! "
Then, after a moment, he continued " But it has occurred to
me suppose, my love, my life, that we here to-night, in sight
of Heaven, solemnly join our hands, as our hearts already are,
and make our sacred vows? We are already in the midst
of the great Temple of God ; his throne shall be our altar,
the silent stars shall be our witnesses, and our ceremony shall
be the sacred vows of our own hearts to each other."
" Yes," answered Viola, filled with the light of poetry and
love, " for see 1 the beautiful full moon hath shone out to
weave for us our bridal wreaths, and the sweet night-wind
shall be our marriage hymn."
And there, before the altar of the Great Unseen, in the
midst of his holy Temple, and crowned with a coronal of
silvery light, these two joined their hands together, and re
peated the vows making them one in life and in death, in
body and in spirit, in time and in eternity. And they felt,
rightly too, the ceremony more sacred than if it had been
performed by priest or magistrate. And then he kissed her
on the forehead, and she leaned her head alas ! how much
suffering had it endured upon his bosom. Alas, alas !
how pitiful and mean are all "our shams and make-believes,
" legal arrangements," when measured by the grand reality !
Vriieu Simona spoke again he said :
ST. ANTOINE. 211
"When you said, just now, my Violet, that the sweet
night-wind should be our marriage hymn, did it occur to
you that it might also be something else ? "
" What else, my Alberto ? "
" Might it not also be our parting hymn ? "
" Yes ; our requiem too. But consider, this sweet wind
is also the requiem of departing winter, and the herald of
approaching summer. This is the last; the dark days are
past, and the joyous are come. So let it be with us, my
Alberto ; our stormy days are past, arid we euter the fields
of sweet-scented summer."
Next morning's sun rose clear and beautiful ; and the
birds were out, singing, in strange contrast with the sui - -
rounding waste of mud and water. Some of the people were
trying to dry by the sun ; many were coughing and wheez
ing from colds they had taken ; some were dying, and a few
were dead. Early in the morning, as had been expected, a
body of three hundred gendarmes marched in, and their offi
cers immediately began to pick out from among those last
brought in, all the regular soldiers of which there were few
officers and chiefs of the Commune, and the petroleuses,
for immediate execution.
They had already called out more than a hundred, and
Simona had bi-gun to think that maybe he would not be
taken, when an officer came up to him and said, " You are
Simona, the Colonel of staff to La Cecillia " half asserting-
ly, half inquiringly.
" Yes," replied the Italian, " I am Alberto Simona, Col
onel of staff to the patriot-general La Cecillia ; I have
f>u<jht for liberty with Garibaldi in Italy, with Jefferson
]>avis in America, and with the Commune in Paris.
If that be enough to entitle one to die for it, then am 1
ready."
212 A IRA.
" And you ? " said the officer to Viola " are a petro-
lense ? " Viola answered by shouting defiantly, " Vive la
Commune ! " Simona was thunderstruck. Viola was no
petr dense ; she told him she was not. But what was done
could not be undone ; and they marched out with the hun
dred and fifty victims.
But just as they were leaving the crowd a strange event
happened, which caused the Italian to tremble, and Viola
almost to sink to the earth. A small, dark man, of lean face
and burning black eye, stepped up beside them and said in a
hurried but revengeful tone :
" Ha ! Italian, and your Mississippi flower ! 1 come to
redeem my pledge ; your lives have been miserable; I will
make your death so. Did you think to die content ? Buh !
I tell you a secret. Your child still lives ' Alberta Simon-
etta ' (and he called the name with suppressed rage) she
is in a work-shop, one step from the concert room. If you
could only live you could save her. Adieu." He darted quickly
back into the crowd, and they two were hurried along. Now
indeed it was hard to die. These two had suffered much in
their lives; but the hardest blow, it seemed, had been re
served for the last. But something must be done, and that
speedily. It occurred to them to write a note to their fa
ther, Mr. Walton, and trust to one of the soldiers to deliver
it to the American Minister.
" My poor, poor father ! " cried Viola in anguish ; " he
will not know where to go; he will die of grief."
' Yes, your father is old will be borne down with grief
will not know where to seek. I know one of your country
men ; I saved his life once_in Italy, and he made me prom
ise him faithfully if *he could ever serve me, at any cost, to
call upon him. Strange that I should meet him here in
Paris and save his life the second time. He was a member
ST. ANTOINE. 213
of the Commune ; but he escaped. Let us write to him
to be given to your father in case it does not come into his
hands. I have his address here ' Mirabeau Holmes, Atlan
ta, Ga., TJ. S. A.' " These words were spoken half aloud,
half to himself apparently. But it was agreed that this was
the course to be adopted. As they approached the ground
where was drawn up the corps of execution, they observed
a knot of iudividiials in plain citizen's dress, and with note
books in their hands, whom they at once took to be report
ers for the great newspaper press. There were several
Englishmen, and evidently one American, a tall, spare
man, who seemed restless. Simona called out to know if
there was an American on the ground. The tall, restless
man immediately held up his hand, and obtaining permission
from the officer, advanced. They spoke a few words ; the
tall man asked, as a favor to the paper he represented, to be
allowed fifteen minutes to converse with the prisoners, one
of whom was his country-woman ; and what would probably
have been denied to any dictate of humanity, was readily
accorded to the representative of the great New York
newspaper. An American is almost sure to be good at
heart. The tall man was much affected at the brief recital
of the sad story of the Italian patriot and his unfortunate,
still beautiful country-woman. He pledged them the honor
of himself, of his paper, and of his country, to execute their
wishes to the utmost of his power. He bade them adieu.
The command was given. " VIVE LA COMMUNE ! " The
hundred and fifty were dead.
CHAPTER XVI.
he seemed
For dignity composed, and high exploit :
But all wns false and hollow ; though his tongue
Dropp'd manna, and could make the worse appear
The better reason, to perplex and dash
Maturest counsels ; "
PARADISE LOST.
MEANWHILE several things have come to pass in America ;
notably, in the hub of Georgia. In at least one of these
events Clarence Hall was doubly interested. They were
both girls, nice little wee things. Their beauty was not like
that of the full moon in a dark sky ; they were much too
small for that. They rather resembled little twin twinkling
stars. But what man was ever satisfied with a girl-baby?
Have not the Spaniards this proverb, *' Guays padre, que
otra hija os nace ? " And have not we found it necessary to
translate it into English, thus Alas, father ! another misfor
tune (daughter) is born to you ? Manifestly, this must be
done to meet the exigencies of the times. Clarence Hall was
very glad ; but he was a shade disappointed. In fact, upon
reflection, he was to a small extent doubly disappointed.
Here was a clear loss ; it might ruin everything. Why might
216 (?A IK A.
not Clarence Hall some day be President of the United States?
And why might not his son be, after him ? He had had better
opportunities than Puritan John Adams, and was a much
better man. His son would be equal to John Quincy, if
metaphysicians tell the truth, at the tender age of one second.
Might not education do the rest ? But this xinfortunate de
lay might spoil e very tiling ! Clarence Hall and his pretty
wife and babies lived in a nice little house out on Peach-treo
street. To be sure, they did not live in grand style, or any
thing approaching to it. But still they lived rather expen
sively, considering they only had about two thousand dollars
to begin with, that Clarence was only a poor Attorney with
an income not exceeding five hundred dollars, and that Mr.
Dearing, for all his grand pedigree, could do nothing for
them. Clarence Hall was not without common sense, and,
in higher matters than every-day affairs are supposed to be,
he had also considerable practical sagacity. So that when ho
was married he knew that he ought to take a comfortable
little house in some other part of the city than on aristocratic
Peach-tree. There was a neat little brick house with flowers
and terraced yard covered with a mat of rich green grass, on
Marietta, which suited his taste exactly ; and as for the loca.
tion, why it was enough that Mrs. Sutherland was almost
next-door neighbor. Before speaking to Annie, Clarenco
wished to know what Mr. Dearing would say to the place as
a home for them. Mr. Dearing was not pleased with it. Then
Clarence mentioned a pretty little place with shady walks in
a different, quarter of the city ; this was out on Mt. Vernon
street, where the Malcombs lived. But this was entirely
too far from Mr. Dearing's,_ And then it occurred to him
for the first time that perhaps almost anything would be ob-
iectionable but a somewhat pretentious establishment ou
Peach-tree. Of course, under all the circumstances, in spite
PEACII-TKEE. 217
of his good sense, nothing was more natural than that "Mr.
Hall's notions and prospects should expand to meet the oc
casion. And so the house on Peach-tree, which cost more
than the whole of his present income the word present being
always italicized when he thought of his condition and pros
pects was taken, and of course must be furnished with some
degree of correspondence.
The consequence of all this was, when they were married
and at home Mr. Hall was already in debt several hundred
dollars, and, besides, immediately began to live beyond bis
income his present income. The careful observer of human
destinies needs not another word to help him to the conclu
sion that, whatever his natural talents and they were of a
high order whatever his attainments and they were in
keeping with his talents whatever his ambitious hopes
and they were large and generous the scales were now
turned against him. But not irretrievably so. What ! will
not genius rise superior to fate ? Will not perseverance
remove every difficulty, surmount every obstacle, and at
last attain the hoped-for eminence ? Yes, if Humanity have
pressing need of it. Does not such need always exist?
Allans ! But come ; whatever may be our differences concern
ing providence, foreknowledge, will, and fate, here is a plat
form broad enough for all of us to stand upon : persever
ance, with help enough, can surround itself with difficulties
which itself may not remove. How shall genius soar if its
wing be clipped ? Shall the eagle ascend, though chained to
an anvil ? Plainly, I think, there is such a thing as graAdta-
tion in the world.
But speaking of Clarence Hall's babies (in terms of the
law), he half-way ventured to express to his better half just
a slight regret that it had not seemed good to providence to
send them at least one boy. " Oh, Clarence ! " exclaimed his
10
218 gA IKA.
wife, " how can you say that ? Are not you afraid God will
send a judgment upon you for talking so?" Alas, al;is !
The judgment soon came, sure enough : one of the babies
died. vOf course, he had better understanding than to sup
pose this to be a judgment sent upon him ; but his wife had
not. He was both surprised and hurt : surprised that his
wife should entertain a notion so narrow, and, as he thought,
so unworthy of her ; and hurt that she should mention it on
such an occasion, even if she believed it. The first shocked
his reason, and could not but give him at least an intimation of
how far intellectually his wife was below himself; for though a
sincere Christian, he thought he could easily separate the truth
from superstition ; forgetting entirely that, however easy it
might have seemed in his case, still it was an undertaking
in which the greatest minds, to say nothing of his pretty
little wife, have almost universally failed. But Jiis sensibili
ties were also hurt. And it was this probably that concern
ed him even more than the other, for he too was still the
unconscious slave of the past in so far as to believe that
woman's only business here was to love some particular man
with all her might, and to furnish him an object upon which
to bestow his surplus affection, and particularly his protect
ive aspirations. A woman should love her husband, look
up to him in the coarse affairs of will and intellect, anticipate
if possible all his wishes ; in a word, envelope him, transport
him, in a whole flood of affection. People were, and are to
this day mostly, especially in the Empire State, so simple as
to consider marriage an institution they object to the word
partnership in which the husband was bound to furnish the
brains and the wife the heart._ Well, had Clarence Hall got
the thing he wanted ? No, truly ; but he had got the thing
he thought he wanted. Mrs. Hall was as devoted a little
wife as any connoisseur could have wished. She loved her
PEACH-TREE. 219
husband to the last extent of her capacity, almost worshipped
him. As for his part, why, he had already begun to feel that
he had something to protect and provide for. What he
really wanted was a companion ; he thought that a woman of
certain qualities, which seemed to him altogether adorable,
would make the perfect companion. Xow, he had been so
fortunate as to marry his own incarnate, ideal woman. Still,
as we have seen, he had even now begun to feel somewhat
disappointed. Alas ! Clarence Hall, you had not learned
the most important, probably, of all lessons that the most
perfect companionship, the ideal of marriage, can only exist
between people equal in intellect and in culture.
The Malcoinbs lived on Mount Yernon street. Mr. Mai-
comb was engaged in an extensive business, and was making
money rapidly. He had also been prevailed on by all parties
for his splendid executive and financial abilities, and rare
judgment in all practical matters, as well as his great in-
iluence as a business man, were acknowledged on all hands
to accept the office of Mayor of the city. And this was a
good sign, for two reasons : first, it indicated the decay 01
strong party animosities ; for three years before, if any man
had dared to suggest Mr. Malcomb as a suitable man for
democrats to vote into an office of honor and trust, he woiild
not only have been politically outlawed, but a strong effort,
and probably a successful one, would have been made for his
social outlawry. Such an effort had in fact been made
against Mr. Malcomb himself; but owing to his great in
fluence with his church, with his old party associates, with
business men, and, notably, with that very small but powerful
class whose independence and elevation of thought and cul
ture raise them above the heavy and noisome atmosphere of
ignorance and prejudice, and which in this Empire State
probably finds its highest representative in the venerable
220
Chancellor of the State University, the effort had signally and
miserably failed. To be sure, one pompous old aristocratic
ass, with the shallowness peculiar to his order, chiefly remark
able for these three things his relationship to the great
statesman of his name, his voluminous, vast, bottomless, and
interminable agricultural erudition, and his infinite boring
proclivities did attempt to put the scheme into execution.
But this essay awoke in Mr. Malcomb no other feeling than
a regret that in a few days he should have to devote the ac
customed fifteen hours to the old gold-headed cane, that ho
might explain away his conduct. And in the second place,
this compromise of the two parties was a good sign, because
it showed that the business men were taking matters of im
portance into their own hands ; that not party bickerings and
word-quibbles, but questions of material wealth and progress,
should enter as the important elements into the management
of their municipal affairs. And the acceptance of this office
also shows to advantage one of the prominent traits of Mi'.
Malcomb's character his willingness to serve the people in
any capacity in which he could be of benefit to them. There
was probably not a man in the State, who, having filled
the high offices that Mr. Malcomb had, would have accepted
the office of Mayor.
Robert Malcomb married Betty Broughton, and had made a
pretty clear start in pursuit of the object which he ever kept
steadily in view ; he was already receiving at least his pro
portionable part of the hundred and thirty thousand dollars
annually contributed by this little city to the health and
comfort of her hundred and odd lawyers. Marian, almost i\s
soon as she was here, had become an universal favorite at least
near enough so to authorize the expression from an America a.
Still to be exactly precise, as Captain Pinter would say
she was not quite an universal favorite ; she was not adored
PEACH-TEEE. * 221
by that class of yoimg men technically known as swells. This
class she had the rare good feeling, and, perhaps, among wo
men, the still rarer good sense, to despise, and while she could
not, without the greatest provocation, say or do anything liable
to give the least pain to any one, however unworthy, still
there was felt to be a repellant force between them. As for
Alf Walton, who, in spite of his known intrigues and mul
tiplied immoralities, was received with high favor among the
belles, who languishingly called him the " King of Hearts,"
it is superfluous to say that he was not a visitor at Mr. Mai-
comb's.
" How is it," said Fred Yan Comer to Bramlette one day,
" that this little brown woman who never sings, never plays,
never waltzes, and never flirts, and is not considered beauti
ful either, is the most popular woman in town ? "
" Consider her eyes," said Bramlette.
" Only some of your poetry, my dear fellow ; you know
she is not considered beautiful."
" But she does sing and play too, sometimes for her very
intimate friends."
'' But to come back. What I said, in a general way is
true ; she neither sings to society, nor plays for society, nor
waltzes, nor flirts with the American people, nor is she
thought to be beautiful ; but still, to the best of my skill and
knowledge, she is the greatest favorite in town. Why ? "
" One can never tell. We must say, like the French, she
has a charm about her."
'' Well, Bramlette, you are the honestest man I know, and,
pace, the best. Now, if I had asked almost anybody but
you, especially one of that large class who pride themselves
upon * knowing a thing or two ' of human nature, but who in
fact never any more get to the bottom of the human heart
than those pants get to the bottom of your legs, the answer
222 gA IRA.
would have been a shrewd wink and a mysterious whisper
of ' money.' "
" Humph ! That could never be. Here is myself, already
half in love with her, and I never thought of that, I know.
I believe you are in love with her too, and I reckon you
never thought of it till this moment ; and there is Mirabeau
Holmes, whom I suspect to be in much deeper water than
either of us, and whom all will allow to be as pure of such
contaminating thoughts as consecrated snow. And as we
are a portion of your American people, and must not con
sider ourselves better than the rest, there must be some
other reason why the little brown woman is so great a
favorite."
" I wish the clerks would not go there at least so many
of them, and so often."
"What have you against the clerks? "
" Oh, ' bxisiness,' man, ' business ! ' They talk loud, and
laugh horse-laiigh. Besides, they worry her, I know they do.
I wish they were all in the Gulf. I tell you it would be an
act of charity to her for one to put them there."
" 1 am not so sure that she would consider it a kindness to
her to put them all there, if accounts be true."
" What do you mean ? "
" I mean Tom McComb."
" Blast the Scotchman ! As I was going over there the
other night I passed him, and I asked him, with the broadest
kind of a twang, 4 whore are ye gangging till ? ' He paid me
for it, though ; he sat me out, though he knew I had an en
gagement. Finally, after eleven, out of pure philanthropy,
I proposed to go. Would you believe it ? he would not
" Think you she would agree for him to be put into the
Gulf?" . .
PEACH-TREE. 223
" May be not ; b\it that would be the greatest kindness of
all."
"Why so?"
" Because that is a designing man. As far as my observa
tion goes, the avei-age Scotchman has three principles, ex
pressed by the three meanest words in the language hard
ness, stinginess, and craftiness. And this fellow means to
gain her confidence by playing upon the very highest feel
ings of her nature ; he is greatly interested about all religious
matters, goes to Sunday-school, teaches a class, makes ad
dresses, and tries to appear as sanctimonious as an old Cove
nanter. I tell you what, I feel like I do at a quaker meeting,
whenever he is in the room. I am all the while fearful that
he will break forth into singing psalms."
" Afraid he will sing psalms, are you ? What an idea !
What would you do, Fred ? "
" Do ? Why, I would listen mournfully till he got through ;
and then, before he had time to invite us all to unite in
prayer, I should sing the doxology and pronounce the bene- '
diction. Queer, that this man should stand foremost among
the rivals of such a man as Mirabeau Holmes."
" I know not whether he loves her or not, but if he
does, it will be with a fervor not often seen, I think."
" What ! you, a poet, say so much ! I think you say
rightly, though ' a fervor not often seen.' Still, I am sorry
for Holmes ; I don't think he stands the best of chances.
Don't you think his religious belief will be fatal to him
there ?""
" Unless he changes it."
" Nonsense ! As if a man could change his belief. But
suppose he does not 'change it,' or, what is of more conse
quence to consider, that it does not change itself? "
" Well, then, I think lus religious, or rather his no-reli-
224 A IEA.
gious, belief, as indicated in his letters of late would be fatal
to him."
" You call a man's belief ' no-religions ' because he denies
the dogmas of the European Church ? "
" No, but because he denies the truths of our religion."
" Yes ; your religion ! As if there were not many other
religions, and some, I think, much better. But we will not
discuss that. I wish I could have been with you at Hall's
the other day."
" I wish you could. Hall has the nicest, sweetest wife,
and prettiest babies in the world. He says he is the hap
piest of men ; and I think he is."
" I reckon it all made you feel sadder than a bachelor-
button you got once."
" Far from it. It only made me feel hopeful."
'* By showing what a man can do sometimes."
" Yes."
" I went home to dinner with him some time ago. I was
not expected ; and so I could get some idea of their every
day life. The babies were there, dressed just as prettily as
if it had been done by Titania and her fairies. They were
not sent out into some absurd nursery, but kept in the room
with the balance of us. I took them in my arms, rolled them
on the carpet, and played with them generally. I got my
bellyful of kisses."
" Bellyful of kisses indeed ! Did you get anything else ? "
" Yes ; I got ons of the nicest little dinners you ever
saw."
" Ah ! That is what I was thinking of. I will hear
your report."
" Now that I think of it, I fear I can no more tell you the
wherefore than you could explain the attractiveness of the
little woman on Mt. Vernon street. But there was a charm
PEACH-TKEE. 225
about the table. She is the only woman I know who seems
to understand the poetry of the table. I have been there
several times. Let me see : I noticed that the cloth, cover
ing the little round table was white as snow. In the centre
was a pretty fruit-basket, with grapes, oranges, and one or
two other kinds of fruits, ornamented with leaves and flow
ers ; and there was such a pi-etty little nosegay on each nap
kin that one was almost sorry to move it. The butter was
moulded into shells and all sorts of pretty shapes, and placed
in butter-dishes in the form of leaves, green leaves, contrasting
prettily with the rich yellow butter and the snow-white cloth."
" And the dish of salad was ornamented with bright flowers
and slices of hard-boiled egg, and orange peel, and the dishes
of roast and mutton were trimmed with sprigs of parsley."
" Exactly ; I never knew before how simple a matter it was
to make a table pretty. Is it not strange that our women
know so little about the poetry of the table ? "
" One is not ashamed to eat at such a table as that. All
the grossness, all the coarse materialism is gone."
" I tell you what, Bramlette, I am beginning to think like
you, that Hall has the nicest, sweetest little wife in the
world. Unless I can get somebody to give me thirty-nine
lashes, I mean to go on a pilgrimage as an act of penance for
once thinking ill of her."
" If you can just put it off a while," said Clarence Hall,
entering at this moment and hearing only the latter half 01
the sentence, " I fear I shall be in the mood to give you
thirty-nine every morning, if you like."
How so ? "
" I shall want to take spite out of something if I am beat,
as I fear I shall be."
" You mean for the office of city attorney ? Why, I
ought you were sure of it."
10*
226 <;A IRA.
" I thought so too. But I find there will be strong oppo
sition."
" Is not Mr. Malcomb for you ? "
" Yes ; but Mr. Malcomb is not the whole council, or even.
a majority of it."
" What are they going to oppose you for ? "
" Why, because I am in favor of public schools in the city
for negroes."
" Why, the question is wholly irrelevant, has nothing to
do with the office whatever."
" Exactly. But it is known that Mr. Malcomb is in
favor of the schools, and intends to bring the matter in shape
before the council. It is also known that Mr. Malcomb
favors me for this office ; and it was sxipposed that I, too, ap
proved of his public school plan. When asked about it I
could only reply that I did." : 4 "
" Well, well. We might have known it. They would not
have been American people if they had not cut some such
caper. Anything in the papers about it ? "
" Yes a communication from ' Cato.' "
"Give it me. I will reply to-morrow to it. We must
take a bold stand, and whip them out on that question."
From the day on which we have seen him leave the Siin-
dnv-school gift, Alf Walton ceased not his visits to Mrs.
Harlan's cottage. That he should triumph, he firmly be
lieved. That it would not be easy work, he knew ; but he
soon found that he had not counted all the difficulties in
his way. He even finally thoxight to turn respectable, and
use, as a last resort, his father's influence. Said he to his
father one day, putting on an, air of virtuous philosophy
" Father, you know the life I have lived ; I have no desire
now to make the story better than it is a life of recklessness,
extravagance, and debauchery. But it was not always so.
PKACII-TREE. 227
"When I entered the University my life was smooth behind
me, and all was fair ahead. But, trust me, so great a change
is riot without corresponding cause. My life you know the
reason of it you only know in part. That is away back in
the past, and as for what it was, no matter what 's done is
done. I despised friendship, believed all women false
loyal only to lust and frippery. And for a score of years I
have thought I found it so. You used to say that there are
periods in every man's life when he may turn back and seem
to reverse the decree of Fate itself. I am come to one, the
first one, and I want your help."
Mr. Walton could not have been more amazed. A mother
never gives up a child as lost ; a father does. Mr. Walton
had this one. And that he was any longer acknowledged,
not to say supplied with money, he owed entirely to his
mother's influence. Mr. Walton said nothing, could say
nothing, but looked inquiringly into the face of the tall,
handsome, bronzed man before him ; and really he thought
he had never looked so commanding. The speaker con
tinued :
" If I can win this girl, whose passionate feeling rises so
high above the atmosphere I have known, into the upper
regions of purest love, I will marry her, live with her and
for her, a^id the future shall only be more bright as the past
is dark. But she is clothed in such an armor of friendship,
arid my character, falsely assumed twenty years ago, is such,
that I need your assistance."
He then told his father who the young girl was, how he
had happened to observe her, what he had already done, and
all he knew about Mrs. Harlan. His father must go to the
good General Clement, to Dr. and Mrs. Suthei'land, and to
Mrs. Harlan herself. Thus did this bad man, in his bad cause,
seek to enlist the powers of virtue's self. He did not men-
228 <?A IRA.
tion Mr. Brooke, of whom he entertained a profound dis
trust; for Mr. Brooke, as we have seen, and as Alf Walton
well knew, was, notwithstanding his broad and exalted piety,
thoroughly versed in the ways of the world. Mr. Walton
believed his son, and that evening, when he told his wife,
they two, the old father and mother, wept for joy and hope
as they had not in many a long year. So there was joy in
Mr. Walton's house. The faithful mother's heart was full ;
God knows how many prayers, how many almost hopeless
cries, she had offered in anguish at the throne of Omnipo
tence ; and now they were all answered ! Answered at last !
Happy, happy, ever happy day ! and she tripped lightly
along the hall, and sung in her heart for joy, as in the long-
ago days of hope and promise.
But a great sorrow was just ahead. And I know there
are many who will consider this strengthening hope, coming
iust at the time it did, as specially sent by a benevolent
Providence to sustain these two in the great affliction which
was soon to overtake them. It was but a short while after
the events just narrated, that the Waltons were all seated
at a rather early breakfast, for Mr. Walton was going to
leave that morning for a distant city. Strange enough, they
had just been looking through the columns of a New York
paper, where they found, in an article on the " Commune," a
list of the names of all the prominent foreigners killed, and
a statement that not a single American had been killed, and
only one or two engaged in the war. This, though they
could not tell why, nevertheless afforded relief from some
vague fears which, somehow, they seemed to inhale with the
very atmosphere. They had not heard from George in some
time, and they had just been speaking of him uneasily. M r.
Walton was just saying that he knew they would get a letter
before he should return, and they must telegraph him at
PEACH-TREE. 229
once ; when the carrier entered with a message from the tele
graph office.
" From the American Minister at Paris," Mr. Walton
read aloud. Every one turned pale, the air seemed to leave
the room, and there was an ominous stillness. The son took
the package from his father's hand, and read, He only said,
" George is dead." Mr. Walton's head fell forward upon
the table, and he uttered a deep groan ; Mrs. Walton was
borne to her room by the servants and her son.
