The Cosmopolitan 1901-05: Vol 31 Iss 1

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THE COSMOPOLITAN. From every man according to his ability: to every one according to his needs. VoL. XXXI MAY, Igol. No. 1. A GROUP OF DIPLOMATS LEAVING SECRETARY HAY'S HOUSE TO ADDRESS A FRIEND. MINISTER, TURNING COUNT G. DE LICHTERVELDE, BELGIAN ENVOYS AT WASHINGTON. By WALDON FAWCETT. HE nearest approach to the pomp and pageantry of a royal court, with its attendant emblems of heraldry and _ in- signia of rank, its gorgeous, stately cere- monials and the dazzling splendor of the raiment of its devotees, which the Ameri- can continent has known since the days of Montezuma, is to be found in the assemblages of the Diplomatic Corps at Washington. These levees — invariably half social, half official, for the representa- tives of royalty never wholly unbend— sasily constitute the most attractive of all the spectacular features of life in the na- tion’s most beautiful city. In glitter and sparkle and color, the pictures presented are well-nigh the peer of any afforded by the capitals of Europe or the Orient, and even in the settings—the ball-rooms and banquet-halls—the seat of government need not blush for its possessions. Uncle Sam now has diplomatic relations with fully three dozen countries, which are represented at the American capital by six Embassies and thirty Legations. Com- posing these various transplanted house- holds are more than two hundred persons, BARON HENGELMULLER, AUSTRO-HUNGARIAN MINISTER. Copyright, 1901, by COSMOPOLITAN MAGAZINE COMPANY.

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4 ENVOYS AT ALI FERROUH BEY, TURKISH MINISTER. natives of every land and clime, and con- stituting the most interesting ‘‘foreign col- ony’’ to be found on this hemisphere. To look after the business of the Embassies alone, and provide the proper social envi- ronment for these official habitations, more individuals are now required than were to be found in the entire Diplomatic Corps at the City of Magnificent Distances a few years ago. In addition to the Ambassa- dor, who is, of course, intrusted with the entire direction of the affairs of the Em- bassy, there are Secretaries, Naval Attachés, Military Attachés, and mayhap interpreters, forming a staff which in the case of some Embassies, such as the British and the Chinese Legations, includes about a dozen persons. The diplomatic contingent at Washing- ton has been growing larger year by year, and the increase has been particularly marked since the consequences of the Spanish-American war forcibly installed the United States in the position of a world-power. More than that, a broader importance and deeper significance have WASHINGTON. been imparted to this congress of nations at Miss Columbia’s Court by an action taken by Congress some years ago. It may be explained that in the management of international problems of statecraft Ambas- sadors and Ministers Plenipotentiary bear much the same relation to each other as do Senators and Representatives in the deliberations of the American legislative body. The Ambassadors are the bright particular stars of the diplomatic firma- ment. Not only do they enjoy higher rank than their confréres, and the pre- sumption of representing more directly the authority of their sovereign or government, but, through the possession of greater dis- cretionary privileges, they are enabled to handle the ‘matters which come within their jurisdiction with less delay for in- structions from officials at home. In conformity with one of the strict rules of diplomatic usage, however, no nation sends an Ambassador to a country which has not delegated in exchange an official of equally high diplomatic rank, and so the intensely democratic convictions of the American lawmakers restricted Uncle Sam's BARON DE FAVA, ITALIAN AMBASSADOR,

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I 2 7 ofticial guests, for more than a century, to envoys of lesser rank. Since the passage of the law making it possible to raise rep- resentatives of the United States from the rank of Minister to that of Am- bassador, the most power- ful nations on the globe— Great Britain, France, Russia, Germany, Italy and Mexico—have dem- onstrated their respect for the Republic by send- ing to Washington am- bassadorial appointees. Adding dignity to the per- sonnel of this cosmopol- itan gathering on Amer- ican soil, has also con- tributed to its splendor and impressiveness. In the corps, as at present constituted, are many men of world-wide reputation —statesmen whose names stand for some of the most brilliant diplomatic tri- umphs known to modern times. In spite of the fact that the light of publicity beats VISCOUNT DE SANTO THYRSO, PORTUGUESE MINISTER, AND THE VISCOUNTESS. ENVOYS AT WASHINGTON. COUNT CASSINI, RUSSIAN AMBASSADOR. so fiercely around these bearers of the greetiags of kingdoms and empires to the land of freedom, they in reality live to a considerable extent in a realm of mystery, and to penetrate this realm seems to be one of the dearest ambitions of a considerable portion of American citizens. If one would gain tangible evidence of how potent is the attraction exerted by these distinguished foreigners, with their suggestion of strange peoples and unheard-of cus- toms, he has only to note the eager interest manifested by the vast crowds of spectators, representing every state in the Union, who throng every formal function at Washington where a glimpse may be caught of this contingent of gaily attired dignitaries. There are only a few occasions each year, however, when the general public may feast its eyes upon this brave show of fur and tinsel. The New Year's reception at the White House, and the special re- ception which the President tenders annually to the Diplomatic Corps, bring out the showiest court cos- tumes in the wardrobes of the distinguished for- cigners; as does also some special event, now and

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6 ENVOYS AT WASHINGTON. a LORD PAUNCEFOTE ABOUT TO CALL ON THE SECRETARY OF STATE. then, such as the inauguration of the Chief Execu- tive, a memorial service in honor of some departed monarch, or a wedding in which the chief par- ticipants are members of the diplomatic circle. The costumes in which the representatives of the governments of the world come to pay their respects to the highest official in the United States, are in most marked contrast to the habiliments of America’s envoys in the throne-rooms of Europe. In the early years of the century, Uncle Sam’s diplomatic Ministers were authorized to wear on state occasions one of two kinds of uniform, each including a coat of blue, lined with silk, both coat and cape being heavily loaded with embroid- ery. For half a century, however, our emissaries at the courts of the world have been restricted to ‘*the simple dress of an American citizen,”’ now and then modified in detail, as by the introduction of knee-breeches or a dress-sword. In the official plumage of the diplomats gathered at the American capital, on the other hand, there is embodied every hue known to nature. Many Attachés are officers in the military or naval service of their respective countries, and appear in the brilliant uniforms of the various branches of such service. The fashion-plates of diplomatic court-dress embrace everything from splendid uniforms of glowing crimson and snowy white to others gleaming with gold embroideries on black, set off in many instances by the fur trim- mings of the hussar capes and a wealth of dec- SIN TEH MOO, KOREAN CHARGE D'AFFAIRES.

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SENOR DON CARLOS MORLA VICUNA, CHILIAN MINISTER. orations, while prominent by contrast are the red fezes of the Turkish Minister and the mem- bers of his staff, and the rich Oriental silks of the Legationers. A titled visitor who is eagerly sought out by the eyes of the spectators at every diplomatic Chinese function is Lord Pauncefote, the British Ambassador to the United States. This in- terest is perhaps due in part to his position as Dean of the Diplomatic Corps. The cote- rie of diplomats, constituting a body by itself, is governed by laws of its own making, and custom has decreed that length of service shall fix the Dean- ship. If all the foreign repre- sentatives at Washington still ranked as Ministers, it is pos- sible that Lord Pauncefote would not hold the coveted post; but since seniority among the Ministers does not where there are Ambas- sadors, and Lord Pauncefote the first Ambassador appointed to this country, he stands as all the delicate questions of preced- ence which arise from time to count was arbiter in ENVOYS AT WASHINGTON. handsomer ern times have known no costume than the regulation gold-embroid- ered dress-uniform of the British diplomat, and the ornamentation is mented, in the case of the uniform which Lord Pauncefote has worn upon most state regular aug- occasions of recent years, by numerous in- signia of his rank. The court-dress of many of the diplo- mats slight the Knights Templar uniform so familiar in bears a resemblance to this country, but is much more elaborate A majority of the Latin- the in every way. American governments have within time within the Corps. Mod- WU TING FANG, CHINESE MINISTER.

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8 ENVOYS AT WASHING7ON. past year or two adopted a universal design for diplomatic dress—a uniform resplendent in red and gold. One of the most striking uni- forms ever seen in Wash- ington is that worn on state occasions by Baron Hengelmiiller, the Min- ister from Austro-Hun- gary. It consists of deep- red trousers, high black boots, and a black velvet cloak splendidly orna- mented. Count Cassini, the Russian Ambassador, is A.diplomat whohas:dur- C®N:t8Ascucsan, ing his long career performed many notable services for his government, and the testi- monials of appreciation which have come to him in the form of decorations have made of the front of his court-coat literally a mass of gold and jewels that sparkles with every move. The members of the Russian Em- bassy are notable for the sumptuousness of their uniforms, and this made all the more noticeable the mark of respect which they showed when, at the memorial services in honor of Queen Victoria, they appeared in plain black, with astrakan-trimmed chapeaux with black feather tufts. It may be noted, also, that on occasions such as the one mentioned all the for- eign diplomats have the hilts of their swords intertwined with black crape. The representatives of our sister republic, France, are provided with far more imposing court-dress than are the officials in the diplo- matic service of the United States. In ad- dition, the French Am- bassador, Monsieur Cam- bon, and all the mem- bers of his staff who served in Washington pr. EpvaRDO WILDF, during the Spanish- Sena Gare HIS WIFE, AND HER BROTHER, SECOND American war, are adorned with the superb decoration of the Order of Isabella, presented by the Queen Regent of Spain in acknowledg- ment of their good of- tices in effecting peace. Dazzling as are the uniforms of the Euro- peans, and the diplomats from South and Central America, however, they are outshone in a measure by the elaborate attire of the courtiers from the Orient. At the head of this contingent stands Wu Ting Fang, the fa- mous Chinese Minister. His favorite garment for state ceremonials is a dress of purple silk, trimmed with white fur, over which he wears a_ heavy silken, fur-trimmed cloak. His costume repre- sents the acme of magnificence in one direction, just as Lord Pauncefote’s coat of scarlet, with gold collar, frogs and slashes, does in another. A distinguishing char- acteristic of Minister Wu’s costume is an immense diamond which he wears in the front of his silk turban. The able repre- sentative of the Celestial Empire tells most humorously of his fright when on one occasion he missed the precious stone, only to discover after a terrified search that he had reversed his turban in donning it. The members of the Chinese Legation are the only servitors of the nations at Washington who do not carry the PERSIAN MINISTER. regulation dress-sword. The uniforms of Min- ister Takahira of Japan and his Secretaries and Attachés, although the embodiment of gor- geousness, more nearly conform to Continental i) fashion; and so also ARGENTINE MINISTER, Coes the attire of the THE LEGATION. Koreans, although it has

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MINISTER TAKAHIRA OF JAPAN, AND THE FIRST SECRETARY. been but a few years since the latter were pointed out to spec- tators at White House receptions as the most picturesque figures in the human medley. The Siamese diplomats have, to a taken the place in the panorama vacated by the Koreans, and their trap- pings more than compensate the sight-seer for the acquired modesty in the part of their neighbors in the Far The Minister, Phya Prasiddhi, one of the new arrivals at Washington, is of the most unostentatious appearance when clad in the garb of American considerable extent, suddenly dress on East. Siamese prescribed society, but on state occasions he blooms, like a suddenly un- folded flower, in richest brocaded robes of the satins and a silken searf of wonderful hues. The months of the century brought the Siamese en- closing voy a rival for the position of the most elaborately dressed diplomat, in the person of Gen. Isaac Khan, the new Persian Minister. In this connection it may be recalled that the former Persian envoy, the first repre- ENVOYS AT WASITING TON. sentative whom the Shah ever sent to Wash- ington, was virtually driven away by the funny pictures whereby the American news- papers portrayed his fantastic costumes. The new-comer is evidently not so sensitive, is more likely to excite new him in Paris and moreover he admiration than uniform which was amusement, for the made for just before his departure for his present post of duty is quite the most gorgeous outfit that has this side of the Atlantic. The unique feature of the apparel of Ali Turkish Minister, and found, of course, in the omnipresent red fez, which these diplomats wear even in church. The Turkish been seen on Ferrouh Bey, the the members of his suite, is masculine contingent from the Legation was compelled to divide interest at the White which ushered in the century, with the only lady House reception HERR VON HOLLEBEN.,. GERMAN AMBASSADOR, AND COUNTESS QUADT,

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10 ENVOYS AT WASHINGTON. I 2 3 I. SHEN TUNG. OF THE CHINESE LEGATION, 2. CONSTANTIN BRUN, DANISH MINISTER 3. LIEUTENANT SHROEN, GERMAN ATTACHE, 4. 5S! NOR DON JUAN RIANO, SPANISH FIRST SECRETARY. 5 RUSSIAN ATTACHE. who ever accompanied the representatives of the Sultan on such an occasion. The Minister could not be accompanied by his wife or sister, who are strict Mohammed- ans and take no part in the social life of the capital, but Mme. Sidky Bey, the wife of the Second Secretary, was present with her husband, and her quaint gown at- tracted no end of attention. The gowns of the feminine members of the diplomatic households are so similar in general appearance to those of the fash- ionably dressed American women that they are rather outshone, in so far as popular interest is concerned, by the costumes in which their liege lords appear on_ state occasions. The one notable exception is found in the case of Madame Wu, the wife of the Chinese Minister. Madame Wu is the possessor of some of the hand- somest jewels in the United States, and these, with her close-fitting velvet head- dress, are alone sufficient to rivet feminine interest. The head-dress is fastened by three ornaments, the settings of which are respectively: an enormous pearl, a large solitaire diamond, and a ruby surrounded by a number of large, brilliant diamonds. Among the Chinese woman’s other treasures

are ear-rings and a necklace of diamonds, and several clusters of pearls. Madame Wu is also the possessor of a collection of sur- plice-like overdresses, for wear over her short skirts—garments of the richest brocade, which are the envy of nearly all the members of the gentler sex among the lookers-on at the pageantry of official life. But it must not be supposed that all the gaiety of dress among the diplomats is re- stricted to formal func- tions. Many of these temporary sojourners from other climes ap- pear now and then in golf costumes that are amazing to behold. The French <Am- bassador, the Danish Minister, and many of the Attachés of the British, Ger- man and other Legations, are enthusi- astic golfers, and although Minister Wu may occasionally be seen trudging around an BARON FERSEN,

COUNT QUADT, FIRST SECRETARY OF THE CERMAN EMBASSY.

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the links in a flowing robe, the counterpart of which, for tint, could seen on the comic-opera stage, he hardly presents so striking an appearance the diplomats with their fear- ful and wonderful plaids and checks. The elaborate sitated by his official du- ties is the severest strain vividness of scarcely be as some of younger the costumes neces- provision of upon the pocketbook of a young man in the dip- lomatic service, and un- fortunately he cannot emulate the example of some of the junior naval officers and arrange joint ownership in some Doubtless the younger members of the Diplomatic Corps find many compensations in the ad- them. life at of the trappings of his station. which is bestowed of men in ulation No other class upon official Washington is so sought after by the host- esses of society, and owing to the proverb- feminine buttons, braid and officers of the fondness for gold the ial bright even ENVOYS AT WASHINGTON. COUNT CASSINI, RUSSIAN AMBASSADOR, STEPPING FROM HIS CARRIAGE. SENOR CALVO, COSTA RICAN MINISTER, TALKING WITH MR. J. N LEGER, MINISTER FROM HAYTI,. American army and navy often fail to de- feat these foreigners in a tourney for the favor of the the American Court. During the past decade, many members of the American girls. ously discouraged in the c¢ beauties of Diplomatic Corps have married This is, however, seri- se of the Min- isters by their respective governments, who contend that an envoy, having to reside, as occasion may demand, in any part of the world, should be wedded to one of his own countrywomen. Of course, this has not prevented a num- ber of Ministerial representa- tives from marrying daugh

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SIN TEH MOU, KOREAN CHARGE I2 ENVOYS A7 me WASHING TON. SENOK DON MANUEL DE AZPIROZ, MEXICAN AMBASSADOR ters of Uncle Sam, although in almost every case the action has been closely followed by transfer to some other post. With the Secretaries and Attachés the case is differ- ent, the gov- ernments seldom, if ever, inter- posing ob- jection, and a large number’ of interna- tional mar- riages of this kind have been solemnized ine he United States. Thewives of diplo- mats at Washington are entirely exempt from giving pub- lie recep- tions, which D’AFFAIKES. custom has prescribed as one of the duties of the ladies of the Cabinet and the wives of United States Senators, but nevertheless many of them, actuated by a fine sense of courtesy, have frequently given charming public entertainments. There have been numerous regrettable features connected with some of these functions at the diplomatic homes. Curios- ity to catch a glimpse of the treasures of these transplanted homes has naturally attracted immense crowds, and in some cases the hospitality of the foreign Embassies and Legations has been grievously intruded upon. Minister Wu had perhaps the most dis- tressing experience. When the affable Chinaman first took up his residence in Washington, he held a grand reception, but the swarming crowds trampled upon his lawn and carried off his bric-d-brac, and now nothing could induce him to repeat the experience. Countess Cassini, who presides over the household of the Russian Embassy, was lately obliged to re- quest the publication of a notice to the effect that her receptions were designed for her friends. At the Mexican Embassy, on one .oceasion, a mother took her brood of dirty children into the great ball-room,

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ENVOYS AT and after seating them on a divan done in French upholstery, proceeded to the dining-room and helped herself to enough cake to satisfy the raven- ous youngsters. It is hardly to be wondered at, therefore, that to give a public entertainment is not regarded as a pleasure by the foreign Embassies, and the decline of this form of fune- tion has been very rapid. The diplomats at Washington are great dinner-givers. Some of the most brilliant assemblages at the capital are to be found at On the other hand, there are diplomatic re- their tables. CONSTANTIN WASHINGTON. BRUN, DANISH MINISTER 2. MR. DE pasts to which all the envoys and I. : : : | Mist ss 5 ; : WOLLANT, RUSSIAN FIRST SECRETARY. 3. MR. their wives are invited which are CRACKANTHORPE, THIRD SECRETARY OF THE a ; ; BRITISH LEGATION. 4. MR. NORMAN, SECOND rather dull affairs, nor is this strange SECRETARY OF THE BRITISH LEGATION. when it is taken into consideration that a guest may sometimes be assigned to take down to dinner a lady with whom he has no language in Common. The members of the foreign colony are most punctilious in the observance of all the details of official etiquette. Although SENOR DON MANUEL DE AZPIROZ, MEXICAN AMBASSADOR three days is allowed by the dictum of the first Ambassadors and Ministers usually return ofticialdom for return of a eall, a call immediately, taking this prompti- tude as the most delicate possible expres- Not infrequently a caller at an Embassy or a Legation will find the card of the called upon when he returns to his own home sion of their appreciation of the visit. person at the end of the afternoon round of visits. A grave pitfall to be eschewed by every new-comer in Washington society is found the of social based rank. Paltry and credible as it may seem, grave international intricacies official in precedence on in- complications have on more than one oc- casion been threatened because ignorant hostesses at the national capital unwittingly assigned envoys to seats at dinner lower than their rank should have permitted. In the social seale the President is fol- lowed by the Vice-President, and then come the Ambassadors, who, being pre- sumed to represent the persons of their sovereigns, are disposed to yield precedence only to members of the royal family of the court or the sons and brothers of crowned heads. Even this merry complications a few Lord Pauncefote claimed that tion entitled him to take precedence of the it until the venerable diplomat. re- point caused some years since. his posi- every person save President, and was not ceived a special hint from the Foreign Office at London that he consented to call on the Vice-President.

