/ 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.
 
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