The noble women of Paris, whose sons had been faithful
to liberty, were also faithful to their promises. These two
had also lost sons : one, a mere boy, had died like a hero at
the barricade ; and the other, a tall, fair-haired youth, had
died ringing the defiant shout of Vive la Commune ! in the
very muzzles of his assassins' guns. And all three had been
laid away together. And here the body of young George
Walton should rest until his father should come to bear it
away to its native soil in the West. And shall his grave be
less sacred here 'f Verily, no ! I think the clods are sacred
here. Every one mingles with the dust of a hero. The
American Minister, according to the genius of his people,
when the women carried him the letter left with them, did
not wait the uncertainty and slowness of the mail, but sent
the contents of the whole letter, with a word of condolence
from himself, by cable.
It was not until the next day that Mr. Walton read the
message. Meanwhile his son had already sent what message
was necessary in reply to the Minister.
The next evening but one, Alf Walton was at Mrs. Har-
lan's. They were sitting in the west window of the little
parlor, when he said to Emma
" This gentle wind brings us the sweet scents from your
little garden ; they come as if to woo us thither. Let us go ;
lor I am going off to-morrow on a long journey, and should
like to see it to-night ; and you must give me a flower,
which I will carry with me all the way."
'' Oh, I see ! It requires something to remember me."
" Come into the moonlight, and I will show you how far
you are mistaken." The moon shone beautifully, and when
they reached the little flower-garden, he said to her :
" Could you think I wanted a flower only to remember
you by ? See here what I have ! " And he drew carefully
from his breast-pocket a small case, and taking out a tiny
picture, held it so the light would shine upon it. It was a
picture of herself.
" Did you think I wanted a flower for that ? "
" What betters it that that should stand instead of the
flower 2 "
" This, my timid beauty, is only to feast my eyes, that
else would sicken from want of light from what they love ;
my heart, my soul, your own self doth fill. Will you not
give me the flower too ? "
" Where go you to-morrow? "
" To France ; we have just received a telegram my
brother is dead and I go to bring home his remains."
" Youy brother George ? I am so sorry. My brothers all
died in the war. I am so sorry for your mother ; but you
are left to her. Poor, poor mother, no one was left to her."
" My precious darling ! let me be a son to her and a pro
tector to you. I must, I must declare to you what I have
delayed so long. Light of my life ! I cannot tell you how
long, how patiently, how singly I have loved you; for love
cannot be measured by years #nd months, but by longings,
by dreamings, by hopes and fears. But I have a confession
to make, and I make it before my most sacred shrine
your own heart. I nould not offer you a heai*t, a life, that
PEACH-TKEE. 231
was unworthy of you. But sorrow is a great purifier, and
love is a great elevator. I have known both ; and to-night
I declare to you, that now for the first time I know that
-with your confidence and love I could be worthy even of
you. I, of my mother's children, am left alone, you of
yours ; united, we two shall lighten their hearts and comfort
them. And for ourselves, let the star that so kindly heralds
the roseate morn stand surety for a happy day." He looked
earnestly, searchingly, into her face ; it was covered with a
blush, and, well as he knew the workings of the heart, he
mistook the import of that blush. Still the poor girl was
standing upon exceedingly treacherous and dangerous ground.
For she was reflecting at that moment that maybe, after all,
this man before her was in earnest, maybe he spoke the
truth, maybe he was an injured man ; and she blushed that
probably in her own heart she had been unjust to this man ;
not only unjust to a fellow-being, but to a man who most of
all stood in need of simple justice, and, above everything
else, the man who was at that very moment elevating and
dignifying her with his confidence, and laying at her feet his
love and life. He saw not the meaning of this blush ; he
took it for the glow of love. He seized her hand :
" Only one word, one hope or better," and he quickly
folded her in his arms. This time it was the blush of
offended innocence ; sh'e drew back from him, and said, in a
tone that showed she was offended
" Mr. Walton, I did not come here for this ; I must not
listen to it ; " and then again, fearing she was unkind, she
added in a kinder tone, " Mamma is alone ; ought not we
to return to the house ? "
" Yes ; but give me one hope, one promise. Say that you
will think of me, dream of me, sing of me ; that my image
shall be constantly in your heart, my name ever on your
232 gA IRA.
lips ; that you will be wholly mine, as I am yours. Oh, I
will turn fire-worshipper ! and daily, long before the western,
lark shall herald the morn, will I greet the rising sun with a
prayer for you, and as he sinks to rest I will ask his parting
blessing upon all you love. And in that sweet hour when you
close your eyes to s^eep, and the winged spirits are there to
bear heavenward thy latest prayer, wilt thou not then utter
my name ? and then with sweet good-night kiss the sacred air
that presses upon thy lips, and the cords of electric love will
bear it to me in the east ! " Thus it was that this scamp
proposed to kiss by telegraph ! They had now reached the
steps, and he at once bade her good-night, without giving
her time to speak, choosing rather to leave the impression
with her that he believed from her silence she had promised
him everything. Moreover, he had already decided upon a
last, desperate game ; he would not leave the city to-morrow,
but put it off till the next day. In the meantime this des
perate game was to be played.
The next afternoon from the events just narrated, Emma
was at Mr. Brooke's. They were in the parlor Emma, Mr.
Brooke, and his daughter Claude, a beautiful and accom
plished young lady, about one year Emma's senior. MTS.
Brooke was a beautiful, highly cultured woman, but of ex
ceedingly delicate constitution. She had now for several
years been a confirmed invalid ; she never left her room, and
indeed was understood to be sinking under a sure but quiet
disease. Mr. Brooke had only two children Claude and a
younger sister. Emma never knew where she had rather
be at Mr. Brooke's, General Clement's, or Mrs. Suther
land's. Mr. Brooke was as accomplished a man as one might
ever meet, at least prima facie. Upon entering the parlor
you saw that every niche and corner was occupied by some
beautiful little statuette ; the walls were covered with tK
PEACH-TREE. 233
cartoons of Raffaelle, and pictures from other great painters ;
and on the tables were several volumes of the great poets,
Shakespeare, Goethe, Dante, Tasso, the French and ancient
dramatists, all in their original languages. Mr. Brooke
was a most excellent reader, and he often read fine passages
from the poets to the girls. Mr. Brooke had just been say
ing that he never went to theatres except to hear a great
singer.
" No," said Claude, " I thought I should like to go to see
Forrest in Hamlet at least once while he was here ; but father
said he would not go."
" Above ail things I would not see a great tragedy acted.
I cannot imagine anything more absurd. The high intellec
tual enjoyment that you get from reading it nvust give way
to emotions almost entirely animal a thing of the nerves and
flesh and blood. It is essentially degrading. In a word, it
substitutes for intellectual feeling animal feeling, for the ideal,
the gross material. Comedy may be acted to make people
laugh that I do not object to ; tragedy never ! I know the
opinions on this question of the Chancellor of the University,
who is the best authority in such matters I know, and I
agree with him exactly. But we were speaking of Hamlet ;
let me read you some passages. I read you that passage in
which Polonius gives some precepts to his son, about to leave
for France." Mr. Brooke read the speech of Polonius, ending
with the ever-great words
'' This above all : to thine own self be true ;
And it must follow, as the night the day,
Thou canst not then be false to any man."
" Come now, for a criticism ! What say you, Emma, to
lis passage ? "
234 CA IRA.
" I think he ought to be a very wise and good man who
spoke this last precept such a man as Brutus, or Washing
ton, or Lee. But is this not a great deal better than what
goes before it ? "
" What say you, Claude ? "
" That the last three lines are so much better than tho.se
above, that they never could have been spoken by the same
person."
" Right, both of you. Polonius is a garrulous, shallow-
pated old man, and these three lines ought never to have
been put into his mouth at all. As you say, Emma, they
would do for Brutus, or Washington, or Lee, but not Po
lonius. The idea of putting such words into the mouth of
a man who has just been advising his son to wear the finest
clothes he can buy ! The fact is, the poet seems to get impa
tient with the old man, and lest the son be ruined for the
want of wholesome precepts, himself steps in and arms him
with this one. But now I will read you what Laertes says
to his sister, poor Ophelia, concerning Hamlet, ' and the tri
fling of his favor.' " And Mr. Brooke read the passage end
ing with these lines :
" Then weigh what loss your honor may sustain,
If with too credent ear you list his songs,
Or Idse your heart ; or your chaste treasure open
To his unmaster'd importunity.
Fear it, Ophelia, fear it, my dear sister ;
And keep you in the rear of your affection,
' Out of the shot and danger of desire.
The chariest maid is prodigal enough,
If she unmask her beauty to the moon :
Virtue itself 'scapes not calumnious strokes :
The canker galls the infants of the spring,
Too oft before their buttons be disclos'd ;
PEACH-TREE. 235
And in the morn and liquid dew of youth
Contagious blastments are most imminent.
Be wary, then ; best safety lies in fear ;
Youth to itself rebels, though none else near."
And Mr. Brooke proceeded to speak, like a wise and pious
father and friend, upon the subject of these lines ; for of one
of these girls before him he was father, of the other, beloved
pastor and friend. Was it Providence, dear reader, or Fate,
that of all the splendid passages in Shakespeare, Mr. Brooke
selected this particular one, on this particular afternoon, and
ispoke upon it so wisely, so warningly, and so feelingly ?
Heaven knows one of them stood at that moment in great
enough need of some such warning as this. Special Provi
dence, or inevitable Fate ? One would like to believe the
former ? Say you so ? Allans ! Special providence let it be,
then.
Late in the afternoon Miss Brooke went part of the way
home with Emma. Something was said about young George
Walton, who had been much loved by Mr. Brooke, and of
whose death they had just heard that morning ; and then
Claude told something of what her father whom she almost
worshipped had said about how mysterious it appeared that
both of Mr. Walton's younger sons, high-minded, generous,
and likely to be useful men, should die, leaving only Mr. Alf
a gambler, a debauchee, and a bold, bad, unscrupulous man.
And then Miss Brooke said something about a daughter of
Mr. Walton's, beautiful as a star, of whom it was whispered
she had been led to disgrace and ruin by a young Italian,
many years ago. She was thought to be dead ; but it was
not known certainly. At any rate, she had sunk out of sight.
When Emma got home she found a beautiful bouquet and
note from Mr. Alf Walton, saying that he had postponed his
236 <}A ERA.
departure until to-morrow, that he might see her again this
evening. Meanwhile that accomplished gentleman was busily
arranging his plans.
" You will be there promptly," said he to a long, lean,
hungry-looking individual, with whom he had been closeted
for an hour. " We will drive as if to the theatre ; we will
alight at the front door, and come straight in ; we will not
sit down ; you must perform the ceremony promptly ; if you
get out, don't stop, say anything ; she will not know the dif
ference. You understand now. She will think it simply a
secret marriage. Be on your guard. Meet me at the depot
to-morrow at nine. I will not be baffled. I will succeed at
all costs."
" Have you tried all other plans but this ? "
Yes."
" And failed ? "
" Yes."
" That's a new deal in your fortune, far as I know."
" Yes ; it's new as far as I know or as far as anybody else
knows, I reckon. All on account of that dainn'd eagle-eyed
villain of a parson."
" Suppose you fail to-night ? "
" I'll not fail. But if I do, I will come by and let you know."
The false justice went his way. Early in the night Mr.
Walton's splendid phaeton stopped in front of Mrs. Harlan's
cottage. Mr. Alf was hi it. Emma met him herself. He
was quick to detect a decided change in her, he thought, since
last night. But he was confident in his art of persuasion.
He contrived dexterously to recall the whole of their conver
sation of the night before, hoping to place her in the same
state of uncertainty she then was, and then to overpower her
with the rushing madness of his devotion and ardor by pro
posing that they be married within an hour. He brought
PEACH-TKEE. 237
into play ever power and every art he was master of; pro
ceeding all along on the supposed understanding that her
silence of the previous night was mutually understood to
mean consent. He appealed to her love of adventure even,
and endeavored to arouse her ambition by the grandest
prospects and most eloquent and burning promises. And
then he appealed to her thus :
" My father and mother are both old, weighed down with
grief; how it would fill them with joy for you to come to
them like sunshine in the midst of their night ! Besides,
they cannot live long ; my father has vast wealth, and no one
to give it to ; as for me, I want it not ; I want nothing
without you. And I might die myself, even on this very
voyage ; think what a consolation then it would be to them
that our union had not been put off till my return. And
what a consolation it would be to me in such an event
to know that she whom I loved best of all the earth was
securely raised above the possibility of want, above the chan
ges of treacherous fortune, the death of relatives, the loss of
friends. Think, on the other hand Good God ! I cannot
think of it. Consider your mother. Would it be worth
nothing to see her raised above the possibility of dependence 1 ;
to surround her with every comfort, every luxury ; to make
the balance of her life smooth and happy, and, above all, to
let her know that her child was safe in the arms of a hus
band who would protect and honor her, and lavish upon her
all the wealth of his love ? Come, my precious ! My arms
and my heart are open and longing for thee. Your mother
knows me not ; therefore she gives not her consent. But
when I return, and we relate to her this last test of devotion,
Ixo w happy she will be, and how she will applaud the heavenly
impulses of her child. Come ! The constant stars look kindly
down, and long to bless us ! "
238 <A IRA.
CHAPTER XVII.
" Three men are beloved by God : he who is of a sweet temper ; he who is moderate
in his habits ; and he who does not always obstinately adhere to his first resolves."
TALMUD.
ONE morning, in the latter part of June, Marian Malcomb
was surprised to receive the following note :
" Miss MARIAN :
" I have just returned to the city. May I call this morn
ing ? Truly and faithfully,
" MIRABEAU HOLMES."
To which she immediately sent the following answer :
" MR. HOLMES :
" I will wait to tell you how glad I am that you have
returned. Come at twelve.
"Your friend,
" MARIAN MALCOMB."
Mirabeau had expected his return to be a complete sur
prise, even to his intimate friends, such as Van Comer, Bram-
lette, and Hall. But the surprise was with himself when he
found them all awaiting him at the car-shed. Fred was gaily
decorated with a red scarf the badge of the Comnrane. He
rushed to Mirabeau, gave him the fraternal embrace, and then
turned on his heel, throwing his head back with the abandon
of a gamin, and sang out jauntily, "Ah! a ira, c,a ir;i,
9a ira." Then he cried, " Vive la Commune ! " and the friends,
with several others in the crowd repeated it. Meanwhile, a
PEACH-TREE. 2CO
considerable crowd had gathered around them ; but as the
meaning of the demonstration was known only to some half
a dozen friends, and as the object of it was personally un
known to the crowd, they might still have escaped ; and this
Miraboau wished to do not that he objected to standing
upon the head of a barrel and addressing a crowd for five or
ten minutes what American ever did ? but because he was
worn out with travel, covered with dust, and his arm was
paining him. But this was exactly what his friends deter
mined he should not do.
No one who has not witnessed it can have any idea of the
marvellous rapidity with which a crowd gathers in any Ameri
can, city, even when no one seems to know the exact object
of the gathering ; there is no parallel save Paris. The reason
of it is the quick perception and the lively and exciting
sympathy of the people. The throng threw itself across the
sidewalk ; a whisper had rapidly run through the crowd of
what was up ; and so, when Fred called out, " Holmes ! "
the crowd, according to the custom, immediately on all sides
raised the cry, " Holmes ! Holmes ! Holmes ! " This is
eminently a speechifying people ; always more the pity
they have been wholly swayed by their orators. Plainly
there was but one escape. In the hurry and excitement
Fred had dexterously transferred his red scarf to Mirabeau,
unknown to him, and so, when he stepped upon the platform
of a car standing by, he was really a Communist chief, with
the insignia of his office. Mirabeau forgot his pain, and he
f.ilt for a moment a thrill somewhat like he was wont to feel
among the crowds that used to assemble in St. Antoine. In
a deep voice, full of emotion, Mirabeau said :
" Citizens ! I have fought two months in Paris for what
many in this crowd fought four years in Virginia and the
West. Here, our heroes were killed and our chief impris-
240 gA IRA.
oned ; there, chiefs and heroes died behind the barricade,
or were brutally murdered by monster assassins. Let this
forever be a custom around the camp-fires of Humanity's
army: when the sentinels have all answered, ' One o'clock,
and all is well,' and the corporal calls out, ' They all answer,'
let the captain ask, ' Do the men of the Commune answer ? '
Citizens, heroes will grasp their swords in their graves when
the solemn answer is given, ' No ; they all died in the cause
of Humanity ! ' Long live the Universal Republic ! "
There is probably no people in the world so like the people
of Paris in its impulses and sympathies as the people of the
South. The fact is and it has not been sufficiently ob
served our people are much more French than English.
Mirabeau, in these few words, from the associations in his
mind at the moment, naturally and impulsively adopted
the same style that he would have used in speaking to a
crowd of proletaires in the Faubourg St. Antoine, and with
the happiest effect. A few in the crowd cried, tl Vive la
Commune ! " while thfe mass, knowing nothing of French,
shouted, " Hurrah for the Commune! Long live the JRepub-
lic /" When they reached the hotel, Fred seized the pen and
wrote on the register, after Mirabeau's name, " Commune of
Paris." Mirabeau objected to this, saying that he did not
want anything said about his return, and about his being a
Communist, as it might appear that he wanted to give him
self an air of importance, etc. ; whereupon Brainlette handed
him one of the morning papers, pointing him to the following :
" Mirabeau Holmes, of this State, a member of the Commune
of Paris, is expected to reach the city this morning, on th>3
Augusta train," etc., etc. After he got to his room he found
out the secret of the whole matter. In Liverpool he had
met with General Cluseret, who had made his escape from
Pai'is in the last days of the struggle, and they returned to
PEACH-TREE. 241
this country together. Cluseret, although claiming to be a
naturalized American, was really a Frenchman. Mirabeau
was the only native American who held an office under the
government of the Commune ; and Cluseret judged that any
honors or distinction shown, him would be considered as
shown the representative of America in the Commune, and
would be taken as so much respect shown by his people to
the cause he had served. Knowing some of Mirabeau's
friends, from having heard him speak of them, he secretly
telegraphed them as to the time of his expected arrival.
Cluseret himself travelled under an assumed name, wishing
to remain for some time unknown in this country. Mira
beau's three friends did not tell Marian Mulcomb, or indeed
any one else, of his expected return to the city, rightly
thinking that as she could not fail to be present in his
thoughts, so, if he wished it, he would inform her himself.
Of course, however, she, and everybody else for all the
people of this city, to their honor and to the honor of the
city be it said, both can and do read would see the notice
in the morning papers. But it so happened just as every
thing in the universe happens that Marian had not seen the
papers that morning. This was the way of it : Mr. Malcomb
lived on Mt. Vernon street, about a mile from the post-
office, near which was also his business office. He always
drove down in his carriage very early in the morning, and,
partly to enjoy the morning air and partly to see what was
doing in the city, his daughter generally accompanied him.
They would go to the post-office, from there to Mr. Malcomb's
office, and, leaving him there, return home by a different
route. This morning Mr. Malcomb's brother had her seat,
and so Marian had riot taken the grand round, and had not
yet seen the morning papers. Mr. Malcomb himself was at
that moment jerking himself along Wall street, erect and
11
242 gA IRA.
stiff, as if bound to a board running Tip and down his back,
wearing the highest beaver-hat ever known in this State,
which he carried on top of his head, slightly pitched forward,
with the same precision as you have seen a darkey carry a
pail of water.
Mirabeau found Marian out in the yard among the flowers.
She gave him a tiny rose as they walked towards the house,
which he placed in his button-hole, saying " he would wear
it in place of his red badge."
" Will it live so long ? "
" As long, I hope, as the memory of the other. You can
make it immortal." .
He found her the same quiet, little, brown woman, with a
charm somehow.
" You must tell me now," said she, " how you escaped.
We saw something of it in a New York paper, but it was
too meagre. Tell me all about it."
" Ah, then, must I say so much about myself? "
" Certainly, if your friends wish it. Come, I will sing you
one verse of a song first." And she sang in a low, sweet voice
the last stanza of that wonderful song, C'EST NOTRE TOUR."
" Au Retour.
" Chants du pays, a notre ame ravie,
Vous apportez les accents du bonheur.
Pays, sois fier ! tu nous donnas la vie,
Nous la dormions pour garder ton honneur.
Coteaux charmants, rive connue,
Nous revoyons vos bords cheris :
Souhaitez nous la bienvenue,
Chants du pays, chants du pays."
Then Mirabeau related to her, briefly, how, with the help
of the American Minister, he had escaped from Satory.
PEACH-TREE. 243
" And now," said he, "you must tell me what you all have
been doing here."
" Oh, I suppose you know everything o'f importance that
has happened ; about politics, and all that. Some of our
friends are married. I waited on three couples last winter.
None of our friends, I am glad to say, have died. Mrs. Suth
erland has written a novel, and made herself famous ; my
Sunday-school class has been going on bravely, and we have
the nicest club you ever saw. And to-morrow night is club
night; you must join ; all our friends belong to it."
" To-morrow night where ? And tell me how I must get
there."
" At Mrs. Hall's Clarence Hall's ! Why, that will be
nice. You see, we have an equal number of ladies and gen
tlemen. After each meeting the secretary keeps a list of the
ladies' names, and each gentleman writes his name opposite
that of the lady he is going with."
" Then I must go alone to-morrow night, evidently."
" No, you can go with me. I say this much because I am
president for the next meeting. Mr. McComb was going
with me, but he had to leave the city to-day."
" Are you not afraid to tell me so much ? "
" Afraid of what ? "
" Of turning my head making me believe I am a favorite
of the gods."
'' No compliments. Have you seen any of your friends ? "
" One yourself. Several of them did meet me at the car-
shed."
" Did they know you were coming ? "
" It seems they did, but not from me. But tell me how
you have been."
" Oh, as usual. My life, of course, must be without inci
dent. I ride over to town with father every morning, early ;
244 A IRA.
read the papers, and sometimes read some in bo^ks ; help
mother with whatever work she has ; dig among the flower*-,
and make a great many bouquets you see I have not learned
yet that plants have feeling ; and generally have callers in
the evening. I go to the club once a week, and once or
twice we have been on an excursion to Stone Mountain ; one
time Mrs. Sutherland went with us. Do you know her ? "
" No, but I have long wanted to, and now I must not put
off seeking her acquaintance."
" You must read her book first, though."
" Have you read it ? "
" Yes."
" Tell me something about it."
" The critics are all down on it, all but Mr. Stephens.
They say it is immoral in its teachings, and it has got a great
deal of kissing in it."
" What does Mr. Stephens say ? ""
" He says that it is not immoral, and that it gives evi
dences of power of a high order, especially dramatic power."
" I fear you will agree with Mr. Stephens, out of sympa
thy, because all the others are against the author."
" No ; I think Mr. Stephens is right, though. But there is
most too much kissing."
" And hugging too ? "
" You have read it ? "
" Yes, coming home, T found a copy in Washington."
" What do you think ? "
" Just as you do. Three things struck me particularly : the
wonderful dramatic power, or rather, as Mr. Stephens says, the
evidences of wonderful dramatic power ; the high morality
of the book too high, I know, for most critics, because most
critics are narrow, ignorant, bigoted, superstitious, dogmatic,
conservative ; but what I like best about this book with such
PEACH-TREE. 245
a detestable name" Love-sick" indeed ! is its manifestly
strong tendency towards liberalism. I believe it is the only
instance 1 know of in our Southern literature of anything
that looks like a revolt against a miserable ' conservatism.' "
" ' Ignorant, bigoted, superstitious, dogmatic ! ' What fear
ful adjectives. But I have not heard you speak so of ' con
servatism ' before."
" No, I have only learned anything of its true import
since I saw you, and knowing that, I hate it with all my
might. It is the enemy of Humanity."
" But we are told to love our enemies."
tl Well, if it must be so, my love for * conservatism' is
boundless ;" I wish the word, the idea, and all who believe in
sither, in a better world than this ! "
" Well, well, ' times change, and men change with them ! ' '
" But ' principles never ? ' I know of no other instance of
30 much folly compacted into so few words. My belief is
that a great portion of the mistakes and consequent woes of
Humanity come from what is called ' sticking to principles.'
Jut where is your mother ? "
"At my sister's."
I am sorry, I wanted so much to see her."
" She will not come till late in the afternoon ; but will you
not come then to tea ? "
" I am already promised to Clarence Hall; he wants me
to see the baby."
" Yes, one of them die'd. They were mighty sweet little
wee things."
That evening Mirabeau went to take tea with Clarence
Hall and his wife and baby. Fred and Bramlette were
there ; and all three agreed that it was the pleasantest, nicest,
petit souper they ever saw. Mirabeau fully appreciated
what had so struck his two friends the poetiy of Mrs. Hall's
240 QA IRA.
table. But, on the other hand, he saw with pain that Mrs.
Hall had growu quite pale ; and he thought he could detect,
in spite of every effort, that Clarence himself was a little
restless, as if uneasy about something.
Ours is a wonderfully migratory people. Even at the
time of this writing the 30th day of August, very early in.
the morning, a mocking-bird singing from the top of yon
rich magnolia the while many of the founders of the club,
some of our friends among them, no longer meet with it ;
some are in the far West, Texas, Salt Lake, and the Golden
State, and some have gone to seek their fortunes in the
metropolis. It is oidy safe to say that few, if any, are in the
Federal capital. It seems that our people no longer have any
thing to do or to say there, But 1 wherever they be, or
wherever they may be hereafter, they can never forget those
delightful evenings at the club.
The first evening of Mirabeau's attendance was one of the
pleasantest. Otis Jones poor fellow, he has married since
read a curious paper from the Pall Mall Gazette on this
question : " Are men and women fond of each other f "
The conclusion was, that the fondness of the two sexes for
one another is only pretended ; that, in- fact, it is the great
fundamental hypocrisy of the race. The pretence that men
and women are dying of liking for each other is altogether a
fraud. Statistics give no account of any such mortality.
Men and women keep aloof from each other ; they do not like
each other ; and their natures must alter greatly, radically,
before, they ever do like each other, or get along together tol
erably. Whenever one gets an insight into the core of
things, one sees clearly that men and women are domestic
creatures under compulsion. The two sexes do not like each
other's society : boys hate girls, and girls return the feeling ;
men support the costliest clubs, smoke, frequent the billiard-
PEACH-TREE. 247
saloon, the card-table, hunt, fish, do anything to get away
from women ; and all the women have clubs in their draw
ing-rooms. Old men care nothing for women, except as
nurses ; old women creep together, and remain together,
though it may be they have nothing whatever to say. So
strong and so general is the antipathy between the two sexes
that it has been considered a work not only of philanthropy,
but really a work of genius, to contrive ways and means for
keeping men at home with their wives even so long as mo
rality and domestic economy imperatively require. Female
writers especially are continually teaching their younger
sisters artifices and stratagems for keeping their husbands at
home, at least a decent portion of their time ; which indeed is
only imitating nature nature having found it necessary to
bribe them with children in order to keep them together at
all. And just here I desire to make a note, which is this :
that whenever this bribe is not given, it may be taken as
conclusive evidence that nature does not wish them together
at all, but altogether apart. To resume: the truth is, the
tastes of the sexes radically differ. No one can doubt that
men and women dress, not for the opposite, but each for their
own sex ; nay, further, men and women always have a con
tempt for each other's styles. Moreover, that men and
women neither like, nor respect, nor even understand, each
other, is also evident from their conversation.. Whence else
comes that artificial style of talk, the miserable shams and
pretences, the absurd and wholly unbelievable compliments,
which the sexes indulge in towards each other ? Nothing of
the kind is seen among men, or women either, who honestly
like and respect each other. Plainly, the sexes are strangers
to each other, and hence betake themselves to compliments.