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ENVOYS AT WASHINGTON. cedence at festivities at which diplomats are hosts, but when an outsider entertains the Corps the event is usually preceded by an interchange of correspond- ence equal in volume to that of a big business firm, before all the guests are assigned to positions compatible with their dignity. Finally, nations, like small boys, occasionally get in quar- rels, and during these **don’t speak*’ periods the greatest care must be exercised to prevent embarrassing occurrences — at social functions at the capital. Then, too, there are Powers that have long-standing feuds which their representatives seek to perpetuate. A case in point is that of Austria and Mexico. The former government did not until a few weeks ago recognize LORD PAUNCEFOTE, BRITISH AMBASSADOR, LEAVING THE RESIDENCE OF THE SECRETARY OF STATE, Following the Ambassadors, in the offi- House, comes. or the Dean of the Diplomatic Corps was cial list in use at the White the Secretary of State, although when the Ambassadors give functions at which he is a guest the Premier ranks even of the Diplomatic Corps. After the Secretary of State, when the regular order is observed, come the Envoys Extraordinary and Ministers Plenipotentiary and Chargés d’Affaires. It is not expected that the President shall ever call at any of the Embassies or Legations, al- though in the case of one or two Chief Executives this rule has not been rigidly adhered to. Probably the diplomats are really seen to best advantage at the annual balls or receptions which some of the Embassies and Legations give in honor of their sovereigns. The greatest of these functions in recent years have been the balls given by the British Ambassador on each recurring anniversary of the Queen's birthday. Of course, there are never any tangles over problems of pre- WITH HIS DAUGHTER the existence of the latter nation, and several times the Secretary of State called upon to devise ways whereby the envoy of one country might be honored the Dean without giving offense to the other. SENOR DON JUAN CUESTAS, MINISTER FROM URUGUAY, AND DON TOMAS HOWARD Y ARRIEN, FIRST SECRETARY.

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OLGA NETHERSOLE. By LAVINIA HART. OURAGE, purpose, energy, a magnetic personality and a disposition to profit by criticism—these are the qualities that have lifted Olga Nethersole above the level of mediocrity and placed her, at the age of thirty-two, in the class with great artistes of mature experience and age. Olga Nethersole is a born genius. Not necessarily a stage genius. In almost any line of work she might have followed, Miss Nethersole would have been heard from. She has the genius temperament—im- pulsive, paradoxical, She is strong, magnetic, in- dividual. From what- ever environment she extreme. might have sprung, to whatever obstacles, she would have con- quered. She has the indomitable will which gets the bet- ter of circumstances. She has a vitality which reinforces the energy spent upon work that would kill an ordinary woman. She has a great fund of independence, a spirit of fesrlessness that forces to the front her convictions regarding human mor- als, and the best ways and means for por- traying those morals upon the stage. And most of all, notwithstanding a nature high-strung and keenly alive to censure, she has a courage which quickly sur- mounts defeat, and prepares for renewed effort. Indeed, so great is Miss Nethersole’s recuperative power, so positive her pur- pose, that she has survived even the ill effects of repeated success. For failures and set-backs are not the worst obstacles MISS NETHERSOLE, that hinder the careers of growing artists. Success, with its attendant honors and applause, is the insidious poison that fre- quently nips in the bud the blossom that might have unfolded to greatness. But success has not spoiled Olga Nethersole The triumphs of her life, like its defeats she has turned to good account. Out of every defeat, she has risen stronger, better, wiser. Out of every success, she has gleaned encourave- ment from approba- tion, and turned her head away from flat- tery. There have been no hours spent in sat- isfied contemplation of the laurels won. Miss Nethersole is no ordinary woman. She knows things about human nature which the ordinary woman does not know. She knows them both by instinct and from experience And one of these things is, that yester- day’s achievements belong to yesterday, and the things that count are of to-day and to-morrow. Therein lies the secret of Olga Nether- sole’s steady rise to fame; and therefrom springs the certainty, unconsciously conveyed to all who know her, that the present is only the promise of the success to come. Olga Nethersole’s standard of success is a high one and it is changeful. She wastes no time waving it over the present triumph, but promptly plants it on the next step above. ‘‘Is it necessary to have genius?*’ an aspirant for histrionic fame asked of her. “Wes,” replied Miss Nethersole, ‘‘it is

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16 OLGA NETHERSOLE. MISS NETHERSOLE AS SAPHO quite necessary to have a genius for hard work. Genius, you know, is an infinite capacity for taking pains." Miss Nethersole’s idea of genius is a practical one, but her life is working out its worth. Hard work has marked every milestone of this woman's career. Every leaf she has won toward her laurel wreath, has been earned. There have been no questions of luck or visitations of Providence, in her triumphs. No ‘tangels’’ have backed her productions, no clever press agents woven fanciful tales to mislead the public. Miss Nethersole’s early life was paved with struggles, and disappointments, and unsat- isfied yearnings to accomplish something, great but indefinable: to get somewhere desirable, but a long way off. She admits that as a child she was ec- centric. The games of other children did not appeal to her. So she was left alone a good deal, and improved her time weav- ing fancies and building air-castles. Draw- ing woolly dogs, building blocks, playing house and keeping toy-shop. had no charms for her. She did not appreciate being Miss Olga. It was too commonplace to be oneself in play. So when she played, she pretended she was some one else, and selected characters from the curate down. When she was seven, she went to Lon- don to see a pantomime. That was the beginning of the end. Her longing to be something, somewhere, got lo cated, After that, she ‘*spoke pieces’? and played — theater. She lived in an ideal world of her own, known only to_ her dolls and the few martyrs among her playmates who submitied to being used as stage trees or lay-figures. When she reached the age of sixteen, Olga Nethersole’s father, who was a London so- licitor, had died, leaving his family without provision. Olga was badly stage-struck. Her sisters had married, and the burden of supporting her mother fell to the shoulders of the youngest daughter and she welcomed the burden. Her love for her mother, she claims, has been the one grand passion of her life. Just how she was going to fulfil the new responsibilities she did not know, but she had a consciousness, born of good inten- tion, good health, and strong young hope, that she was not one of those who go down. MISS NETHERSOLE. oe

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Hler whole inclination, her whole de- sire, her whole temperament, were for the stage. But her mother opposed Ft. Olga was her young- est, her dearest. She was intense, impetu- ous, governed by im- pulses; a creature of moods and _ strange, unconventional no- tions, whose liberality shocked the anxious little Englishwoman. Olga Nethersole at sixteen had a fine scorn for conventional lines. If life must be lived according to rule, she preferred to work out her own problems, ac- cording to her own judgment, and by the aid of her own con- science. She did not know then that next to her inclination for the stage, was a disposi- tion for philosophy strong within her—a disposition toward the natural philosophy of human nature and human events, and the consequent human problems they create. To-day she is one of life’s philos- ophers. She understands what was the spirit that swayed her in youth, that un- consciously gave her mental and judicial poise: and she has strengthened her philo- sophical temperament, and concentrated OLGA NETHERSOLE 17 and directed its foree and application to her daily living, by her devoted study of the philosophies of Locke, Hume, Spencer, Reid, Berkeley, Kant, and even of Plato, Socrates and Aristotle. Ordinary novels, even the clever ones of our current litera- ture, do not appeal to Miss Nethersole, except. from a business viewpoint, in the light of possible dramatizations. When suits deduced had always the virtue of originalitvy—a virtue which is now, and always will be, a part of Miss Nether sole’s self. One of the things which Olga Nether she wants real pleas- ure in books, and seeks relaxation, she finds what she wants in the works of the philosophers, and in applying their rea- sonines and dedue tions to her own life. At sixteen, how- ever, Miss Nether sole knew nothing of philosophy; ex cept as she recog- nized a certain mental mechanism within her that could deduce results) from given quantities, with- out the aid of popular prejudice or conven- tional ruling. The re-

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1S OLGA NETHERSOLE. CARMEN. MISS NETHERSOLE AS sole at sixteen could not comprehend, was her people’s objection to her stage aspirations, which found expression in the oft-reiter- ated phrase, ** What will people say?** Miss Nethersole at twice sixteen still marvels over the workings of those minds and morals that turn on the pivot of ‘*What will people say?’’ The secret of her own success with a dangerously liberal policy, is that and thoroughly sincere. For two years filial respect and consider- ation kept her from her life’s beloved ob- During that time she tasted gall and wormwood in that bitterest form known only to workers whose life is cast in thor- Olga Nethersole she is conscientious, honest ject. oughly distasteful lines. Was a governess!—she who was stage- struck from the time she could first toddle and coo: who had worked toward the stage as sureiy as the river runs toward the ocean; whose idols all had been gods of the been built of painted scenes, behind :rows of footlights: dreams had visions of victory and fame and Shakespeare glorified, the and applause and floral offerings of the multitude. It awakening irom a playhouse; whose air-castles had whose been sweetened with adulation was a terrible dream. to substitute for ten vears’ the pride of Lady Macbeth, the humble spirit of the governess. It was a dreadful jolt to an Juliet’s balcony of love and trans- humdrum dreariness of a nur- hear, instead of ardent the A B C’s of stupid children of a British tradesman. They were two wretched years, but Miss them. artistic temperament, to fall from port, to the Romeo's sery, and to wooing, several Nethersole does not try to forget They are useful for contrast, in) gloomy moods, and their effect is instantaneous. When she reached the age of eighteen, she was getting desperate. She was not made of the stuff that makes good govern- esses. Her nature was chafed beyond en- durance by what she had suffered. Her spirit was bruised by the prison which her life was, and cried for She did not then appreciate the dis- cipline she had passed through, the self- reliance and the bravery that had been wrought in her, by the season of hard, un- out release. erateful work. Olga Nethersole has enduring power, and she carved it out of the stony way of those early hardships. In 1887 came the turning-point in her life. erate consideration announced her intention to seek an opening on the stage, regardless Her duty, she consid- She was eighteen, and after delib- of all opposition. ered, had been done, in her effort to justify the English blood arn ac- cording to the usual humdrum method of Eng- lish girls placed in her position. The Spanish blood inherited from her grand- parents rushed to in her, and a livelihood the front like a flood, carrying everything be- fore it. Those concerned real- ized that her fz determination torrent NETHERSOLE IN ‘THE TERMAGANT.” MISS Was a

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none could check. Consent was given: she made her first appearance on the stage at the Theater Royal, Brighton, with one of Hawtrey’s companies, in a Charles play called ‘*Harvest,’’ and tasted the tirst sug gestion of the sweetness future years were to yield, Miss Nethersole’s début was in stageland. not consid- Indeed, her part was a minor one, and she had had Natural aptitude, ered a great event dramatic training. OLGA NETHERSOLE., 19 most necessary to the unknown beginner, she lacked. That was personal beauty. She was not a pretty girl, for she even lacked what now constitute her charms— a beautiful figure, an exquisite, cultivated grace, and features bearing the imprint of a beautiful intelligence. Perhaps it was well for her art that she She worked No intlu within or without the charmed circle Was not a wondrous beauty. the harder. She had no **pull.”’ ence, MISS NETHERSOLE however, helped her to fill the part to the best of its small requirements, and she was to go on tour with the company retained for two vears. It was a very small opening; it could not have been much smaller. sut Miss Nethersole was grateful for it. At least it was an opening, and it rested with her- self to make it wider and fight her way through. She was gifted with many of the necessary weapons: but one that is AS SAPHO. of the work in her behalf. Instead, it seemed as if everything con- stage, was al spired to keep her back. She knew every inch of advancement in her career must be the result of merit. She worked unceas- ingly. No amount of effort tired her: for it was the work she loved. She also worked intelligently. She had a sound judgment for the fitness of things. She eood critic. She instinctively the caliber of Was a gaged the actors she met,

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20 OLGA NETHERSOLE. sorted the good from the bad, studied the tac- tics of the former and paid no heed to the latter. She did not mingle with her stage associates outside the theater, be- cause they sought relief for their nerves in recrea- tion: but Olea Nethersole had no nerves, and want- ed no recrea- tion. She worked always, and with a def- inite purpose. She had seen enough of the provinces and their useful but wearisome apprenticeship, she believed she had progressed sufliciently for the next step, and she worked and prayed and pleaded for an opening in London. At last it came to her, through the manager of the Adel- phi Theater, and she Was given one of the leading parts in a drama called ‘* The Union-Jack.”’ Miss Nethersole played the role satisfactorily and received some very good criticisms; but she did not. startle London. She had simply progressed sev- eral points in her profession, and won recognition in one of the greatest fields of the world. By these slow, sure, steady stages, she has climbed the ladder of fame. ‘‘Heaven is not reached by a single bound There have been no great jumps in this artiste’s career. Her honors have been wrung from the public to which she caters by hard and ear- nest endeavor. After her sue €ess in *“*The Union-Jack,** Mr. Rutland = Barrine- ton, who at that time was experi- menting with the St. James Theater, offered her the leading rdéle in ‘The Dean's Daughter,’* in] which character | Se ee Miss Nethersole made her first actual hit in London, and took her place among the high-class actresses there. Because of bad management, ‘*The Dean’s Daughter” was short-lived, and Miss Nethersole re- turned to the Adel- phi, where the shrewdest of her critics declared she had found her place in dramatic art, as ‘*the bold, bad wo- man of modern so- ciety,’ in a play entitled ‘*The Silver Falls. ”’ Miss Nethersole now had an assured position and reputa- tion on the London stage, and Mr. John Hare sought her serv- ices for Pinero’s ‘* The Profligate,’*> which was to open his newly built Garrick The- ater. Miss Nethersole made a great hit as Janet Preece, the be- trayed girl, and Lon- don realized the stage had gained no small

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acquisition in this ambitious young actress. After the run of ‘*The Profligate,’’ Mr. Hare produced the English version of ‘*La Tosca,’’ in which there no part for Miss Nethersole, and that am bitious young person was compelled to rest for order to lose no time, the parts of Mr. several months—understudying, — in Hare’s leading woman, Mrs. Bernard Beere. Apropos of this time, Miss Nethersole tells an amusing incident. She was oa the dimly lighted stage one morning, pant- ing for an opportunity to show her powers in ber conception of the part, when some one said, ** Well, show us how you would play such and such a scene, if your chance came.’’ She promptly went through the suggested scene, throwing all her talent and energy into identity in the Suddenly in the from the bravo !"’ the part, losing her own role she was enacting. darkened theater, a voice dress circle called, ‘*Bravo! It was Mr. Hare, who had wit- nessed the episode unseen, and declared that her conception must have a chance before the public. The Mrs. Beere was ill, and during the chance came, when five nights that Olga Nethersole took the part of La Tosca she captured and moved forward a few more points in London, the rank of her profession. As a ‘**La Nethersole treasures an autographed por- souvenir of Tosea,’* Olga trait, in carved leather frame, of Sarah Bernhardt, the great originator of the character. Madame Bernhardt, with the MISS NETHERSOLE IN “THE TRANSGRESSOR.’ OLGA NETHERSOLE. seemed to be MISS NETHERSOLE AS SAPHO,. generosity of recognized genius, sent the gift to Miss Nethersole, in token of the merit of her English rival's portrayal of the character. After this brief success in ‘* La Tosca, *” Miss Nethersole left with time upon her hands and her superfluous Was again her energies making riot with her content and peace of mind. Miss avidity. Her friends suggested Australia. Nethersole the She had now a good repertoire of London took cue with successes, and made arrangements for their production in the antipodes. the own By this time her never invest in She had squandered her money on extravagant liv- actress had money to business ventures. ing, after the manner of most women of the ITer straining factor in mother was a life. stage. great re- her She was a living reminder training, conventionality. of Olga’s early English an animated standard of English Miss Up to the time

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MISS NETHERSOLE IN “‘LA TOSCA.”' Nethersole left for Australia, they had lived together in = dainty, comfortable in Coleherne Road, Earl’s Court. Several after their parting, the mother’s death occurred suddenly, and the Miss Nethersole at greatest blow quarters hours reached the news, which Gibraltar, she has ever known. The Australian tour months were Oleva’s dream She traveled in a was lasted ten months; and those ten of youth come true. trail of behind the echoes of adulation applause, ad- vancing along a path covered with flowers vlory, leaving her and that were the result of her reputation. The Australian tour opened at Sydney, the latest the Garrick Theater, London, producing at the Garrick Theater, Sydney, a new play by an Austra- lian playwright, Mr. Haddon entitled **The Idler,*’ six George Alexander produced it in London. On that very first night she won her the hearts of the Australian public, and she has remained ever recruit of new Chambers, wecks before way into there since. Immediately upon her return to London Mr. Hare reéngaged Miss Nethersole, and the plaudits she won as Beatrice Selwyn i Fool's advantage proved how tour -aradise, ° the Australian in **The great an NETHERSOLE. Other suecesses followed. In the Criterion, she made a had ‘*Agatha,’’ at strong and lasting impression; and at the English revival of **Diplomacy’’ in ‘93, the every one in her, the Countess Zicka, which London held sacred to the abilities of Mrs. Bancroft. When Olga Nethersole carried off the honors of this play in the role which popular preju- dice had always viewed in the light of a been. contrary to advice of terested in she took part of famous actress's conception, London needed no farther proof that she was a finished actress, and a great one. Miss Nethersole’s be her own manager. her against it. She thanked them for their advice. Miss Nethersole is always grate- ful for advice—which she may or may not next ambition was to Her friends advised follow, according to whether it does or does not coincide with her views. In this instance she followed the advice of those who agreed with her. Those who disa- ereed with her still contend that it bad move, influencing her in the selection was a of plays toward what would prove a greater rather than a Almost any manager Miss Nether- sole might have found, would have been impelled by the same motives. The first play she produced under her own financial, greater artistic, success. however, MISS NETHERSOLE IN ‘‘CAMILLE.”’