It is wonderful, and quite as sad as wonderful, how extremely
rare it is for husband and wife, even in the course of a long
248 gA IKA..
life, to become really intimate. Considering that the relation
is so close, and the ties so intricate, and especially the many
trials that even the most prosperous must share together, it
is astonishing that it should be so. Nor can it be doubted at
all that the cases are rare indeed where husbands and wives
have not at the bottom of their hearts some sense of griev
ance against each other. However sad it may be, the fact is
undeniable, that the interest which the sexes have for each
other is confined wholly to one thing love and this begins
and ends with the central portion of life. Now, why not say
at once, honestly, that the only interest which the sexes
have for each other depends, in its last analysis, exclusively
upon a low animal propensity ? Does not the logic of the
case lead inexorably to such conclusion ? Manifestly this
love, which only exists during the central portion of life,
cannot have for its foundation anything in the mind ;
for the plain reason that there is nothing in the mind which
exists only during this portion of life. Cleaiiy, according
to the logic of this case, the only interest men and women
have for each other must, in its last analysis, be only the
animal propensity aforesaid ; but for that wonderful, though
lowly and simple arrangement, the two sexes are the mortal
natural enemies of each other ! Of course, this last idea w;is
not much talked at" the club that night, owing to the exces
sive modesty of the American people. But the subject
furnished much matter of conversation. Almost every one
present denied the whole thing, from personal experience
mainly, passing such absurd and unbelievable compliments the
while, as went far to prove the very thing they were denying.
That was a pleasant evening at the club. Olive Sutherland
was there, beautiful as the evening star ; Fred scarcely left
her side the whole evening.. Emma Harlan, too, was then;,
her full-rounded beauty as perfect as the dark magnolia-tree,
FEACH-TRKE. 249
yet as graceful as the willow of the Orient ; Miss Brooke,
tall, of classic features and cultured face, cold gray eye like
her father's, and royal tread ; and Mr. Brooke himself, by
special invitation, was there.
" I think," said Mr. Brooke, " that the church is not toler
ant enough of innocent pleasures. To be sure, none are pro
scribed which it defines to be innocent, but the very definition
the church gives of innocent enjoyment needs to be vastly
more liberal. Once I know, and it was not very long ago,
whatever was natural was thought to be, ipso facto, wrong;
as if God had not made our natures ! But we shall get along.
The church, I trust, will not be always learning these two
things : first, that in matters of every-day life we are not
to be governed by the narrow ideas of the early Reformers and
Puritans, who seemed to think long faces, tears, sighs, groans,
and a thousand self-imposed afflictions, necessary to a holy life ;
and secondly, that in matters of doctrine we are not to be
confined by the narrow horizon of apostolic times ; neither
are we to suppose but what there is a wisdom higher even
than the wisdom of apostles the wisdom that controls and
directs human events." Manifestly here was no ignorant,
narrow, contemptible, bigoted, besotted priest.
" What think you of the paper we heard read to-night ? "
asked Mirabeau as he and Marian walked home ; the Club
must walk, it was not allowed to ride.
" The intention seems to be to show that men and women
very different from each other."
" Yes ; fundamentally, naturally so."
" Which, I reckon, is meant to lead to the conclusion that
eir spheres, as they say, must be entirely different from
each other, and their education too."
" But this goes a step furthei', and makes them naturally
dislike each other. Do you believe that ? "
11*
250 A IE A.
" It would seem very strange that it should be so ; but I
don't know what to believe, do you ? "
" I know my own belief on the subject. It is true that
the sexes do not understand each other ; that they do not
dress for each other ; that, as a rule, they find more pleasure
in the company of their own sex than the opposite ; in a
word, nearly all the facts are true. But the mortal heresy is in
making all of this natural. In fact, it is altogether unnatural,
and due entirely to false ideas and a false system of educa
tion. If one studies, a priori, the principle which regulates
the present relations between the two sexes, one must see that
it is monstrous, therefore unnatural ; if one studies it histori
cally, one finds everywhere traces of its brutal origin."
" What is this principle ? "
" That men are born to will and command ; women, to
please and obey."
" But do you think that married people so seldom become
really intimate? "
" Yes ; I fear the case is sadly rare where they ever
becpme companions in the highest, truest sense of that word.
Nor can it ever be different until the world learns this, that
real intimacy, true companionship, can only exist between
equals. This is the ideal of marriage ! Think of what it may
be between persons of equal intellect, equal rights, equal
culture, of similar tastes, and similar aspirations. Let their
intellects and culture, then, be of a high order, and their am
bition broad and generoiis ; and, finally, let them have for
each other that love which is alone worthy of the name of
love love founded upon high esteem and appreciation of
character. This is the sacred ideal of marriage."
" I think you right to say that this sort of marriage is very-
rare. And it must be confessed that the picture we are accus
tomed to see drawn looks pitiful enough by the side of yours."
PEACH-TREE. 251
tc Oh, yes ! The ordinary picture, even in its highest estate,
what is it? That a man finding a slight deficiency in his
own nature must appropriate another small nature in the
shape of a wife to supply the deficiency fortunate, small as
the need is, if, haply, he find a complement large enough.
He needs something to protect ; he must have a wife and
children. As for the wife poor little complement ! she must
walk humbly before him, happy, as Pericles says, if not
spoken of at all, either for good or ill ; she must learn and
practice the most perfect self-abnegation, have no will, no
opinions of her own ; she must learn to anticipate, by the
glance of his royal eye, all her husband's wishes ; in a word,
she must live in the light of his countenance in the same sense
that a cabbage lives in the light of the sun."
, " Yes ; let me you tell what I heard Dr. Williams say the
other night in an address to a graduating class of young
ladies. He said, the highest and holiest duty of every woman
is to love and save some one man ! "
" Precisely. But we must have a different class of
teachers from Dr. Williams."
" Think you they could accomplish much in this coun-
try?"
" Yes ; I know there is a fearful mass of darkness, ignorance,
miserable conservatism to be got clear of; but people will
accept the truth when they get light. The first thing to be
done is to get our ' State University ' open to our women.
Is it not wonderful that our ( State University ' should be
closed against our women ? For the higher education of her
sons our State spends many thousands of dollars ; for that
of her daughters, not one cent ! Is it not monstrous ? " . . .
Clarence Hall was quite right in saying that Mr. Malcomb
was not the Council, or a majority of it. Mr. Malcomb was
liberal, the representative man of the new order of things
252 gA IRA.
in the State as well as in the city; but the majority of the
Council were conservative, in sympathy with the great
majority of the controlling classes. The business enei'gy of
the city getting for the time the upper hand of its worn-out
and ridiculous politics, Mr. Malcomb had been prevailed on
to accept his present office ; but this action being entirely
abnormal, and* things having gone back into their ancient
and time-honored rut, he found it almost impossible to im
part any of his own liberal views to his colleagues, or to en
gage them in any of his progressive plans. That he did any
thing at all is only due to his marvellous tact and energy.
Still he had done much. Under almost every conceivable
discouragement, the growth of the city in population and
wealth was truly wonderful ; within a few years both had
been almost trebled ; and with all its braggadocio, quite as
marvellous as anything else about it, it was already the me
tropolis of the State, and aspiring to be the metropolis of the
Gulf section. Mr. Malcomb, with the aid of a few others,
had also, by consummate management, succeeded in estab
lishing, for the whites, an excellent and thorough system of
public schools in, the city. He was now endeavoring to
make some such provision for the colored population. And
in this, Hall, as was indeed to be expected, seeing that he
was a young man, a University man, of liberal culture and
enlightened understanding, ardently sympathized. But. as
might also have been expected from the prevailing ridiculous
conservatisms, this eminently just and progressive measure
was opposed with much violence by the dominating party
the " time-honored principles " men. There was to be an elec
tion, by the Mayor and Council, of a city attorney, an office
of considerable trust and handsome salary, but usually given
to a young man supposed to possess superior talents; and the
less money the candidate had, the better, for sympathy and
PEACH-TREE. 253
an earnest^Iesire to help along the young and deserving are
among the nobler characteristics of this people ; but, above
all things, he must be " square " in politics. Hall, as we
have seen, was a candidate for this office, and had the sympa
thy of Mr. Malcomb.
On the day before the election was to be, .Hall, at the re
quest of Mr. Malcomb, called at his office for a short interview
upon the subject.
" I have sent for you," said Mr. Malcomb, going, as was
his custom, straight to the subject, " to ask what you wish
to be done to-morrow. You know, of course, that if you are
a candidate I shall give you my vote; but my judgment is,
we shall be defeated ; and I think it right to tell you. But
for this question of the schools, which certainly ought not to
have been brought in at all, being quite foreign, and which
is therefore the more unfortunate for you, I think we should
not have met with opposition. Still, if you remain a candi
date, I shall do all I can for yo\i."
" Whether I am successful or beaten, I am under equal
obligations to you. And I will say also, that I would a
.thousand times rather be beaten for my adherence to a policy
so eminently wise and just, than succeed by opposing it.
Moreover, though I should be beaten, yet, if you, or this
measure which you represent, shall gain any strength by
agitating the question, I am content." *
" My judgment then is, that I would make the fight; for
we can bring such influences to bear that we shall barely be
3aten. I think we can so manage as to leave a very small
apparent majority against the school measure much smaller,
fact, than really exists ; and in this way the measure
will, as you suggested, be strengthened. We should have
gotten a small majority but for the Governor's speech the
other day."
254 A IRA.
" I looked upon that simply as an expression of the Gov
ernor's individual opinion. But I see now : that agitated
the general question, the newspapers took it up, and scattered
it among the people."
" Yes ; and it may be that some of our electors, or some
of the friends of our electors, want some favors from the
Governor. Do you remember what he said in his speech ?
" He said : ' The negro must not be educated. Teach
your bootblack Greek, and he at once either becomes a ras
cal or is called to preach.' The truth is, our Governor is
a partial failure : he began his administration with a decla
ration, as you know, of his belief in the ' omnipotence of
honesty,' and immediately, as all the State knows, united
his influence with that of others to prevent the exposure of
one of the leaders of his own party. And now he comes
forward with a belief in the efficacy of the 'ignorance of
the masses.' Such a statement must have sounded strangely
enough in the atmosphere of the University."
" I think, though, you do the Governor slight injustice.
He did not say he believed in the ' ignorance of the masses, *
but in the ' ignorance of the negro." 1 I say a slight injustice,
because the principle involved is quite the same. But as
we have spoken of the Governor, I will not omit to say that,
however widely we may differ on many of the greatest ques
tions, I cannot bi*t honor the man who has, in spite of many
obstacles, made his way from the anvil to be Governor of the
State."
Clarence Hall left Mr. Malcomb's office, feeling much de
pressed. The truth is, his private affairs were not in the
best condition ; and he had not till now quite given up the
prospect of getting this officer. The salary attached to it,
though small, had really become an item with him. Mira-
beau was quite right when he thought he detected a sort of
PEACH-TREE. 255
unrest, a vague uneasiness and restlessness. Clarence Hall
was in debt y and he did not at all see his way out. He felt
dissatisfied, knew that he was testy, and in low spirits. But
did not wish his wife, whom he had left after dinner with
slight headache, to see him so ; and when he started home
late iu the afternoon, he thought to revive his spirits by
tepping across the street to the "Turf Exchange" and
taking a glass of brandy. He swallowed a good large glass-
il, and not being at all in the habit of taking it, the effect
was greater than he had looked for; besides, it was just the
opposite of what he intended : instead of making him feel
better, it only made him feel worse, and added also something
of a " don't care " feeling. It so happened that he met Mr.
Dearing just coming out of his own gate, and stopped to
speak a few words with him. He talked rather loud, and
his wife, who was lying on the bed, came to the window and
looked out to see what was the matter. He thought he
made a great noise getting up the steps, and in the hall he
stumbled over an unlucky chair and fell with a crash. His
wife's headache was worse than it had been at dinner, and the
baby was sick and fretful. Clarence Hall was quite wretched.
J>ut let us see what some other of our friends were doing on
this identical night. The prevailing opinion was, that the
practice of law and the study of literature were quite incom
patible occupations. And when it once got to be suspected
that a young attorney was running off after literature, the
litigating public became shy of him, shook its head, and said
he would not stick ; wanted to do too many things at once ; was
theoretical, airy, wouldn't do to tie to; in a word, that man
was as utterly lost as tax-money. Bramlette was exactly in
this predicament now. He had not paid imich attention to
this fact, because, being a man of culture and understanding,
he must have despised it ; and furthermore, the impulse to
256 A IRA.
read and write was to him irresistible. Consequently he fre
quented daily the Young Men's Library, and was always
engaged in taking notes. Of course, the litigating public ob
served this, and the inevitable result soon followed. But it can
not be denied that Bramlette, though he possessed undoubted
genius, was inclined to be vacillating, fitful, and uncertain.
His notions seemed to crowd each other out. And, as
Brooke of Tipton was at least once known to observe, a man
may have any number of notions, and nothing come of them ;
nothing come of them, you know. So it was with poor
Bramlette. Sometimes he thought he would write for maga
zines ; sometimes he thought he would write books ; he
thought of trying to get a professorship in some college ; and
then he thought of letting everything else drop, and giving
his whole time and attention to his profession. But as for
this latter, it had become quite distasteful to him, and he
had about given it up. Mirabeau Holmes and Fred went to
the Library. Bramlette was not there, as he usually was ;
and so they went to his room. They found him seated at
a rather large round table. He was leaning forward, his
head resting upon the table, and did not observe them until
they had entered. The table was covered with note-books,
straggling sheets of paper, and a great mass of manuscript, all
in the greatest confusion.
" What is all this mess you have here ? " said Fred, at the
same time taking up a piece of the manuscript and beginning
to read " Chapter Second voyages and discoveries "
" Take seats, and I will tell you what it is," said Bramlette, "
picking up a newspaper which had fallen at his side and put
ting it on the table. " You see," he resumed, " I got a no
tion into my head to write a School History of the United
States. I could not imagine a book that was more needed,
especially in the South, or one that would be likely to pay
PEACII-TKEE. 257
its author more handsomely. In fact, all the school histo
ries of this country we have being Northern books, a correct
history written from a Southern standpoint would run the
whole of them out of our schools and be used by everybody.
That was what I thought, and that is what I think yet.
What do you all say ? " They both agreed. " Well, I took
it into my head to write it ; and for two months I have
been working upon it with all my might. I have got a third
of it done. Now just read that announcement" handing
him the newspaper. Fred took the paper and read the an
nouncement, to the effect that Alexander H. Stephens, Vice-
President of the Confederate States, and author of a " His
tory of the War between the States," had completed his
" School History of the United States," and that it would
appear at an early day.
" So you see," resumed Bramlette, " all the work I have
done goes for nothing. To say nothing of the fact that Mr.
Stephens's name alone woiild be sufficient to enable Ms book
to overpower mine, his will be in the hands of everybody long
before mine could be finished ; and you know one of the uni
versal, standing complaints among ovir people is, having to
buy so many sorts of schoolbooks."
" Yes," obsei-ved Fred, " it's about as universal, and more
standing, than bowel-complaint in summer."
" What do you propose to do, then ? " asked Mirabeau.
" What can 1 do but stop, short off, and go at something
else ? "
" Do ! Why, go ahead and write your book. Let us think
about this a little : if Mr. Stephens had not already, at least to
a great extent, appeased the wrath of the country which he
brought upon himself by his course during the war, his book
would be of advantage to you rather than otherwise ; but
this ho has done by writing the ' History of the War between
258 gA IEA -
the States.' I don't know all that this book of his will be,
but we all know enough of the author to know that in the
book the political portion will overshadow all the rest. It
may even be scarcely anything more than a history of the po
litics of the country."
" I had not thought of it in that light."
" It is strange that you had not."
" No ; it is not strange at all," said Fred ; " he never read
Buckle."
" I have it ; I will lend it to you ; it is necessary for you
to read it at once. But a man might know, I should think,
without having read Buckle, that the history of the politics
is not the history of the country itself; in point of fact, it is
a very small portion of it indeed. We want something like
a history of the civilization of this country. We want to
know something of the character of our people, and of the
forces that have operated to make it what it is ; we want
these forces arranged into general and local, so as to enable
us to account for local characteristics. We want a history
of discovery, invention, literature, art, science, education,
and all manner of industry ; we want a history of the prog
ress of knowledge in all its branches."
" What about Politics, Religion, and War, the trinity of
all ancient and modern histories down to Buckle ? " asked
Fred.
" Of course, a short account must be given of each ot
them ; but it must be entirely subordinate. That is, they
must be subordinated in this sense : That they depend abso
lutely, and necessarily, upon something beyond themselves,
to wit : Knowledge. Given the amount of knowledge, and
the extent of its diffusion, in any country, and if you know
its traditions, you may determine with absolute certainty what
its politics will be, and what its religion. And as for War,
PEACH-TKEE. 259
if anybody will point out any good as likely to arise to Hu
manity from the digestion of any number of tons of war-
fact, why, I will agree for a portion of our libraries still to
be given up to that sort of books. Write your book, my
friend, by all means."
" Have you decided, then," said Fred, " to quit law entire
ly ?"
" Yes. I am completely disgusted with it. I wrote to
the old Doctor about it the other day. You know he was
very much opposed to my studying it at first. He says it
would be better for*me to quit it even now."
" I am glad," remarked Fred, " that you have quit it. I
can abuse it now as much as I please. Old Senator Macon
was right when he thought it to be the most contemptible
profession extant. He considered it beneath the dignity of
a private gentleman, and wanted to hand it over to the gov
ernment. As for my part, I would rather roll a wheelbar
row or groom a jackass than be a lawyer."
" I have often thoiight of William Wirt's saying, that he
had no title to remembrance but the British Spy. A_nd he
was greater than most great lawyers. I think he told the
truth," said Bramlette.
" The law is essentially a profession for only ordinary
minds. Its very terms exclude the possibility of high mental
effort. The highest mental effort, indeed the only truly high
effort of the human mind, is creative effort, and the very
terms of the law exclude all idea of creation. The mere
politician, low as he is comparatively, is yet one step above
the lawyer. The mere lawyer cannot create, he can only
interpret ; he must confine himself to this subordinate and
essentially low office ; he can only interpret and arrange ;
the moment he goes beyond this he is outside of the law,"
said Mirabeau.
260
" And all this is true of the upper story ; but when you
descend to the wrangling lower story ! The bare thought of
it makes me stop up my ears and hold my nose," said
Fred.
" You are both unquestionably right. I know it now ;
but I did not several years ago. I studied law in obedience
to an ambition and design formed when a boy. Then the law
yers and orators and orators were mostly lawyers controll
ed the country ; but nous avons change tout cela ! " said Bram-
lette.
Mr. Malcomb thought there was slight difference in be
lieving in the "ignorance of the masses," and believing in
the " ignorance of the negro" But not so his colleagues of
the City Council. Mr. Malcomb endeavored to show them
that it was not only the duty of the State, or city, to provide
for the education of all, black as well as white, but that it
would in this case be immensely to their own advantage. He
showed them that the greatest of our needs was skilled labor,
and this we could not have without educating the laborer.
He then placed it upon the low consideration of dollars and
cents, showing that it takes more to take care of our crim
inals than it would to educate all, and that our prisons are
mostly filled with the ignorant. This was the argument in
reply : If you educate a villain you only increase his capa
city for mischief ; all negroes are villains ; therefore we will
not educate the negro !
Clarence Hall was beaten ; but, as Mr. Malcomb foretold,
only by a very small vote.
PEACH-TKEE. 2G]
CHAPTER XYIII.
" The real temple of the Supreme Being is the universe ; his worship, virtue ; his
festivals, the joy of a great nation assembled in his presence to knit closer the bonds
of universal fraternity, and to pay him the homage of intelligent and pure hearts."
KOBESPIERKE. Speech in the Convention.
MIR ABE AU HOLMES was now often at Mr. Malcomb's.
Marian was always glad to see him. She expected something
better from him than from most young men who visited her.
She admired him, admired his talents, his ardent sympathy,
his lofty aims, and his delicate sense of honor. He recognized
all these qualities in her, and he loved her for them, which
indeed is the same as saying he loved her for herself ; for it
was these that made herself. And she felt for him at least that
esteem which is the only foundation for love of the highe t
order. I must not omit to mention here one reason why these
two liked to be together a reason quite independent of all
higher or deeper considerations : they did not feel obliged to
be continually laughing when together. The reader must
know that in this wonderful, ridiculous little democratic
city, this was a custom: "Good evening, Miss Susie."
" Good evening, Mr. Jones. I have scarcely had a glimpse of
you this evening." (Laughter.) " I have been out on the
veranda, and in the other room, looking for you for an
hour." (Renewed and continued laughter.) And then Mr.
Jones asked : " How have you been enjoying yourself, Miss
Susie ? " And Miss Susie answered and said : " Oh ! charm
ingly." (he he he ! ha ha ha!) And then Miss Susie ob
served, says she " How have you enjoyed yourself, Mr.
Jones ? " And Mr. Jones remarked, says he " Splendidly !
262 gA IRA.
only I wish I had seen more of you." (he he he ! ha ha ha !
ha he he, ha ha, he- e-e ee !) In short, dear reader, it was a
" he he he," and a " ha ha ha," in great force. Laugh, la\igh,
laugh ! Laugh everywhere ; laugh at everything ; laugh
eternally, till the crack of doom. Custom demanded this.
If you failed to observe it, two things followed : your com
panion voted you stupid, unable to appreciate a good thing,
and probably did some original thinking to this effect
" Casting pearls before swine ; " and then your companicfh
was also slightly miserable at not being able to entertain you,
in spite of your horrid stupidity. The fact is, there was so
much of this laughter that people of culture above common,
and with some just notions of the eternal fitness of things,
were bored out of their lives almost. Not that laughter is,
per se, a bad or improper thing ; far from it. A good shak
ing laugh occasionally is good for the health. Fred Yan
Comer said once, that it ought to be one of the main duties
of the State, coming under the head of" sanitary regulations,"
to place a copy of Pickwick Papers in the hands of every
family, with an injunction to read at least one chapter night
and morning. As to that two millions of grown-up men, and
four millions of women, among us, who have not learned the
art of spelling printed letters, clearly they would have to be
supplied with an " Illustrated Pickwick," and look at the
pictures with the children.
So in the midst of this universal mania, it was refreshing
for two people who appreciated each other, to get together
and talk, with a mutual understanding that this ridiculous
custom be quietly ignored. The lives of these two people
were becoming more and more interwoven day by day. ]\ lira-
beau did not feel himself " consumed " by love. He rather
thought that this " consuming " sort of love was the Epicurean
love, which mainly makes itself known by such exclamations
PEACH-TKEE. 203
as these : " What an arm ! What a bosom ! What an ankle !
Oh ! she's a rare piece ! " And this, doubtless, is the kind of
love that Philosopher Paley deems a most unsafe foundation
for marriage.
Many have said, but only Buckle has shown, how impossi
ble it is for any man, however great, to escape the pressure
of surrounding opinions. It was known to her friends that
Mrs. Sutherland was- about to publish another book. Mira-
b%au Holmes looked for it with special interest ; for he
had conceived a high admiration for her talents, which was
not at all diminished by a contemplation of her surperb
personal beauty. Moreover, he said to Fred one day that he
believed she would be able to withstand the pressure of con
servatism and phariseeism. Fred thought she would not.
The book came out duly embellished with scripture quota
tions, and " States rights." One evening at a tea-party at
Mr. Brooke's, Mr. Brooke, who read everything, introduced
the subject of Mrs. Sutherland's last book.
" The French Count," said Miss Brooke, " speaks broken
French. And what a ridiculous fellow that Paul is ! When
Gertrude tells him there is nothing in her heart but ashes,
he meekly asks her to ' give him the ashes ! ' But Marian has
just shown me that that comes from Lucile. Can you repeat
the lines, Marian ? "
" I don't know that I can ; but I think they are something
like this :
" ' though ruin'd it be,
Since so dear is that ruin, ah, yield it to me. ' "
" It seems to have been written in a great hurry," observ
ed Bramlette.
" It reminds me of ' half-hammer ' a hop, skip, and a
jump," said Fred Van Comer.
" But what a statesman is Mr. Hall ! Great, without
2G4 gA IIIA.
doing, saying, or thinking anything above John Smith. But
that is not wonderful, seeing that he is a conservative of
the Junius ilk," said Mirabeau Holmes.
" But Mr. Stephens says the book is a literary treat," said
Mr. Brooke.
. " The man that finds it so would dine contentedly off a
brick-bat custard," said Fred.
Mirabeau had never been in Mr. Brooke's parlor before ;
and finding here a fine painting, and learning that it vwis
from a Georgia artist, he expressed his admiration.
" I fear I should not have thought you a great friend of
art," said Miss Brooke.
" Why ? " asked Mirabeau, abruptly.
" Did not the Commune pull down the Column ? Was it
not hostile to art ? "
" I doubt not Mr. Holmes can answer that satisfactorily ;
at least to the ' Left ' of any audience," said Mr. Brooke.
" The Commune demolished the Imperial column," said
Mirabeau ; " I myself voted for its demolition. I think the
reasoning of the Commune itself ought to be satisfactory to
everybody except ' divine right and lilies of Bourbon '
people. The Commune was not hostile to art. The magnifi
cent portrait of Washington presided over its deliberations,
and the walls of the Court of Honor were covered with por
traits of other great Republicans. In an art-point of view,
the Column was worthless; but if it had been the finest
specimen of art on the earth it would have been demolished
all the same. The Column represented the glorification of
Militarism, and the negation of two of the principles of the
Commune Equality and Fraternity. The Commune was
not hostile to art, but it was hostile to Despotism, and to
whatever glorified it. The ' Arc de Triomphe ' was not
demolished. Why ? because it represented, though only in
PEACII-TEEE. 265
part, tlic triumphs of the Republic and Liberty. It was this
that made it sacred. Think you they would have destroyed
the Bunker Hill Monument ? The last one of them, chiefs
and people, would have died in its defence ! n
" You speak of two of the principles of the Commune
Equality and Fraternity," said Bramlette ; " of course you
mean universal equality and fraternity ? "
Yes."
" But have I not heard you say that this war was not the
work of the International Association ; that it was not
intended to be a universal social and political revolution ;
but that it was only to protect the Republic and the rights
of Paris ? "
*' Yes."