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management was ‘* The Trans gressor.’’ The Mr. Gattie, was hitherto unknown. author, There is every reason to be lieve he will always remain so. ‘*The Transeressor’* was received as a triumph in Eng land, but as a matter of fact, it was not the play but the that the She had reached place in the British pub- actress received plaudits. that hearts of enviable the lic where ‘the king can do no wrong.”* She brought America. unfortunate choosing of the play was not her début ‘The Trans gressor”’ to the only obstacle that marred here. Through bad business arrangements and misunderstandings, three managers claimed her on her arrival, Frohman, Daly and Marcus Meyer. As none of these was sure of possession, the new star was not properly advertised, America did not appreciate her Eng- lish meritoriously won, reputation, and judged her solely as she pre- sented herself to us in **The Trans- gressor. ae Her first Ameri- can reception must have struck a chill to the heart of this She had worked so hard for woman. the slow growth of her success that she was justified in be- lieving it to have a foundation. Outside of Miss Nethersole, ‘* The Transeressor’* solid com- pany was wretch- edly weak —as weak as the plot. Wilton the who Lackaye leading trans- was man, gressed by mar- rying an innocent OLGA NETHERSOLE. MISS NETHERSOLE IN young girl when he had one wife in a lunatic asylum, failing to grasp the idea that he had done any moral wrong in not apprising wife Num- fact. Per- haps _ it because Mr. Lackaye was trying to appear ber Two of this Was innocent perhaps he himself Neth- per- was striving to accustom to the ersole’s ardor of Miss love-scenes, or haps he really was worrying the lunatic asylum. about suffering wife in the But whatever the cause, he proved The MISS NETHERSOLE IN “CAMILLE.” himself thorough ly inade- quate to behave like a Transgressor, and to say the least, Miss Nethersole had a hird time of it. ‘*The Transeressor’> was not an Ameri Miss Nethersole did hit. not did not then accept her as a great actress, but they did recognize in her a wonderful woman of can success, and make the expected Americans marvel- ous charm and magnetic person- She inter- which ality. them, the battle New York Meantime ested is half with a public. they judgement, the crit- suspended ics admitted she ‘*had it in her,”’ and every future velopments. They came. Olg: Nethersole that, so far as America one de- awaited realized went, she had it all to do over again: but she didn't lose courage. The blow was doubly — hard, in that she be- lieved she had worked her Way to a plane above the Pos- *“SAPHO."*

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24 OLGA NETHERSOLE. sibility of such abject defeats, such distress- ing, brutal criticism. She might have re- mained away from the States, and continued to receive the plaudits of a doting English public. But there is no weak spot in Olga Nethersole’s pluck. She does not walk around obstacles, she goes over them So she came to us with ‘*The Second ‘*Camille,**> the favorite *‘Carmen,**’ which she Mrs. Tanqueray”* of her repertoire; created, and loves beeause all of her Spanish nature can revel in its abandon; and ‘*Sapho,** the abused, the maligned, the awful, which she thought so human a les- son of the cost of vice that she bought it and backed its production with her own money, and played it with such realism that she di- vided the whole land for and against her. Whether **Sapho*’ helped or hindered Miss Nethersole in her art, time alone must prove. Certainly it has extended her fame into every hamlet of the States. To people who never heard of her before, her name is now familiar; and it is accepted as the name of a great artist, whether that artist be judged wise or foolish in the selection of her plays. There is no doubt that the storm of unpleasant criticism which her presenta- tion of **Sapho’’ drew upon her head, wounded Olga Nether- sole’s feelings, injured he health, and interfered with her acting. On matinée days, during the run of the play, Miss Nethersole did not leave her dressing-room between the afternoon and evening performances—a wonderful ad- mission of the need for rest, from this vig- orous, energetic woman who claims to have no nerves. With regard to the morality of the play, Miss Nethersole asserts sincerely that she believes it points a lofty moral, the end justifying the means. One of Olga Nethersole’s greatest charms is her humbleness. She has a very ap- parent desire to please, and a generous disposition to profit by adverse criticism. Once a royal patron, who is noted in MisS NETHERSOLE England for her candor, complimented Miss Nethersole heartily upon her per- formance and her gowns, but added brusquely, ‘*T don’t like your hat.*’ The fate of that hat was sealed. At the next performance, anew one took 1ts place. This attention to details and common- places, to which she devotes much time and consideration, goes a long way toward rounding out her character and her en- vironment, on and off the stage, to. perfect whole. No detail concerned in ier pro- fession is too meager for her attention. Two years ago, when Sir Thomas Lip- ton’s ‘*Erin’* was following ‘*Columbia’’ and **Shamrock’* around the course of the international yvacht-races, Olga = Nethersole was a member of a party on board. The Chevalier de Mar- tino, Marine Painter in Ordinary to her late Majesty the Queen, leaned against the rail near her steamer-chair, enthusiastic over the beauties of sky and clouds, as they hung over Sandy Hook. Miss Nethersole's gaze followed the direction indicated by the chevalier. She contemplated the picture with a sweet and serious expression, seeming a very ap- preciative audience. Presently he ceased speaking. A moment later Miss Nethersole said thoughtfully, still contemplat- ing the distant horizon: ‘*Do you know, Chevalier, that’s a beautiful bit of blue sky just ahead of us. I’ve been studying it and I’ve an idea. I believe colors influ- ence temper. That blue, for instance, makes me feel—spiritual; and the red over there —doesn’t; while the gray makes me dull and spiritless. I've been wondering why I couldn’t apply it tomy gowns. To Camille, for instance, scarlet in the first act; blue in the second, revealing a more spiritual tend- ency; pink in the third, symbolic of the flesh ; and white for the purifying influence. ’*’ The following week, a new set of gowns was accordingly ordered for ‘*Camille.*’ So Olga Nethersole’s mind never ceases to work for her art, even when her body rests, Which is hard on admirers and word- painters, but of untold benefit to the public. amu ee

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“HE United States Steel Corporation, of New Jersey—unlimited! How ab- surd the word ‘‘limited’’? would look at- tached to the name of this company which begins life with a capital stock of one billion one hundred million dollars and a bonded debt of three hundred and four million dollars. This is the first billion- dollar business corporation onearth. Three tramps were playing poker in a box-car, with corn for chips. The first bet one thousand dollars; the second raised it a million; the third made it a billion. ‘*Take the pot,’’ said the first, ‘‘take it, you educated son "9 of a gun; I don’t know how much it is! No man knows how much it is—not even Mr. Morgan. To know how much it is one would have to know familiarly all the mines, mills, machinery, buildings, lands and appuitenances in this vast property. By Charles:S:Cleed ry The facts in this case are worth No one head can hold so much considering. In the organization of stock companies the prevailing idea in the past has been to keep down the issue of shares to the lowest possible figure consistent with con- venience in certifying the ownership. Thus banks like the Chemical, and insurance companies like the Equitable, have small capitalizations bearing no particular rela- tion to the value of the assets. In the case of banks vast sums of money have been paid in or accumulated as ‘‘surplus** which might as well as not have been rep resented by issues of stock. The present ruling fashion is to capitalize companies on the basis of things hoped for, the evi- dence of things unseen. Railway and min ing companies are said to have set the pace. The strictly private corporations have al- ways done as they pleased in this respect without serious objection or criticism; but railway corporations have been severely criticized for large capitalization because of the theory, more or less firmly fixed in the public mind, that the public has a right to limit railway earnings to a low rate of return on the actual money invested in the property. In late years most of the newly organized industrial corporations, have adopted the much-paper plan. This is probably done on some dim theory that ten pretty pieces of paper will sell for more than one. Shares of stock stand for only fractions of ownership. If such

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26 IEE STEEL TROST shares were expressed directly in fractions instead of circuitously in dollars, perhaps much of the charm of high capitalization would disappear. Thus of United States Steel Corporation stock looks like one If such share were described as one eleven-millionth of one share hundred dollars. the whole, it would not be so attractive. The new steel company chose the high- capitalization plan and, with its one billion one hundred millions of stock and its three hundred and four millions of first-mortgage bonds, now undisputedly holds the center of the stage in the corporation world. Few casual observers com- prehend to what an extent iron has become king. Nobody knows when iron was unknown, yet the fact re- mains that the modern use of it makes the an- cient use of it seem ridicu- lously small. Five hundred years ago the world used, as nearly as the guesserscan tell, only a few thou- sand tons a vear—say fifty thousand The use near fifty million tons. In the J- United States the first iron workings were operated between the years 1600 and 1650, the annual output for that period averaging Last year the out- tons. now is PIERPONT about one thousand tons. put of this country alone was about fourteen million tons, which put us about five million tons ahead of our chief competitor, Great Britain. This brief reference to statistics is enough to show the possible foundation for such a corporation as the one we are though a word to why has wonderfuily in- considering, as the use of creased in such a mere instant of time will The discovery of the iron so not be out of place. AND ITS MAKERS. process of treating iron so as to make steel worked a revolution in the adaptability of iron to industrial uses. Thus a steel rail is as much superior to an iron rail asa steel razor is to an razor. In the quarter of a century beginning with 1855 the processes of steel-making, substantially as now conducted, were discovered by Sir iron Henry Bessemer and others in England and on the Continent. Early in the sixties the first steel rails were made in England, and late in the sixties the first in this country were made—in Pennsylvania. This country is now making over ten million tons of steel per year. The pres- ent great for steel, which uses a century ago were scarcely dreamed of, are for railroads and theirequipment, ships, building- frames, bridges, telephone and telegraph wires, fences, piping, tools, machin- ery, and an in- finite variety of small articles such as_ nails, tacks, toys, beads, wagon and bicycle wheels, house decorations, et cetera. Now that -these Pee ais changes have come to pass, hundreds of others are in con- templation. Railroad men are wondering how long it will be before they can afford ‘to use steel for ties, telegraph poles, small sta- tion-houses and many other purposes. Build- ers and others are also contemplating many new uses for steel. The United States Steel Corporation is really founded on these facts and conditions. As long ago as 1899, at least, the news- papers of New York made somewhat fre- quent mention of the possibility of the for- mation of a giant steel ‘‘trust,’’ or corpora- tion, which should gather in the principal

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PHE STEEL steel companies of the country. The first information of a definite intention to ac- complish the proposed union reached the public last year, when such an attempt was made. This attempt failed. After many rumors and reports, on Sat- urday, February 23d, in New York, an agreement to form the new company was reached. agreement were J. Pierpont Morgan and two of his partners, Robert Bacon and Charles Steele; Francis Lynde Stetson, attorney for the Morgan firm: William Nelson Crom- well, attorney for the Nation- al Tube Com- pany; Judge Elbert H. Gary, attorney for the Federal Steel Com- The reported makers of this pany; Max Pam, attorney for the Amer- ican Steel and Wire Com- pany; Victor Morawetz, at torney for par- ties in interest ; John W.Gates, of the Amer- ican Steel and Wire Com- pany; Charles M. Schwab, of the Carnegie Company; E. C. Converse, of the National Tube Com- Copyright, 1901, by Rockwood. ANDREW CARNEGIE, pany, and Judge William If. Moore, who represented the National Steel Company, the American Tin Plate Company, the American Steel Hoop Com- pany and the American Sheet Steel Com- pany. The companies now in the new company are those above mentioned and the American Bridge Company and the Lake Superior Consolidated Iron Mines. This last, known as the Rockefeller iron property, was organized in 1893. It owned and operated large iron mines on the Messave Range in TRUST AND ITS MAKERS. Minnesota, and owned the Duluth, Messave and Northern Railway with one hundred and thirty-two miles of track. These constituent companies were them- selves the result of great consolidations. Many hundreds of properties all over the country, doing like lines of business, had been brought together under the names quoted. Each one of the companies named had made up its list of companies which seemed naturally to belong together; had computed the possible economies, total earning power, et cetera; had_ translated the possible net profits into capital and issued securi- ties accord- ingly for the acquisition of the properties. Examine, for example, the American Steel and Wire Com- pany, the nine- ty millions of stock of which had to be con- sidered in or- ganizing the new company. The American Steel and Wire Company had for its assets the stock or the actual property of the follow- ing companies: American Steel and Wire Com- pany, plants at Anderson, In- diana; De Kalb, Illinois; Evanston, IIli- nois; Joliet, Illinois; St. Louis, Missouri; Cleveland, Ohio; Salem, Ohio; Findlay, Ohio; Allentown, Pennsylvania; Beaver Falls, Pennsylvania, and Rankin, Pennsy]- vania. The Washburn & Moen Manufactur- ing Company, plants at Worcester, Massa- chusetts; Waukegan, Illinois, and San Francisco, California. The Worcester Wire Company, plants at Worcester, Massa- chusetts. The Cleveland Rolling Mill | | |

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28 VE STLEL Company, plants at Cleveland, Ohio; Newburg, Ohio; and iron mine property at Negaunee, Michigan. The Indiana Wire Fence Company, plant at Crawfords- ville, Indiana. The Garden City Wire and Spring Company, plant at Chicago. 3arbed Wire Company, plants at Joliet, Illinois, and Kansas. The Laidlaw Bale Tie Company, plant at Joliet, Illinois. The Cincinnati Barb Wire Fence Company, plant at Cin- The Consolidated Lawrence, cinnati. The Union Rolling Mill Com- pany, plant at Cleveland, Ohio. The Portage Iron Company, plant at Duncansville, Pennsylvania. The Newburg Wire and Nail Company, plant at Newburg, New York. The Alleghany Fur- nace Company, plant at Alle- ghany, Pennsy!]- vania. The Pittsburg Wire Company, plant at Braddock, Pennsylvania. The Shenango Valley Steel Company, plant at Newcastle, Pennsylvania. Oliver Wire Company, plant at Pittsburg, Pennsylvania. Oliver & Snyder Steel Company, Photograph by Davis & Sanford. 5 CHARLES plant at Pitts- burg, Pennsylvania. Shoenberger Steel Company, plant at Pittsburg, Pennsylvania, and coal, lead and coke ovens in Westmore- land and Fayette Counties. The Puget Sound Wire, Nail and Steel Company, plant at Everett, Washington. The Edgar Zinc Company, plants at St. Louis, Missouri, and Cherryvale, Kansas. The Puritan Coke Company, plant and land Baggaley, Pennsylvania. The Puritan Store Company, iley, Pennsylvania. The Clark at store at Bagg: & Sauntry mine at Virginia, Minnesota. The TRUST M. AND ITS MAKERS. Alpena mine at Virginia, Minnesota. The Cuff Iron Company, mine at Iron Mountain, Michigan. The company controlled a large amount of ore and coke, and line of the Great transporting iron ore to the blast furnaces also had a steamers on Lakes for at Cleveland. This property was bought by the Steel and Wire Company with its new securities, viz. forty millions of pre- ferred stock and fifty millions of common stock. The preferred stock substantially represented the property, and the common stock the things hoped for. All the com- panies in the big new com- pany were more or less like the Steel and Wire Company. Each had erties, vast’ prop- in) most widely scattered and in cases each case having enormous issues of stock and bonds outstanding. The task of the organizers of the stock or new concern was to appraise the value of the con- accurately stituent com- panies—cither on the their earning power or their disturbing power—and basis of SCHWAB. then allot to each its due proportion of the new securities. This very difficult task was carried through successfully, and the new securities determined on were three hun- dred and four million dollars of five per five hundred and fifty cent gold bonds, million dollars seven per cent cumulative preferred stock and five hundred and fifty million dollars common stock. The bonds went to acquire the bonds and stock of the Carnegie Company. The application of the new stock was sub-

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THE STEEL THE EDGAR stantially, in round millions, as shown in the following table :— 5 Vv Neu ( pante 1 Preferred— = d Willi Willa OSI ss ccc wavecines OE ia é sie 95 ss ssn 125 Federal 82.6. sccscvess 53% Federal com .. a 4 5O Steel and Wire pfd...... errs Steel and Wire com..... SA askceeat.| | shenaaas 514 National Tube pfd.. "eee oa carters National Tube com..... 1D swcvnee Bitewevens 50 National Steel pfd...... SF ssetins 80K National Steel com..... er vevedes, aie Tin plate pid... ..sccees ET i oxsweas ‘Tin Plate com... pastas errr My Gta bias 35 Steel Hoop pfd.......... BO) ond ewrne 14 Steel Hoop com:........ $0) Sawases. |. Seconens 19 Sheet Steel pid.......... Tt ae 24! Sheet Steel com......... ee g American Bridge pfd... 30%%....... 3314...++.- American Bridge com... 3034....... — ceeees 32 Iake Superior Mines... 30 ....... SARE habe 384 Mr. Carnegie personally is supposed to hundred and twenty-tive millions of the new bonds for have received about two his bonds and stock. The capitalization of the new company hundred and three hundred as above shown (one billion one million dollars in stock million dollars in may instructively be compared with the capitali- and four bonds) zation of other well-known corporations and With other statistics. This capitalization exceeds the combined capitalization of the The New Southern, Michigan following railway companies: York Central, Canada Central, Chicago and Northwestern, Union Pacitie. the combined capitalization of the Penn- sylvania, Illinois Central, Pacific and Southern It exceeds Missouri Pacitie TRUST AND ITS MAKERS. THOMPSON STEEL WORKS and Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fé. It exceeds the combined capitalization of the New York, New Haven and Hartford, the Central of New Jersey, the Delaware and Hudson, the Delaware, Western, the Erie, the Ohio, the Baltimore and Ohio, the South- ern Railway, and the Central of Georgia. Lackawanna and Chesapeake and It exceeds twice the amount of the capital stock of all the national banks in the United States. It is about the same as the average annual supply of currency in the United States in the ceeds, after deducting cash in the Treasury, the public debt of the United States. The pay-roll of the new company will amount to five hundred thousand dollars per day, or one hundred and fifty million dollars It will fifty thousand past twenty vears. It ex- per year of three hundred days. employ two hundred and men, who will directly support a million per- sonsmore. This is like studying astronomy ! The expectations and opinions of those who have cared to express themselves on the pany have been of deep interest. the great com- What must be taken as Mr. Morgan's opinion is character and future of found in the official announcement signed by his firm and approved by a large num the parties. The nouncement ‘*Statements furnished ber of interested an- Says: to us by officers of the several companies that ings of the companies for the calendar year show the aggregate of the net earn- 1900 was amply sufficient to pay dividends both classes of the new stocks, besides for sinking funds and on making provision

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30 THE STEEL TRUST AND 17S MAKERS. maintenance of properties. It is expected that by the consummation of the proposed arrangement the necessity for large deduc- tions heretofore made on account of ex penditures for improvements will — be avoided, the amount of earnings applicable to dividends will be substantially increased and greater stability of investment will be assured, without necessarily increasing the prices of manufactured products.’ This statement undoubtedly meets the approval of the great body of the foremost business men of the country whose consent con- tributed to the consolidation. An interest- ing, and perhaps a representative, foreign comment ap- peared in the London **Stan- dard’? as fol- lows: ‘It is a serious menace to British in- dustry. Amer- ican users of steel goods will also be squeezed to the last cent short of damage to the trade. It remains to be seen whether the American people will much longer tolerate a fiscal policy which renders such a combination possible. If the trust indulges overmuch in squeezing, the FILLING THE MOLDS WITH MOLTEN STEEL. revulsion may carry the nation much further than is dreamed of now in the direction of free trade.’* To this expression of fear and regret, the New York ‘‘Herald’’ made this answer: ‘‘Foreign observers have not yet got a clear perception of the impelling motive of the combination or its purposes. It originated not in a desire to ‘crush the steel industry of Great Britain,’ but to prevent the pos- sible crushing of some of the constituent corporations here. Its purpose is not to build new plants for increasing the pro- duction of iron and steel, but to prevent the erection of new plants and avert the destructive competition this would entail. *’ The intention aseribed to London bankers to freeze out the new = securities, as being hostile to British industry, has yet to be confirmed, Mr. Morgan's stay abroad will probably result in satisfactory enlight- enment on the other side as to what the new move means. It is scarcely probable that British manufacturers can object to a reasonable upholding of rates in’ this country. When American factories are fighting one another, they are incidentally fighting the foreign manufacturers. There are still great steel factories in America outside of the new company. Such com- panies as the Tennessee Coal and Tron Com- pany and the Colorado Fuel and Tron Com- pany are. still doing business. but they are strong concerns equally — inter- ested with the new company in getting fair returns” for what they pro- duce. The suggestion quoted above from the Lon- don ‘‘Stan- dard,’’ that American users of steel will be **squeezed to the last cent short of damage to the trade,’’ is not alarming even if true, because damage to the trade will follow instantly any exorbitant charges. If bridges are permitted to cost too much, wood and stone’ bridges will be built by both railway companies and the munici- palities. If building-frames cost too much, fewer high buildings will be constructed. If too much is asked for steel cars, wooden ones will continue to be used. If build- ing materials are charged for excessively, there will be a dearth of new construction. And so on. In other words, the new company will make the most money by doing much business at fair rates, rather

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than small business at extortionate rates. What the company will earn, is new a question of almost world-wide — impor tance. The statement madein Mr. Morgan’s circular shows what This seems he expects. expectation reasonable. The con- stituent companies in the new company earned last yearabout one hundred and six- teen million dollars net. This was done in spite of a greatly condi- tion the spring and summer overstocked during months, and a cau- tious consumption due to ante-election It those disturbance. is expected by nearest the affairs of the company that the varnings this year will be increased over those of last year at least ten per cent. There seems to be no of the which is now part world not a market for American We building and steel products. are equipping Russian railways. The Amer- ican Bridge Com- pany captured the contract against Brit- ish for bridgine the Atbara River in the Soudan. American contractors cars and locomotives are al- ready doing service in England. The steel work to be done in the future China, Russia, Mex- ico, South near in America THE STEEL TRUST AND ITS MAKERS. AHL IM4LS “A¥ALSANOH LY SHYOM

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(HE STEEL TRUST y Oo to and Africa is so vast in amount as almost to dwarf thecapacity of eventhis newcompany. The prospect for the company is certainly good. It seems destined to be as prosperous as the Standard Oil Company. Its financial back - ine is the backing of the world’s ereatest finaneiers. If this indeed be the situation, it will mean steady work for employees, steady dividends for the owners, steady markets for the people, steady prosperity for the whole country. It is surely to be hoped that such will prove to be the result. It is probable that no distinetly business affair ever received the personal attention of so many leaders in the business world as this one. Mr. Carnegie is supposed by many authorities to be the richest man in the world. He is certainly one of the richest, and he is certainly one of the most remarkable. Be- ginning penni- less and without powerful friends, he has become rich and famous. Another man of note is Mr. H. C. Frick, con- sidered by many to be the fore- most ironmas- ter of the world, the genius of the Carnegie Company and the guiding mind of the new corporation. Mr. Frick certainly looks the part which his reputation calls for. His air of thorough refinement does not conceal his DRAWING appearance of absolute courage and self- possession under all circumstances. The president of the new company, Mr. Charles M. Schwab, began work for Mr. Carnegie when a boy and has risen to the top by abil- ity and the good fortune of having been fan- cied by his powerful employers. He is only thirty-nine years of age, has a jolly face, a splendid physique and a quick, strong manner indicative of his fitness for the great executive burden now resting on him. Judge Moore is a giant in stature, patient, learned and clever. He has been a: re- AND ITS MAKERS. markable power among organizers of in- dustry. Mr. Morgan and his partners Messrs. Bacon and Steele need no introdue- tion to the public. The attorneys who coéperated in the welding together of the great companies have been through years of experience in work of this character. The directors of the new company are J. Pierpont Morgan, John D. Rockefeller, Francis H. Peabody, Henry H. Rogers, Charles M. Schwab, Elbert H. Gary, Robert Bacon, Charles Steele, Marshall Field, Norman B. Ream, P. A. B. Weide- ner, William H. Moore, James H. Reed, Henry C. Frick, Daniel G. Reid, E. C. Converse, Percival Roberts, John D. Rocke- feller, Jr., Al- fred Clifford, William E. Dodge, Nathan- iel Thayer, William Eden- born, Abram 8. Hewitt and Clement Gris- com. The ex- ecutive com- mittee is com- posed of Elbert H. Gary, chair- man; Daniel G. Reid, William Edenborn, E. C. Converse, Percival Rob- ertsand Charles A BILLET. Steele. The finance committee is composed of Robert Bacon, chairman; H. H. Rogers, Norman B. Ream and P. A. B. Weidener. The presi- dent is Charles M. Schwab, the treasure? is Arthur F. Luke and the secretary is Richard Trimble. The character of the men in the directory is a prophecy of the success of the company. The members are men of rare strength in both money and experience. They have never been in the habit of connecting their names with unsuccessful concerns, and it is hardly to be expected that they will knowingly begin their list of failures with a company like the new one—a company which is certain to prove a greater success or a greater fail- ure than any other company that has ever been formed.

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| os a trip, last win- f ter, from South- ampton in the riaper * St. Paul,’’ I had for cabin mate aman named Standish a Connecticut Yankee, tall, lean, mus- cular, about for- ty - five years old. His face, intelli- gent and serious, but good- natured withal, was deep- ly tanned by weath- er. His manners were sim- ple and friendly, but he had a native dignity and self- possession; he had evi- dently knocked about the world a good deal, and though not a college grad- uate, was well educated. He seemed to be very well off; but I had a notion that he had not always been so. _ I found him likable and interesting, and as he took a liking to me, we were much together during the voyage. He gave me some insight into his history—a more ad- venturous one I have never known in real life. I will relate here one of its later epi- sodes; for it not only is remarkable in itself, but has a bearing upon one of the ARS INA[2OCK | By Julian Hawthorne - most mysterious and moving historical romances that have stirred public attention during the last decade. Many speculations as to the sequel of that romance have been put forward, and many rumors circulated ; but the truth was never known till now. In the spring of 1898, Standish was in the Mexican province of Chihuahua, pros- pecting for gold. He was not successful, but got on the trail of a legend about a large mass of treasure concealed on the coast of the Gulf of California, a little north of latitude 26°. An elderly mestizo with whom he had become friendly gave him a rough map of the place; and he bought mules and hired guides, and set out. The distance to the coast, in an air line, might be one hundred and fifty miles, but the devious trails and almost impassable passes lengthened it to near four hundred. He arrived, in the early part of October, with two mules and one guide; death or deser- tion accounted for the rest. The point where ‘he struck the coast was Bahia de Agiabampo—a landlocked bay about twenty miles in diameter, with a village settlement on its shores. Here he rested awhile, and made cautious inquiries. After a couple of weeks, he bought a ten- ton fishing-smack, and hired an Indian. He himself knew how to handle a boat, and he wished to keep all knowledge of his enterprise as much as possible to himself. On the second day out, the Indian fell over- board while splicing a peak-halyard. A shark seized the poor creature, and Standish was now alone. Should he go on, or return? He decided to go on. The boat was easy to manage, the weather was fine and the adventure was attractive. Toward sunset, being then but a few miles offshore, he saw something which caused him to put over his helm and come up in the wind. Conspicuous in the precipitous dark line 3

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34 EIGHT YEARS IN A ROCK. of the coast was an oblong boulder or mass of rock, at least two hundred feet in height, of a ghastly white hue; diagonally across it ran a vein some twenty feet in width, the color of blood. This rock was one of the landmarks mentioned by his friend the mestizo. Much encouraged by this confirmation of the legend, Standish brought the boat be- fore the wind, designing to run inshore; but at that juncture the wind died away, returned in light puffs from various direc- tions, and dropped into a dead calm. Then, with an abruptness that took the lone mariner by surprise, a black and furious storm burst upon him. Before he could lower his sail, it was ripped out of the bolt-ropes, and he was driving helpless before the gale. All that night and all the next day he was beaten this way and that, unable to determine his direction, much less to control it. On the evening of that day, the sky cleared, and Standish saw land to the westward. This could be only the peninsula of Lower California—one of the least-known and least-visited parts of America. It had a mountainous and desolate aspect, rising dark against the glow of the western sky; and Standish was by no means assured of a welcome there. It had been settled by Spaniards two hundred years before; but the vast majority of the sparse population of thirty thousand was Indian, and by all accounts not of a well-disposed or inviting temper. However, it was necessary to get ashore and refit; he rigged a jury-sail and moved shoreward. Night fell while he was still miles distant, and he was obliged to lay off and on till morning. He then saw that he was near a rocky island, about four miles in length, and as many miles from the mainland. It was probably the island of Coronados, which lies some ten miles north of the twenty-sixth degree of latitude. He approached it with circumspection. The surf was breaking heavily against the steep cliffs of its eastern face. There was no sign of habitation. Still slowly ap- proacning, alert for some movement or indication of human life, Standish passed round the northern promontory, and dis- covered a tiny harbor, well protected from the surf; it was an inlet between vertical cliffs a hundred and fifty feet in height. But he could see that the western coast was lower than the eastern, and gave some promise of wood and water. The breeze before which he had been traveling being now shut off, he got out a paddle, and pushed himself along by imperceptible de- grees until he was within a few hundred yards of the mouth of the inlet. Here an extraordinary and sinister event took place. A cry caused him to look upward. Re- lieved against the sky, almost directly over his head, as it seemed, and on the brink of the cliff by the left of the en- trance, he saw two human figures engaged in a desperate struggle with each other. They were clinched, and their turnings and twistings were so rapid that he could make out no details; but both seemed to be armed with knives. At intervals, hoarse ejaculations escaped them. They were reeling on the very verge of death. Sud- denly a piercing shriek came from one of them; his grasp on the other relaxed; but the latter’s victory had come too late; he overbalanced himself, and, still intertwined, the two fell. Half-way down, they struck against a projecting point of rock; they bounded off thence, and the sea received them. Standish, sitting transfixed with horror in his boat, was hardly a stone's throw distant from the spot where they sank. Before he could paddle up to the place, which was flecked with foam and disturbed by bubblings, the bodies had risen; but both were plainly corpses. They floated there a few moments only; then there was a swift, white rush from the depths, and first one, then the other, was snatched violently downward, and the clear green water was clouded with red stains. Glancing downward with a shudder, Standish saw a terrible banquet going on in the abysses. Such was his introduction to the Island of Coronados. His first thought was to make for the open sea again; but the tide was flooding, and it bore him gently inward through the gates of the inlet, and finally grounded his boat softly on a narrow beach of white sand within. Standish was something of a fatalist. He had been brought hither by destiny; he would accept the chances. He examined the lock of his repeating-rifle, hooked his cartridge-belt round his body, and leaped down on the coral sand.

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So far as nature was concerned, the place could hardly have been more beautiful. The rocks which formed the gateway of the inlet, facing one another at a distance of not more than two hundred feet, receded in a circular sweep, forming a miniature harbor of two or three acres in area. The water of this pool was always still and perfectly clear; seaweeds and shells of lovely hues were visible in its depths. At the rear of the giant gateposts, the rocky ascent was almost as steep as outside; but the land between came down to the white beach with a gentle inclination, and was rich with a splendor of tropical verd- ure. Palms stood with their roots almost in the water, and dropped their nuts upon the margin; further up there were thickets of bananas and plantain, mangoes and oranges. To the right, a bubbling spring tumbled down between ferny boulders, making mossy-rimmed pools as it went, and lapsed into the sea. This fertile vale lay within its environment of living rock like a jewel in its matrix. Standish could not forget, nevertheless, that the threshold of the paradise had been fouled with murder. Surely those two had not been the sole inhabitants of the islet; and if there were others, they were likely to be of the same character. Perhaps some of them were inspecting him at that very moment. Standish uneasily scrutinized the cliffs, and strove to pierce with his gaze the depths of the foliage; for several minutes he remained motionless, vigilant, listening. The soft, sad note of an un- seen bird, repeated in two sweet octaves, was the only sound he could hear—that, and the dainty rustle of the fairy surf along the coral sands, ‘*Maybe,’’ he said to himself at last, ‘I'd better announce myself than wait to be accosted ;’’ and he raised his rifle to fire in the air. But something caused him to lower it hurriedly; and he stood amazed, almost incredulous of his own ears. A woman's voice, singing—that was what his ears had reported to him. She had sung—as if testing her voice—a bar of Marguerite’s last song in ‘‘Faust.”’ The sound was so echced and reéchoed from the faces of the cliff that it was impossible to know whence it came; it might have been from above, below or EIGHT YEARS IN A ROCK. 35 either side. There was also a remoteness about it, lending to it, in the listener’s startled fancy, a phantom-like quality, which was enhanced by the fact that this was no untutored peasant’s voice; it had flowed from a throat sweet as a nightin- gale’s, and trained in the purest schools of music. Himself a musical connoisseur of no small experience, Standish was sure of that. A minute passed; he shook his head. ‘‘My imagination—or the spirit of Malibran the Great!’’ he murmured in the silence. As if answering this apostrophe, the song began once more. The audience, leaning on his rifle, absorbed the harmonies with a delight such as he had never felt before. The scene and the music fulfilled each other; the soul, the passion, the glory and the pathos of life mingled and mated in that voice—the purity of the maiden, the splendor of the princess, and, as the strains floated higher, the remoteness of a spirit rapt in the awe of heaven. The final phrases died away in a ravishing cadence. And this was the sequel to the murderous struggle he had just beheld on the cliffs above! Standish had instinctively raised his hands to applaud, when his purpose was again arrested. This time it was the deep tones of a masculine voice that exclaimed distinctly, though also apparently muffled by distance : ‘*Brava, O brava, fior di mia alma! Io t’amo—lIo t’amo!’’ j ‘Io t’'amo!’’ Was that an echo or was it the woman’s voice once more? ‘‘This is a fairy-tale,’’ said Standish to himself. ‘‘Prospero’s island—a couple of Calibans—Miranda and Ferdinand— where is Ariel?—-and the wizard himself? What does it all mean? and what sort of a place have I got into?’ Silence, more profound and slumberous than ever, had resumed its sway. The mystery would not explain itself; it must be investigated. He had not advanced ten paces when he came upon a well-defined path, winding toward the cliff on the left. Less than a foot in width, it wriggled in and out through tall ferns and grasses, round massy boulders, over snaky roots of trees, up favoring slopes, always ascending, and

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36 EIGHT YEARS IN A ROCK. obviously aiming at the acclivity of the precipice. Anon it turned a corner of the rock, and there came to an abrupt end. When he turned his bewildered eyes up- ward, he saw the bottom of a sort of swing- ing ladder, made of vegetable fibers twisted together, hanging within reach of his upstretched hand. He grasped the lower rung, and pulled; it held fast. Then up he climbed, not without appre- hensions. At a height of about seventy feet, he arrived at a narrow ledge, where the upper part of the ladder was fastened to iron rings let into the rock. It wasa dizzy place to stand on. But the only visible escape was along the ledge to the right; and thither he proceeded, sidewise, with his face toward the stony wall, not caring to look down. Presently there came a sharp turn round a_ projecting angle; he clawed himself heedfully to it, only to find that there the ledge ‘itself stopped short, leaving him on the brink of a vertical drop.of fourscore feet. He had been led into a cul-de-sac of the most awesome description. He made a pause of several minutes to recover his nerve and his wits; for this was a predicament in which all his re- sources would be needed. For his better convenience, he sat himself down on the ledge, with his feet hanging over into empty space; for the ledge was not more than two feet in breadth at any point. The thought of a slip sent a shiver through him, though he was dripping with sweat. His rifle bothered him greatly. 3ut he had been in tight places before, and there had always been a way out. ‘*Besides,’’ he told himself, ‘‘I’m not the first to use this path; it must be the regular road for the garrison of this en- chanted castle; no doubt they skip along it like goats. This path can’t end here. People don’t walk along such a thing for the fun of walking back again. Where is the rest of it?’ The cliff, as has been said, took a sharp turn upon itself at the place where the ledge terminated; but a sort of vertical fold in the rock was formed, and the other side of this fold bellied out opposite to where he was sitting, confronting him across the abyss at a distance of not over six feet. As his eyes rested upon that opposing point, he perceived for the first time that there was a small shelf there, hardly eighteen inches square, which bore signs of having been worn by the friction of footsteps. And then the solution of the enigma dawned on him: in order to con- tinue his journey, all he had to do was to leap across from the end of the ledge, where he was seated, to the shelf. Once he was there, no doubt the. further path would be revealed to him. Yes, there could be no doubt about it. The only trouble was that leap of six feet across a gulf of certain death. A standing jump of six feet, on level ground, was nothing to a man of Standish’s activity; he had often leaped nearly twice as far. It was the circumstances that rendered this formidable. If he lost his balance; if his eye failed him; if he did not land just right on the other side—good-by to John Standish! And there was his rifle to add to his discomforts. | Moreover, whether or not he leaped safely, he might still be leaping to his death; for aught he could tell, a band of brigands might be lurking somewhere out of sight to kill him. The proposition was uninviting. Still, there was another side to it. What should brigands be doing in a place like this? There was nothing for them to rob in Lower California, nor on the Mexican coast on the other side of the Gulf either; one could hardly pick out in all the world a region less productive for brigandage than this. True (he answered himself), but what then were those two ruffians who were murdering each other on the cliff?— Well, there might be many solutions of that affair; in itself it proved nothing. On the other hand, there were the two lovers —the singing Miranda and the Ferdinand —how, upon a basis of brigandage, were they to be accounted for? For that matter, though, how were they to be accounted for at all? The more he pon- dered it, the more was he convinced that this was the densest bit of mystery that he had ever stumbled on in his life—and that was saying much! ‘‘And here goes for solving it!’’ said he to himself; and without another thought, he rose quickly and steadily to his feet, gathered his forces for an instant, and sprang into the air. He landed plumb oe

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a a EIGHT YEARS IN A ROCK. Drawn by T. Dart Walker. a re — and solid on the shelf, dropped forward on knees, and that was all there But he felt pleased with him- self, because it had always been one of his maxims that the best way to get a thing done was to do it, and, while he was about it, to do it quickly. Nevertheless, there had instant, while he was in the empty air, which had seemed as long as a lifetime, during which he had had many hands and was to it. been an thoughts. He now, without looking behind him, crawled up over the little ascent of rock “HE REALIZED THAT THEY WERE HUMAN HEADS.” in front of him, and saw, just beyond it, a hole a few feet in diameter, penetrating the cliff. It was evidently the entrance to a cave. The rock was of limestone for- mation ; had in the West Indies, in Jamaica and San Domingo; in them he seen such before and caves were as normal as are holes in a sponge. He entered the cave boldly, feeling that if there had been any opposition to his presence it would have declared itself ere It after the manner of this. enlarged, caves, as he proceeded, and also became

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38 EIGHT YEARS IN A ROCK. lighter, the illumination coming from apertures, natural or artificial, in the walls and roof. He soon arrived at a place which bore traces of habitation. The fur- niture was of a rude sort, but comfortable enough—mattresses of grass covered with sailcloth; sea-chests and boxes forced into service as tables and seats; tableware, some of which consisted of wooden trenchers, and some of handsome silver dishes and cups, together with forks and spoons of the same metal; straw-covered flasks and bottles. In one corner were stacked about a dozen rifles and guns, with ammunition, and a number of rusty cutlasses. From pegs driven into the wall depended rough garments of various kinds, and also some which, though now scandalously ragged and soiled, had evidently been originally of fine quality and fashion. There were no female garments of any sort. While Standish was inspecting these odds and ends, and endeavoring to con- struct from their testimony some concep- tion of the persons who had used them, he happened to catch sight of a row of glob- ular objects, of a brownish-white hue, which were affixed in a row along a dark portion of the wall of the cave, at about a man’s height from the floor. They had such an odd appearance that he came closer, to examine them. There were six of them; and he drew in his breath with a very unpleasant sensation as he realized that they were human heads! The flesh was still upon them, though so desiccated that they were hardly more than skulls. The faces all had a most villainous aspect, which was not entirely due to their con- dition—the features were those of a gang of pirates. Four were the heads of ne- groes, or of half-breeds; one of the others had red hair and a shaggy beard; the re- maining one might have been an English- man or American, and there was a certain symmetry in his face, albeit it had an evil cast, and on the right cheek was an an- cient scar, as if from a saber-cut. There glowered the heads, each on its peg; and so far as one could judge from appear- ances, there they might have been for years. How did they get there? Standish turned away, and sitting down on one of the chests, with his back to the wall, and with the stacked weapons in easy reach, he communed with himself. ‘*So far as heard from, there have deen ten inhabitants on this island. There are ‘six of their heads—ugly company, but harmless. I saw two feed each other to the sharks—making eight accounted for. Miranda and Ferdinand still live, and seem to be the most agreeable of the lot. Are there any more? Let’s see: here are only two beds. But there are a dozen guns. Yes, but guns may remain after heads are cut off, or fish have eaten the owners. There may be others, but there’s a fair chance that only Miranda and her lover are left. Where are they, and what have they to do with the cutthroats? Can that divine singer and that courtly chap with his ‘Brava, mia alma!’ have anything in common with those Calibans? But if not, what are they doing here? Better hunt them up and ask them: I may turn out a prince in disguise to rescue them! Or she may be a siren, luring me to de- struction! I must chance that.’’ He got to his feet, tucked his rifle under his arm and looked for a lead. To the left, the cave extended into dark- ness; but Standish cautiously advanced in that direction, feeling with his feet. Pres- ently a dim light dawned along the path; he turned a corner and saw a natuial door- way, opening on a winding track climbing as by rugged stairs to a higher elevation, under the open sky. After ascending about twenty feet, he came to a ragged hole five feet in diameter, opening dewn- ward into darkness. The trail went on to the top of the cliffs, and might take him to the point where the men had fought; but Standish was unwilling to leave any- thing unexplored in his rear. He lay down flat and looked into the hole. After a while, objects below began dimly to define themselves. And then something moved—yes, something erect—human— came from the obscurity and laid itself down almost exactly underneath him! He sharpened his gaze: was it male or female? A low sigh reached him—the sigh of a woman. Like Romeo in Capulet’s garden, upon that hint he spake: ‘*Pardon me, madam; this is Mr. John Standish. I heard you sing awhile ago, and I took the liberty to look in. Could I have a few words with you?”’