" Why, then, should you demolish the Column because it
represented the negation of universal fraternity ? "
" Though the Commune did not pretend to inaugurate the
great Revolution of which you speak for indeed it expressly
disclaimed it yet, the principles of the Commune and the
International Association are identical. We look forward
to the Universal Republic, which, indeed, seems a dream of
enthusiasm and worthy to be laughed at only to tyrants and
their either ignorant or designing abettors. Under the
Universal Republic wars shall cease ; love of country shall
give place to love of Humanity ; imaginary State lines
shall not be sufficient to make people enemies ; all shall
acknowledge the whole human family to be a Common
Brotherhood, having common interests, a common sympathy
in a common struggle, a common glory, and a common
destiny. This is the ultimate aim of the International Asso
ciation, with which the Commune was certainly in the
warmest sympathy. That the International Association will
finally succeed in its mission, I will not suffer myself to
12
266 QA IRA.
doubt for an instant. The time will surely come when all the
world shall unite to raise a monument to its founders."
" If that all be a dream, it is certainly a very grand one,"
said Marian.
" But," said Miss Brooke, having retired from the room
a moment, and reentering with a book in her hand, " \ve
shall not let you off so easily as that. You have told
us the ultimate object of the Internationale ; but by what
means does it propose to accomplish the end ? This book
History of the Commune says the programme of the Interna
tionale is this :
" ' The abolishment of all religions.
The abolishment of all property.
The abolishment of all family.
The abolishment of all nationality.' "
" The question, then," answered Mirabeau, " is simply
this, whether you will believe its own declarations, or the
representations of its enemies ? The case is, if the objects of
an institution are good, palpably good and pure, they must
be misrepresented before the enemies of the institution can
hope to assail it successfully."
" To the honor of Humanity be it said," interrupted Mr.
Brooke.
" And when I see a man," resumed Mirabeau, " in an
attack upon anything, resorting to misrepresentation and
falsehood, I at once become suspicious that, for his purposes,
that thing is too good, to be exhibited in its true colors. So
with the author of this programme. The only thing about it
which is not false is that concerning the abolition of nation
ality. But as to the abolishment of nationality, no one can
be so simple as to suppose we "mean simply and abruptly to
wipe out national boundaries ; we mean that the spirit of
nationality shall give place to the spirit of Humanity ; but
PEACII-TKEE. 267
we do mean that even now all peoples ought to refuse to go
to war with and butcher each other at the command of their
tyrants ; and we also suggest that they emphasize their
refusal by cutting their tyrants' heads off. As for the
family, though certainly the institution might be greatly im
proved, the charge that we mean to abolish it is quite as
false as the idea is absurd. As for the ' abolishment of all
religions,' this is what we purpose : To fill the whole world
with light, knowing that all false religions, in other words
all forms and systems of superstition, will disappear before
it. But if any religion should interfere to prevent this, we
should crush such interference at all costs. Nor would we
allow priests to extort money from the people for any pre
tended remission of sins or promises of rewards hereafter ;
we call that obtaining money or goods under false pretences ;
it is swindling ; we call for its punishment by law."
" Did not the Commune believe insBtheism ? " asked Miss
Brooke.
" No."
" Some of them were atheists."
11 Yes ; notably, Bigault was an atheist. And some of
the fathers of the American Republic were infidels ; notably,
Jefferson. But the Republic was not therefore unchristian."
" What was the religion of the Commune ? "
" One God ; the immortality of the soul ; and a virtuous
life. And the precepts of its religion were these three :
Trust in God ; love virtue ; and do good to one another.
Of course, you understand that I speak of the majority;
lere were many differences of belief among the iudi-
iduals."
" But what about the abolishment of property ? " asked
Ir. Brooke. .
" That," said Mirabeau, " I believe is what most people call
268 (;A IRA.
the practical question. The Intel-national Association does
not propose to abolish property, but only to hit upon some
plan by which its benefits may be more equalized. I need not
speak of the enormous wretchedness of at least nine-tenths
of the human race, or of the admitted fact that it is in
creasing instead of diminishing. Not to enter into the whys
and wherefores, the fact is, that there is enough and more
than enough in the world to make the whole human family
comfortable. But somehow, through no fault of the nine-
tenths, or any merit of the one-tenth, all of it has got
into the hands of the one-tenth ; the nine-tenths starve, and
the one-tenth wastes enough to make them comfortable.
Manifestly there is something wrong. We propose to rectify
this wrong and provide for the future."
" That is very indefinite. What is the Internationale,
and how does it propose to ' rectify this wrong and provide
for the future ? ' "
" The Internationale is essentially and purely a WORKING-
MEN'S Association. It has now more than four millions of
active members ; but all the working-classes, that is, all the
producing classes, of all countries, are, and must be, con
sciously or unconsciously, with us in sentiment. The French
workirigmen are only the advanced guard of the modern.
Proletariate. Class-rule can no longer disguise itself under
a national uniform. When, after the late great war between
France and Prussia, the National Governments of the con
queror and the conquered fraternized for the common mas
sacre of the workingmen, they demonstrated to the whole
world what was already clearly understood by the Inter
nationale, namely: That the- National Governments of all
countries are one as ayainst the J^roletariate ; that they are
ever ready to ignore for the time their own differences, and
to unite in crushing, by wholesale massacre if possible, every
PEACH-TREE. 269
effort of the working-class to break the chains of that slavery
which has reduced it to starvation and almost to despair.
Now, the Internationale is a counter-organization of labor
against the cosmopolitan conspiracy of capital. But how
does the Internationale propose to free society from the con
fessedly frightful evils of our present system of civilization?
The Internationale has seized the idea that that system is
itself the necessary parent of these evils ; the Internationale
means to crush it ; especially does it mean to destroy it in
its economical and political aspects. Does the Internationale
mean to abolish property ? No ; but it does mean to abolish
that class-property which makes the labor of the many the
wealth of the few. The Internationale means to destroy
utterly the wage-system of labor, for that system is the im
mediate cause of nearly all our woes ; this wage-system, I
repeat, whose wretched delusions and prostitute realities
have long since been unmasked to all who do not wilfully
close their eyes to the truth, the Internationale has resolved to
abolish from the face of the earth and it will do what it has
resolved to do. This wage-system, or capitalist system, the
Internationale means to supersede with a system of co-opera
tive production, in which every producer shall receive the
whole of what he produces. It means for co-operative
societies to take under their own control the producing ener
gies of the country, and thus not only put a stop to those
periodic convulsions incident to the capitalist system, but
so direct and regulate production as that every producer
shall get all that he produces and no more, and so that not a
single energy or capacity to work shall ever be involuntarily
idle. This is the great work the Internationale has resolved
to accomplish. All other issues are subordinate; many of
them different in different countries ; and they all group
themselves about this as a centre. The Internationale does
270 ^A TEA.
not propose to accomplish its work in a day. Nor has it
any ready-made Utopias to introduce par decret du peuple.
But it will accomplish its work, though it may be, doubtless
will be, after long and severe struggles, transforming circum
stances and men. It is known to all the world, including
even conservatives who always stand with their back to the
future that our present system of civilization is surely
doomed. Corruption has seized upon its vitals and riots
in all its members. The Internationale has resolved to has
ten its collapse, to sweep the rubbish from the face of the
earth, and to erect another structure in its stead ; not a per
manent one, perhaps, or rather, certainly not a permanent
one, but one in which every member of the human family
shall find a home and the possibility of at least moderate
comfort. Meanwhile, in the full consciousness of its historic
mission, and with the heroic resolve to accomplish it, the
Internationale can well afi'ord to smile at the pitiful slanders
and coarse invective of its enemies."
" But what of the strictly political aspect of the question ? "
said Mr. Brooke.
" I will answer you in the words of the famous Central
Committee : ' The Proletaires of Paris, amidst the failures
and treasons of the ruling classes, have understood that the
hour has struck for them to save the situation by taking into
their own hands the direction of public affairs. They have
understood that it is their imperious duty and their absolute
right to render themselves masters of their own destinies, by
seizing upon the governmental power.' The Internationale
means to establish a government of the people by the people.
It will not be afraid of giving great power to the government,
because the people will be the gcrvernment itself. The Inter
nationale desires such a government as that of the Commune
of Paris the most perfect that ever existed, the prototype
PEACH-TREE. 271
of the ideal government of the future. When the smoke and
clouds of prejudice and slander shall be cleared away, then
will be seen the true Commune of Paris ; and coming ages
shall vie with each other in erecting monuments to its mar
tyrs. Paris shall be seen as it was : { working, thinking,
fighting, bleeding Paris almost forgetful, in its incubation
of a new society, of the cannibals at its gates radiant in the
enthusiasm of its historic initiative ! ' "
272 <?A IKA.
CHAPTER XIX.
"And coming events cast their shadows before." CAMPBELL,
CLARENCE HALL'S affairs were in a bad way. His wife
never inquired concerning his business. She had not the
slightest notion whether it was prosperous, or on the brink
of ruin. True, he was in great need of sympathy, and once
or twice he had ventured to seek it from his wife ; b\it he
met with such a resigned and confiding trust in his own om
nipotence as at first to startle him, and then set him to
thinking whether he had not been mistaken in some of his
notions about " complements." At first he tried hard to de
ceive himself ; but no man in such case ever yet succeeded.
Their opinions never clashed ; they never disagreed about
anything. She never said to him, " I would do this," or,
" I think I would have done that." Sometimes Hall thought
it would be a relief even to hear one poor old " I told you
so." He began to feel utterly lonely. No man feels so be
fore he is married. It is only afterwards, and when he is
startled to find that between himself and. his wife there is no
companionship at all. Mrs. Hall was not lonely ; her hus
band kissed her every day when he left home, and when he
returned. He allowed her to buy whatever she wished. She
had no idea that her husband was miserable. She had not,
as he was continually afraid she would do, perceived his rest
lessness. One night, while sitting at the supper-table, they
'were startled by the alarrn-bettr Hall walked to the door
and looked out. There was a great 6re, apparently just
\vhcre his office was. His book, on which he had spent so
PEACH-TREE. 273
much labor, and from which he expected money to help him
out of his present embarrassments, lacked only a few pages
of being finished, and was locked up in a desk in his office.
He uttered a cry of pain ; and leaping to the ground, fairly
flew along the streets in the direction of the fire. He was
too late ; the building was already completely wrapped in
flames. Dumb with despair, he stood with arms folded upon
his breast, and the flames glaring upon his face, and saw the
whole consumed. Furniture, library, papers, manuscript
all gone ! And when he made his way back home and told
his wife what had happened, she only asked where he would
take, another office ! He thought that his capacity to be
astonished at his wife's indifference was long since exhausted ;
but now he stared at her a mingled look of curiosity, aston
ishment, and despair. He turned away, and Mrs. Hall kiss
ed her baby, exclaiming, " Poor baby ! papa's office burnt."
I cannot give any conversations between Clarence Hall and
his wife at this period. There were none. He was now
utterly ruined ; and his wife knew nothing of it. For some
time his creditors had been pressing him ; and it was with
the greatest difficulty, and by making the most confident
promises, that he had succeeded in putting them off so long.
Meanwhile he had worked desperately upon his book ; always
going back to his office after supper, and frequently working
all night, and till breakfast next morning. His wife's head
aches had also of late grown alarmingly frequent, and she was
getting paler and more feeble. Hall^was occasionally com
pelled to stay at home on this account ; and sometimes his
clients called at his office and found him away. From this
cause, as well as from the almost constant attention he gave
to his book, his biisiness was sometimes neglected ; and his
practice, instead of growing, had really diminished. He
knew that his creditors would now come down upon him.
12*
274 A IRA.
Let a man be crippled by misfortune, he thcnight, and, like a
wounded animal, he is fallen upon by the pack and devoured.
He knew of no one upon whom he could call for a loan, even
if he had had any prospect whatever of soon, or ever, being
able to replace it. His father-in-law was quite out of the
question. Indeed, Mr. Dealing's business was itself in almost
as desperate a condition as his son-in-law's. His elegant
residence on Peach-tree had more than once been levied on
and advertised for sale. But by shrewd management on the
part of his lawyers, by " taking the homestead," transferring,
and putting in claims to what the homestead coiild not be
made to cover, his creditors had up to this time been kept at
bay. But they continued to worry him ; and it was with the
utmost difficulty he could make enough to keep along, and
pay his lawyers' fees. Only a short while before the burn
ing of Hall's office Mr. Dealing had been to him and
offered to " take all the money he had to spare, at good
interest."
" My afl'airs," said Mr. Dearing, " are temporarily embar
rassed ; and as I suppose you have some money to spare, I
thought I would propose to take it and pay you the interest
that I should otherwise have to pay the bank." His son-in-
law assured him that he had no money on hand.
" Ah ! " said Mr. Dearing, " I was not aware that you had
made any investment ; I supposed your money was idle in
the bank."
" I have not made any investment, nor have I any money
idle in the bank either," answered Hall, a little nettled ;
not knowing what a complete delusion his father-in-law WHS
under concerning his affairs.
" Oh, it doesn't matter ; it doesn't matter at all," said
Mr. Dearing, a little hurt in turn, that his own son-in-law
should refuse to lend him money ; " I only thought that as
PEACH-TREE. 275
you had it to spare, and as I had to pay the interest anyhow,
I might as well pay it to you as anybody."
" You speak, sir, as if you doubted the truth of what I
say, when I tell you that I have no money, either in the
bank or elsewhere."
" I think, sir, you need scarcely grow angry about the
matter. You say you have made no investment ; what have
you done with your money ? " asked Mr. Dearing, bhintly
enough.
" What have I done with my money ! Why, spent it upon
my family every cent of it, and gone in debt besides."
" Spent it upon your family spent it upon your family,
and in debt," said the father-in-law, now thoroughly aston
ished and beginning to be frightened as the truth vaguely
dawned upon him.
" Yes, spent it upon my family, and in debt."
" I understood the general impression can I have been
mistaken in supposing that your practice alone amounted to
at least several thousand dollars ? "
" Several thousand dollars ! Suppose I were to tell you
that it scarcely amounted to so many hundreds ? "
Mr. Dearing was struck dumb with astonishment and hor
ror. He had supposed that Hall's practice amounted to about
six thousand dollars ; and when Hall said that he had spent it
all on his family, he began to think that possibly he was mis
taken, and then to rapidly consider whether it was possible for
him to have been mistaken by half. But an idea struck him.
" Ah, you say, suppose you were to say so and so. You
don't mean to say that your income actually is less than, at
least, three thousand ? "
" Yes, I do. I mean to say that it is less than a fourth
of it."
" Good God ! If I had known this"
276 (?A IRA.
"What?- I suppose you will say your daughter should
not have married me ! "
" You deceived me, sir ; you acted dishonorably, sir ; you
." And Mr. Dearing was going on in a loud and angry
tone, when he saw Bramlette approaching the door, and
ceased ; but Bramlette, seeing Hall's father-in-law, and sup
posing that they -might be on private matters, passed on to
another door. Mr. Dearing checked himself instantly; for
one of the cardinal rules of good society in those parts was,
that family quarrels, of which there were a great many,
must be kept inside the family. But when Bramlette had
passed on, Mr. Dearing resumed, in a low, sneering tone :
" May I ask how much it is exactly f "
" You may, if you wish, ask till doomsday," replied Cla
rence Hall, with the utmost contempt ; and turning on his
heel, left the office.
Whence came this quarrel between Clarence Hall and his
father-in-law ? Was it providence, foreknowledge, will, or
fate? The very next day after his great misfortune, the
officer came, in the morning, with a summons from one of his
creditors, and in the afternoon he returned with two others,
for the creditors were watching each other, and each one was
afraid that the others would get ahead of him. Clarence Hall
had already been forced to give his notes in place of his ac
counts, and the notes were made small enough to be sued in the
justice courts; so that the cases could be trie"d in ten days,
and in ten more the property levied on be exposed to sale.
Something rmist be done, and that without delay. To begin
with, the comfortable establishment on Peach-tree must be
given up ; and afterwards all expenses must be reduced in
every possible manner. Clai'ence Hall resolved upon this
course, and he was glad that he could do so without consulting
the Dealings. He was even glad that he had quarrelled with
PEACH-TEKE. 277
his father-in-law, for had it not been for that quarrel, he
would feel bound to consult him on so important a matter,
and he knew that Mr. Dearing would strongly oppose such a
course. It was against his own judgment that he had at first
taken this establishment, but his wife's family would not
listen to anything else ; and besides, he was not hard to per
suade to consent to anything then that he thought would
gratify his wife in the smallest particular. That- was his day
of high hopes and generous ambition ; the future stretched
out before him like a far-reaching elysian field. The high
and dangerous mountains before him sank in his lofty view
to mere hillocks, and the calcined cliffs that told of upheaval
and ruin were hid beneath the rich foliage of fancy. Rush
ing and turgid streams became babbling brooks, pleasant to
the ear ; and the treacherous marsh was hid beneath the
poetic leaves of Vallombrosa. What mattered a few hundred
dollars ! Was the spirit of love and hope to be bounded in by
the low horizon of dollars and cents ! Suppose he should not
even be as fortunate as he thought he might safely calculate
upon ; nay, suppose, in the inscrutable dealings of Providence,
some slight misfortunes and reverses should overtake him ?
Should he not only strive the harder, and rise superior to fate ?
Was not the accomplishment of any design only the measure of
the effort required ? And who should set limits to the effort
of the human mind ? Was it not the highest glory of god-like
minds to conquer fate itself? But it was not often in those
days that Clarence Hall found himself in this mood, and
asking these qtiestions. It was only in those moments when
highest enthusiasm succeeds to deepest reflection, as the
loftiest mountains ever rise beside the sublimest depths of the
ocean. It was not often ; for, as I have said, Clarence Hall,
from a happy temperament, happy surroundings, and a really
brilliant prospect, could not but dwell mostly upon the more
278 gA TRA.
pleasing, if less elevating picture of life. Muiiy a time he
had thanked God that it was so well with him. He had
started even with the world, free from the depressions of
poverty on the one hand, and from the temptations of indul
gent riches on the other. If, upon leaving the University,
he found himself thrown wholly upon his own resources, and
had even felt a little pinched for a time, it was just enough
to whet the edge of endeavor, and he could not have wished
it otherwise. If at one time he had thought that he was not
getting along so briskly as he could wish and had hoped ; if
indeed he had begun to grow even a little restless, he was
soon brought to acknowledge that it was " all for the best."
But when he had married ! then indeed should his career
truly begin. Clarence Hall was not an enthusiast ; he did
not set his mark too high ; he did not indulge in any wild
fancies. Still his hopes were high. He knew that Provi
dence had given him the very, woman that even his most
sober speculative belief told him ought to be his wife the
" complement " of his own nature. He was thankful ; he was
hopeful ; his better judgment told him to " keep even with the
world ; " but his wife's family thought he must of course take
a comfortable home, at least in an aristocratic 'quarter that
is, the most nearly aristocratic in this essentially tumble-down
democratic capital. A few hundred dollars was not much, to
be sure, and his imagination expanded to meet the occasion.
Thus it was that Clai-ence Hall had got " behind " in the very
beginning ; and, like all other people that ever did start so,
or ever will start so, he got further and further "behind " every
day. Once since they had been married Clarence Hall had
had an opportunity of giving up the house. He had taken
it until October, the month in-_which real-estate men dis
pose of property for the year. He determined to leave the
house, and adopt his original plan of taking a neat little cot-
PEACH-TREE. 279
tage elsewhere. But, as we have seen, his wife's babies or,
according to the statute, his babies, his poor wife being only
their mother were born on the night of the second of Sep
tember at nine o'clock, and consequently on the first day of
October were less than one month old, and their mother, not
being an Irishwoman, was not yet well ; all of which, to be
sure, was a difficulty which Clarence Hall, if he had only
exercised a little foresight some nine months before, could,
though perhaps, as it were, with some slight inconvenience
to himself and family, have put off at least a month. But
we are not here to talk about what might have been ; nothing
could be more unprofitable. Far be it from me to quarrel
with Clarence Hall, or to make wise observations on what he
ought to have done ; the poor man has quite enough to trouble
him. And, besides, the President of the United States,
or the Emperor of Germany, supposing he could call back a
ft-w years, or any other man, would have done just as he did.
When Clarence Hall's office was destroyed by fire he was
left without a dollar ; and when he was sued next day, he
found himself without credit also. He had not a single
piece of furniture for fitting up a new office, nor a single
book. And yet he must get an office immediately. He had
a beautiful and valuable watch ; it was a family keepsake,
and he would not part with it under any considerations.
He tried to borrow a hundred dollars ; but " money was very
scarce," and none of his friends had any. There was no
other chance ; he pawned his watch for a little more than
half its value ; of course he would redeem it ; he would not
allow his watch to go even if he had to sell anything else he
had. He bought a few pieces of ordinary furniture, a few
books, and fitted him up another office. But all of his
papers had been burned, and this put himself and his clients
to much inconvenience ; and though no man was certainly so
280
big a fool as to suppose that he was at all to blaine for the loss
and inconvenience, yet some two or three of his clients were
dissatisfied, and took away their business. He was now also
compelled to be at home frequently ; his wife had grown paler,
and kept her bed at least a third of her time. His mother-
in-law came frequently to see them, and when her son-in-law
was present never lost an opportunity of making cutting
remarks. But there was one consolation: he had quarrelled
with his father-in-law, and that obviated the necessity of
consulting him upon the contemplated change. Clarence
Hall almost thought this quarrel a special providence ; and I
doubt not the pious reader has also come to the same conclu
sion. But the first thing to be done was to save his furni
ture from immediate sale. If he could only get it put oif to
the Superior Court, possibly by that time he might be able
to make " some arrangement." But how to put it off that
was the question. To be sure, he could " take the homestead."
But he shrank from that as being unjust ; he even thought it
dishonorable ; for these notes on which he was sued were for
the purchase-money of this very furniture ; and he thought it
would be little if any better than swindling. So it went on
till the day before the furniture was to be sold.
When Clarence Hall went home that day to dinner, he
found his wife frightened, trembling. Her mother had seen
one of the printed notices of the sale, and had brought it to
her. Her nerves were already weak. She was alarmed,
and took to her bed. What a man will not do on his own
account, he will frequently do for his family. Clarence Hall
felt that he could bo sold out, and turned moneyless and
creditless upon the world. But there was his baby ; there
was his sick wife. And, after, all, it would not always be
thus ; his affairs would take a turn for the better some time ;
and then he could pay all he owed ; and he mentally resolved
PEACH-TKEE. 231
to pay a high interest. He applied for " the homestead." But
that could not be passed upon immediately. It was necessary
that his wife put in a " claim " to the property. He went
and brought in an officer ; and his wife signed her name to
the claim. Then there was cost to pay several dollars. He
had 110 money for that. He was infinitely troubled. He
met Fred Van Comer on the street ; he knew that Fred was
working for a salary ; but he thought he might have as much
as he wanted ; besides, he only wanted it " for a few days."
Yes ; Fred had ten dollars ; but it was in his room. He had
to go by the printing-office first ; but he would bring it to
Hall's office in the course of an hour. Now that was a
pious lie of Fred's. He had not a dollar in the world ; not
even a quarter to play a game of billiards with. Although
he was not aware of the whole truth, he knew that Hall was
hard run, and thought that possibly he might be in urgent
need of even a few dollars as indeed he was. So he told
him he had the money in his room ; resolving to go to
Bramlette, whom he had seen with twenty dollars that very
.morning. He hastened to Bramlette's room.
" Bramlette, I told a lie just now I said I had ten dollars
in my room. I haven't got a cent ; and unless you give it
me, I shall tell another ; for I promised to have it at a cer
tain place in half an hour."
" Well, well ! I havn't got a dollar either."
" The mischief ! what did you do with that twenty dollars
I saw you with this morning ? "
" I had just got it, and have paid my board with it." Fred
spxin out of the room, with fingers in both ears, and went
sailing down the street. He found Mirabeau Holmes, got
the money, and carried it to Hall's office.
The quarrel between Hall and his father- iii-law had grown
worse ; and Hall vowed that neither he nor any of his
282 gA IRA.
family should ever go to Mr. Dealing's again. Hall had
fully determined to give up their house on Peach-tree. But
when the time came, his wife, who had continued to grow
feebler, was very weak and nervous. The physician said it
would not be safe to move her so far ; her nervous constitu
tion might be dangerously affected by the shock. Alas !
for that quarrel with his father-in-law ! She might else be
taken thither, which was just across the street, till everything
was done. Moreover, his wife herself made the first objec
tion she had ever made to anything : she was too weak to
move. There was nothing to do but take the house again,
and it could not be taken for less than a year. Alas, alas !
Clarence Hall ! there are no special providences in this world !
" How is it," said Robert Malcomb to Mirabeau one
evening at Mrs. Robert's tea-table, " that your notions have,
in so short a time, been completely revolutionized ? "
" Do you remember what Descartes says about his pursuit
of truth ? ' When I set forth in the pursuit of truth,' says
he, ' I found it necessary to reject everything that I had
hitherto received, and pluck out all of my old opinions, in
order that I might lay the foundation of them afresh ;
believing that by this means I should the more easily accom
plish the great scheme of my life, than by building on an
old basis, and supporting myself by principles which I had
learned in my youth, without examining if they were really
true.' It is not presumption in me to say that I have found
it necessary to do exactly what Descartes did ; not presump
tion, because this is the identical course that must be taken
by every mind in the earnest pursuit of the truth ; and by the
smallest not less than by the greatest."
" But it does not follow that in this process you must
necessarily find all your old beliefs to have been false,"
said Robert.
PEACH-TREE. 283
" I sliould rather think that one brought up in a Christian
country, with the lights of education and religion before him,
would find most of his beliefs to be true, " said Mrs. Robert.
" I can answer for myself : to say nothing of the religious
dogmas which I had been taught to accept not only without
examination but on the vaguest possible hearsay, it might be
thought that at least one's fundamental political belief,
acquired in such a republic as this, should contain a large
portion of truth. For one, I found my own to be almost
wholly false, warp and woof, with scarcely here and there a
thread of truth. Delescluze said to me on that very morning
that he went, in obedience to his promises, to seek his death
among the people ' Yours is a great country ; the grand
hope of the world is in your people ; Humanity looks to you
for the first of its final triumphs,' " said Mirabeau.
" I do not claim," said Robert, " to be up in French poli
tics. Still I have often seen and heard the expression
' triumph of Humanity ; ' but to me, I must say, it sounds
vaguely enough. What did Delescluze mean by it ? or what
do you mean by it ? "
" It is admitted on all hands," answei'ed Mirabeau, " that
the great calamity and opprobrium of civilization is, that
while countries have advanced in power and wealth, while
they have grown rich in all manner of increase, in all man
ner of comfort and luxury, nine-tenths of the people of those
countries are still condemned to the lowest battle of animal
man the battle with starvation. Nine-tenths of the human
family, in every country but our own and under the same
system the same results must soon follow here exist in a
state of struggle and wretchedness which makes existence,
instead of a boon, almost an insupportable burden. And what
is most fearful of all is, that this condition is growing worse
year by year ; it is infinitely worse than it was a century
284 9 A IEA -
and a half ago, according to the admission even of the high
est ' conservative ' authorities, such as the writers in the
London Quarterly."
" But has not this wretchedness been clearly proved, or at
least a large portion of it, to be traceable to their own im
providence, ignorance, insobriety, and unthrift ? "
" No, not a large portion of it. A small portion is doubt
less traceable hither. But how does this better the case ? It
reminds one of the absurd old theological dogma of predesti
nation ' you can and you can't ; you shall and you shan't.'
This very ignorance and unthrift is due to something!
What ? It is a necessity of their condition ! In point of fact,
though, a very, very small portion of this appalling wretched
ness is due to the ignorance and unthrift of the people them
selves. True, it may be attributable to their ignorance,
in a sense ; but a very different sense from that under
stood by tones and conservatives : it is due to their igno
rance in this, that being ignorant of their power, they do
not rise up and crush the system that necessitates their
condition."
" But how," asked Mrs. Robert, with the practicality of
the sex, " is all this to be rectified ? "
" Yes ; how ? " added Robert. " I suppose you would
call this a ' triumph of Humanity.' But this how ? is it
not one of the ' enigmas of life ? ' '
" Yes ; it is one of the ' enigmas of life ' to those who,
instead of coming out into the light of reason and truth,
grope among the gloomy cells of superstition and barbarism ;
to those who think it better that millions of human beings
should die in wretchedness, in obedience to what a barbarous
age may have taught to be~,n abstract right, than even to
inquire whether that abstract right be a right at all or not.
As to this How ? for Europe I know of but one plan ; the
PEACH-TREE. 285
ialf-way measures of Mill and Odger will not do they do
not meet the case ; the case is desperate, and the remedy
must be deep and comprehensive. Let some prophet rise up
id say to the people, and let them be taught to understand
Ed obey him : ' The world has plenty, and to spare. Be-
Id on every side enough for the whole human race ! But
>n every side the people dies of hunger and wretchedness !
Jy an unjust system, all comforts, arid all luxuries, have been
iven to one-tenth of the human race. They cannot consume
the comforts. The luxuries waste before their eyes ! And
et there is enough for all ! enough, and to spare ! Let the
ople rise tip and crush the system which oppresses it and
uces it to despair. The people starves ! And yet it dare
not reach forth its hand for the bread that rots within its
grasp ! Down with the system ! Let. property be universal
ized.' And this is precisely what will be done, sooner or
later. As for me, I have, but one rule of right the good of
the people. When the people starve, and that too from no
fault of their own, and when I see plenty and to spare all
around them, I confess to you I should not much stop to
leisurely read and metaphysically consider charters and law
yers' parchments."
" All this I understand," said Robert, " to apply to
Europe. What of our own country ? "
"In this country we have no need 'yet of the desperate
remedy already necessary for Europe. The end can, I be
lieve, be accomplished without such means. But one thing
is certain, if it is to be done, our people must be wiser than
they have been in the past. And this is the very first step
to be taken : our Universities must be largely endowed and
tuition made free in all ; the classics must be discarded, and
the time and labor hitherto wasted upon them be given to
science and industry ; they must also be thrown open to all,
286 gA IRA.
without distinction of sex or race. We must also have a
national system of compulsory education. No more public
lands must be given to railroads ; but all the public domain
must be immediately divided out among all our people who
have no land or other property, in trust for themselves and
their children for, say, three hundred years. We must have
a law prohibiting any man, or set of men, from operating
any manufactory except upon the co-operative plan. We
must have universal suffrage ; capital punishment must bo
abolished by Congress the States are too slow; and we
must have a prohibitory liquor law, making it a peniten
tiary offence, if need be, to make or sell it. These are some
of the things that ought to be done in this country ; but the
most important of all is to have a national system of com
pulsory education. Knowledge, above all things, is what
the people need. But I confess to you I have little hope
of politicians doing anything. I say candidly that I believe
if it were not for one man among us the country would go
to pieces ; it seems to me that he alone is holding it together;
and that man is General Grant. European nations have
waged fierce wars because a princess of one declared she
could wear a smaller slipper than a princess of the other ;
but I know of nothing more contemptible than the endless
and senseless quibblings and wranglings of our politicians
over written constitutions, parchments, and law-books, and
almost the whole of it, too, relating to the past. * We have
such a grand mission so much to do for ourselves and our
children, and, above all, so much to do for Humanity ; and
yet, instead of coming together and pushing boldly on to a
common destiny in a great caiise, we are wasting- all our ener
gies in wrangling with, defaming, and thwarting each other."
As they left the table and went into the parlor, Robert
could not but feel self-complacent that he himself had long ago
PEACH-TBEE. 287
predicted that Mirabeau would some day go off after Rous
seau in politics, and possibly in religion too.
Mr. Brooke was not only pastor of the wealthiest Pi'esby-
terian church in the city, but had some property of his own.
He kept a carriage and horses. Frequently of afternoons he
would drive out with " the girls," as he called Miss Brooke
and Emma, and it might have been observed of late that Mr.
Brooke, instead of driving first to Mrs. Harlan's cottage and
leaving Emma there, now usually returned first to his own
home, and, depositing Miss Brooke, rode on with Emma
alone to her mother's. Mr. Brooke always went in a mo
ment to say a word with the mother, and then went with
the daughter into the flower-garden. In short, Mr. Brooke
managed to be with Emma a considerable portion of his
spare time. Nor was this wonderful at all. Emma, to be
sure, was now really a young lady, but she was never any
thing to Mr. Brooke but a child. It was not to be wondered
at that Mr. Brooke liked her ; that he ever found pleasure in
her company. She was not only innocent, confiding, and of
the most gentle and sweet disposition, but she had naturally
a good mind, and that it was well cultured was due in con
siderable degree to Mr. Brooke himself. It is needless to
add that she reposed in Mr. Brooke the fullest trust ; that
she looked up to him as father, friend, teacher, pastor in
deed, almost as to a divinity. But Mr. Brooke, with all his
learning and all his piety, was not by any means exalted
above human weaknesses and human passions. His wife, as
I have said, was an invalid, and he was a stout, healthy man,
with a body full of electricity, and warm, red blood. His
wife certainly could not live always, and the probability was
that she would not live very long. Was it strange that Mr.
Brooke had already looked upon this little girl, sweet and
luscious as a perfumed strawberry, with a light in his
288 gA IRA.
great gi'ay eyes that would have made her tremble had she
known its true meaning ? Allons ! Maybe Mr. Brooke's
invalid wife will die ; and if she does ! who could blame Mr.
Brooke for wanting to bite this berry? Still, Emma dr;ir,
thou art not safe from harm. Alf Walton may come back,
and even the light in thy pastor's eye may rise to a con
suming heat for thy innocence. Yet, one can hardly see
what it should profit anything in heaven or earth, that thy
poor little life be ruined, and thy heart made to bleed. And
yet Allons ! God protect thee, Emma dear, and all
good spirits shield thee with their wings.
Was there ever a man with breeches too short that had a
warm, full heart ? Yes, indeed ! And that man was Na
thaniel Bramlette. And of this I will make oath this second
day of September, year of the Republic ninety-seven, before
any notary in, the county. And I would do the very same
thing if he had a thousand buttons on his shirt, and though
his jaw-bone was as strong as an anchor. Poor Bramlette !
he loved Emma Harlan. Accursed poverty ! Accursed
fate ! Sometimes he would go to Mrs. Harlan's and stay
for two hours, saying tender, poetic things ; and he had
already been inspired to write several poems, two of which
he published anonymously, and the others he kept in his
portfolio. But as for declaring to her his love, or proposing
marriage, why, that was out of the question. And yet, many
and many a night alone in his room did he lay awake think
ing of the future, and hoping for a better turn in his affairs.
But the years were creeping on ; Bramlette was approaching
thirty ; and he had not yet done anything. His notions had
always crowded each other outj Think of marrying ? Why,
it was hard scuffling to make enough to pay his weekly board.
But, the commonest clerk could do that. Does it seem
strange that in such a country as this, a man of Bramlette'a
PEACH-TREE. 289
talents, culture, and spotless character, and with an ambition
to succeed, should with the utmost difficulty be able to make
his board ? Probably some will have the greatest contempt
for him. Probably they have more contempt at their dis
posal than brains ! The truth is, some men never learn the
knack of " getting along ; " and Bramlette was one of them.
He had not failed to notice with pain, when his attention
was called to it by Fred, that Clarence Hall seemed to be
getting on badly of late, and they correctly divined -the
cause. No ! he must not think of marriage, or love either,
if he could help it, until he got money. Aye, but when
would that be ? He thought once that he would have had a
competency by now ; but he was scarcely able to pay his
board. A little while ago his hopes had revived when he
thought of publishing his book ; but that was all done for
now. And the worst symptom of all with this man was, that
his self-confidence was fast leaving him. Above all things,
man, believe in yourself. On the evening we have seen
Mirabeau and Fred at his room, Bramlette was bluer than he
had ever been. Nor did he even know what he should have
done but for the following circumstance : General Clement
was a special friend of the editor of the New Monthly, just
started. This noble man, ever looking for an opportunity to
do good, and having some idea of Bramlette's affairs, came
to him the very next morning and advised him to go to see
the editor. The good General preceded him. And when
Bramlette called that afternoon, though" it was not the cus
tom of the editor to pay for articles, he at once engaged to
pay for Bramlette's ; and he never knew till long after that
an exception had been made in his favor.
13
290
CHAPTER XX.
" There is a tide in the affairs of raeu,
Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune ;
Omitted, all the voyage of their life
la bound in shallows, and in miseries." JULIUS CJESAB
EVERYTHING went wrong with Clarence Hall. His ex
penses grew heavier instead of lighter. His baby was sick
all the summer, and his wife all the winter. Do what he
would, he could not enlarge his practice ; and he could 1106
get the money even for what he did. His butcher's and
grocer's bills had grown to a considerable amount. He had
been indulged on them once already, by agreeing to pay a
heavy interest ; and they would fall due again in thirty days.
Clarence Hall was uneasy about these debts. He had not
the money to pay them ; and could not now tell where he
was to get it. He had calculated confidently upon meeting
these bills with the money he was to get from a case which
he was so sure of winning that he had conditioned his fee
upon the issue. Of course, he could make his fee twice as
large in this case as if it was certain. It was his client's
offer, and he was quick to accept it. For the law was clear
so clear that there could not be any dispute about it at all.
True, there was no statute exactly covering the point ; but
in Coke upon Lyttleton it was laid down too plainly to be
mistaken. Lest there should be some mistake about his
meaning, the learned expositor had not only used up all the
English words which came within ten leagues of the main
one, but had imported large batches from France and Rome.
Of course, the client was not mistaken about what he could
PEACH -TKEE. 291
prove on the trial ! Nevertheless, the case went against him,
and Clarence Hall lost his fee. And what made the matter
particularly aggravating was, that the fault was not with the
petit jury, but with the learned judge. Now, Clarence Hall
had time and again said that there was not the slightest
danger from that quarter. So the client was in a great huff,
utterly unreasonable, would not listen to any proposition to
" carry the case up." But Clarence Hall knew that the law
was on his side ; the best lawyers of his acquaintance all
agreed that the judge's charge was contrary to law. He re
solved to pay the cost and carry the case up himself; by so
doing he would both vindicate his judgment and secure a
considerable fee, which latter, as we know, was of urgent
consequence to him. He got enough money to pay the cost,
carried up the case, and lost it. Thus had he made his cal
culations, and had been disappointed ; and the bills afore
said, not to mention others long past, would fall due in thirty
days. And what made these bills particularly dangerous
was the circumstance that the homestead would not stand
against them. Nothing would stop them short of bank
ruptcy ; and to take the benefit of bankruptcy required, even
if you were your own attorney, about a hundred dollars to
start on. Clearly that was out of the question. But some
thing must be done ; and that in a few days. Clarence Hall
seemed to be approaching insanity. One night he was walk
ing down the street, thinking, if a man in his state of mind
may be said to think, of how he was to meet the difficulties
before him, when he found the sidewalk blocked up by a crowd
pressing its way into a room, from which proceeded a con
fused noise. He stopped to listen, and he heard the voice ot
an auctioneer, apparently, crying, " Four hundred and nine
ty-live dollars still remaining in the rack, and only one dol
lar a chance at the whole entire lot ! " " .Four hundred and
292 SA mi.
ninety-five dollars still remaining in the rack, and only one
dollar a chance at the whole entire lot ! " Clarence listened ;
he looked around him ; there was no one who knew him ;
the crowd was made up of negroes and ragged fellows ; he
was in great need of money ; by going in there and spending
one dollar he might make two or three hundred ; he pressed
in with the crowd. This was a new kind of lottery, and was
doing a brisk business. Behind the counter was a large rack
in which were rows of cards, each card numbered ; attached
to each card was also a common pocket-knife, worth a quar
ter of a dollar. Two men were upon the counter; one of
them, with a long cane in his hand, was explaining : " We
put five hundi'ed dollars in the rack there is a gentleman
who has just drawn out five dollars, leaving four hundred
and ninety-five behind one of these numbers is a grand prize
of two hundred dollars, one hundred behind another, fifty
behind two others, and twenty numbers have each five dollars
behind them there are but six hundred numbers five hun
dred dollars in money only one dollar a chance and so we
are just even, counting the elegant pocket-knives at less than
twenty cents apiece, and they are worth a dollar and our
own time and labor at nothing you get an elegant pock
et-knife worth your money, and a chance at two hundred
dollars which will you take, sir ? choice of the whole rack
here's a gentleman who has just got an elegant pocket-
knife and five dollars besides." The other man was walking
up and down the counter crying in a loud, auctioneer, me
chanical voice, " Four hundred and ninety-five dollars still
remaining in the rack, and only one dollar a chance at the
whole entire lot." " Four hundred and ninety-five dollars
still remaining in the rack, and" only one dollar a chance at
the whole entire lot." Clarence Hall had three dollars in his
pocket. His beaver-hat, in such a crowd, attracted the at-
PEAC11-TEEE. 293
tention of the fast- talking man with the long cane " This
way, sir make room for the gentleman this way you look
like a lucky man." Clarence Hall handed him a dollar ; and
it was not without a silent prayer that it might win the two-
hundred-dollar prize.
" Which knife do you take ? "
" Give me one hundred and one."
"Ah, you are lucky, but unfortunate that number has
just drawn five dollars."
" Two hundred and two." With another silent prayer
accommodating itself to the change.
" Two hundred and two does not draw any prize but
what an elegant knife ! " Clarence was surprised, but
concluded his faith had not been strong enough so he hand
ed iu another dollar.
" Three hundred and three."
" Three hundred and three only gets an elegant pocket-
knife you will get all the most elegant knives in the rack
good taste you will get a prize after a while if at first you
don't succeed, you know, as the schoolmaster says." Clar
ence Hall was blue ; and with a kind of defy-fate air, he
handed in his last dollar.
" Four hundred and four."
" Four hundred and four draws a nice little penknife
not a fortunate set of numbers another line of " But
Clarence Hall, thoroughly disgusted with himself, lotteries,
prayer, and fate, was already half-way out of the room. All
that night he heard ringing in his ears, " Four hundred and
ninety-five dollars still remaining in the rack, and only one
dollar a chance at the whole entire lot." The next morning
o
Clarence Hall saw in the newspapers that this was the last
day for procuiing tickets to the " Grand Library Gift Con
cert." The capital prize was one hundred thousand dollars
294 <?A TEA.
in greenbacks ; and there were many other smaller prizes.
Somebody would draw this hundred thousand dollars ; 1
might be the one, thought a great many people that day.
Clarence Hall was one of them. What an amount of good I
could accomplish with so much money ! The city is in need
of a hospital ; if I had this money I would give ten thousand
dollars towards building it. And that noble institution, Dr.
Boring's " Orphan's Home " I would finish it at once. I
could send at least a couple of poor young men to the Univer
sity, and that poor Confederate soldier that begs on the streets
by Jove, I would board him at the Kimball ! And Clarence
Hall rose, and walked across the room, excited with the
theme. And was it not infinitely to this man's honor that
all these great ideas crowded into his head before he once
thought of his own poor affairs ? Probably, if you had all
the United States to pick from, you would not find a man
who would have put to better use that hundred thousand
dollars. He had just received a small amount of money
from an unexpected quarter that very morning. It seemed
providential. He pulled out a ten-dollar bill, and looked at
it very hard. And while he looked at it he determined to
buy a ticket with it, and made to himself a solemn promise
of what he would do with the money if he got it. Clar
ence Hall felt better to-day than he had in many was even
heard to whistle a tune ; and when he started home, and
saw on the corner of the street a poor old man grinding an
organ, he said to himself " poor devil I wonder what your
life has been what cursed luck may have brought you to
this ? " Clarence Hall dropped a whole dollar into the old
man's hat, and passed on; the -poor old organ-grinder stop
ping and staring at him in blank astonishment.
One day Mirabeau Holmes mid Frod Van Comer were at
Mrs. Sutherland's. They had been speaking of a daily news-
PEACU-TKEE. 295
paper that Mirabeau and Fred had announced their intention
of starting in the city.
" I think your are quite correct in your ideas of the enor
mous power of the Press. Hitherto our people have been
largely controlled by their orators in politics, and by the per
nicious idea of hereditary rank in all their social and indus
trial life. But now, the public Press has supplanted the
orators ; and, unless the money-power becomes too great,
which is much to be feared, educated intellect will take
the place of our old and absurd notions of rank," said Mrs.
Sutherland.
" But if this power is all to be exerted in the cause of
conservatism," said Mirabeau, " I am not able to see any
great good likely to be accomplished by it."
" Why, the conservative Press will keep us where we are ;
it will keep us from relapsing into barbarism ! " said Fred.
" But surely we should not consent always to lag in the
rear of civilization. To be sure, when we were cursed with
slavery we could not do better ; but now we are free !
And if we do not compete successfully with the foremost it
will be our own fault," said Mirabeau.
" Surely, if we should fail it cannot be much our own
fault, that is, the fault of the present generation especially,
if what our enemies at the North say be true that we are
naturally indolent, lacking in pluck and enterprise, and, with
al, scarcely emerged from barbarism," said Mrs. Sutherland.
" Begging your pardon, I do not think the Northern peo
ple are our enemies ; I am sure their representative men are
no t such men as Henry Wilson, John W. Forney, Lyman
Trumbull, Mr. Beecher, and even Horace Greeley and Gerrit
Smith. I do not think they are our enemies ; I know that
General Grant is now, and has been ever since the war,
friendly towards us. As for these other men, surely we can
296 gA TEA.
give them credit for having been as honest as ourselves.
For one, I am willing to believe, and do believe, that they
have been through their whole lives actuated by the highest
motives in the cause of Humanity. I know of no set of men,
in all the history of the world, for whom I have more admi
ration, notwithstanding there are many things in their lives
which were better out, than for those ' old-time abolition
ists,' " said Mirabeau.
" I think I know of one set for whom I have a great deal
more admiration: General Lee and the heroes who fol
lowed him," said Mrs. Sutherland.
" Ah, I scarcely thought it necessary to say that not even
yourself should go beyond me in admiration for General Lee
and his army. If heroic bravery and sublime endurance be
the measure, all the world must acknowledge that General
Lee led his noble army to a height of glory far above that
attained by any Northern rival. And I will say further,
that if I had the whole world to select from, and was re
quired to point to the man of the loftiest virtue and purest
character, upon which there was never a stain or a tarnish, I
should point to Jefferson Davis," replied Mirabeau.
" That is a platform broad enough, certainly ; especially as
you are not likely to find more than one willing to stand
upon it ! " said Fred.
"And that one myself? Well, so much the worse for
them" said Mirabeau.
" As the lawyer said, when told that the facts did not
sustain him ? " added Mrs. Sutherland. " But, as King
Richard says, to leave oft' this keen encotmter of our wits,"
said Mrs. Sutherland, resinning, " I think I understood
that your paper was to be conservative."
" Not conservative ; democratic," said Mirabeau.
" What is the difference V "
PEACII-TEEE. 297
" None, in fact. But we mean to preach liberal doc
trines from a democratic platform," said Fred.
" You think that a necessary precaution, in order to be
heard, I suppose," said Mrs. Sutherland.
" Yes j we dress like shepherds in order that the demo
cratic sheep of this coxmtry may not be alarmed. They
would flee from anything they have not been used to," said
Fred.
" For my part, I once thought there might even be a pos
sibility of bringing that party itself up to higher ground than
that of its opponents. Certain it is that no party can ever
triumph over the one now in power that does not take high
er ground. For example, it must at least go for universal
suffrage, a national system of public schools, and a prohibi
tory liquor law. Speaking especially of the Soiith, would it
not be a grand thing to compel the world to acknowledge her
as the champion of progress, the light of civilization, on this
side the waters? I have sometimes thought that if our
people would cease to wrangle over the past, abandon their
conservatisms, and all come together in the great work, we
might, by our achievements in art, and industry, and science,
and letters, even accomplish so much. It is a shame that we
should not be ahead ! For rapid progress, for every con
quest in knowledge, we have the best material in the whole
world, except the French ; and the superiority of our free
political institutions makes us equal even to the French,"
said Mirabeau, kindling with his subject ; for he never
thought of it without being filled with the highest enthusi
asm.
" That would be a great triumph indeed ; but we can
never hope for that until we have higher education, and
more of it. I would not consent to a national system of
public schools ; but I think each State ought to have such a
18*
208 gA IKA.
system ; in spite of our poverty, I think it a shame that our
State has none. Ignorance is always more costly than
knowledge at any price. Our women especially stand in
deplorable need of higher education. No compliments. The
last census reveals a fact which ought to excite the shame of
every man, and the indignation of every woman, in the
State. I doubt not you both have noticed it : that there
are forty-two thousand adult whites in the State who can
neither read nor write; and that of this number there are
twice as many women as men. But we need also some
higher institutions of learning for our women. There is not
a single one in the State where a woman can get what would
even be a passable education for a man of the most microsco
pic pretensions to culture," said Mrs. Sutherland.
" Let our State University be opened to women. For
three reasons : women ought to have, equally with men, the
benefits of the very best institutions of learning ; the State is
not able to support more than one great University ; the one
we have ought to be inuoh more largely endowed, and tuition
ought to be made free ; the two sexes ought to be educated
together, anyhow, 1 ' said Fred.
" The intellectual emancipation of woman is my hobby.
I believe I would even agree with Mr. Yan Comer, that
our State University ought to be opened to women," said
Mrs. Sutherland.
" Intellectual emancipation will never come before their
political and social emancipation ; that is, if it must come at
their own wish," said Mirabeau.
" I understand what you mean by political emancipation ;
but what do you mean by their social emancipation ? "
asked Mrs. Sutherland.
" He means their emancipation from filigree ! " said Fred.
" No ; I mean that the wife must be the equal of the hus-
PEACH-TREE. 299
band, not only before the law, but as an intellectual and
moral being, and as a member of society," said Mirabeau.
" Though I believe it will come, and that very shortly, I
think it will be a sad day for us when women go to the
polls," said Mrs. Sutherland.
" Cato seems to have been possessed of a similar notion
when it was proposed to allow the Roman matrons a certain
liberty," said Fred.
" You mean when he made that speech against allowing
them to ride in carriages, or to wear garments of more than
one color ? " said Mrs. Sutherland.
" Yes ; and when he proclaimed a female insurrection,
because they preferred so modest a request," said Fred.
" I reckon if, instead of such a modest request, they had
ventured to ask that the law be repealed which gave the
husband the power of life and death over his wife ; or if
they had dared to ask for the repeal of that law which classed
them along with furniture, as personalty, making them so
much a matter of property that the possession and use of
them for an entire year was held to give sufficient title to
them ; the virtuous old conservative would have immediate
ly demanded sentence of death against the whole of them,"
said Mirabeau.
" The experience of women, certainly, has been a very
cruel one. And their condition now, in spite of all fine
compliments, is deplorable enough. Their station is essen
tially low. But their great need is intellectual emancipa
tion ; and if I thought as you do, that that could not be
accomplished without female suffrage, I do not hesitate to
say that I should work for female suffrage with all my
might," said Mrs. Sutherland.
" Plainly," said Mirabeau to Fred, after they had left r
*' Mrs. Su fcherland is held back only by the pressure of sur-
300 gA IEA.
rounding public opinion. In New York, or Boston, she
would be for woman's rights." " Evidently." " Now, she
thinks that at length woman has about reached her ' true
sphere.' Probably the Phoenicians thought the same thing
three thousand years ago, when, for the sake of their com
mercial interests, they compelled their women to stand naked
upon the beach, and by various signs entice seamen ashore."
"Did they do that ?"" Herodotus says so." " I don't
believe it. It reminds me of one of Captain Pinter's sto
ries : Captain Pinter says a woman was telling her experi
ence, and made rather a bad out at it. The preacher
thought he would help her out ; so he says to her, ' You be
lieve that Christ died for you ? ' ' Why,' says she, ' I didn't
know he was dead ! ' ' Yes,' says the preacher, ' many hun
dred years ago, away in Palestine, on Mount Calvary.'
' Well,' says the woman, ' it's a long time ago, and a long
ways off; and I hope it's a lie ! ' :
The great Library Gift Concert drawing came off. The
capital prize was drawn by a green-grocer out West. Clarence
Hall drew a blank. Then Clarence Hall saw the utter futil
ity of all calculations based upon luck, and his trust in spe
cial providences was also considerably shaken. He took his
resolution. Once more he stood up the Clarence Hall of
yore. Nay, more. Once he had been sanguine, but resolute
too determined to conquer in the battle of life, yet seeing
no great difficulties to be overcome. Then he had been fear
less. Now he was heroic. If everything he had was sold,
even though at considerable sacrifice, he could pay all his debts,
and still have a few hundred dollars left. His creditors would
have been glad to compromise for half the amounts due them.
Clarence Hall knew this, but he did not mention it. He
determined to pay the last farthing he owed, and start anew
this time even with the world. He was still young, not
PEACH-TREE. 301
thirty. And if, as he now saw, mournfully yet clearly, he
must fight life's battle alone, still he would fight it, and con
quer even the most glorious promise of his youth. If there
was for him less of happiness, there was more of heroism.
He would profit by the errors of the past. Calmly, steadily,
slowly, if it must be, he would hold on his course. Clarence
Hall went to his creditors and made the proposition to them.
They were thunderstruck. This was not the usual way of
doing business. What ! a man proposing to sell himself
out of house and home to pay his debts, and not even insist
ing on a compromise ! It was almost unbelievable. Of
course, they would not interpose any obstacles to the sale.
And just here I cannot but mention with pleasure the fact
that not one of these men asked Clarence Hall to pay the
cost of their previous legal proceedings. The fact is, dear
reader, we have a people here more kind, more generous,
better and truer in all the sympathies and impulses of the
heart, than any people on the earth. That evening, when
Clarence Hall went home, he had already determined upon
his plan and taken steps to put it in execution. Still he
thought it right to consult his wife.