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EIGHT YEARS IN A ROCK. Drawn by T. Dart Walker ‘* PARDON ME, MADAM; THIS IS MR. JOHN STANDISH.'"’

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40 EIGHT YEARS IN A ROCK. At the first touch of his voice, the figure hai stirred doubtfully; as he went on, she gave a quick start, then raised herself to her knees. He could dimly see a white face staring up at him. From it came a tremulous, inarticulate sound. ‘Sorry if I startled you,’’ he went on, in as comfortable a tone as_ possible. ‘*I’ve been blundering round here, and you’re the first person I’ve found. Before landing, I saw two of your—your fellow- lodgers fall over into the water, and I guess the sharks got ‘em. But maybe you don’t understand English? Does the gentle- man, your friend ?—could I see him?’’ The person below sprang erect, and flung up her arms in a sort of frenzy. ‘*Giovanni! Giovanni!’’ she screamed, with a thrilling volume of sound that affected Standish’s ears as a flash of light- ning would have done his eyes. ‘*Oh, Dio—Dio mio! Oh, signor!—sair—and air they dead?-—Giovanni—sono morti— sono morti! Oh, cuore mio! Sair, you come to maka us free? Oh, grazie a Dio —Giovanni!”’ She flung herself down and beat with her hands upon the floor. Standish waited until the first madness of her emotion had passed. She sat up, tossing back her long hair from her face. ‘‘T have a little French, madame,’’ he then said, in that language; ‘‘ perhaps we shall manage better with that. Were those two gentlemen whom I saw drown half an hour ago the only persons besides yourselves on the island?’’ ‘‘Oh, oui, monsieur. And they are surely dead? Oh, this happiness—how “an I breathe! You have come to save us —yes? Oh, monsieur, figure to yourself, we are buried eight years here! Oh, Giovanni mio!—you will bring him to me, monsieur? You are from heaven—I wor- ship you—but bring me my Giovanni!”’ ‘*Make yourself easy, madame. _—‘I’m not from heaven—just from America—Con- necticut—we call it God’s country some- times, to be sure. I’m most happy to serve you; that air you sang from ‘Faust’ was worth a queen’s ransom! Now, first you'll have to tell me where Monsieur Gio- vanni is, and how I can get to him. I’m , a stranger hereabouts, you know.’ ‘‘Ah, monsieur, there will be a rope somewhere. He is in the cave next here, but we have been all this time separate, except that we might speak. They have given me food through this hole, and to him in the same manner. Oh, God be thanked, they are dead—you have seen them die?—it is no mistake? There will be a rope—you will come down to us— you will take us up—vwe shall be free, we shall meet at last. Oh, God be thanked !”’ ‘‘Ludmilla! Aima mia! Chi ¢’2?’’ This interruption came in a deep, remote voice, which Standish recognized as that of the Ferdinand of the drama—or the Giovanni, as seemed to be his right name. The lady, with some swift apology, van- ished inward down the cave, but in a moment he could hear her speaking rapidly and excitedly to her companion. He fetched a long breath. He began to see through the enigma. These two people had been prisoners of a band of robbers, who had kept them here eight years. The silverware and other valuables in the outer cave were their property. They had been immured in separate cells, yet within reach of each other’s voices. There had been originally eight robbers, of whom six had died; prob- ably they had been killed by their fellows. The two survivors had murdered each other that very day. But for what object had Giovanni and Ludmilla been impris- oned all this time? Why had they not been either set free or killed at once? Some powerful motive must have been at work. Who were these lovers, and what had been their history? ‘‘It’s lucky I hap- pened along just at this time,’’ Standish reflected; ‘‘otherwise they’d have been left here to starve. Well, poor souls, they'll have a great yarn to spin! How to get ’em out is the first thing. I guess that ladder I climbed up on will be the best thing; or maybe there’s some tackle in the outer cave.—Here she comes again !’’ As my friend and T sat side by side in our steamer-chairs, smoking our cigars and seeing the green waves of the Banks rush past us, he went on to tell me in in- teresting detail how he contrived to get the two prisoners out of their respective re- ceptacles and transport them, together with such of their valuables as were left mans:

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x crmememmmeeace EIGHT and worth saving, down to the _ beach where the boat still lay stranded. I must pass over this part of the tale with bare mention. That evening they were all seated comfortably round a fire of brush- wood, which sent a fragrant smoke toward the stars and cast their shadows behind them to mingle with the environing dark- ness of the soft tropic night, and there Standish heard the lovers’ tale. They told it together, sometimes one taking up the narrative, and then the other. It was very touching (remarked Standish to me) to see them, as well as to hear them. They sat hand in hand, and often the man would raise the woman's fingers to his lips and kiss them; or they would pause to gaze deeply in each other’s faces. They had not seen each other during all these years, though they had been confined within a few yards of each other, and could converse at will. The man had a superb countenance, though much ravaged by the terrible experience through which he had passed; though he was still on this side forty years of age, his hair and his long beard were iron-gray. But his figure was still powerful and athletic; for he had never lost faith in their ultimate escape, and had obliged himself to observe a daily system of exercise; for the rest, the climate was perfectly healthy, and their captors had uniformly supplied them with whole- some food. The woman had evidently been extremely beautiful, and though now pale and haggard, and somewhat feeble in body, there seemed no reason why she should not be as fair and vigorous as ever when happiness and freedom had done their perfect work upon her. Indeed, Standish observed that he had never be- fore seen anything approaching the happi- ness which enveloped these two like a ce- lestial garment; it was so undisguised and childlike, and so beautiful, that it brought tears to his eyes even while he was telling me about it, a year or two afterward. And they also had frequently wept softly in the midst of their narration, for no especial cause, but simply because their hearts were overflowing with love and joy and thank- fulness. As the night deepened, and the light of the fire died down, she came closer to her beloved, and he drew her head to ‘YEARS IN A ROCK. 4! his shoulder, and held her in his arms. The deep tones of his voice became exqui- sitely tender; and ever and anon they would draw in deep, enjoying breaths, as new life rushed into them from each other. Standish hardly ventured to look closely at them, so sacred and lovely was this reunion. Surely their experience had been without a parallel—to be all these years yet within sound of each other’s voices mutually invisible; while their love had waxed daily stronger. They themselves hardly as yet realized that they had re- gained each other; they would touch and gaze at each other from time to time, to be assured there was no mistake. ‘‘It was the strangest and sweetest sight I ever saw,’’ Standish remarked. Their story was briefly as follows: In 1890, having married against his parents’ will, Don Giovanni (as we may for the present call him) bought a ship and loaded her with his worldly goods, including a large sum in English gold. With a sail- ing-master named Medway, and a mixed crew, he set sail from Liverpool for South America. Doubling the Horn, they were partially dismantled by a storm, and sought a port on the west coast of Pata- gonia to refit. Here, for the first time, symptoms of trouble brewing were discern- ible; but the Don, trusting in Medway, who was a very able fellow, and confident of himself, did not much regard them. It had been his purpose to land at Guaya- quil, on the coast of Ecuador; but Medway affirmed that there was a political revolu- tion raging there, and advised seeking a port farther north. Don Giovanni knew little of navigation; but after some weeks had passed and no land was in sight, he asked Medway where they were. The sailing-master told him that they would see the shores of Colombia in a couple of days; and in fact a mountainous shore be- came visible to starboard the next evening. At this juncture, however, the second mate, whom Don Giovanni had been in- clined to distrust, came to him privately and told him that Medway was deceiving him, and meant mischief. ‘‘We are in the Gulf of California,’’ said he, ‘‘and that coast is Mexico. If you have any treasure aboard, you’d better give it up or you may lose that and your life too-

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42 not to speak of madame’s.’’ In answer to the Don’s questions, he then revealed to him that Medway, having got nearly all the crew on his side, was going to maroon him, seize his wife and the ship, with the treasure in her, and make off. ‘‘There’s only me and the bo’sun,’’ added the mate, ‘‘that you can trust in this ship; the other eight are all in the plot; sq if you’re going to do anything, the sooner the better.’’ At the allusion to the proposed fate of his wife, the Don felt a terror which no peril to himself could have aroused. ‘*‘What do you advise?’’ he asked the mate, disguising his emotion as well as he could. ‘*You can’t save the ship,’’ replied the other; ‘‘but you may save the woman and the money. You've got the stuff in a strong-box, I suppose? I'll manage to get the long-boat under the stern to-night; it’ll be my watch, and Medway thinks I’m with him. We four must get into her with the box, and slide off qumetly. It’s two to one against us, but it’s our last chance. Are you game for it, or not?—I won’t ask twice !"’ The mate had mistaken Don Giovanni's character, and was taking too authoritative a tone with him. The next instant he was looking into the barrel of a_ revolver. ‘*Prove the truth of your story,’’ said the Don, in his usual gentle tone, but with a look that impressed the mate more than did the weapon. However, he did not blench, being a brave man, and glad to find that the master was the master. ‘‘Last evening,’’ he said, ‘‘Medway showed you land on the starboard beam, and told you it was Colombia. Since then we’ve been tacking northwest. But what is the nearest land to port of us?—answer that, sir.’’ ‘* Asia, I suppose,’’ replied the Don. ‘‘Aye, sir; and Asia is eight thousand miles away. But now, look yonder, and tell me what you see!’’ He pointed toward the west. The Don looked, and lo! there was land! ‘*It’s Lower California,’’ continued the mate, ‘‘because it can’t be anything else; and we can be nowhere but in the Gulf, when Medway would have you believe we were more than fifteen hundred miles south’ard of it. So that’s my proof, sir; EIGHT YEARS IN A ROCK. and besides, I’ve a wife and two kids at home, and it won’t pay me to turn pirate. ’’ ‘‘T accept your proof, and beg you to accept my apology, Mr. Mate,’’ said the Don; ‘‘and also,’’ added he, ‘‘I ask you to accept this weapon with my compliments; you may find a use for it before morning, and I have another. Now let us shake hands, as man with man, and make ready for to-night. I have but one thing to say to you: whatever happens, guard the woman !”’ ‘*Aye, sir—depend on that!’’ answered the mate, saluting respectfully. ‘‘And may the Lord be good to my folks at home, if I never see ‘em again.”’ All went well; the night was dark, the sea moderate, and at the time of casting loose they were but a score of miles from the Mexican coast—an easy run for the long-boat. |The mate and bo’sun had the oars; the Don the tiller, with his left arm round his wife, and his right foot on his strong-box; as the dark mass of the ship melted into the general gloom, he put the helm over, and they headed for the Mexi- can shore. Though there was not much to warrant elation, all were in good spirits, especially the beautiful woman who sat beside her husband; her courage and _ self-possession from the first had won the two mariners, and made them willing to guard her with their-lives. From time to time she met their eyes with a confident smile; then she would glance in her husband's face, and it was easy to see that with his love she was content, as he with hers. ‘If they get after us before we can make a port,’’ the mate had said, ‘‘we'd best heave the chest overboard in shallow water, taking what bearings we can, and get ashore ourselves. But I know Med- way,’’ he added,in a lower voice; ‘‘he’s a devil, and he’s going to show it.’ In the dawn, just before the sun rose over the purple Mexican hills, the woman lifted her head from her husband’s shoulder, where she had been sleeping a little, and pointed south. They all looked; and there were the tall masts with all sails set, coming up over the dark weltering of the sea, sailing three miles to their one. The end, one way or the other, was barely two hours off. ‘*But all I know of what happened that vaste

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EIGHT YEARS IN A ROCK. Drawn by T. Dart Walker. “STANDISH HARDLY VENTURED TO LOOK CLOSELY AT THEM.”’

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44 EIGHT YEARS IN A ROCK. day, and for many days following, *’ said Standish, breaking off in his narrative, as we sat in our steamer-chairs on the deck of the ‘‘St. Paul’’—‘‘all I know or can tell you is the merest outline. For when the Don had got to this point in his story, and was plainly becoming worked up over the pictures of the past that came upon him, all at once his wife put her hand over his lips. ‘* ‘Let us not tell it, beloved,’ said she. ‘It is past; why should we make ourselves shudder once more? We are happy; let us not remember misery.’ ‘Tt was sound advice; and for my part, I have no lust to sup on horrors; and hor- rors there undoubtedly were that day, and after; worse perhaps than it’s worth while even guessing at. The outline is this: They were overtaken, but not till after they had managed to sink the treas- ure-box and take a rough chart of its bearings. There was fighting: the mate was killed; the bo’sun wounded, but he escaped to shore and was never seen again. The Don, with a blow of a cutlass, opened Medway’s cheek; but he and his wife were captured and taken aboard. Med- way, his head bound up, had them before him, and demanded the whereabouts of the treasure. They refused to tell him. ‘We'll see about that!’ said he; and he smiled grimly. ‘Well, I say, I’m glad I don’t know what happened then. But they never told where the box was sunk. Of course, neither of them cared a snap of the finger, comparatively, for the gold. jut they knew that as soon as the pirates had their fingers on it, they would turn and cut their throats. Their only chance of life was to keep their secret. Gold never served its owners better. Being out of their reach, it saved them; it would have destroyed them had it been in their possession.’ ‘*But it seems to me, Standish,’’ inter- posed I, ‘‘that though threats of death or even torture might have failed to move them, yet there were means which——’’ **Yes, I know,’ said Standish, as I hes- itated to finish my sentence. ‘‘I should think so too. And all I can say is, there are forces in human beings—or a Force that sometimes is manifested through them -——which can do miracles. I have never set up for a religious man, particularly ; but there are some things I am more cer- tain of than any proof could make me; and they are the very things that never can be proved, any more than men can walk on air. I believe, at any rate, that a divine miracle was done on that ship, and afterward, and that angels surrounded that woman, and cowed the devils who wanted to do devil’s work on her.’’ ‘*But think of eight years!’ said I. ‘Oh, after the first day, the peril would grow less and less. It’s like resisting temptation—after the first victory, each new one is easier. The longer you keep bad people in association with good people, the feebler do the bad become. Those wild beasts were held down year after year by a helpless man and woman; you can explain it on no material basis; it’s one of the mysteries. They lived in their sep- arate caves, kept alive by their love, and waited on by cutthroats who could have killed them at any moment. How Med- way happened upon the island with its caves I don’t know; it served his purpose; and meanwhile he was making piratical trips in his ship, till one night he ran her aground on Cape St. Lucas, the south end of the peninsula, and she became a total wreck. The pirates got back to the island; but they .quarreled. Medway’s party was killed, and those were their heads I saw. All this while, the de- mand to tell where the treasure was had been made almost daily, and always re- fused; it had degenerated into a sort of mechanical custom on the pirates’ part; and one of the most singular features of the affair is, that they seemed to have become prisoners of the Don and his wife quite as much as the other way. If they couldn't make up their minds to kill them, why didn’t they simply go away and leave them to starve? But no; there they must stay till the drama was played out. Good luck brought me to see the last act; and there you have it.’ ‘*But that wasn’t the last act,’’ I pro- tested, as Standish fell silent. ‘‘How did you get away? and what became of the treasure? and where are the Don and his wife? and who are they?”’ ‘*We fixed up the boat with a new mast and sail,’’ said Standish. ‘‘The Don told

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me where to steer, and we crossed the Gulf inaday and a half. Just after noon of the second day, the wife—she had been sitting for hours with her husband’s head on her lap, stroking his hair, and bending to kiss him once in a while—while he lay looking up into her face, she gazed off toward the east, and whispered something to him, and he sat up and followed her pointing finger, and nodded. ** “At the base of that white rock, with the red band across it,’ he said, turning to me; ‘that’s where our gold lies.’ ‘‘TIt was the same spot I had been di- rected to by the mestizo, and had _ been driven from by that lucky storm. I said nothing to them, of course; but it puzzled | me till I figured out that the bo’sun, who escaped, must have told the tizo, perhaps on his death- bed up there in the Gua dalajara wilderness ; so you Provi- dence was in it all the way through: Well, fished for .a long time, and at last we raised it; a queer-look- ing object that box was, all covered with sea- weed and creatures; but the gold was in it, good as ever. I refused to take any of it, till I saw it would break their hearts; and the Don vowed he’d heave the whole lot overboard if I persisted. At last I compromised on fifty thousand pounds. That makes me rich enough to the end of my days; and leaves them not much the worse off. God bless ’em!’’ ‘*Amen!’’ saidI. ‘‘And where are they now ?’’ ‘*T’ll have to ask you to excuse me from telling that,’’ Standish replied. ‘‘They are happy, living together where no one knows their history, and where they’ll never be disturbed. But since they're safe from discovery, I don’t mind telling you who they are. Probably you’ve heard mes see we EIGHT YEARS IN A ROCK. 45 **a QUEER-I.OOKING OBJECT THAT BOX and woman: WAS, ALL COVERED WITH SEA-WEED AND CREATURES.’ but every day * of them. Do you remember, about nine or ten years ago, the papers were full of the romance of a certain Austrian Crown- Prince, who had fallen in love with a prima donna, and had married her, though by so doing he forfeited his royal inherit- ance?) He was John Salvator of Tuscany, a nephew of the Emperor Francis Joseph. He gave up all rights, privileges and rank, himself Johann Orth, after one They were privately mar- He converted all and called of ried in or near London. his castles. his possessions into money, meaning to buy an estate and settle down on the west of South America—Chili Peru. They were last heard from at Monte Video; coast or and have been given up as lost ever since. See queer thing, this love of a man for a woman, isn’t very it? There was everythin g to keep these people apart. I haven’t seen many happy = mar- riages, _ still I’ve always ‘ believed that marriage was the only right thing for man 7. Dart Walker. you hear of folks getting married who are not truly married at all. Now Johann Orth and his wife—Don shall always think of him breadth and depth of social convention between them to begin with; and when they had overcome that, they underwent the experience I have told you of; and now at last they are together and happy. They paid a high price for their happi- ness, but they got it; for my part I think it was worth the price; I know they do! ‘*Well, it’s getting cold. We ought to be off Sandy Hook to-morrow. What do you say to going below and turning in?”’ ““¥ou go,’’ said I: **] I'll sit here a little longer.*’ Giovanni, as I had the whole and believe

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“ ’ Ke is my prayer. Sifted to love, 4 the old simple everlast in O; all lifes gifts Jheat is the gi gi ift $F crave. J ike wot kind aduess, Sask not amy gift *r any gracey 0, Jr any charity ; . iia leve Smean Fs not for yeu te give or take away. / Shar yeu are cruel @) ; ; Dhall be ne less provocative Shan that youre kind, And whether you remember or Shall tothe love Fcrav - é equal lure ° Sask not nearness, aS ov are ever near, F ask not sympathy In common aims ,

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Oni J pray te love ‘: And bring my heart ) 2 ) ladly yor you tobreak, f break it car,. > Sladly to feel your fair con- ; : Cemplucus feet rind it beneatt you In the passionate dust. _ my heart, Pd Aor that were ecstasy! z Ad i ry Fink rob 6 is you Jcrave, ae bo possess, command nay wor to serve; ylove would not be kind, ivet ces’ j f Nor live in offices of tender fs ev botke thing Jcrave A rz but the accident from whtick = it springs. St isnot admiration, St is rok gratitude ‘ AS is only love ,— AEA madness , Deyn ng ve Ae look ! i teag.ta love, tolove! I fs this the way ? oat dive peers Se 4 (se ri Dy = ; aA pb ASCE gy BAe \ ea Fie a EZ Drawn by H. T. Carpenter.