Mrs. Hall had greatly improved of late. But as her health
grew better her temper grew worse ; which latter proceeding
is frequently observed to double with the rapidity of Mr.
Weller's deputy-shepherd's accounts. And this is a result
which happens far from seldom, and that too in young wo
men who, one would think, have been almost reduced to a
piece of " white putty that can feel pain." Thus it was with
Clarence Hall's wife. For some time after she had been
married she had neither will nor temper. But then came
several months of ill health ; and with it naturally came
peevishness, from which to ill temper the way is short enough.
When Clarence Hall told his wife of his difficulties, and
302 9 A IRA -
proposed to her that they should adopt the plan he had al
ready decided upon, she opposed everything. Then there
were accusations, reproaches, tears. But Clarence Hall had
taken his resolution, and follow it he would.
The next day Marian Malcomb went to see Mrs. Hall.
Annie Dealing and Marian Malcomb had been school-girls to
gether. To-day Marian was confirmed in what she had sus
pected for some time that Annie's husband was seriously
embarrassed in his affairs. She knew of the burning of
his office, but not of the extent of his loss. She had more
than once heard her father regret that Hall had not been
elected to the office of city attorney. And to-day she
managed, with the utmost delicacy, to learn the truth of the
case. That evening, when her father came home, she met him
in the walk and told him all about it, adding " I have
heard you say several times how sorry you were that he was
not elected to be city attorney when you were trying to get
the schools ; and I thought maybe you might want to aid
him in some way." When Mr. Malcomb said " he would send
for Mr. Hall to come to his office to-morrow," Marian was
content ; for she believed that her father would do the very
thing that ought to be done. That this man had the wisdom
to discern the right, and the willingness to do the right, was
the perfect conviction, not only of Marian, but of every mem
ber of his family. When he said he would see about any
thing, they knew it would be seen about, and well, too ; and
let this be said to his praise. Clarence Hall called at Mr.
Malcomb's office late in th< afternoon of the next day.
" I wanted to speak with you," said Mr. Malcomb, " of
your own affairs. And when I have given you the reason of
my wishing to speak with you, T hope you will not consider
me officious. Our people carry politics into everything, and I
fear that by becoming complicated in my school plans you
PEACH-TKEE. 303
have injured your practice. And this, coming along with
the unfortunate loss of your office, and especially your
library, I feared might have seriously embarrassed your
business. If I am correct in my conjecture, I have sent for
you, to say I might be able to assist you in some way. Perw
haps a loan might be of advantage to you."
Clarence Hall was not less struck by Mr. Malcomb's
delicacy than by his generosity. He desired to assist him in
his difficulties, and for fear of touching his sensitiveness, pre
tended to make himself in some way the cause of these
difficulties.
" I scarcely know how to thank your, sir," replied Clarence
Hall, " for your kindness. My affairs have indeed been
seriously embarrassed ; but not, I think, in any way from the
cause you mention."
" True, there might be a difference of judgment there ; but
no matter for that ; if I could aid you, as I have mentioned,
or in any other way you may suggest, I shall be glad to do so."
Mr. Malcomb knew something of the difficulties in the
way of young men struggling in the battle of life. He had
been through some of them, and a good many of them, too,
himself. As I have already said, this man was no born
aristocrat ; he had neither wealth nor great relations to get
him place and power, and help him along. He had made his
way from the bottom round, and had reached the top. For
many years he had been, in his State, the exponent of the
feelings, and ideas, and purposes of the great mass of people
who work for their living. He was now the most represen
tative man, in liis section of the Union, of the new civilization.
And here was the grand reason of his success : he had
learned early to work, work, am 1 <^ntinue to work. It
would not be too much to say that he had worked for thirty
rf without a week's rest. And this moment he was prob-
304
ably both the wealthiest and hardest- working man in the
State. Evidently here was a man capable of sympathizing
with Clarence Hall in his resolution as well as in his troubles.
Clarence Hall, while thanking him warmly for his disinter-
^sted kindness, thought it best to decline any pecuniary aid,
and to stick to the plan he had already decided upon. And
Mr. Malcomb too, doubtless, thought he was taking that
course which would, in the long run, be for the best. I
said that Clarence Hall was now heroic ; and so he was.
Once he had thought of happiness ; now he thought of duty.
And just here I must mention an act which I think more to
Mr. Malcomb's credit than a grand speech in the United
States Senate would be, and which I record with more
pleasure : he sent for a furniture dealer, and instructed him
to attend Clarence Hall's sale, and on his, Mr. Malcomb's
account, to make the articles sold bring their full value.
The Dealings, except the pater-familias which is a Latin
word meaning ordinarily, pompous-un-familiar-ass had con
tinued to visit Mrs. Hall. As the day approached they were
constantly making the smallest rat-biting observations ; and
endeavoring to impress upon the tabula rasa of Mrs. Hall
what an awful and disgraceful matter it was thus to be
" brought down in the world." Mrs. Hall declared she could
not endure the jar and bustle, and that she would go to her
mother's until it was over ; and one day, while her husband
was at his office, she went to her mother's accordingly. The
sale had come and gone. Once more Clarence Hall was even
with the world. To be sure, he was somewhat disappointed
in the amount realized. What would have been the result
without Mr. Malcomb's bidder ? He would not have saved a
single dollar ! But, as it was, he-saved enough to fit up right
handsomely a pretty little cottage which he had taken in a
pleasant quarter of the city. He was at home. He was
PEACH-TKEE. 305
" even with the world." He was ready to begin the battle of
life anew ; if with less sanguine hopes, certainly with more
experience and better judgment, and, probably, higher mo
tives. He called for his wife ; she was too unwell to go.
He called again ; the baby was too unwell. He called again ;
something else the matter. A week passed. Clarence Hall
was alarmed.
5.
CHAPTER XXL
" Cursed be the social lies that warp us from the living truth."
TENNYSON.
, I ' " Belle chose est tot ravie." FRENCH PBOVEBB.
As to whether there ought to be, in the geography of
human life, any such vale as " Glencoe ; " or whether, seeing
that all's for the best, every vale should not rather be a vale
of laughing than of weeping ; or, at the very least, seeing
that nothing can be any otherhow than just as it is, whether
one had not better regard all the vales, as well as every other
feature of the geography aforesaid, with the most philosophic
indifference ; I stop not here to inquire. For which, I call
the reader to witness, I have at least two most excellent
reasons. First, my business in this book is to relate what
actually was, and still is in great part, rather than to specu
late upon what ought to be ; and secondly, the American
people, wishing, perhaps, to avoid the example of the fallen
archangels, are not prone, in discourse sweet, to sit on hills
retired, or, indeed, anywhere else, and reason high " of provi-
di'iico, foreknowledge, will, and fate." From which I con
clude such argument might not be as intensely interesting to
them as was that theological argument of the Christian
(JA IRA.
knight, Orlando, to the Giant Fenacute. But this matter of
Orlando and Fenacute may as well be related, if only to show
something of the general degeneracy of modern times, and
the special decadence of modern theologians. Charlemagne,
at the siege of Pamplona, encountered the Infidel Giant
Fenacute. This Fenacute was a great Giant, an enormous
Giant at all points ; descended in a direct line, according to the
learned priesthood of that day, from Goliath of old ! He made
great havoc with Charlemagne's army, hewing down whole
brigades, as it were. The stoutest warriors, the most re
nowned knights, were sent against him in vain. Finally
Orlando challenged him to single combat. Orlando was -about
to follow the fate of all who had preceded him, when sud
denly, in the midst of the fight, he thought of his spiritual
weapons. He engaged the Giant in a theological contro
versy. This was too much for Fenacute ; his strength left
him ; and the gallant knight triumphantly cut off his head.
Having told what I know of the Giant Fenacute, which
may even yet serve as an embellishment for a sermon if any
of our friends should be forced to go to preaching I now pro
ceed to relate the main events in the life-histories of our peo
ple. And just here may be mentioned the utter impossibility
of ever fully knowing the life of another. Let any one reflect
for a moment upon his own life : of the ambitious hopes,
which seem grand to-day so high indeed, that you think even
your best friends would not appreciate them, but might even
laugh at as curious ramblings of a visionary mind, and which
you therefore keep to yourself, probably writing them down
in your diary only to laugh or wonder at to-morrow, just as
you feared your friends would ; of the many headaches and
heartaches, and the disappointments and chagrin that you
have felt, even, it may be, with those nearest to you ; above
all, of the thousand inward struggles against temptation, in
GLENCOE. 300
which, many a time, under the hard force of circumstances,
YOU have almost or even quite consented to yield to what has
afterwards in moments of retrospection, as you lay upon
your bed at night, brought to your face the rush of shame
and self-contempt; let one think of these things, and many
more, both on the good and on the bad side of his own life, and
then say whether it is likely that another will ever know all of
his life-history. One never knows but one's own life, that is,
one's inner life, is almost totally different from the life of
any other creature in the whole universe. As for these per
sons whose histories I am writing, I have known them all
for years, and with several of them have been on terms of the
closest intimacy. And yet, I dare say, there are some secret
hopes disappointed, some silent cries and unshed tears for
ideals vanished or turned to Dead-Sea fruit, known only to
themselves and God !
Many years ago Mr. Walton, in obedience to a cursed
social lie that triumphs over the laws of God, and crushes
with Juggernaut wheels the life-blood from the human heart,
had driven his own beautiful, unfortunate daughter forth
friendless and hopeless xipon a pitiless world. But it is a
very hard thing to silence utterly the voice of nature. After
wards, when it was too late ; when he believed that his poor
daughter was dead ; when he read what he thought to be her
last words <l alone, alone in the great world ; without friends,
without bread, without hope, what can I do but die ? "
when he read how she, his own daughter, had gone to beg
for bread, and was driven good God ! it may be, who
knows ? even beaten away by servants ; when he saw her
touching prayer, that her father and mother her father, he
himself, her own father, the monster who had driven her
forth thus to die, wretched and friendless might never
know of the depth of her suffering; and when he imagined
310 A E^-
he saw her beautiful form laid upon the cold river-bank, her
innocent child tenderly bound to her bosom with plaits of
her own silken hair, the pale mother's lips almost trembling
yet with the beautiful prayer, " as we go to sleep to-night in
each other's arms, so may we wake in the morning ; " then it
was that he saw himself their murderer ! The dark waves of
despair rolled over him. Who shall hear the cry from their
depths ? Or who shall interpret it ? Verily, verily ! The
poor Indian may die even joyfully under the wheels of his
Juggernaut, because the Juggernaut is to him a god. But the
sum of possible misery in this world is even this, that man
feels himself crushed under the Juggernaut wheels, and
knows it is no Divinity, but only a hideous idol. So it was
with Mr. Walton now. He saw his children disgraced and
dead ; he felt himself forced down to despair ; and knew,
too late, that it was no Divinity, but only a shapeless, san
guinary idol, a huge, hideous, social lie. The darkness had
encompassed him, and all his life had he struggled and cried
out for light. JBut the light never came. Mr. Walton was
a sincere Christian man ; and he tried hard to atone for the
past. He was wealthy ; he fed and clothed the poor ; he
gave liberally to all good institutions ; his charities were
large and generous. But while he regarded all this as his
duty, still, doubtless, having a much stronger sense of it than
if all had been clear in his past life, he did not trust to good
works, he did not claim aught for his own merits ; he resor
ted to prayer ; and often long, and in anguish did he pray.
Alas, alas 1 Mr. Walton, for what is it you pray ? That the
effect may not follow its cause. But this is an inexorable
law, nor is there any power, on the earth or above the earth,
that can reverse it. Hope nof, man, to do wrong, and theu
by prayer or by works, by the aves of priests or by the in
tercession of saints, angels or gods, to get the inevitable
GLENCOE. 311
I
laws of fate reversed. Know that whatever you do becomes
a part of your life, and hope not to get rid of it. Thus it
was with Mr. Walton ; for while his theoretical faith taxight
him to believe he was forgiven, his feelings taught him that
at least his own nature would not be appeased.
And thus the years sped on. We have seen how the last
hope of his life was swept away. We have seen his young
est son, in whom the old father had fixed his last ambition,
go forth in the pride and flush of youth only to fill an early
but honored grave. And then we have seen how a bright
promise from his oldest son, who had been long ago given
up save by his hopeful mother, came to light for a moment
with deceitful glare the gloom of his life. We have seen Alf
Walton leave for Paris, to bring back to its own native earth
the remains of his young heroic brother. He had delayed
himself two months in New York ; at the end of which time
his father, who had heard nothing of him up to this time, but
imagined something must be wrong, received a note from him,
stating that he would sail for Europe that day. Two months
more had passed, and no word from his only surviving son.
Mrs. Walton was alarmed, then depressed, and said she
could not tell how or why, but she felt like some new trouble
was about to be sent upon them. Mr. Walton, too, had be
come uneasy and restless. Once he had written, and twice
telegraphed, without getting any information. He went
down in town earlier than had been his custom, anxious to get
the mail.
One morning, it was in December, the streets sloppy, and
a cold, drizzling rain blowing from the east, Mr. Walton, his
tall, spare figure enveloped in a long, close-fitting overcoat,
was seen hurrying along the street in front of the telegraph
office. He was called to from within ; but his head was
closely muffled, and he was in a deep study ; he heard not the
S12 CA IRA.
call, and was hurrying along hurrying from fate ! But who
shall escape from his fate? The messenger ran up with Mr.
Walton and touched him on the shoulder. Mr. Walton
turned quickly and inquiringly. " Message for you carried
it to your office, and was just starting with it to your house."
Mr. Walton's office was on Wall street, not many yards off.
The message was from his London correspondent, and in
formed him that his son, Mr. Alf Walton, had been shot the
night before, and was now dead. An hour afterwards, in a
pouring rain, without any umbrella, Mr. Walton, with head
hung upon his breast, was seen going towards home. Mrs.
Walton, already tottering from age, disease, trouble, and ner
vous dread of some impending calamity, was completely pros
trated by the shock. All day, and far into the night, Mr.
Walton watched by her bedside. Twelve o'clock. Her limbs
were cold. Mrs. Walton was dying. Yes, yes. Threescore
years of trial would soon be finished. Fifty years ago the
roseate hues of morning had been quickly overcast. The
darkness of night was approaching to shut the scene. What
is the sum of this life ? A brief promise in the early morn
ing, and half a century of care, disappointment, and despair.
Mrs. Walton had not yet spoken. It was past midnight.
She called for Mr. Walton called him by his Christian name,
as she had in the far-off day of youthful hope and promise.
All were requested to leave the room for a moment.
" My dear husband," said the dying woman, " I have been
thinking of our darling child. I dreamed to-night that she
was not dead. It may be, in the providence of God, that she
is still living somewhere in the world ; or it may be that the
child is living. If not " and her voice trembled with pathos
"if not, then all our children are gone. Lean over closer
to me I saw them both in my dream. And I want you to
promise me that you will leave your property so that if they
GLENCOE. 313
be living they can get it. Will you? " It was given. And
Mr. Walton kept his promise. The freed spirit of Mrs. Wal
ton rose upon the air with the morning hymn of the lark ; and
as the far-off trill died upon the ear of the ascending spirit,
the sweeter notes were heard of voices angelical to many a
harp in paradise.
The day after the next Mr. Walton stood beside the grave
of his wife. He stood perfectly erect, and was silent. His
eye was cold and dry. His thin, white hair floated in the
fitful blasts of wind. His face was rigid, and he looked
straight before him. For the first time in his life the old
man seemed defiant of fate itself. But when they were about
to lower the coffin he motioned them to stop. He bent down
and gazed intently for a moment upon the face of the dead.
" Farewell." And without another word, he rose, and
walked away erect. All gone. A lonely old man. All of
his family were dead. His hearth was desolate ; his life
solitary. He would go after his children. He would
bring them home. He would surround himself with his
dead. A little while, and the lonely old man set out upon
his long, sad journey.
On the last evening that we have seen Mr. Brooke carry
Emma Harlan home from his house, it was noted that he
litid begun to look upon her with a strange light in his eye.
At first this was interpreted by her to mean no more than
a watchful, fatherly affection. But there is a wonderful in
stinct in woman's nature, which, fairly tried, never fails to
distinguish the light of love from every other. It thrills a
chord untouched before by affection of family or friends. Poor
Emma ! She could not but be alarmed ; but in moments of
reflection she thought she must surely be mistaken, re
proached herself bitterly, arid, to atone for her unworthy
suspicions of her best friend, only truyted Mr. Brooke more
14
314 gA IRA.
unreservedly than ever. We have seen how, on the night
before Alf Walton left the city, defenceless innocence was
ai-med against the most cunning attacks of that artful in
triguer. So timely was the warning, and so complete the
armor, that we almost regarded it as a special providence to
protect this pretty, innocent flower. Alas, alas ! that this
very providence should turn traitor, and conspire for her
ruin. Emma had not forgotten this, and when she thought
of it now her cheeks tingled with shame, that she should,
even in her remotest thought, harbor an evil thought against
her friend and protector. " We are often," says the old
Doctor, " in as much daiiger from the good as from the bad
side of our nature ; " and never was there a truer saying. So
with Emma Harlan. The highest feelings of her nature were
spinning around her the fatal cords which, without the inter
position of providence, should bind her to destruction the
feelings of trust and gratitude. And if all that is, is for good,
as surely must be, how is it that this can be ? Where is the
good ? What is there in heaven, or on earth, or in the
whole universe of God, that can demand that this poor little
life be crushed ? Who shall be benefited ; what love shall
be widened or deepened ; what wrath shall be appeased ; what
power shall be vindicated ; what justice shall be glorified ;
what suffering shall be diminished ; what joy increased ;
what wisdom magnified, in all the dominions of God, by this
great-small saciifice ? Just God ! that the darkness might
be removed, and that we might see the truth.
But what shall wff say of Mr. Brooke ? This girl reposed
upon his protection in more than double trust; she was
young and innocent, and should, find a guardian in every
gentleman. Mr. Brooke was the friend of her mother, and
the orphan daughter looked to him with filial affection. He
was her pastor, and she reposed in him the trust of confiding
GLENCOE. 315
innocence. He was her protector ; as it was he, tinder pro
vidence, who had probably saved her from disgrace and ruin.
Said Mr. Brooke to her one day,
" Once it was thought that whatever was natural was wrong,
that human love especially was sinful in the sight of God.
But we have learned a more generous religion ; our aifections
were not given to us as so many snares to tempt us into sin.
Our natures are God-formed. And when the human heart
is not degraded by evil intentions, then, under God, its in
stincts are divine. Evil can only exist in the intention."
' Emma thought much of what Mr. Brooke had said ; and
while wondering vaguely at its application, had come almost
unconsciously to believe in the precept. _ Nor let any sup
pose this of small consequence ; far from it. For, although
in moments of fierce temptation the mind stops not to reason
carefully, yet it acts even in such cases in a kind of in
stinctive obedience to its theoretical beliefs, as the parts of
the body act by instinctive obedience to the will, without
any distinct act of the will at all. Mr. Brooke had at first
interested himself in Emma as a pretty girl, an orphan, the
favorite of the Sunday-school, and the daughter of Mrs.
Harlan. But the more he knew of her the more he liked
her ; he found her possessed of, native intellect as rare as her
disposition was sweet and amiable. And this intellect Mr.
Brooke felt a desire, common to all minds of learning and
culture, to see expand and develope under his own direction,
or at least according to his own ideas. Emma, on her side,
appreciated Mr. Brooke's accomplishments, gave in readily
to his way of thinking, and thus they were soon in complete
sympathy. It is wonderful how completely and absolutely
one mind, even of a high order itself, may be under the
dominion, of another stronger than itself: not in the sense
that one person may control another by means of visible
316 9 A IE A.
power ; but how, not merely its coloring, but its very cellular
structure seems to proceed from the all-powerful and in
finitely subtle attractions and repulsions of the stronger
mind. So it was with Mr. Brooke and Emma Harlan. '1 he
girl had come to look up to Mr. Brooke as her ideal of a
man.
But the girl soon became a woman. And when Mr.
Brooke dwelt upon her ripe and luscious beauty ; when he
thought of her fine mind, well cultured for her age, and felt
the incantation of her sweet temper, with the consciousness
too that much in both was due to his formative hand; he,
naturally remembered that his wife was an invalid who could
not possibly survive long, and even frequently found himself
indulging in some vague imaginings that there might be for
him in the future a lot that should in some sense atone for
the past blank of his married life. And these vague im
aginings, Mr. Brooke, knowing what must be in the near
future, did not at all attempt to put down.
So Mr. Brooke soon found his love centered upon this girl ;
then it grew into a passion ; and then he determined to pos
sess her at all costs. From sympathy, that is, complete
spiritual accord, to love, between two persons capable of
loving, is a short way. Mr. Brooke already had the es
teem, the confidence, the perfect sympathy, in a word, of
Emma Harlan ; and to get her love only needed that subtle
conversion of that feeling which is made up of filial trust
and friendship into lovers' love. To do him full justice,
Mr. Brooke, even after he had determined to gratify his own
passion, though it be at the ruin of this girl, still thought
sometimes of a possible future -atonement to her. From the
moment that Mr. Brooke's passion became criminal, lie
began to lay his plans artfully. Without at all abating his
parental care, he now treated her also as a grown-up woman.
GLEXCOE. 317
Sometimes, with the rarest possible delicacy, he referred, in
low tones of scarce perceptible pathos, to his own loneliness.
And sometimes he even spoke eloquently, with just a slight
tremulousness, of what might be done in this skeptical age
by a minister of truly liberal culture and ardent zeal with a
companion divinely formed to share his labors with him.
Thus the weeks passed on, and the hour approached. Even
in the midst of his passion Mr. Brooke's cool judgment did
not forsake him; he knew the human heart; he knew the
power of surprise over it. One afternoon Emma was at his
house, and Miss Brooke was not at home. The two were in
the parlor alone. Emma sat on a sofa, and Mr. Brooke
nearly in front of her in a chair, with his elbow resting upon
a table, where he had just placed a volume of Shakspeare,
of which he had been rather abstractedly turning the
leaves.
*
" Do you remember," said Mr. Brooke, in a low, tuneful
voice, " when you were here one afternoon last Slimmer and
I read to you from Hamlet ? "
" Oh, yes," said Emma, blushing, and not dreaming that
Mr. Brooke knew the circumstances of that evening so well
as he did. " I can never forget that day, any more than I
can ever repay you with my gratitude for that and many
others; you were, unconsciously, my guardian spirit."
" Ah," said Mr. Brooke, rising and moving across the floor,
" you have uttered the very word that drives me mad. Your
guardian ! Good God ! that I could be your guardian in
fact, always, in life and eternity." Mr. Brooke walked rapid
ly across the room, and stood before her. "*Emma, child,"
he began again in a tremulous voice, " I have a confession
to make to you ; if you love me for what I have done for you,
I know you will listen to me. Child, you know you must
know that my whole nature has gone out towards you.
318 gA IRA.
Your own life has been woven into mine ; each has become
a part of the other. I could not help it I did not know it
I have prayed over it it is the work of God he approves
it." He fell upon his knees and grasped her hands. " Oh,
the cursed fate that separates us ! But are we divided for
ever ? No ! My wife is an invalid cannot live but a few
months at most we shall both be free. But ah ! the dan
gers, the difficulties, that may come in our way. We are
here now let us bind ourselves to each other let us leave
110 escape make ourselves wholly each other's. See ! I am
a minister it will be lawful in the sight of God I have
asked he will bless us." He caught her in his strong arms;
they rose together ; he covered her face with kisses ; and
rushed madly along. "'I promise faithfully to love, honor,
protect, and keep you as long as we shall live ' promise me
promise " She struggled to free herself from his em
brace ; the* struggle was followed by unconsciousness ; the
charmed bird was in the serpent's power.
GLENCOE. 319
CHAPTER XXII.
here I and sorrow sit ;
Here is my throne ; bid kings come bow to it."
K. JOHN.
MIRABEAU HOLMES was writing for several magazines, and
had also been working hard upon his " History of the Com
mune." He found that it was necessary for him to take a
month's ret ; and he made a visit to his old home at " Ashton,"
and then went among the mountains in the north of the
State.
" I had hardly realized before," said he to Marian Malcomb
one beautiful night, while they sat on a rustic settee in the
flower-garden, " how infinitely removed we are even from the
near past."
" Oh, I should rather think that the true past is never
away from us that it is ever with us, to strengthen us, to add
to our stock of happiness, to make us more hopeful of the
future."
" You are right, too. In that sense, the past is ever with
us. Nothing that was worthy, nothing that was good or true
in the past, ever dies, or can die. It all remains in the
world, and works for good, through endless changes. But
what I spoke of was the absolute cutting off of our own ac
tual, individual existence, even from the very last moment
that we can almost catch as it flies."
" How long did you stay at your old home ? "
" Not long only a few days."
" That is a pretty name ' Ashton.' Was it long since you
had been there ? "
320
" Oh, no ; but it seemed a great while. Fifteen years ago
my father died. I have told you he was a doctor! Well, 1
was a small boy then, but I had learned to tamper with his
medicines, and I remember especially that I had just learned
that nitrate of silver would turn things black. It was won
derful to me that a substance as clear as water should do so,
and 1 marked up a great many things by way of experiment.
My father's death naturally made a great impression on my
mind; and I had just then got a notion of the meaning of
our calendar. I was afraid I should forget the year ; and so
I took a vial of the nitrate of silver and a little mop and went
out and wrote under the window sill it was an old-fashioned
white house in great round figures, 1858. I went to look
at the place the other day, and there they were, 1858 look
ing wonderingly at me like a surprised, overgrown boy. And
I looked at them I don't know how I looked."
" Why, I heard you say once that you had no special at
tachment for place, that you believed it unphilosophical."
Mirabeau recollected instantly to have made this remark to
to her at " Elkton," not long after he had known her ; and
lie felt glad that she should remember what he had said so
long ago.
"Oh, yes," he answered; "I tried not to have; but one
feels, in spite of one's self."
" So you have come to see the truth of what the old Doc
tor used to tell you all, have you? Don't you remember?
Bobert says he used to tell you that the feelings often furnish
quite as sure a basis to build upon as the reason."
" No ; I did not exactly mean that ; but that, owing, I doubt
not, mainly to education, we cannot always get rid of a
feeling, although reason should de'moiistrate it absurd."
" I have been soinewere too."
"Where?"
GLENCOE. 321
" To Elkton."
"Elkton?"
" Yes ; why do you look surprised ? "
" When were you there ? "
" Last Thursday ; we were up at my uncle's, and came by
there."
" Did you go to the river? "
" Yes ; alone. And the river was humming the same low
sweet tune that you taught me to listen to and interpret,
when we were there more than two years ago."
" And did you remember then the evening we were
there?"
" Yes ; and I wished I could see the sun set again ; but
had to come away."