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"2 GOATS’ MILK FOR SALE PARIS TYPES. By E. C. » Rud oC AWE ey ‘ Jy Seg S 34/5, WH PEIXOTTO. (Jllustrations by the author.) N the earliest morning hours, even be- fore the first gray dawn, through the city gates of Paris come long lines of huge -|two-wheeled carts, heaped high with vegetables and drawn by great dappled Percheron _ stall- ions; with them are mingled cov- ered wagons loaded with but- eggs, cheese and fruits. All these vehicles make for a single focal point, the Halles 4| Centrales—the central market of Paris, situated in the very heart of the wer. city. The streets surround- ~ing this group of mam- moth glass-roofed build- ings soon become a toil- ing mass of human be- ings, shouting, swearing FORT DE LA FARINE. another and horses, but arranging their wares in the market stalls. The heavy carrying is done by the strong men—les porteurs des halles—and any of these big fellows can easily take three or four hundred pounds upon his back. Be- low the ground, the eggs, butter and cheese are sorted in cellars three stories deep. These under- ground rooms were formerly lighted by flaring torches, but now the warm light and long shadows are replaced by the cold shimmer of the elec- triclight. At 4 a.m. a great auction is held. Things are at one at their finally A BANK MESSENGER.

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sold wholesale 4 la crier—the bidding in terms understood only by the market-folk themselves. Apparent babel reigns. The market is like a great throbbing heart. As day breaks, it begins to relieve its feverish pulsations by throwing out into the main arteries of the city a multi- tude of loaded with what chanced to be the pur- chase of the day—rarely more than a single urticle, and plainly marked at many sous a demi-kilo—carts of asparagus, vendors pushing light go-carts, so of artichokes; strawberries, brilliant : red on a green bed of leaves; precious | . peaches or bright little French carrots ~~ —all arranged with the greatest care / and nicety. And in summer, if the | day be warm, you will see the women | wear great cabbage-leaves upon their |} heads—a charming sight, I assure you, for you have no idea how attractive the strong faces look under the ample green shades. You will also see the flower- ( carts, laden with lilacs in the season, or daffodils before the lilac comes; and women carrying upon their backs tall baskets filled with soft forget-me-nots or little pots of saucy-faced pansies. Now the cries of Paris begin to fill the air and wake the tardy sleepers. What vayiety and what music in the time-hon- ored The deep-voiced ‘‘marchand tonneaux,’’ the shrill ‘‘merlan a frire’’— ‘‘maquereau tout frais,’? the melodious ‘‘mouron pour les p’tits oiseaux’’ or ‘‘a la notes! .9 A TEAMSTER. PARIS TYPES. ey FISHWOMEN. créme, fromage a la créme,’’ blend their notes with the clear tones of the goatherd’s pipe. He is a type surely, this goatherd. You may see him turn off into the Champs Elysées, driving ahead of him his six or eight goats, and sometimes an ass as well, and fol- lowed by his keen-eyed He shuffles along in heavy sabots, a great dog. 4

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50 PARIS tam-o-’shanter on his head and a hooded cape upon his Watch him plunge into the narrow by-street, where shoulders. the little girl brings him a glass to fill from the goat whose bag is fullest, in ex- change for the big two-cent copper which she g ives tl ae Pee him. Goat’s milk is strong and nourishing, } | and is said 1) Uf 0 [| | to be free = ly from all dis- | | ease, while ass’s milk is deemed even more nutri- tious. A bark from the dog and a sharp note | on the fife, and off goes the herd, only to stop ' again at a signal from . the coalman, who — stands in his door- way with an empty sack on his coaly head. This means a chat and a glass of wine, for the Paris coalman car- ries on two trades in the same little shop —coals for cold weather, wines for warm. A coalman’s sign is encountered in every street, for he delivers only in his immedi- ate neighborhood, carrying upon his back a_hundred- EN pound sack and even bearing “SRS it to the sixth floor. He sells but a sack at a time, and often the order is for but a half- sack or even a basket of coal. Firewood is sold in logs of exactly equal length; kindlings are cut with conscientious ex- actitude and tied in packages by means of | | CAECUM American. TYPES. a wire, the ends dipped in resin. Each bundle costs two cents, and half a bundle lights a fire. Charcoal is sold in little paper-bound bundles for four, six or eight cents, while even coal-dust is utilized and pressed into bricks, punctured with holes —= to facilitate the passage of a draft. Z The wonderful economy in all departments of the French household will astonish any In Paris one buys only a sufficient quantity to meet the requirements of a single day. i In the poorer quarters one = ‘ ‘ buys a roast at the butcher’s, aay and the baker next door cooks ax it for four cents and delivers / it at the appointed dinner- hour. ‘‘Housekeeping made easy’? would bea good way to express this saving of coals and work. At the rotisserie one buys a chicken which is cooked to a turn on a spit be- fore a great open wood- \ fire, and sent \‘home in a pewter dish, well cov- ered, just at dinner-time and no charge for the roasting ! Even the finest con- fectioners combine the ‘*cuisine’’ with their business. Delicious chickens with breasts as white as snow, partridges plumply stuffed with truffles, lobsters deviled and various entrées can all be ordered for luncheon or dinner. The boys in immaculate white who de- liver these dainties are a feature of the Paris streets, walking straight with their large baskets carefully balanced on their STUDENTS, nore i i |

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PARIS heads, hurrying to get the little pourboire which is sure to greet them at the end of their journey. In their wake they tickle the noses of the hungry wayfarers with the savory odors of their patés and sauces —which reminds me that these pastry- cook’s boys are called in common parlance ‘*ofite-sauces’’—as another Paris street- boy, who runs errands and does small com- missions, is called ‘‘saute-ruisseau,’’ or ‘* Johnny-jump-the-gutter.”’ By the baker’s door you will probably see the strong man at work—the ‘‘fort de la farine,’’ as he is called. His is a brother calling to that of the strong man at the market, but his work is more specific. He only from the miller’s carries bags of flour wagon into the ba- THE BREADWOMAN. TYPES, 51 a % ker’s. cellar. A— You will see him waiting for a job, dressed in ait his corduroy far QUES tn trousers and his “ss nif short blue ; blouse, a heavy, \ \ crooked cane hanging over his arm, while his head is cov- ered with the, great hat which is the badge of f RQ g 7 his trade —a ‘% Y mF hat monumental GWYY are cf = in size, made of Pa —s | the heaviest f \7 Jy, felt, with a rim } \ Ak s j fully three feet \ ' (7 ? in diameter Vy, \ Wl ork ( a | len at worl 1 ay. re kal he discards his § ~~ cae o) coat and blouse Ss BAB oy and his body is shown, clothed only in a striped sleeveless shirt, a muscular ac- his brawny neck Mee fey and powerful \ | . . \ arms displaying Ay { / tion to delight a Michael An- ge TAL. f gelo’s eyes. He \ \ di y is paid for his c work at the rate f i of two cents for a aaa each sack car- \ Nia ried, which, pesiaisll however, never os w=, includes the ~~ a : f aes ( a emptving o Set ptyin; A> the contents. In the team- ster we find another interesting character. Te the Paris carts, the horses are har- THE PASTRY-COORK’S BOY nessed in Indian file, often seven or eight in a line. The horse next the wagon is of the size of a young elephant, and is bound into his place with every variety of chain and strap. Great fine beasts these dray-horses are—a violent contrast to the scrawny skeletons which drag the Paris

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52 PARIS cabs. In very hot weather draft-horses are provided with queer straw hats. The ears are fastened into two pointed crowns, while a broad rim protects the head from the hot rays of the sun. How picturesque, too, are the fox’s tail which hangs from the forelock to brush the flies from the eyes and nose, and the red wool tassels which dangle at each side of the head, and the big collar with its covering of blue fur! The collar itself is made of wood fashioned in various interesting designs, and edged and embellished by ; brasswork and rows of nails and bells. The teamster in- variably walks by his animals, his whip hanging over his shoulder and his hand now and then touching the single long rein. He controls his team by the sound of his voice, and as he picks his way through the crowded traffic of the busy streets, he fires a volley of directions to his leader: ‘‘ Dia’’ (right); ‘‘Huo’’ (left); ‘* Arr-r- r-iér-r- re’'(whoa — back), which latter sound is best ex- pressed by a long. roll- ing sequence of r’s. Now turn with me from the noisy streets into one of the quiet gardens—the Tuileries, the Luxembourg or the Champs Elysées. Here are the children at ‘N. play with their hoops, their soft, THE PINWHEEL MAN. TYPES. - e J ; NURSES IN THE PARK. bounding footballs, their whip-tops or the old-fashioned battledore and shuttlecock. Nurses—commonly called ‘‘nounous,’’ the baby’s: way of saying ‘‘nourrice’’—watch them at their games or wheel the younger scions of the family in the queer enameled baby- carriages which are now the vogue. Fine, sturdy-looking women these nurses are. They dress in iong capes reaching to the ground, and on their heads are white caps, crowned with ruffs, from which float long plaid ribbons of the gayest colors. Now this costume is often replaced by that of the province from which the nurse comes—the picturesque Breton, the Alsatian or the Swiss. And the little ones—what a pro- fusion of lace, ruffles and soft white fur! What money lavished on the clothes of these dainty little morsels! Then perhaps will approach the balloon- seller, with his airy wares struggling to be free and mount toward the blue heavens; or the marchande de coco—who sells a cooling drink, made of water flavored with a mixture of lemon and _ licorice. Or we see the pinwheel man tempting !

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the little people with his gaudy wares. The pinwheel pole which he carries is an old, old in- stitution. It had its origin in the country fair, where on féte-days was erected a greased pole whose summit was com- posed of flags, banners and spinning paper wheels. The children attempted to climb this pole, and the successful ones, as they struggled to hold their place at the top, were allowed to keep whatever toy they could lay their hands upon. Now the pay- ment of a sou or two gives them the same priv- ilege with a less expendi- ture of physicai strength. When the little ones are tired of their play, they can be taken to see Guig- nol, the French Punch and Judy, a source of never-ending amusement, where entire little plays are acted by most express- ive little manikins. In the Luxembourg after four o'clock, and at the cafés on the ‘‘Boul’ ' Ss . . sf ~~ Mich’, we shall see of the students whose presence adds so much life to Paris. The character of these fellows is altogether too complex for us to deal with here, and we must content ourselves with a look at their interesting outward aspect—as at a gal- lery of portraits—types well worth the brush of Vandyke. We see young men in wide-rimmed soft black hats, with handsome, clear-cut faces, often wearing a youthful pointed beard, and dark masses of hair rolling down over the back of the neck. About their collars are tied wide black stocks or soft, loosely knotted bows. Long capes, usually with velvet collars, hang crowds THE ‘‘COCO”"’-SELLER. from the shoulders or are draped in ample an folds after the fashion of Italian PARIS TYPES. CIP ipa “wee 0000 2a x \ } | 4X \ iJ t¥Gg OY {Yi Gl My 3 ae sa The costume is completed by excessively wide trousers of velveteen— black or brown—which are cut to bind the brigand. ankle closely. The student rarely crosses the river, but on the boulevards we shall meet another Paris type whose pose is as studied and whose costume is calculated to attract as much attention. The boulevardier takes

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54 PARIS his aimless promenade after five o'clock. He walks slowly, casting his glances on the pretty girls he meets. His style is modeled on that of a beau of the Second Empire. He wears military mustaches and a goatee. His slender figure is tightly cased in a black redingote, the buttonhole of which is ornamented with a flower or the red rib- bon of the Legion of Hon- or, White spats lend an effective note between his pearl-gray trousers and patent-leather shoes. He stops now and then to consult the theatrical advertisements pasted upon the cylindrical bulletin- boards, or to look at the latest cartoon in the comic weeklies dis- played in the little news- paper kiosks. These latter ! institutions, with their bright affiches, lend much col- or to the bou- levards. I am sure, too, that Amer- icans will be | conscious of | the number and variety of the uniforms to be seen on the Paris streets. Aside from the soldiers, whose uniforms are most varied and who of course are en- countered in great numbers, there are the blue coats and cocked hats of the bank messengers, the bright silver buttons of THE BOULEVARDIER. TYPES. the telegraph boys, the shining casques and orange lacings of the municipal guard, and the brass-mounted helmets of the firemen. But Paris is really too full of types for one ever to exhaust them. I have not even mentioned the dog-sellers and the men who wash the French poo- dles down by the river, or the flowerwomen, or the ‘‘cab- bies,’’ or the sergents-de- ville, or the man who runs for miles be- side your cab to lift down the trunk at the end of the journey. No, every corner has its type, every house shelters a char- acter, and years in Paris will never less- en the extreme pleasure of merely walking the streets and watching the faces that pass. Frenchmen have their characters written much more plainly on their out- ward appear- ance than we Anglo-Saxons, for a French- man as a rule carries the badge of his calling—the portfolio of the lawyer or the broad sash and faded corduroys of the workman—and one is as proud as the other of his walk in life. French people have a sturdy self-respect in this regard that one cannot but admire. + ae eaaasicat.

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THE STRANGER’S LEFT-HANDED RACE-HORSE. By HAYDEN CARRUTH. E had announced when he first came among us that his business was that of hotel-keeping, but that he was tempo- rarily out of it, for the reason that a tor- nado had blown away the hotel which he had been conducting in another little terri- torial town. A touch of picturesqueness which he had added to the account of how ‘‘she went slam-diving acrost the prehayrie with cash boarders rattling out the winders and getting mislaid,’’ had hinted of abilities in the way of narrative hyperbole which might prove entertaining ; Drawn by Condé it. fact, he settled down into a quiet, com- but nothing seemed to come of monplace sort of man, and those who took the trouble to give any thought to his somewhat highly colored statement concerning the sifting boarders ascribed it to an imagination for the moment over- wrought by his misfortunes. He said his name was Waxworth. For some days after Waxworth wandered his arrival, Mr. about the business «Pepper's front windows as if expecting to find a hotel portion of the town, peering into equipped with everything except a land- lord, but including into which he could step and resume his former state. Meeting with no reward, he made a guarded effort to secure a place as clerk, of of the But in this also he was unsuccess- cash boarders, or assistant some sort, in one hotels. ful, and finally he took up with odd jobs in a livery-stable. This, however, seemed rather an than of life, and chiefly his energies to be avocation a serious concern ** *BOWDUKE ASKED HIM IF HIS HOSS WAS ANY ON THE GO.’’ were devoted to sitting resolutely in Cul- srocery-store, munching dried apples and criticizing the national govern- ment. On occasion he would be observed walking thoughtfully about the suburbs and gazing off across the prairie; once, when he was so engaged, the wind being more than usually high, Hod Binverford hazarded the cpinion that *‘the old rip of them cash boarders might come slam-diving along.”’ This remark of the ingenious Bingerford was a-calculating some was not, however, taken seriously. But the narrative faculty of Mr. Wax- worth was only dormant. That he had sufficient for the truth to meet local requirements no one who had any disregard

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59 THE STRANGERS LEFI-HANDED RACE-HORSE. dealings with him could doubt—it was only the ability to mold his mendacity into an artistic whole which could be ques- tioned. No department of human knowl- edge was neglected at Culpepper’s, and one evening the value to the world of sci- entific investigation was touched upon. A diversity of opinion was brought out. Abner Blackmark held to the view that modern science was of but small practical value. The opposite view was taken by Sam Purdy, who instanced the fact that, in the case of cyclones, science had dem- onstrated ‘that they ‘‘buzzed around in one direction in the southern hemisphere and t’other in the northern hemisphere, ’’ a con- dition of affairs which had been brought to his attention by his eldest daughter, who attended the local school. This achievement of science was received with proper respect, though Abner was inclined to question its practical value, and even to cast doubts on its trustworthiness by declaring that in that neighborhood this industrious variety of storm buzzed around in both directions at once, ‘‘like one of these here snatchet-wheels in a watch.’’ The discussion on the local habits of cy- clones was finally brought to a close by the somewhat irreverent inquiry of the before- mentioned Bingerford, whether corkscrews in the two hemispheres turned in opposite directions, an inquiry which was felt to expose the absurdity of scientific preten- sions and also to have a delicate humorous quality in its veiled reference to the well- known bibulous proclivities of Mr. Purdy. Up to this point Mr. Waxworth had main- tained his customary silence. He now hitched his chair along so that it com- manded the only passageway to the door, a narrow caion between the counter and a table loaded with spread-eagle salt cod- fish, tobacco caddies, rubber boots, and other commodities usually kept in a first- class grocery-store, and having thus cut off the possible retreat of his audience he told the following story in a straightfor- ward, candid manner: ‘‘This yere question of the value of sci- ence [he spoke in a calm, even tone, as be- fitted a scientific topic] all depends on the man. Some gets euchred when they take it up, some don’t. Them cyclones going round dif’rent ways puts me in mind of old man Bowduke, up at Tin Horn, where I had my hotel which the wind snatched. That cyclone didn’t know if it was in the southern hemisphere or the northern. It went ripping ahead with a motion like an auger going through a board fence; and the house full of them cash boarders, just setting down to supper and beginning to complain about the grub, and the girl coming in and saying, ‘Ham, pork, sassage, jack-rabbit, steak, tea ’r coffee?’ and the red napkins in the tumblers, and me out in the kitchen mixing the turnip and the mashed pertater and cooling ‘em, when along comes that cyclone which has lost its hemisphere. Well, no matter; the last thing I remember was a-hearing them boarders still a-kicking about the grub as the building riz. But this ain’t got any- thing to do with Bowduke—just remem- ber that wot I’m talking about is Bow- duke—Lem Bowduke. ‘*Well, Bowduke, as I said—or mebby I didn’t say it, my mind getting on that hotel and that pesky cyclone—why, even the cellar blowed away—Saturday after- noon it was, too, and them boarders would ’a’ lined up and paid for ‘nother week in *bout a nour—I looked all over the pre- hayrie the next day, thinking some of the money might ’a’ shook out of their pockets, but no, not a red cent—Bowduke, as I said, took a good deal of stock in science, *specially new science. Always had his eye peeled for the latest thing. Great reader—took a whole raft of papers, and if one of the advertisements said ‘send for circulars,’ Bowduke sent. Always had his pockets full of circulars, and almanacs, and sample copies, and directions for using. Got to be agent for a lot of scien- tific things, like ’lectric insoles, anti-strike lightning-rods that would scare lightning avay, patent dish-washing machines, im- proved run-away-hoss stoppers, and all sich. You couldn’t say a word without Bowduke would haul out a circular and try to sell you something—patent tomb- stun; non-pickable padlock; extra-hardy fruit-trees; ever-ready sling, indorsed by the medical profession, which looked like a necktie and which you pulled down and stuck your arm through in case it got broke sudden, when you wa’n’t expecting it was going to be broke. And if you : 3 } ' i :

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~ Fon didn’t buy he’d get mad and abuse you, and say you was standing in the way of progress, and you was behind the times, and was a fozzle. If you wanted to fight, he’d fight you, and mebby break your arm and then sell you asling. Used to wear a pair of his ‘lectric insoles and go around shaking hands with everybody and getting mad if they didn’t feel a shock. Said he could feel the ‘lectricity slam-diving through his whole system, making him a year younger every day. Finally got his picture in all the Eastern papers—‘ Mr. Lemuel Eliphalet Bowduke, the well- known Inventor and Sayvant, of Tin Horn, Dakota Territory, who was snatched from the Grave by Curiallibus. Druggists. Beware of imitations.” Them were the exact words. ‘*Great hand for scientific farming, Bow- a ~~ Drawn by Condé oar ww tes ie € “ duke was, too. Staked off a passel of ground in the snubburbs that nobody else wanted, and said he was going to show folks how to raise things. Got took up with rotation of crops—wheat this year, oats next, pertaters next, string-beans next, broom-corn next and then pasture it two summers with yearling calves and billy-goats and blaze away with wheat again. But all the way through, Bow- duke’s strong p’int was improving the breed of domestic animals—trotting-hosses, p'inter dogs, game-cocks and others. Said the farmer had but a very faint igee of the

THE STRANGER'’S LEFI-HANDED RACE-HORSE.

“VON HUMBOLDT WAS SO COVERED WITH PATEN CRACK AT HIS BAKE HIDE ANYWHERES.

possibilities of scientific stockgrowing. Drug everybody he met out to see his farm. Never had much but an old high- headed sorrel hoss, a spotted p’inter dog and a red game-cock with corners and knots and knobs on him. Called the dog Darwin, and the rooster Sir Isaac Newton, and the hoss Baron von Humboldt—‘after the mighty scientific giants of the past, he used to say. Another thing he used to say was that in the matter of stockbreed- ing he felt like a boy who had been play- ing on the shore and amoosing himself picking up bright pebbles and such truck CL

— A tera — = ~ yrery A + AY Ww te _ a ¥ ti< ' Ve +1} ~ it THAT YOU COULDN'T GET A Tr CONTRAPTIONS while the great ocean of trooth lay all undiscovered before him. Had a powerful command of language, Bowduke _ had. Congress was the place for him. ‘* Well, one of the things that Bowduke was always bragging about was that he was no fancy farmer. His igee was to show folks practical benefits from scientific farming and stockgrowing. So he was always ready to show off his animals and demonstrate their superior qualities over scrub stock. If any man got blowing *bout his p’inter dog, Bowduke would trot out his p’inter, and get up a bet with the

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58 THE STRANGER'S LEFI-HANDED RACE-AORSE. feller, and they'd set ‘em p’inting an old boot or something in the grass, and see which would p’int the longest; and gen’- ally Darwin would come out ahead, ‘cause he was certainly a long-time p‘inter. He'd p’int all day and all night, and then if Bowduke would take him out a snack to eat, he'd stick it out another day and night; and so on. <A_ yearthquake wouldn't ‘a’ had no effect on Darwin. And if another feller just hinted that he had a dog as could fight, Bowduke would sock his fingers in his mouth and whistle for Herbert Spencer, and he’d come loping along, his lower jaw sticking out, and they’d have a fight on inside of four minutes by the watch, always with a sizable bet up and a reli’ble stakeholder. Mebby somebody would up ‘n’ say sometimes that Bowduke was more interested in the bets than he was in improving the breed of domestic animals; and such times Bow- duke bristles up and says he: ‘Ain’t the laborer worthy of his hire?’ and, ‘Would you muzzle the ox that treads out the wine-press?’ Hung on a hair-trigger, Bowduke was, when it come to quick answers. And then Sir Isaac Newton— why, Bowduke used to tote him round under his arm, just looking for men with common unscientific fowls which they thought could fight. Bowduke made a power of money out of Sir Isaac. No use of anything trying to stand up before him. Took him around to the agricultural fairs and won every main, and got his name in the papers as the man who was doing more than anybody else in the territory to improve the breed of poultry. And I reckon he was, too, *cause Sir Isaac was a fine bird, and it stimulated other poultry- growers to try and raise fowls as good as him. ‘*And so it was with Bowduke all the way through. Eastern feller got to talking *bout blooded cattle. Said he had a herd of Jerseys that was "way up—finest in the country. Bowduke couldn't stand it. ‘Oh, skeesicks,’ says he; ‘don’t talk to me about Jerseys. They ain't nowhere. I’ve got a Durham two-year-old steer over at my farm I°ll match agin any Jersey you've got, fair fight, twenty-yard pen, ten dol- lars a side.’ He had, too, and the crit- ter'd won more than once, including a tussle with a three-year-old belonging to Jim Plunkett, who was president of the Bon Pierre County Agricultural Society. The Eastern chap hefted the proposition in his mind for a spell, and then shut up and never said ‘Jersey’ agin in that town. ‘*One day a feller druv into the place with a kivered wagon with a mule and a hoss hitched to it. He stopped down by the town well, and the mule begun kicking agin the dashboard like a pile-driver, and the feller crawled out the back end of the wagon looking pale and solemn. Bowduke walked up and looked at the piece of b’iler- plate on the dashboard where the mule was in the habit of kicking, and says he: ‘** ‘Pears like you have a live mule there, stranger?’ ‘**Well, he ain't no deceased mule,’ says the stranger. ‘+ ‘Are you interested in stockgrowing?’ says Bowduke. ‘* *Can’t say’s I am,’ says the feller. Then he walks around and looks at Bow- duke a minute and says he: ‘* *Heavings, do I see before me Lemuel Eliphalet Bowduke, the celebrated scientist and sayvant?’ ‘**You do, stranger,’ says Bowduke, beginning to smile and swell up with pride. ‘**And may I grasp his hand?’ says the feller. ‘- ‘Grab it,’ says Bowduke, extending his paw. The feller took it and then let go and jumped back about a rod and says he: ‘* *J’inted snakes! wot you full of?’ ‘* * ‘Lectricity,’ says Bowduke, a-grin- ning worse thanever. ‘Curiallibus *lectric insoles. Lemme sell you a pair.’ ‘**Oh,’ says the feller, after he had studied a minute, ‘I reckon I read of you. Well, I don’t mind—I’}] take a pair.’ ‘‘Bowduke streaked it away to the house with the tails of his long bloo coat cracking in the wind, and brought a pair, and the feller put ‘em in, Bowduke grin- ning fit to kill. Then they talked awhile *bout science and stockgrowing, Bowduke grinning and swelling and thinking the feller was the best feller he’d ever seen; and then they got to talking ‘bout hosses, and Bowduke asked him if his hoss was any on the go.

ennstcoe

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‘* ‘Well,’ says the stranger, ‘he can trot some, get him away from the mule.’ ‘**Would you mind backing him agin my sorrel, Vou Humboldt?’ 3ring down your hoss and let me see him,’ says the feller. ‘*So Bowduke streaked it away agin and come back with the critter, and the feller sized him up a long spell and says he: ‘**Mr. Bowduke, I’m surprised to see that a man of your .standing in the world of science should have such a tarnation- looking old plug as that.’ ‘‘This made Bowduke up, he seen he had been deceived in the feller, bristle and and says he: ‘** Well, I'm here to put up any rea- tantrums we sonable amount that he can cover a_ studied about when we went to school!’ half-mile Sees ‘**Well, that does look reasonable,’ quicker than Ys says Bowduke. that old pelter ‘* ‘Just nothing but pure b’iled-down of your’n.’ _— reasonableness,’ says the feller. ‘But ‘* ‘Oh, my mine is a left-handed hoss, so we'll hoss ain’t = start evenand much,’ says | you go your the feller. = | way and I'll ‘Just a plain hoss. But I’ve got fifty that says he can beat that dis- tress-signal of \ ing is, You your’n.’ . KN can chase a SAE] go ME oS AS cat round a you,’ says — Fy tie ; 5 ~ : = a stump just as 30wduke, aed 8 = rawn by Conds. fast one way getting mad- Conde Te = ‘as t ‘other.’ der and mad- “ “WENT TO SLEEP AT THE QUARTER-POST, AND SNORED SO WE ‘*So they der. ‘And I COULD HEAR HIM IN THE GRAND STAND.’’ backed their wish I could make it a hundred.’ sulkies up agin each other under the wire, ‘* *You can,’ says the feller—‘cash, not insoles.’ ‘* “Yes, cash,’ says Bowduke. hundred and fifty if you want it.’ ‘* *T just as soon,’ says the feller. ‘Only when I win you're not to ask me to take ‘And a your hoss as part payment of the bet.’ ‘* *] see myself!’ says Bowduke, foam- ing around. ‘And two hundred, if you got that much, you leather-headed ijjit!’ ‘*Well, they fixed up to race, one heat, half-mile, and the feller borrowed a sulky and they went out to the track. Then says the feller: ‘**T want to explain that this here 7HE STRANGERS LEFT-~-HANDED RACE-HORSE. 59 animal of mine is a left-handed hoss.’ ‘* *Wot's that?’ says Bowduke. ‘* * Just wot I the feller. ‘Left-handed, same’s a man might be. Has to race round the track the other way from say,’ says most hosses. As a scientific man I s’ pose you know why hosses always race round the way they do.’ ‘* *T never give the matter much thought, ’ says Bowduke, cautious. ‘**Why,’ says the feller, ‘their right legs is the and harder and can hump their right sides along faster, which when they round the way they do. If they tried to go the other way they'd fly off the track which strongest can go is wot’s wanted go in one of these here => go mine. y Seo eed ; Tight,’ ' Bowduke. ‘As the say- says and somebody fired a pistol, and they lit out, Bowduke’s coat-tails streaming out behind, and him a-yelling ‘Go on!’ and flourishing his whip, though there wa'n’t no danger of his hurting anything, as Von Humboldt was so covered with patent contraptions, toe- weights, knee-pads, check-reins and about two hundred yards of miscellaneous straps that you couldn't get a crack at his bare hide anywheres. But he was used to hear- ing the whip snap around and wouldn't go without it. ‘‘The stranger was going along pretty good hickory, but he wasn’t making the time Bowduke was. We seen that science,

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60 THE STRANGER'S LEFT- and intelligent breeding, and rotation of crops, and them things was going to win. They was coming head-on along the back- stretch, and was going to meet ten lengths on the stranger's side of the half-post, and we all putting up more money on Humboldt agin another stranger who had just happened along and couldn't seem to see that the other had no show. ‘‘Then they met, the stranger hugging in close to the other, and as they passed, that jim-fizzled old bay mate-of-a-mule opened his jaws like a hippopo-tay-mus and grabbed Bowduke’s whip in his teeth and bolted along with it crossways in his mouth, just like this, like a jig-gasted bookkeeper holding his pen while he \ Drawn by Condé. HANDED RACE-HORSE. ‘‘And while the old fraud slept, the other came tearing in, the whip sticking out of his mouth like the whiskers on a cat; and the stranger up ‘n’ lodged a complaint with the jedges that Bowduke had tried to shut off his horse’s wind by ‘tempting to ram his whip-stalk down the critter’s throat as they met, and got the claim allowed, too, and gathered in the money and got out of town, his hoss hang- ing his head and the mule kicking up be- hind and denting the b’iler-plate at every kick. And some said the other stranger was in the back of the wagon kivered up with a blanket, and I reckon he was, and that they had worked Bowduke and the rest of us, which I don’t blame ‘em, we ““*TEARING IN, THE WHIF STICKING OUT OF HIS MOUTH LIKE THE WHISKERS ON A CAT.’”’ scratches out a figure, or a ding-smished robin building her nest with a straw in her bill; and he come on with it that way like a house-afire, while old Humboldt begun to play off, and go slower and slower; and finally he got down to a walk, and at last stopped, and went to sleep at the quarter-post, and snored so we could hear him in the grand stand, though poor old Bowduke said language to him that you'd ’a’ thought he'd ‘a’ understood, and pounded him with his fist, and took off one boot and walloped him with the leg till the ‘lectric insole flew over into the field. not any of us having had the good fortune to cut our eye-teeth and never having happened to notice that we didn’t have ‘em. ‘‘But when another jayhawker come along with a game-cock next year, and wanted Bowduke to give him odds of ten to one because his rooster stuttered when he crowed, Bowduke chased him acrost the prehayrie faster—well, nothing ever went acrost the prehayrie faster except my hotel, with them cash boarders rattling inside, and me in the hole the cellar come out of and expecting that to go any min- ute, too.”’

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N ex- amination of discussions con- prog-

cerning social ress reveals many in- teresting and curious social phenomena. We discover, for example, in the same social class both pessimism and optimism. With respect to present conditions and future progress, those who are satisfied with things as they are, because things as they are are favorable to them, speak opti- mistically about pres- ent society but are

The race its move- forth also has ‘' ments back between optimism and pessimism. The latter part of the eighteenth century was an era of optimism. The perfecti- bility of the human race seemed not only a possi- STA bility but even a near x— \ probability. The reac- ye tion ,,.from the French NAG Revolution, to- Z Y/gether with the tenden- modern and

supposed cies of science, produced pessimism in the ‘nineteenth century.

pessimistic concern- ing proposed social improvements. On the other hand, those

The masses came to be politically A usted, and seemed to indorse an dis- science

who feel that exist- ing institutions press h\eavily upon them, are often inclin\ed to view the institutions which | now mold our lives as wholly bad, \¥y while at the same time 7 it possible to devise a } new social — ‘order which will be al\ most if not quite wholly good. The \_extreme classes in society spring \ back and forth from optimism. to pe\,ssi- mism in a surprising manner, — but one extreme indulges in optimism at that point where the other sees only pessimism, and by the time the first extreme has reached pessimism the second has landed in optimism.

egoistic struggle for the ea pt in life, and to make the winner\ in the struggle, regard- less of the Qmeans by which success was achieved) appear to pursue a socially benef /icent course of con- duct. The fold religious ideals of kindness, /gentleness, considera- tion for the/ needy, protection for

the weak, A.et cetera, seemed to be quite < inadequate. As science becomes 3* ‘more profound, its tone changes, and the _ conditions of i ress appear again to i*\new form. The pure, un- oma, a individualistic struggle for existence is seen to lead to alto-

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| | } { | | | 62 SOCIAL PROGRESS. gether undesirable results. Care for others as well as care for self has played its réle in evolution, even biologically considered. Modern psychology at length discovers that altruism is as naturally a social product as egoism. Pure individualism is perceived to be a scientific absurdity, and it is at length discovered that the conditions of social progress are largely capable of social determination, and that they themselves come under social control. The great word is no longer natural selection, but social selection. Religion, for a time neglected by scien- tists, is again reinstated as a condition of social progress. An educator like Presi- dent Eliot makes this statement: ‘‘No educational system can be successfully carried on without education in morals, and no education in morals is possible without a religious life.’ About the same time, General Brinkerhoff, after having given a lifetime to the work of prison reform, uses these words in his last address before the National Prison Congress: ‘‘I want to put it on record with all the emphasis I can command that if we are to make any large progress in the reformation of pris- oners, or in the prevention of crime, or in the betterment of mankind, we must util- ize more fully than we have heretofore the religious element which is inherent in the universal heart of man.’’ Religion is needed for enlightenment and for strength, and without the aid of religion there is little hope for social progress. With religious culture must go hand in hand intellectual enlightenment as a con- dition of social progress. We need a re- vival of the old faith in education and the old enthusiasm for educational work. It is for education, by the adoption of im- proved scientific methods, to fit the indi- vidual for that kind of society in which he is' to live. The only fault to be found with the earlier ideas concerning education is that they did not go far enough. It is a more and more difficult undertaking to fit the individual for complicated modern society, and what is needed is that socially we should undertake this with as great care as a powerful military nation like Ger- many devotes to the preparation of each individual soldier for warfare. Education must be improved, and it must be extended over a longer period of life, in order to pre- pare men and women to take their part not only in maintaining but in advancing civil- ization. - As our fathers undertook to pro- vide education for every one, it remains for us to carry forward their work. Similarly, our fathers indulged in the ideal of equal opportunities for all, and took important steps forward in the direc- tion of equality of opportunity for all; now it remains for us likewise to carry forward the good work which they have begun. Had social and economic conditions re- mained as they were at the time our federal Constitution was formed, we should still have enjoyed an approximation to equality of opportunity, and the work remaining to be done to secure a still further approxi- mation to equality of opportunity would be comparatively a light task. Changes brought about by the industrial revolution have not been accompanied by correspond- ing changes in institutions and laws, and we have had as a result an enormous in- crease in inequalities of opportunity. The growth of monopoly brings this before us most forcefully. Those who enjoy mo- nopoly privileges have become a powerful privileged class. Franchises worth mill- ions upon millions of dollars are bestowed upon a few who are selected out of the rest of the community as recipients of special favors. We have the old competi- tive field of industry, but there has grown up within the present century an enormous non-competitive field, and those within this field enjoy opportunities denied to the rest of the community. It is, then, a con- dition of social progress that the monop- olies of all sorts should be brought under rigid control. The privileges enjoyed by those engaged in monopolistic enterprises should be reduced to a level with those enjoyed in the competitive field, so far as this may be accomplished without a viola- tion of good faith. Vested interests must not be exaggerated, but they must be re- spected. Closely connected with this problem of monopoly is the problem of wealth-dis- tribution. Inequalities in wealth are not only necessary, they are desirable; human history appears to teach us this conclu- sively. At the same time, human history, as interpreted by the wisest men of all

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lands and of all ages, teaches us that in- equalities in wealth-distribution when they pass a certain point are disastrous and in the end The one who would tell us anything differ- ent from this is setting up his own opin- destructive to free government. ion against the wisdom of the ages. A condition of free government is a certain measure of fraternity among the citizens, and it is an indisputable fact, one which can see with our own eyes about us daily, that inequalities in wealth when they become as large as they break up fraternal relations. It is not to the purpose to say that this should not be the case; the truth is that, taking human nature as we find it, it cannot help being the case. We have no reason to expect that human nature will become such in the future that fraternal relations can be main- tained between enormously wealthy classes we are at present and other social classes. There is a social solidarity in this matter of wealth-distribution which has not hith- erto been fully appreciated. It lutely false to say that it makes no differ- ence to me how wealthy my neighbors may be. The social life in which we must all live is in part molded by the wealth-dis- tribution which actually obtains. This can be seen in simple, every-day matters. A short time since, there was an auction- sale of rare pictures. It was reported in the press that the public art-galleries obtained very few of these because the bids of private parties were so high as to place them beyond the reach of the repre- sentatives of public institutions. | Where there is a concentration of enormous wealth in a few hands, it becomes correspondingly more difficult for organized society to secure the treasures which it may desire. Similarly, a person who has millions upon millions may offer a price for the services of gifted individuals which is beyond the reach of city or state. It is very certain that an enormous concentration of wealth tends to bring into privafe service a dis- proportionate amount of the intellectual resources of the nation. As among numerous other illustrations which might is abso- one be afforded, take even the case of the use of gold for money. If wealth is widely diffused, so there are simply mod- erate differences and gradations between SOCIAL PROGRESS. 63 various social classes, comparatively little gold will be the industrial arts, but if the number of enormously wealthy used in people is large the use of gold for orna- mental will large, and this gold will be withdrawn from mone- tary purposes. It is altogether probable that, did we have a more equable distribu- tion of wealth, extension of the use of gold money would be easier of attainment than it is at the present time. Of course, this statement has nothing whatever to do with the desirability or undesirability of gold monometallism, but is adduced merely as an illustration. A well-known religious weekly stated lately that Congressmen were afraid to call attention to alleged frauds per- petrated by powerful corporations. These words were used: ‘‘In the absence of a gen- eral demand from the public, relatively few Congressmen care to take their political lives in their hands by attacking an abuse which an omnipresent and almost omnip- otent private interest supports.’’ Is it not a bad state of things when private interests are so powerful that representatives of the nation have to take their political lives in their hands to call attention to the frauds and abuses which they perpetrate upon the public? Rightly or wrongly, it has long been the opinion of wise men in many na- tions that there is danger in giving to a class of individuals, however excellent they may be, the vast power which accompanies the ownership of wealth counted by tens of millions. It has been felt that they may even gain a disastrous control over the intellectual life of the nation. A wise measure of reform, then, and one which is calculated to promote social prog- ress, will be found in legislation aiming to bring about a greater approximation to equality of opportunities so far as wealth- distribution concerned. The to be adopted are those which have been tested by experience. France has accom-' plished a great deal by laws distributing the bulk of property equally among the children of a family, and limiting greatly the right of testamentary disposition of property. England, France, Switzerland, the United States, and many other countries, are also moving in this same direction by taxing property as it passes from generation Laws and regulations con- purposes become is measures to generation.