" Well well. I thought the charm about the place lingered
wonderfully fresh and perfect."
" Why, what do you mean ? "
" That I was there_myself on Friday the very day after
you left."
" You were there ? "
" Yes ; and I looked in the sand for your track, made
there over two years ago. And when I found something
that looked like it, and then stopped and thought of how
long ago it had been, imagine how absurd I felt ! And it
was yours, sure enough. How I wish I had been a day
earlier ! "
" How I wish yon had, or that I had been a day later.
What on earth were you doing away up there ? "
" Ah, I thought you could hardly have need to ask. But
I will tell you. Because it was there that I felt the first
thrill of a new life. It was there that my soul first saw its
ideal, and made its first offering of love. I loved you then ;
and in all the changes that have come over nie since, my
322 gA IKA.
love to you has been constant ; it has known no change, ex
cept to grow stronger and deeper. I offer you my love, my
life. And if you will give me your confidence, your love, I
declare to you that I will make my own worthy of you."
There was silence for a moment. Marian looked down, and
there was a faint crimson in her cheek. Mirabeau looked
intensely in her face. Marian raised her great, lustrous, dark
eyes, and answered, in a voice low and unsteady with emotion :
" I cannot express to you all that I feel. I cannot tell
you how I appreciate the undeserved honor you do me by
making me the offer you do. And I should be untrue to
myself, as well as unworthy of your slightest consideration,
if I did not say how much I honor and esteem you. But more
than that I cannot say." Mirabeau was both startled and
dismayed. He had thought that he coiild not be mistaken
he was sure that this girl returned his love. But he knew
that these words which he heard were no idle words. Here
was no fair-haired boy and thoughtless girl no awkw;ml
declarations, blushes, chokings, timid half-avowals. These
two people had some idea of the reality of life, and each felt
that this was probably the most important moment in their
lives. They knew somewhat of each other's chai-acter, and
they esteemed, nay, they loved each other too ! Mirabeau
was not excited, and his words were measured and slow :
" You cannot say more ? You do not give me your love.
But you will give me a promise of something in the future.
See ! I have given you my whole life all my energies,
my ambition, my hopes, my love. And will you not even
give me a single hope ? "
" I cannot."
" But you may change ; you do "not say that you may not
change this decision ? "
" No ; I cannot say that."
GLENCOE. 323
" Then tell me this : is there another ? "
No."
" Then I will yet win your love." They rose, walked to
the house in silence, pressed each other's hand, and parted
without a word. It was a calm, beautiful night, and Mira-
beau walked slowly home, thinking deeply of the events just
added to his life-history. And Marian Malcomb ran up-stairs,
and sat at her window, and thought too. She was not
ignorant of Mirabeau's love ; nor, indeed, since that evening
at Mr. Brooke's, when he had spoken of the religion of the
Commune, had she thought of much else.
Said Mrs. Sutherland to Mirabeau one day, " What have
you done with your idea of opening the State University to
women ? "
" I have it yet. But I try to give everybody a copy."
" I am going to help you."
" Then the work will succeed. I knew you would. This
is exactly what has been wanting. To all our arguments we
have received the stereotyped answer that ( the women do
not ask it, do not even want it.' Now we shall say to them
' Behold ! the representative woman of the State demands it
in the name of all.' "
" Now, that is the best compliment J have heard."
" That gives me an idea that it must be very good."
" No ; I do not like compliments."
" Mine was to the women of the State."
" Then, as their representative, I thank you in the name
of all. But where is your friend, Mr. Van Comer ? I have
not seen him of late. Stop don't tell me that I have heard
from him, though. I know I have. I read his pretty little
poem in the last New Monthly. It seems scarcely possible
that the author of such a tender, sweet little poem could
write such a savage criticism."
324: <}A TEA.
" But, savage as it is, is there riot some truth, in that criti
cism ? "
" Oh, I dare say, much. He says my book ' begins with
an exclamation,' which is literally true 'and ends with a
dash,' which also has much truth in it, for I wrote in great
hurry. He pronounces this inferior in power to my first
book, which is certainly true ; though, as he says, the ' hypo
crites and pharisees ' will not see it."
" He says he hopes you will write again."
" So I shall ; and better than ever. But I do not pro
mise entirely ' to flee from conservatism.' "
" Might not Van Comer be afraid to cume to see you ? "
" No ; tell him to come. I can at least thank him for one
thing : he treats me as an equal in the field of letters ; and
does not condescend to any of those absurd flatteries and
empty compliments, which even some of my friends have
called ' gallantry and manly loyalty to the sex.' I hope Mr.
Van Comer was correct when he said he believed I would
despise all such. Mr. Paul H. Hayne thinks he only showed
in this his ignorance of the ' female literary natm-e ; ' but, in
thinking so, it strikes me Mr. Hayne only acted upon Mrs.
Peyser's- notion ' that the women were made to match the
men.' But the New Monthly has ceased. It seems strange
that we cannot have even one first-rate magazine or review in
the South."
" I do not think it strange. It is impossible that any
literary undertaking of that sort should prosper in a purely
conservative atmosphere. If we had a magazine in this city
it would not survive six months unless it was conducted on
the plan of the Contemporary Review"
" I understand you, and approve the plan. I hope we
shall have such an one soon. It would help us in our
University plans."
GLKNCOE. 325
" We have got one . first-rate Review : TJie Southern
Review. But that does not belong to any particular country ;
it belongs to the world." .
When Emma Harlan recovered from the momentary
stupor which had seized her, she sat upright and stared
about her with a mingled look of bewilderment, horror, and
pain. Her eyes were wild and dry, and had that intense
expression of wonder and pain that you have seen in dumb
animals under the most scientific tortures by the knife, pin
cers, and battery of the scientist. Mr. Brooke knew that
this extreme- tension of the nervous system could not last.
A revulsion of feeling must come. It might come in passion
ate exclamations, reproaches, curses, tears, faintings, and
even delirium. And she was in his own house ; everything
might be found out. Mr. Brooke was frightened ; the
miserable villain was ever thinking of himself. Leave for a
moment, reader, this scene, and recall another life-tragedy
enacted near a century ago under the walls of the frowning
old Castle of Joux. Think of the sad-heroic little woman,
Sophie de Monnier or rather, Sophie de RufFey, for all the
laws of Church and State could not make her the wife of old
Monnier and mad Gabriel Honore. By his stormy eloquence
and tropic passion this n\ad Gabriel, this tiger-faced god of
the Tennis Court, wins the love and so-called innocence of
this sad-heroic woman. Think of this man, defying alike the
penalties of law, disgrace, Castles of Joux, and blood-hounds
of Rhadaman thine father, scaling the walls of the garden at
Poiitarlier, and, Sophie in his arms, borne upon the wings of
love and despair, flying over the hills towards Holland.
Who says that Mirabeau, at that moment, was not a grand
man? I say he was. And I should say the same thing of
Mr. Brooke if he had acted similarly.
I go thus far against the hypocrites and pharisecs. I
320 gA IKA.
would not excuse him for what he had done. Mr. Brooke
Irnd committed a great wrong a great wrong against this
poor girl. But if he had fallen at her feet, and renewed to
her the vow he had just taken, which surely was only the
more sacred that it was not written down by priest or law
yer ; or if he had declared his wish, for her, to defy the law,
the church, and society ; or if in burning eloquence he had
proposed to abandon everything, and to fly into an unknown
country, where they should live their life out with each
other and for eajh other alone ; whatever wrong he may
have committed already, at that moment, I say, Mr. Brooke
would have been heroic. Nor does it matter at all that his
proposition should be scorned, as in this case it certainly
would have been.
But Mr. Brooke had ruined this poor girl, and was at
this moment fearful of detection and thinking of his own
safety. In one sense, at least, Mr. Brooke was satisfied : he
had carried his point ; henceforth the girl was completely in
his power. But it was necessary that Emma be got away
somehow. Miss Brooke had only gone to ride ; she would
soon return ; and there might be a scene. They sat in
silence several seconds, Mr. Brooke looking solicitous,
Emma the picture of doubting wonder and agony, when Mr.
Brooke began: "-My child ' But the girl, with a cry of
horror, sprang from her seat land darted out of the room.
Mr. Brooke followed her until he saw her enter her mother's
gate, and returned home. He had not calculated upon this
denouement ; he was too good a judge of human nature.
He knew well that when one has done wrong, when one
has committed even a high crime, the feeling immediately
after, generally, is a feeling rather of surprise that the thing
was so easily done, a kind of questioning whether there was
not really much more in the dread of doing than in the act
GLENCOE. 327
itself. Even the cold-blooded murderer, the moment after
the deed is committed, rather wonders that so small a matter
has been so magnified. It is afterwards that he finds him
self seized upon by terrors undreamed of. Not that I would
say that Emma Harlan committed any crime, great or small.
"Was this poor girl criminal or unfortunate ? Is it a crime in
heaven to trust too far what you believe to be great and pure
and good ? The old Doctor was right " We are in as much
danger from the good as from the bad side of our nature."
Consider also whether this fifth act in the girl's life-tragedy
was not a necessity from all that had preceded. Verily,
verily, " is not the poorest day that passes over us the
conflux of two eternities,, made up of currents that issue
from the remotest past, and flow onwards into the remotest
future ? "
There was grief in the little cottage on Ivy street.
Silent. Deep. Mother and daughter. Let the curtain be
lowered. Leave them alone. Alone with God.
Mr. Brooke heard of what was transpiring at the little
cottage. He dared not go there. He was sobered now.
He began to calculate. He feared discovery. He thought
of his family ; of his own disgrace. At first, as we have
seen, he thought that one thing was sure the girl was now
completely in his power. And even for a few days after
wards there haunted him occasionally the ghost of a resolu
tion to redeem, finally, his promise. But soon all such re
solves altogether left him. It was unsafe to eo farther.
o o
Even possible prison-walls loomed dimly up before him in
the future.
328 CA IRA.
CHAPTER XXIII.
Prom yonder shrine I heard a hollow sound : '
" Come, sister, come ! (it said, or seemed to say),
Thy place is here, sad sister, come away ;
Once, like thyself, I trembled, wept, and pray'd,
Love's victim then, though now a sainted maid : '
But all is calm in this eternal sleep,
Here grief forgets to groan, and love to weep ;
E'en superstition loses every fear :
For God, not man, absolves our frailties here."
ELOISE TO ABELABD.
WE must now return to the little cottage on Ivy street.
One doubts the necessity of giving the closing scenes. Are
they not inevitable ? And have they not been witnessed
many a time ? Witnessed ? Yes ; what may be seen.
Felt ? Never. Think what it would be if poet could ever
get into language one of these life-tragedies ! What can
one say but, waiting for death ? So it was with Emma Har-
lan. Sweet rose pf May, blasted ere the pearl-glittering
gossamer of the early morning unveiled thy perfect beauty,
let thine elegy be unsung till the world shall know that it is
not criminal to be unfortunate ; or, better, till it shall curse
all laws but the laws which love has made.
Poor Emma did not excuse herself; nay, she rather con
demned herself more severely than any just judge will con
demn her. And yet, there would come up from the depths
of her nature sometimes a faint wail of remonstrance, that
she had intended no evil. But for these remonstrances she
only condemned herself the morer It is well that the all-
wise and all-benevolent God of the universe remains entirely
unchanged by all the hideous conceptions formed of him by
GLENCOE. 329
in) pious and ignorant men who assume to speak as his priests
and prophets. It is well that the god Emma Harlan had
been taught to serye is not the God of Heaven at all, but
only the hideous idol of the dark-minded, savage old Hebrews.
Only see : the vicious system which she had been taught,
first made her misfortune, the wreck of her young life, not
only possible but necessary, and then made her believe it the
greatest of crimes. But so it was. All the light was gone
out of her "life. Even the pleasures of hope, the last stay of
poor mortals, were all gone. The glowing pleasures of
young wedded life; the serener joys of the matron mother;
the affectionate honors of venerable age all were gone for
ever. The charm of music was turned to discord ; the
woods and flowers grew pale in the sickened light ; the
mirrory lakes and streams reflected only images of woe.
The gladness of companionship was hushed ; the sympathies
of friendship were dried up ; and the light of love fled from
the orbit of existence. She would be pointed out in the
crowd ; simpering young ladies, her former companions and
whilome friends, would step into the stores to make room
for her ; Christian women legally above suspicion would
elevate their consecrated skirts and give her the whole of
the sidewalk ; and even the elect house of God was too good
for her to come to worship or ask for pardon in. But God
will protect thee, dear Emma. He will be with thee at the
last. He sees thy pure and gentle heart. The darkness
which envelopes thee comes not from him. Only light pro
ceeds from Heaven. As the fleecy cloud, pressed down to
earth by the thick darkness, rises, dissolved from earthy ele
ments, to mingle in celestial light, so shall thy pure spirit,
frei'd from material elements of misfortune and suffering,
rise mid enter into the paradise of the upper air.
In all her unsung and unstoried suffering, Emma thought
330 gA IKA.
not so much of her own as of her mother's woes. Poor old
mother ! thou too hast known somewhat of the tragedy of
life. How joyously beautiful was thy morning ! How
stormy thy noon ! How mournfully the dark curtains of
evening are closing around thee. Her hair had already been
richly silvered ; now it was white before the dews of late
evening came to bleach it. She grew weaker and weaker
each day. She too was waiting for death. And thus the
weeks and months passed on.
When it was known that Emma Harlan was a mother, of
course it was not any longer lawful to visit Mrs. Harlan.
This with the great crowd aristocrats, as well as honest
men and women. But always there are some exceptions.
Always there are some whose broad sympathies and lofty
spirit raise them above the crowd. There were even a few
here in this Gate City such men as Mr. Malcomb and the
noble General Clement ; not to mention Mirabeau Holmes
whose sympathies knew no limit but the Jimit of creation
and his young friends ; and such women alas ! how small,
how sadly small the number as Mrs. Sutherland. These
also, the world over, no matter what their faith or what their
creed, like Victor Hugo who would be a god in a world of
angels have a maxim: Pro jure contra legem. Said 3 Irs.
Sutherland one night to a question of a lady-friend as to
whether she would visit Mrs. Harlan's cottage any more :
" These people need sympathy. The world's, they will not
get ; my own, they shall have. I have heard this poor girl's
story; I heard it from herself; I will not judge her, but
leave it to God. If she is not so much guilty as unfortu
nate, all will admit that she deserves sympathy ; if she be
guilty, then so much the more her_need of sympathy. And
then there is the gray-haired, dying mother. Yes ; I will go
to them." She went ; and I think if spirits remember the
GLENCOE. 331
deeds of this life, this will not then be the least precious
gem in her crown of memory. But some time afterwards, .
when the Reverend Melancthoii Brooke thoiight it necessary
to make a public statement of the whole unfortunate affair,
one of the daily newspapers, claiming to be the leading paper
of the State, published a long editorial in connection with
the statement, in which this representative paper said,
among many other similar sayings : " This is the most unfor
tunate case that has ever come to our knowledge unfortu
nate for the victim [the minister !], unfortunate for his
family, unfortunate for the church and the cause of Chris
tianity. We have read Mr. Brooke's statement carefully,
and as it bears upon it the stamp of truth we cannot doubt
it. He confesses that he was tempted, and fell. Remember
ing the weaknesses of our poor fallen nature, and remember
ing that Satan is ever present with lures and snares, whereby
the best of us, taken unawares, may be tempted and fall,
shall we not, following the example of the Master, who knew
the weaknesses of his fallen creatures, and the many and
strong temptations to which they were subject shall we not,
in the genuine spirit of our merciful religion, judge this man
rather in commiseration than in wrath ? For our part,
though we hold him not excusable, we have for him far
more of pity than blame. But as for this wicked woman,
this Delilah, who by her lascivious charms has sediiced a
minister of the Gospel, and brought on all this shame and
ruin, a,s to her deserts, there can be but one opinion. It-
seems that there ought to be some punishment more severe
than death, by which she could be made to expiate, in part,
her crime, and to atone for the ruin she has wrought." I
have given this extract from the paper claiming to be the
exponent of public opinion, certainly the organ of conserva
tism and orthodoxy, in the State, in its own words. For
332 A IEA.
the credit of Humanity, and for the good name especially of
'my own people, I wished to omit it. For the sake of truth,
and the correctness of this history, I have given it. The
poor " seduced minister of the Gospel " deserves only
" pity." But as for this artful wretch, this Delilah, with her
lascivious charms (only poor, little Emma Harlan, dear
reader, sweet as a rose of May, gentle as the softest zephyr
of spirit-land, and pure as the heavenly snow fresh-fallen
upon the mountain of the upper air, ruined by the man in
whom she had all her life been taught to repose her trust, as
the embodiment of all that was good and true, the represen
tative of God upon earth), this seducer of a faithful minister
.of the Gospel, for her, surely there ou(jlit to be some punish
ment severer than death ! Just God ! Aliens! Times will
be better after a while.
But what to some will appear the hardest trial of all was
yet in store for Emma Harlan. She must tell the story of
her shame publicly to the world. Her own tender nature
would have shrunk from this in horror ; for herself she
would rather have endured the taunts, and scorns, and lies
of the world, patiently waiting the deliverance of death and
the judgment of a merciful judge hereafter. And though
she felt and appreciated with every grateful feeling the noble
humanity of the few friends who, faithful to the divine in
stincts of their nature, came to offer her their sympathy ;
and though urged by them to demonstrate before the country
that herself was the victim, and her reverend seducer the
criminal, she steadfastly refused to do so. But then there
was another argument. What of her child ? Poor Emma !
She herself could endure all the scorn, all the contempt, all
the slanders of the world, weir-knowing that outside of ln-r
three or four friends, who already knew the truth, it mat
tered little whether she was criminal or unfortunate, and
GLENCOE. 333
believing, too, that for hei', death would soon come to her
relief and shut the scene. As for her dear old mother, she
too was come to the river-brink, and must soon pass over.
The father was long since dead; and the four gallant
brothers were sleeping in the sacred bosom of Virginia.
But there was her pretty, innocent child, a child of misfor
tune next to the greatest crime in the social as well as in
the penal code. Was not such a vindication due to him ?
Whatever the world might say, he at least would have faith
in his mother ; he would believe what she said. And he
would know too that it was for him that his mother had
faced tliis last great trial. The time would come when he
would know the sad story of his mother's life ; and when he
reflected upon this last act of heroic devotion ; when he
knew how hard it was for her gentle spirit to endure this
crowning torture;, and when he remembered that it was for
him that it was endured ; then, he would forgive her every
thing ; he would weep over her misfortunes and sufferings ;
he would plant roses upon Jier grave ; and whatever she
might be to the world, to him she would be a pure and gen
tle spirit, ever lingering near to guard him with her prayers
and love. Yes ; it was worth the sacrifice. For what is
there to which a child, aye, or a boy, or a man, may cling,
when he has lost faith in his mother? Is it not to her that
he first looks as to a divinity ? And is it not from hence
that come those noble ideas, the striving for, and the hope
of which, make life earnest and divine? How shall a child
have faith in Humanity, or faith in God, if he have not
faith in his mother ? Such considerations, and many others,
came quickly into the mind of Emma Harlan. It might be
that, in the course of this child's life, he too would be forced
to drink deeply the bitterness of sorrow. He might be de
feated in his hopes and aims; he might ~be crushed to eanth
334 gA IRA.
by adverse fortune ; he might be deserted by friends and
abandoned by fortune. Where then should he look for sym
pathy ? To what final stay should cling his "faith? He
should turn to the memory of his mother's love, and in her
divinity should he rest his faith. Noble young mother !
Gentle, sad -heroic spirit ! Though the ignorance and super
stition of men have shut thy little life in a globe of dark
ness, above thee is a world of tight. For this act alone
thou wouldst merit immortality. For this alone the angels
would meet thee at the gates, and welcome thee with a new
song into the joys of Paradise. . . .
" Once I said," said Mirabeau Holmes to Marian Malcomb
one evening when they were seated on the same bench in the
flower-yard where we have seen them once, and where they
have been many times since. " I once said to myself, ' I am
sufficient to myself.' And I was proud in the belief. I felt
within myself the sufficient springs of my own ambition and
happiness. But I confess to you to-night how greatly I was
mistaken. No ! I am not sufficient to myself. But your life
has become so interwoven with my own that I can see no
future without your companionship."
" I did not think to hear you say this. I thought you had
a noble ambition in life, and that you would fulfil it. You
will not be hindered by so small an obstacle as I. "
l( So small an obstacle ! Ah ! Do you remember that
afternoon at the river ? From that hour I have had no hope,
no aim, in which you have not filled the greater part. True,
I have indulged in some hopes of doing somewhat in the
cause of truth and Humanity ; how else had I dared to hope
for your love? But without you I see no future. If you
ask me what right I had so early to hope for your love, I
Bay I don't know, only I felt that our lives were made
for each other. I loved you then, and resolved to prove my
GLENCOE. 335
worthiness of you ; I can only answer for my constant and
complete devotion to you. And tell me, now, has there not
been a time when you met my complete and full devotion with
some feeling of return ? "
" Must I answer that ? "
" Is it too much for me to ask ? "
" No ; forgive me for the question. You have been so
honorable to me, and I believe so true and earnest, that I
could not, if I wished, be less so to you. I will not say that
there was not a time when I met your love with a feeling of
more than esteem."
" There was a time there was a time tell me, Marian, tell
me, my life, my darling if that time is not now also ? or
what I have done to forfeit your love. I would rather have
forfeited my life. If there be anything, it shall be undone ;
I will unlive the day that gave it existence. But it cannot
be. "I have only changed in my love to you by its growing
with my life, by its becoming more single and better. Long
ago I said, ' now I love you best ; ' and many times since, I
have said so ; it is only now I can see how small it then was
by comparison with my love for you now. Say to me that
that time is now."
" And if I should ? "
" Then you would name the day when we should consecrate
ourselves to each other, and when our life should begin. But
" No ; I cannot."
" Is it, then, that after all this I am simply to be told, no ? "
" Some time ago, in this very place, you remember, I told
you that I could not give you any encouragement to hope for
what you now ask. If I have failed, you must know how
much pain it gives me ; and will you not spare me ? "
"Spare you pain! Good God! How willingly would
.336 gA IRA.
I take upon myself ten times every one that shall ever com
across your life, if you might only be perfectly happy. How
can you ask me that ? Too often already, I fear, have I told
you how willingly I would lay at your feet every energy and
every hope of my life."
" No ; after all that has been between us" and she spoke
these words as tremulously and sweetly as the notes of a
dying harp " after all that has been between us, I will not
simply say to you, no. I confess to you that I have listened,
not with an unwilling ear, when you have spoken of that ex
alted love upo.n which married life ought to rest, and I believe,
too, I have felt some of your own enthusiasm when you have
spoken to me of your ideal of marriage. And must I say
it I have even felt proud of being the object of your love.
But it was you, too, that first led me to reflect that there is
something else essential between persons who are to spend
their lives together that their opinions and aims in life
ought to be similar."
"And are not our opinions and aims in life similar?
Surely you have long known that I intended my own life to
be an active one. I did not think you objected to that.
Look at the life of your own father and mother surely theirs
has been a happy one. And besides, when I have spoken to
you of the vast amount of suffering in the world ; of the
great need that Humanity has of men, of men able to see
the cause of justice, and to work, and die for it, if neces
sary ; of my earnest ambition to be even an humble soldier
in such heroic ranks ; I think you have listened to me, not
only with interest, but with approval. Once, I know, when
we were speaking upon the subject, and some one present said
it looked very much like a dream", you said ' if it be a dream,
it cannot be denied that it is a very grand one ; ' and I loved
you for those words, and cherished them afterwards. As to
GLENCOE. 337
the means of accomplishing this great work of humanity, I
have no opinions that may not change ; I accept the best
that is before me ; I hope I may be willing to do whatever
work is appointed. But for whatever is best in all that I
have hoped to do, I have looked to you as the inspirer.
Whatever honors I have hoped for, I wished to lay them
at your feet ; and my greatest happiness I wished to find in
your approval. How then are we not identical in opin
ions and purposes ? "
" You have not mentioned that which is of more import
ance than everything else religion."
" Religion ! " Mirabeau started as if he had been struck.
Then he looked bewildered, as if a wall had suddenly risen
up between them. All this time had he been completely,
fatally in the dark ; and all this time, at least since she had
heard him talk that afternoon at Mr. Brooke's, had Marian
been fearing that it might be just as it was. Mirabeau had
not spoken to her upon this subject, first because he re
garded the subject as the most unfruitful of all themes; and
secondly, because he attached no importance whatever to the
particular dogmas one might happen to believe in, but looked
clear through all such fanciful webs, straight to the heart,
and asked only if the heart was pure, and the life illustrated
by good and generous deeds. But now he saw how different
was the standpoint from which Marian had viewed the sub
ject, and he was alarmed. On any other occasion than this,
and to any person less religious than he knew Marian to be,
he would probably have answered dryly, " I had not thought
of that." But such an answer, of course, did not now enter
his thoughts. He was alarmed ; but still, for a few mo
ments, he did not fully appreciate the hopelessness of the
situation. Nor indeed had Marian herself ever fully appre
ciated it. She had continued to hope that there might be
15
338 (?A IKA.
some possible explanation, which she herself was not able to
imagine. But of this she believed herself firmly deter
mined that she could not, under any consideration, marry
an atheist or infidel. Having been taught that belief in
certain dogmas among them that so tersely expressed by
Martin Luther : " God is above mathematics " was neces
sary to the soul's salvation, it cannot be wondered at that
she came to such determination. The only wonder will be
if she holds to it. As soon as Mirabeau could speak, he said :
" I do not think that in religion we differ in any essential
particular. As for religion in its true sense, the feelings
of love and reverence with which the human mind regards
the Deity, I know we do not differ. We serve, I know, the
same God ; we believe alike that true religion does not con
sist in any outward forms and ceremonies, but is a matter of
the heart itself ; if you trust in God, have a pure heart, and
live a virtuous life, illustrated by good deeds, is not that
sufficient ? "
" But you know my meaning I mean the orthodox reli
gion of the church."
" I might say, alas ! there are so many churches, and so
many religions, each claiming to be true and each denounc
ing all the others, that one of so little learning as myself can
hardly have any way of knowing which to believe. But I
know your meaning ; and I must answer you, before my God
and my own conscience, that I cannot believe that religion
to be the true one. But what of that ? God knows how
earnestly I desire to know the truth ; and he knows that I
do believe the truth, according as he has given me to under
stand it. Surely he will not hold us responsible for what we
honestly and earnestly believe. We do not make our beliefs ;
we cannot will to believe that two and two make five, and
believe it. But how shall this throw a single shadow across
GLENCOE. 339
our life ? Our life shall be spent in doing good ; and we
shall find our happiness in each other. You have said that
you loved me delicious word ! Trust me, then, with your
life, as I will trust you wholly with mine. Ah, then ! Our
life shall be joyful ; and some of God's creatures shall be
made happier and better for our having lived in the world."
His voice was low and earnest ; and when he ceased speak
ing, Marian endeavored to rise, saying : " Let us return to the
house." Mirabeau observed that she trembled, and quickly
offered her his arm, saying :
" I fear we have stayed too long. Is the air too cool for
you ? "
" No ; the night is pleasant." They had now reached the
door ; and Mirabeau, she still holding to his arm, stopped to
go. And then he said to her :
" But you have not answered me yet ; tell me, yes, before
I go."
" Do not ask me," she said, half entreatingly ; " but "
" I may hope ? "
" Not that ; but come again to-morrow."
What was Mirabeau Holmes to do ? If he had had less
refinement, less tenderness of feeling, he would have disre
garded her half- pleading tone, and stood there until she gave
him an answer. One can see what it would certainly have
been. And Mirabeau knew that a promise from Marian Mai-
comb, given under the pressure of her present feelings, would
be of infinite importance to him. But when she said earn
estly, no less by her actions than by her words, " Please do
not urge me," he was dumb. He only said " Good-night,"
and went away. And there was another reason, too, which
he had often thought of in moments of calm reflection, and
which was not wholly absent from his mind even in the most
fervid moments of love : he did not want an answer that
34:0 gA IRA.
was not dictated by the calmest judgment as well as the
deepest feeling. No mental reservations, or after-regrets.
The woman he married must be wholly his, as he would
be wholly hers. He believed that Marian Malcomb was the
woman.
GLENCOE. 341
CHAPTER XXIV.
"Aly grief lies onward, and my joy behind."
SHAKSPEAKE. Sonnets.
CLARENCE HALL had been at his new home some weeks,
and his wife was still at her father's. Several times had he
called for her to go home ; and each time some excuse had
been made. Clarence Hall was alarmed, as it began dimly
to occur to him that perhaps they were debating at her father's
whether she should come at all or not. A month passed.
Gloomy forebodings of final alienation began to force them
selves upon his mind. Darker than ever the clouds of fate
were gathering and settling around Clarence Hall. And this
was the man, who, only a short while before, on his wedding
day, in the flush and fancy of generous ambition and youth
ful promise, had gazed before him only upon pleasant paths
through Elysian fields, leading to some mystic Arc de Tri-
omphe in the gauzy light beyond. One night he sat alone
before the fire in his room at home. He had been thinking
deeply of his past life, of the present, and of the future. But
the rebounding mind had already left these depths, and was
now far up in the thin air of revery. There was a rap at the
door. He started instantly ; so quickly that, one would
think, there imist have been some connection between his
dream at that moment and the rapping at the door. He had
risen from the chair, and rested one knee upon it for a second
to recall his consciousness, when his eye became fixed upon
the fire in the grate. The fire at that moment exhibited
that phenomenon which one frequently sees in a grate when
34:2 9 A IEA -
the fire is low, almost burnt out : a kind of hard crust of
charred coal, looking firm enough on top, but when you look
below you see that it has no support whatever, the middle
having all burnt out, leaving only a ruin here and there, and
a few live coals gleaming from a bed of ashes at the bottom ;
the crust, being slightly in the form of an arch, supports it
self, while from the under side hang small wisps of ash, giv
ing it a comb-like appearance ; you touch the top of the crust ;
it falls to the bottom, and you have only a small mass of dead
ruins, of ashes and charred coal.
Clarence Hall almost shuddered as he thought he saw in
the grate something like his own life. The rapping at the
door was repeated, and he went to open it. It was one of
Mr. Dealing's servants. " Miss Annie's baby sick, sir, and
they say for you to come over there." Clarence Hall did
not stop to remember that he had long ago resolved never to
go to Mr. Bearing's again, and that he had, up till now, kept
his resolution. He hastened hither ; and as he walked
swiftly, silently along, he thought of the phantom his fancy
had conjured up in the grate. When he got to Mr. Dearing'l
his worst fears were realized. The baby had had a cold for
several days past ; on the previous night had become suddenly
worse ; and by this time was in the last stage of pneumonia.
All this day had the child been dangerously sick, and the
father, not more than half a mile away, had only now been
notified of it, and was come just in time to see it die. This
was Clarence Hall's only child ; it was almost his only stay
in life, and as he had felt others slipping away, he had clung
only the more desperately to this. It was not intentional
negligence, nor was it from any ill-feeling, that Clarence Hall
had been sent for only at the last moment ; but it was mainly
because no one understood that the child was dangerously ill.
The doctor had been called that morning, and said he would
GLENCOE. 343
return in the evening ; and it was only when he came in the
evening that they learned how bad the little Clara (the other
they named Annie) was. The nurse had been accustomed to
take the little girl every morning to her father's office ; she
Lad been ordered so to do by the father himself. But on
this morning the father had been called away from his office
on business, and supposed the baby had been to his office
during his absence.
Little Clara was dead and buried ; and all had returned
from the grave to Mr. Dealing's.
It seems that, whatever of differences there had been,
whatever grievances they had felt against each other, now, in
their common affliction, father and mother would draw to
gether to weep over their dead child, and to sustain and com
fort each other. But no ; they only became more bitter
against each other. Words ran high between them. They
accused each other. ' If the father had not made the nurse
bring the poor baby to his office every morning it would
not have died ; for it was on one of these, a damp morning,
that it had first taken cold.' ' If the mother had only been at
home doing her duty there would not have been any need of
carrying the baby to his office.' ' As if he had provided her
any decent home to go to and do her duty ; as if he had not
brought her down to poverty ' angrily put in Mrs. Dearing.
After all he had endured, Clarence Hall thought this was
too much. He was filled with indignation and bitterness.
He retorted angrily and sharply. They talked loud. Fancy,
dear reader, these two, their child just buried, standing face
to face and bitterly accusing each other. Was ever there
sadder tragedy ? Have human eyes witnessed a more mourn
ful spectacle ? And yet, dear reader, this thing hath actually
been. Eyes have seen it. Flesh and blood have endured it.
At a dead hour of the night a man in a closely-buttoned
344 (?A IRA.
overcoat entered the cemetery, and stopped at a fresh little
grave. He knelt down beside it. Maybe he uttered a
short prayer. Maybe he dropped a few tears. He placed a
few roses upon the little mound ; and some upon a tiny
tombstone by the side of it. Then he arose and walked
straight and swiftly away. An hour later, and the same
figure, already several miles from the city, was hurrying
along, across the fields, through the woods, across valleys,
and over the hills. It was Clarence Hall. Escaping from
his past life. Hurrying from fate. But fate was not yet
done with Clarence Hall. He had not yet fully played his
part. The very night that we have seen him hasting away
across the fields, his house, probably from the exploding of a
lamp which he had left burning, caught on fire, and was totally
consumed. All was horror and dismay the next morn
ing at Mr. Dearing's, when it was known what had hap
pened. Being somewhat accustomed to family quarrels, as
aristocratic families always are more or less, they had
not attached the greatest importance to those between
themselves and their son-in-law. As for such a denoue
ment as this, their imagination had been utterly unable to
conceive of it. Annie was wild with grief. She had been
led on to where she now was mainly by the influence of her
father's family. She was not unkind at heart. Once, as we
know, she had loved and trusted her husband with all the
little power she possessed. And if let alone, while certainly
there never could have been between them any of that high
and real companionship which Mirabeau Holmes's faith
taught him to hope for in marriage; nay, while, for the hus
band at least, it would certainly have been joyless enough ;
if let alone, it would have been, though miserable, at least
passable. As for final alienation, separation,, to say nothing
of the present horror, she had never thought of such a tiling.
GLENCOE. 345
And as it is a law of the human mind, of the lowest as well
as the highest, to magnify whatever good it has been deprived
of, so to this poor stricken woman, so suddenly and dreadfully
awakened to a consciousness of her position, her lost husband
was ten times dearer to her now than she had ever known before.
And in the wildness of her despair she exhibited a depth of
grief, an energy of passion, which one would scarcely have
thought it possible for her to possess. She accused her father
and mother of everything ; of the death of her child ; of the
alienation between her husband and herself ; of the murder of
her husband. For all believed that Clarence Hall, frenzied to
insanity, had set his own house on fire and made away with
himself. Thus it was that fate seemed to mock and glare
upon Clarence Hall even as he was hurrying away over the
mountains.
Meanwhile the world moved on. As also, at some pace,
did that small portion of it known far and near, but mostly
near, as the Empire State. But as to how far, since it is well
enough to be exact in important matters, that portion of the
footstool is known as the Empire State, why, seeing
that the Government has not thought proper to spend
a shilling even upon the Coast Survey within its limits,
one must guess at it. Take a huge compass, then, and
plant one foot of it somewhere about the centre, say
Milledgeville, which city, I think, is probably the most
eligible point for a hole in the ground, and describe a circle
with a radius of one hundred miles; and far and near
within this circle except among the forty-two thousand
white adults who cannot read or write, twenty-eight thou
sand of them being women, who, according to the statute,
are the mothers of somebody's children this domain is known
as the Empire State. Of course, in this measurement
110 mention is made of jutts and corners; the State,
15*
34:6 gA IRA.
being Democratic, cannot be reduced to rules and regu
lations. But the world , moved along ; and so did the
Empire State. Truly, Jefferson Davis was not in the
dark when he spoke of the " divine energy of our people."
Even here in this State, while we have been following the
histories of several of the people, one might see some
evidences of the truth of the Confederate President's re
mark. What principally has been done during this period
may be briefly expressed by saying that the wealth of the
State has almost doubled.
But still there was no State system of public schools, the
people still jogging along in the old belief: " Teach your
bootblack Greek, and he at once becomes a rascal, or is
called to preach ; " the only modification in said belief being
this, that many people had learned that said bootblack was
likely enough to fulfil both conditions. Nor had the " State
University," notwithstanding all the efforts of our friends,
yet been open to the female sex ; the people still going 011 in
the belief that the highest style of education for women
ought to consist in knowing how to thrum a few tunes on
the piano, to tie their garters above their knees in order
that their legs might remain soft and smooth, for hard and
knotty female legs are held to be out of all taste in the
Empire State and to hold themselves in readiness to be
protected at a moment's notice. In the " best society " the
above three were, and to the best of my skill and knowledge
still are, considered the three golden rules of a young lady's
education. People of enlarged views, and a kind of practical
turn of mind, added two others, namely : how to make
knicknacks and baby-clothes, and how to preside with dig
nity at the husband's dinner-taWe ; while among a very
large portion, that is, among the decidedly vulgar, including
the fourteen thousand white men who were, and still are,
GLENCOE. 347
unable to read or write, and the twenty-eiglit thousand white
women who were, and still are, unable to read or write,
there prevailed a strong notion that a regular, thorough
going, business woman ought to be able to stand in the
kitchen-door and with the utmost facility kick a dog a hun
dred yards. Still, our friends were not the only ones who
believed that the education of women was of quite as much,
importance as that of men, and who thought that the " State
University " ought to be opened to all alike. The time had
not yet come ; and if any of them had daughters whom they
wished to educate thoroughly, why, the only chance was to
put them into breeches and bring them up in the way they
should go. Mr. Malcomb succeeded in his public school
plan in the city.
As for the politics of the country, Mr. Malcomb had seen
with peculiar satisfaction the Conservative party " accept
the situation," just as he had advised several years before
and for which advice, as we have seen, even an effort was
made to outlaw him. And though his opponents had now
been in power some time, the Constitution, which owed its
existence mainly to him, still remained unaltered. Not even
jealousy, envy, could find anything in it that the people
would suffer to be changed.
Acute, far-seeing, and ever solicitous for the development
and prosperity of his State and section, Mr. Malcomb was
now engaged in a work which promised to be of the largest
consequence : he was trying to get his State to offer siich
terms to the discontented " workingmen " of the Northern
cities as would enable and induce them to leave their crowded
and starving homes and come South. Said he to Mirabean
one day, speaking upon this subject : " You say you have iu
New York alone a hundred thousand men, idle and homeless,
but both able and willing to work. Now, to say nothing of
3-18 gA IRA.
the coal-fields, the quarries, and the ore-beds, which might
be utilized to the immense wealth of the State, we have
millions of acres of land rich and productive, but, like the
workingmen, in unwilling idleness. Let the State invite
these workingmen to come, with their families, and settle
among us. Let the State furnish transportation, and to each
head of a family, say, fifty acres of land with stock to culti
vate it, seeds, tools, lumber, and supplies for one year the
money advanced by the State to be a first mortgage upon the
improved lands and all other property the settler may acquire,
payable at a low rate of interest, say, in ten years."
" It is easy to perceive," said Mirabeau, " that several
things would follow if your plan was adopted and carried
out. In the first place, I am able to vouch for many thou
sands of the workingmen's accepting so wise and liberal an
offer. As to the good that would accrue to the State, the
impetus that it would give to her progress in wealth, popula
tion, and power, I agree with you that it is almost incalcula
ble. As to the workingmen themselves, there is no disguis
ing the fact that it would be simply a clear loss of so much
power to the Proletariate ; for when they came here, upon
such terms, they would themselves all become property-
holders and many of them capitalists."
" And you make that an objection to the scheme ? "
" No, I cannot say that. But while this measure would
put it off for a while, the battle between Labor and Capital
will come at last and the JProletaires will have need of all
their strength"
It was on a Tuesday afternoon, the day on which the
Supreme Court delivers its decisions, that Mirabeau and
Fred, having just left the coiirt-feom, were walking down
the street, and Fred asked : " What do you think of that
decision?" It was the case of Mr. Brooke; the jury had
GLENCOE. 3-19
found him guilty ; he had been sentenced to twenty years'
imprisonment in the Penitentiary; and the case had been
carried to this court.
" I know it is an outrage upon decency and common
sense, and I hope it is upon law ; but I don't know about
that. You were right, Fred, I would rather roll a wheel
barrow than be a lawyer."
" What were the points ? "
" That a woman who has been seen in the arms of a man
is not a virtuous female, in the eye of the law [the reader
remembers how Emma was forcibly taken into his arms by
Alf Walton] ; and that a woman cannot be seduced by a
married man. Of course, the meaning of the whole decision
is, that a minister of the gospel can't be guilty of the
crime of seduction."
"That may be so in law; but I don't know of but one
way of making it so in fact."
" See how the court was divided the only one of the
three who is not subject to the power of the church, dis
sented from this decision."
" I reckon they don't doubt that the preacher can commit
the act. But then it is no crime ; I suppose they think that
the preacher pronounces some kind of a benediction, or may
even work a Scotch miracle on a small scale, which changes
the iiatui-e of the thing."
" Have you no reverence at all ? "
" No. Buckle says that the origin of reverence or
veneration is wonder and fear. We wonder because we are
ignorant, and fear because we are weak. Veneration carried
into religion causes superstition ; into politics, despotism."
" Without going into that question, it rather seems to me
that conscientious religious belief ought to impart something
of sacredness to anything."
350 A IRA.
" Precisely ! That seems to have been the notion of the
Supreme Court in this case."
We have seen that Mrs. Walton, on her death-bed, under
the vague impression that, possibly, somewhere in the world,
her daughter, or her daughter's child, might be still living,
exacted from her husband a promise that he would arrange his
property so that if they, or either^ of them, should ever be
found, it might come into their possession. Mr. Walton was
faitiiful to his promise. He executed it before he started on
his sad journey to the Old World. And it was well that he
did ; for the old man was not destined ever to reach the
shores of Europe. He died on the passage, leaving a letter
to his correspondent in London, and another to his friends
in America, containing his last directions. Thus died Mr.
Walton, and found his last resting-place in the silent depths
of the ocean. He had started to the Old World in the sad
hope of bringing home the remains of his two sons, to be de
posited in their native soil, beside the dust of their mother.
He hoped too to bring hither the remains of his other son,
buried on the banks of the great Mississippi. And soon he
thought to mingle his own dust with theirs. As for his other
child, he knew not where she was ; but he prayed that God
would forgive them both, and bring them together hereafter
where the sufferings of earth are not remembered. Thus the
old man hoped. But he slept in the bosom of the ocean ;
his wife in the soil of Georgia ; one son in the far West ;
another in France ; the last in Britain. And Viola, too, was
resting quietly in the arms of her Italian lover. God will not
condemn her utteiiv. For behold ! She too was a woman !
GLENCOE. 351
CHAPTER XXV.
" Treading ttie path to nobler ends,
A long farewell to love I gave."
WALLEB.
" COME," said Fred to Olive Sutherland one night, " come,
sing me a song ; I am miserable to-night."
" Why are you miserable ? "
" Because there are forty-two days in six weeks."
" Do you wish there were fewer ? "
" Yes ; I wish there were forty- two weeks in six days."
" You think we shall get tired of each other, and you want
the time to go at a rapid rate."
" Oh, I only meant for this to last till then. You know a
good rule must work both ways. After six weeks I want
this one to work the other way."
" A poor rule then you wish for, by your own showing ;
for it will surely not work both ways, or even one way."
" There's for your wit " kissing her hand.
" Will that do both ways ? "
" No ; only one way this way " another kiss.
" What a sweet tune that little hand ought to play after
two kisses ! "
" And what a sweet song this pretty mouth ought to sing ! "
and before she could turn her head, he kissed her twice on
the lips. Fred said afterwards, " they were good enough to
have sent a whole Puritan congregation to the State-prison
for the full term of its natural life."
" What shall I sing you ? "
" Here is something your mother has just given me
* Wicked Sixteen ' sing that."
352 gA IRA.
" What, do you want to hear me say ' But alack I must
own, my heart it is stone, For to love him is out of the ques
tion ? ' "
" Yes; and I will compare it with the truth ; and amuse
myself by reflecting what a fib you are telling."
" You had better watch ! You don't know but that at
this very minute ' even the thought makes me smile. For
I frankly declare, I can never forbear, with a chance, a de
lightful flirtation.' "
But Fred knew well enough that here was no " delightful
flirtation." For this girl's heart was as deep as her own
brown eyes, and true as a star. Their love was all sunshine
and roses. But that does not indicate that it was not both
full and strong ; rather the contrary. Is not sunlight the
greatest power in nature ? And what is more smooth and
silent ? The roused lightning is terrible in its might ; but
with the calm, serene power of the sunlight, it reminds one
of a fallen archangel compared with the Omnipotent. The
love of Fred Van Comer and Olive Sutherland was not dis
turbed by storms ; it was smooth and genial, but deep and
true. And the reason of it was this, that they had not made
a mistake, there was between their deepest natures perfect
accord. As for Fred, beneath an apparent lightness of dis
position he carried a heart as true as truth. It would have
been far from an easy task to find a clearer, better balanced,
or better stored head than Fred Van Comer carried upon his
shoulders. And when Olive Sutherland looked into his soul,
she saw, instinctively, both deeper and clearer than many
who have "studied human nature" would have seen.
She took her seat at the piano. She touched the keys.
" La la la, La la la," she saucily said as she lifted her head
and here dear, reader, wishing them all manner of happiness,
we must bid them an affectionate adieu.
GLENCOE. 353
Bramlette, with much genius, not inconsiderable learning, a
generous ambition, a good heart, a large jaw, and pants a foot
too short, never learned the knack of getting on in the world.
Somehow, things would go wrong with him. It was always
a hard matter for him to make enough money even to pay
his board. Still he was never heard to murmur. And if oc
casionally, say on a birth-day, or anniversary of some event
in his life, he could not but reflect with some sadness how
rapidly he was leaving youth behind him, and how little he
had yet accomplished in life, he accepted it all very quietly ;
wrote what he had to write, and went to the Library to
read. He lived on this way some time after the New Month
ly suspended publication, having no regular work. Finally
he left the city ; went to teach a school in a village in a dif
ferent section of the State ; married the daughter of a clergy
man, and soon went to preaching himself. And it came to
pass when the nine months had expired of course the reader
knows, from personal experience for aught I can tell, what
came to pass when that notable period of time had duly ex
pired. But Bramlette never was eminently successful at any
thing ; and so when his first baby, according to the statute,
was born, it only weighed three pounds and a half, clothes-
basket and all. But if he does not grow to weigh twenty
stone in so many years there in no virtue in Methodist
chicken. But what was chiefly remarkable, for this latitude
and time of year, was this : that Bramlette was married on the
night of the second of November, about eleven o'clock the
hour for retiring on such occasions, in these parts being twelve
o'clock and this diminutive individual entered upon his
duties as a baby and citizen of this Republic on the nigl t of
the second of August following, at a comfortable number of
minutes past twelve. Some people remarked upon Oriental
customs. Some were reminded of Arabian Nights entertain-
354 QA IRA.
merits " it came to pass, etc." Bramlette was a very virtu
ous man. It has been observed, I think, that people who
live in wine countiies do not make drunkards.
Happening to travel through that portion of the country
some time since, and hearing of a camp-meeting not far off,
and feeling much in need of spiritual comfort, I went to it.
I met Bramlette there. He preached a good sermon ; and
said he meant to put breeches on that boy before he was two
yesps old. Bramlette always was a firm believer in the dig
nity of the human species. I reminded him of what I had
heard him say many years before, when we were in school
together, about the birth of his first baby. It was a queer
notion of Bramlette's. He said he wanted his first baby,
which must be a boy, of course, to be born in a splendid barge
upon the Bay of Naples ; on a calm night in October, under
a full moon in a dark sky, music in the distance, and Mount
Vesuvius in action ! Born in the midst of such a scene of
beauty and sublimity, poetry and action, how should the boy
fail to be great ? Manifestly, the theory of Goethe and the
practice of Napoleon would here come together. Disap
pointed this time, Bramlette must still look to the future.
His next child would, in all probability, be only a girl a
clear loss here. He rmist look to the next. Peace be with
Bramlette, his wife, and his babies, omnis et singulis, exe
cuted and executory, of which his wife is, or may be, the
mother, according to the statute.
Emma Harlan died, and her mother died also. It was on a
morning in November that this notice appeared in the daily
papers : " The friends of Mrs. Harlan and her daughter
Emma are invited to attend their funeral at Trinity Church,
at eleven o'clock to-day." And to this notice was the signa
ture of General Clement. At the appointed time a few
noble friends, of the type I have mentioned ; friends of all
GLENCOE. 355
of God's creatures, friends who had learned to feel another's
woe, and to shed the tear of sympathy over every misfortune
and every sorrow gathered at the little cottage on Ivy
street, now desolate in death, and the sad procession moved
slowly down Marietta and up Whitehall street, in direc
tion of Trinity Church. The church was full. The dark,
rich curtains were closely drawn. And all was silent and
solemn. As the pall-bearers entered, the choir sang one of
the songs of Schubert. And when the faint, weeping notes
had died away, General Clement, who had been kneeling the
while, rose and read that grand old hymn of Dr. Muhlenberg,
" I would not live alway." No !
The few lurid mornings that dawn on us here
Are enough, for life's woes, full enough for its cheer.
Only those who knew of the relations which existed between
this good man and Mrs. Harlan's family could feel the ful
ness of this scene. Years ago, the four brave brothers had
followed him to battle upon tha hills and plains of Virginia.
One by one he had seen them all go down in the fight ; and he
had borne the dying message of the youngest and last to his
stricken mother. Faithful to his promise to the dying young
soldier, he had never faltered in his care and sympathy for the
mother and sister. In their last sad days he was frequently
with them, consoling, comforting, and cheering them, and
helping them to bear their great weight of misfortune and
sorrow. And now he was to perform for them the last
service of the dead, and follow them to the grave.
Mr. Walton named Mr. Malcomb as executor of his will,
and confided to him, as trustee, his large estate. It was in
the afternoon of the very day that we have seen Mirabeau
Holmes and Marian Malcomb last together, that Mirabeau
received from Mr. Malcomb the note written by Alberto and
356 gA IRA.
Viola Simona just before their death, and which they had
entrusted to the tall American, to be delivered to himself or
to Mr. Walton. The note had been given to Alf Walton in
New York for his father, and he had carried it with him to
Europe. According to Mr. Walton's directions, all the
papers found upon his son's person were forwarded by his
London correspondent to Mr. Malcomb. This note was
found among them, and was immediately handed to Mirabeau
Holmes.
When Mirabeau last parted with Marian, as we have seen,
she told him, at the last moment, " to come back to-morrow."
To-morrow came. Neither of them had slept much that night.
They had both been busy thinking of what had just trans
pired between them, and of their future lives. Mirabeau
was not without hope ; but still he looked forward to the
coming interview as a man looks to a trial for his life when
he knows the chances are against him. He believed now
that all the glow and coloring of the grand mission of his
future life had been imparted by the hope he had believed in
and cherished of sharing that future with Marian Malcomb.
And now, for the first time, he tried to contemplate that
future without the glow and without the color. But alas !
he found that not only the glow, not only the color, but also
the very substance of the fabric, was largely made up of these
very hopes. And at this moment, he thought that without
her he could see no future whatever. But there was one
thing that Mirabeau Holmes did not say even to himself; he
did not say that, for her, he would renounce his faith in
himself and his loyalty to God and Humanity. Then he tried
to philosophize. He reproached himself : Is your happiness
then of so much value ? What does Humanity care for your
happiness? What does Humanity expect? Every man,
happy or unhappy, to do the work appointed him to do.
GLENCOE. 357
As for what Marian had thought, and what conclusion she
had reached, we may judge from the following note, which
she wrote and sent to Mirabeau next morning :
" ME. HOLMES : You will think me weak and uncertain, I
know. That this will make you think me unworthy of you,
I am almost glad, but still I am sorry, and reproach myself, to
forfeit your good opinion. You know how much I prize it.
You know the circumstances under which I told you last
night to come back to see me to-day. It is different this
morning, and now I ask you, for the sake of all that has been
between us, not to come. I cannot say more, save to ask
that I may still be your friend. MARIAN MALCOMB."
To which Mirabeau returned the following answer :
" Miss MARIAN : As to what I may think of anything you
have done, let me only say, what you know well to be true,
that since that October day at the river, long ago, I have
loved you with full devotion; and, whatever may be the
future, I shall love you so while I live. I shall come at
twelve ; and by the right of the love with which I have long
loved, and still love you, I ask you to see me. Remember !
remember ! Our better destinies sometimes come within our
reach in this life, and, in our ignorance, we strike them
down ; we know the truth when they lie dead before us. I
declare to you that this is what you are now about to do.
" MIRABEAU HOLMES."
At the appointed hour Mirabeau went to Mr. Malcomb's.
Marian met him in the parlor. She was calm now, and fully
determined. They had been talking for some minutes ; and
now both had risen and stood facing each other, he looking
358 A IKA.
intently into her face, she looking down, and toying with a
shell on the table.
" Will you not change that decision ? "
" I cannot."
" And this is forever ? "
Yes."
He bowed his head, pressed her hand silently, and went
away. Thus he gave to love a long farewell. Another crisis
in the life of this man had passed. And this too was neces
sary to give him higher and broader views of life and its
duties. He was still young. He was rising to meet his
destiny. We shall see him again. The next day he started
to look for the child, the Italian patriot and his American
bride.
CALIFORNIA LIBf
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