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| i t t ae" LIFE IS A PRIVILEGE. cerning the inheritance of property operate continuously and silently, year in and year out, generation after generation, and, even if moderate in character, exercise a vast influ- ence upon wealth-distribution. What care- ful and prudent people will dread is excesses unless moderate reforms are begun in time. Turning now to competitive businesses, what is required with respect to them is that sort of regulation which, without destroy- ing competition, will raise its ethical level. If injurious adulteration of food products is prohibited and the prohibition rigidly en- forced, then all engaged in the manufacture and sale of food-products are still competing with each other just as they did when adul- teration was universal, but the competition has been raised toa higher plane. Regulated competition within its own proper sphere LIFE IS A is one of the conditions of social progress. Finally, as a condition of social progress it is necessary that we should develop still further our labor legislation in order to protect the interests of the wage-earning population. The fiction of free and equal contract between wage-earners and their employers must be replaced by a recognition of actual conditions, and the abuse of power on the part of the employer as well as on the part of the employee must be prevented. A large program has already been sug- gested. It must, of course, be worked out in detail before it can be practically applied, and great things have to be ac- complished slowly. The principal thing is to make sure that we are moving in the right direction, and always to bear in mind the motto, ‘‘The next thing.’’ PRIVILEGE: By ELLA WHEELER WILCOX. Lire is a privilege. Its youthful days Shine with the radiance of continuous Mays. To live, to breathe, to wonder and desire, To feed with dreams the heart's perpetual fire; To thrill with virtuous passions, and to glow ‘ With great ambitions—in one hour to know The depths and heights of feeling—God! in truth, - How beautiful, how beautiful is youth! Life is a privilege. Like some rare rose The mysteries of the human mind unclose. What marvels lie in earth, and air, and sea! What stores of knowledge wait our opening key! What sunny roads of happiness lead out Beyond the realms of indolence and doubt! And what large pleasures smile upon and bless The busy avenues of usefulness! Life is a privilege. Though noontide fades And shadows fall along the winding glades, Though joy-blooms wither in the autumn air, Yet the sweet scent of sympathy is there. Pale sorrow leads us closer to our kind, And in the serious hours of life we find Depths in the souls of men which lend new worth And majesty to this brief span of earth. Life is a privilege. If some sad fate Sends us alone to seek the exit gate, If men forsake us and as shadows fall, Still does the supreme privilege of all Come in that reaching upward of the soul To find the welcoming Presence at the goal, And in the Knowledge that our feet have trod Paths that led from, and must wind back to, God, poe *

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me ary GENERAL DE By ALLEN HE appearance of Christian De Wet in South Africa was like the blast of a trombone in a deserted building. The erim and dogged Buller by constant batter- ing had finally crossed the Tugela and pushed back the thin, dust-smeared line of burghers, who were sick to the soul with fighting against such odds. Ladysmith was relieved, and thirteen thousand men were liberated. Kitchener—he of Khartoum—had swept northward with a big army and rescued Cecil Rhodes at Kim- berley. Baden-Powell was displaying such clever resistance at Mafeking that this third belea- guered stronghold would soon have to be abandoned in order that the Boers | fighting there could be withdrawn to tackle Lord Roberts’ hosts encamped at Bloemfontein which threat- ened to encom- pass the down- fall of Pretoria. The situation was thoroughly distressing. Not only had the GEN. CHRISTI great nations—Germany, Russia, France and the United States—declined to inter- fere with England's program, as the burgh- ers had been led to hope they would, but England was even permitted to land troops at Beira, a neutral port, and convey eight thousand men across Portuguese East Africa, Nothing which has appeared in THE COsSMOPOLI interest as this authentic picture of General De Wet WET AND HIS CAMPAIGN. SANGREF giving as an excuse that they were needed to keep the natives in subjugation. Against this violation of treaty, Mr. Kriiger and Secretary Reitz appealed in vain. The whole world appeared to be in league to crush the little republic, and it is small wonder that many burghers lost heart. In this hour of gloom there suddenly broke from an inky sky one piercing ray of sunshine that presently flooded the entire veldt—I mean the homely, untutored, patriot General, Christian De Wet. The news of the first harrowing defeat which this un- known burgher admin- istered to Colonel Broadwood at Sannah Post arrived in Pretoria when the Transvaal ar tillery was still encamped at Helpmakaar, guarding the Natal mountain passes,and when half a dozen of the largest com mandoes were sparring with General Kitch- ener at Fourteen Streams in the westerly Free State. No fight had been ex- AN DE WET pected at that place. where there were so few Boer forces, and when the detailed report reached Pretoria of how General De Wet had killed or wounded two hundred and fifty men, taken four hundred and twenty- five prisoners and captured seven cannon, it was observed that a quiet but ardent TAN for a long time will be received with as much , the strategist, and his campaign Mr. Allen Sangree, who was with General De Wet in a large number of his campaigns, is one of the distinguished men who risked their lives to present to the world a vivid account of what many military men believe to be the most wonderful campaign ever fought in any age. The broadest distinction which may be made between men is their division into two classes: the first class always have a good reason why the thing required cannot be done; the second class manage to DO. One cannot understand why, or how, they manage to accomplish such results. One simply knows that they have the power toconceive, the vitality tocarry forward and the force which brings the desired end. General De Wet is one of the most notable men of this latter class who have ever appeared in history..-EDITOR 5

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Drawn by Gordon H. Grant. A BOER SHARPSHOOTER. 66 GENERAL DE WET AND HIS CAMPAIGN. 7} joy dwelt in .| the capital. There were cheerful faces in the gov- ernment of- fices, and Uitlanders who sym- pathized with Kriiger swore that ‘‘this chap De Wet is the boy. Wish we'd had him = at the start.’ These per- sons expressed a common regret, and there is little doubt that had Chris- tian De Wet begun his career in Natal at the head of thirty thousand burghers, fresh, vigorous and powerfully mounted, Ladysmith would never have been relieved nor the siege of Kimberley raised. It is not kind to speak unpleasantly of the dead, but poor old Gen- eral Joubert was entirely incapable of his heavy task. Ihave seen his own friends weep with re- r — morse over the ill-fated Natal | campaign of this aged | leader. At the bat- tle of Colenso, when the Brit- ish columns were staggering across the Tu- gela in deplor- able defeat, he would not per- mit his burgh- ers to fire on them, “*It) 1s not humane,’’ he said. Again, in that same battle he for- Drawn by Gordon H. Grant. ENGLISH SCOUTS WATCHING A BOER COLUMN. GENERAL FRENCH, bade General Botha to attempt capturing the English naval guns. His reason was the one he usually gave when it was proposed to make some hazardous expedition: ‘*I’m afraid that would be dangerous. Some oi our men might be_ killed.”’ General Joubert *was continually being fooled, as, for instance, when one of Buller’s staff officers traversed the entire Boer fortifica- tions under the guise of escort to a woman who la- _ mented that her husband was dy- ing in Lady- smith. The General also consistently de- clined to follow up a retreat, and when he saw the English running was wont to all the army together and ask them to join in singing a psalm. These are not the methods of De Wet, who, though nour- ished under the same sun as

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a a Drawn by Gordon H. General Joubert and possessing most of the amiable qualities that characterized the Boer farmer, has been so wrought up with hatred for the English flag that he conducts war on more vigorous prin- ciples. He observed the mistakes that were made in the early part of the struggle, and when it came his chance to command he re- solved to cut loose from all precedent. With a following that insists on independence or honorable death, he has succeeded in baf- fling the entire British army for nearly one year and a half, and has increased the war expense to six hundred million dollars and the loss in English soldiers to sixty thou- sand killed or wounded. There is something almost miraculous about these continued exploits, and the Boers themselves ascribe De Wet’s hair- breadth escapes to divine intervention. For six months this ex-potato-grower has fled hither and thither over the veldt, captur- ing one garrison here and avoiding another there, and all the time pursued by a com- GENERAL DE WET AND HIS CAMPAIGN. A CAPE DUTCH WOMAN GIVING A COMMANDO MILK. ™ bined army of one hundred thousand men. His position is much as though he were in London with a few retainers and skipping from street to street with the whole me- tropolis trying to catch him. To secure food on a barren prairie, to replenish his cartridge-belts, to keep his bases alive and to save his own head, under such perilous conditions, requires the strategy of a North American Indian, the fine courage of a George Washington and the greatest mental domination. General De Wet has these. More than this, his troopers know that he is fighting for lib- erty, nothing else, and that he is ready to give up his life at any moment. They therefore trust him implicitly.

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68 GENERAL DE WET AND HIS CAMPAIGN. GENERAL KITCHENER. If this military genius were to appear on the streets of New York or Boston, he would not invite a second glance, except for his uncouth garments. Black hair and beard, high cheekbones, narrow eyes wide apart and twinkling with humor much of the time, a nose large and aquiline, a firm mouth and chin, make his face strong but not distinguished. He is six feet tall, with muscles of tempered steel, rides horseback like a centaur, and always car- ries a ridiculously small carbine. At home, on his’ truck-farm in the Orange Free State, where he was quietly living when war broke out, he had some reputation as a practical joker—nothing else in particular. He had served one ses- sion in the Raad at Bloemfontein, but achieved no eminence as a_ statesman. Even after the war was well under way, De Wet remained in the background, and it was not until the enemy drew near his own homestead, bringing death and de- struction, that his latent gifts awoke. To-day De Wet is the most relentless patriot in South Africa. His farm has been looted, his house burnt to ashes, his wife and children deported to the shores of the Indian Ocean. He has sworn a solemn oath never to surrender, and the 3ritish do not want to take him alive. The English folk seem to have missed the point in estimating the real spirit that has actuated this man De Wet. After these long months of bloodshed and suffer- ing, they now come forward to say that the Boers ought to give up because they have already caused enough trouble, or that, after all, England will furnish a better government than Kriiger’s. I even talked with one intelligent member of Parliament recently who averred it was a crime on the part of De Wet to continue killing poor old farmers ‘‘just to make a reputation for himself.** The best answer to this was the remark a Pretorian mother made to her little son when he disobeyed her in some household command. ‘‘Johnny,*’ she said, ‘‘from now on you must do exactly as I tell you, for when you get big you are to fight the English, and the first thing a soldier learns is to obey.”* Another youngster—by way of illustrat- ing the intense feeling against England— when saying his prayers the night after Lord Roberts entered Pretoria, suddenly turned to his mother and asked if Jesus Christ was an Englishman. ‘‘My child,” said the mother, **I don’t quite know what he was, but I feel pretty sure he wasn't English.’’ ‘*Oh, I'm so glad !** exclaimed the little chap with a sigh of relief. General De Wet had had no experience in warfare previous to taking command of four hundred Free Staters in the fall of GENERAL KNOX + res

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es a GENERAL DE Drawn by Gordon H, Grant. GENERAL DE WET QUESTIONING A CAPTURED SCOUT, 1899. He had never heard of Kitchener or Roberts, had read little but his Dutch Bible, and knew nothing of Napoleon Bonaparte or Julius Cresar, One after- noon in the latter end of March, 1900, after several months’ campaigning, a scout rode into his camp with news that an Eng lish garrison occupied a place called Sannah Post. In two days this farmer won a victory that either of his two famous pred- ecessors would have been proud of. His opponent was Colonel Broadwood, an Indian veteran and a noted commander. He had with him two thousand five hun- WET AND HIS CAMPAIGN. dred men. They had camped on a knob of rising veldt. De Wet came within firing distance at three o'clock in the morning. IIe had fourteen hundred burghers, and a battery of four Krupp guns and one Maxim mitrailleuse. The latter were dragged to a spot five thousand yards from the English, where four hundred riflemen At another spot six hundred marksmen were stationed, and the remaining four hundred De Wet took with him to a dry river-bed that lay to the west, toward which he hoped the lay down to wait for dawn. British might retreat. The horses were

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GENERAL METHUEN concealed there, with their mouths tied shut to prevent their whinnying. Thesun rose at six o'clock, and from the post were heard the sounds of camp-life, rat- tling of coffee-cans and crackle of fires. There was not even one outpost or scout, and when the Boers on the north opened fire at 6:15, the English camp was thrown into a panic. The British artillery soon got in position, however, and opened on the kopje. The duel kept up for half an hour, then the Boer artillery let loose with its Krupps and created havoc. Three hundred British mounted infantry rode out on the veldt toward De Wet, and then wheeling off, suddenly disappeared. They were not seen again in the fight. By nine o'clock the English were so demoralized that they began to retreat, and, as De Wet expected, they rushed toward the spruit. First in GENERAL GENERAL DE WET AND HIS CAMPAIGN. MAJOR-GENERAL GATACRE, the long khaki line were one hundred and twenty wagons, scattered among which were many Cape-carts, or ‘‘spi- Serer ders.”” But right in the midst of the line De Wet spied twelve can- non, and these he planned to capture. The first Tommy to arrive at the spruit was driv- ing an ammunition-wagon. De Wet rose up like a specter, with his carbine resting on his arm, and motioning with his finger said, ‘*Come on, Tommy: I want you.’’ The Tommy gulped down an oath and obeyed, never daring to signal his comrades. A dozen wagons had crossed the stream before word had passed to the rear and put the column into confusion. Broadwood sent three hundred men down to the spruit to see what was the matter. De Wet and his four hundred sharpshooters had not fired as vet. When the captain was within A COMMANDO OF FREE STATERS KNOWN AS ‘* DE WET’S BLACK WATCH.”

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fifteen feet of De Wet, the latter stepped out from cover again and called out, ‘Stop! Put down yourarms!’’ Some of the men obeyed, but the captain tried to get away and De Wet shot him through the head. Within a few square feet of that officer, Captain Allen, the Norwegian military attaché, told me that he afterward counted thirty-two dead Englishmen. The rattle of Mausers was like hail on a tin roof. Every strand on a wire fence across the spruit was shot away. Nearly all the artillerymen dropped dead with bullets through their heads. Every horse was shot down, and it was only by the most des- perate bravery that Broadwood was able to extricate five of the twelve cannon. The triple fire of the Boers so demoralized the English that for a time it was thought Broadwood himself must surrender. 3e- tween ten and eleven o'clock, however, he managed to get his panicky troops in full retreat toward Bloemfontein, and to their heels clung three hundred Boers, who fol- lowed to within sight of the Free State capi- tal, yelling like mad, jumping off to shoot, and then remounting to get another crack. When De Wet got his commando together at one o’clock to ‘‘take stock,’’ he found his own loss to be four killed and twelve wounded. Of the Tenth Hussars, Roberts’ Horse, Royal Field Artillery and Burmah Mounted Infantry—the troops that Broad- wood commanded—two hundred and fifty lay dead or wounded and four hundred GENERAL DE WET AND HIS CAMPAIGN. GROUP OF DE WET'S SCOUTS AFTER CAPTURING AN ENGLISH PATROL NORTH OF BLOEMFONTEIN. and twenty-five had been taken prisoners. The seven cannon and one hundred and twenty wag- ons were put to instant use by the Boers, who in six days had made = special shells in their factory at Johannesburg for use in the Armstrongs and sent them back to do good — service against their former pro- prietors. De Wet’s army to-day presents a grotesque ap- pearance. By constant capt- ure of Eng- lish baggage- trains, the old bewhis- kered Tak Haar riflemen are enabled to go about togged up in FIELD-MARSHAL LORD ROBERTS.

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Drawn by Rudyard Kipling. smart khaki clothes made for the King’s officers. The ponies, many of which have been ridden two years contin- uously, are little more than skinand bones. Mauser rifles have long since been aban- doned, and only the Lee- Metfords taken from the Eng- lish are in use. Among the troopers may be found what few soldiers of the foreign legion have not been scared away, and a few score artil- lerymen. The pace has set too rapid for most of the venerable burghers, and their place has been taken by young men, who will * LO down in history as the bravest of the brave. Many of them are mere school- children, whose astonishing ad- ventures will scarcely be be- lieved by pos- terity. Secre- tary Reitz has a son, Denys, only fourteen years of age, who when last heard of was fighting by the side of De . W et. A BOER SCOUT HURRYING ° mies Don ENEMY IN sIGuT. and scatter like From the London Iilustrated News. RUDYARD KIPLING'S ALLEGORICAL VIEW OF THE CHASE OF DE WET. According to the testimony of the foreign military at- tachés, De Wet is not only the most brilliant military genius that this war has produced, but the most able tactician of his generation. Like a skilful prize-fighter, he knows when to jump in and strike a fatal blow and he knows as well when to retreat. Compared with his achieve- ments, those of Baden-Powell or Kitchener are like a burn- ing match dropped in the ocean. De Wet himself has not been out of the saddle in two years except to catch a few hours’ sleep every day. He has’ been surrounded a hundred times, ‘S with no appar- ent loophole to escape. In this emergency he gives a quick order and_ his alert though wearied troop- ers, with the cry of ‘‘Oop sa‘el, oop sa‘el, burghers!’’ (In the saddle, prawn oy 2 the saddle, Gorden H. burghers }), leap to horse

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2 #1. Grant A GROUP OF a flock of birds. the English gather again at The artillery at the same time hitch up their mules and thunder away like madmen over some stony path that would seem im- They ride right through lines, and emerge only to some appointed place. possible, get a good position, and annoy the British, while De Wet has concentrated his force upon a detachment that his gifted brain tells him is ill fitted to resist. His scouts are the most perfectly trained in the GENERAL DE WET AND HIS CAMPAIGN. BOERS AROUND A CAMP-FIRE. world, and they bring him accurate in- formation as to the When ammunition is nearly exhausted, De Wet pectedly upon a baggage-train, whence his troopers fill up their bandoleers with car- tridges and their hampers with chocolate and Chicago tinned beef. In the midst of this mortal ment, this farmer-general finds time to joke and his While retreating enemy's position. makes a wide detour and falls unex- embarrass- humor men.

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74 GENERAL DE WET AND HIS CAMPAIGN. River, he was coming along at a gallop in full retreat with a troop following, when a well- known American woman who had been witnessing the battle halted him with a rebuke for running away. ‘‘You ought to be ashamed,’ she _ declared. ‘‘Why don’t you stop and fight ?’’ ‘‘Allemachte!’’ ex- claimed the leader, when this had been interpreted to him, and looking the lady over cun- ningly, ‘‘would you have us all killed??? But he was greatly pleased, and expressed admira- tion for her gameness. It is too early as yet to discuss the ethics of De Wet in the al- leged shooting of so-called peace with his commando north from Brandfort, envoys, for the information has come only we came across a Trans- through British sources. But inasmuch as the Boers in all this war have never killed a spy, though many were capt- ured; never shot a Tommy trying to es- cape, though fifteen burghers were pierced with bullets at Cape Town prison in one week, and have never DE WET'S COUNCIL OF WAR BEFORE THE FALL OF PRETORIA. vaal heliograph corps at sunrise one morning, that had _ intercepted signals between two English patrols. When De Wet had been told that the enemy intended attacking on the left flank, he ordered the heliographers to signal his thanks, as his men were about to have hanged a traitor, though breakfast on the right many a one deserved it, flank and did not want - “2 Drawn by We could not blame him to be disturbed. Pe cordon Grats +6 Ne did do this. When Personally the man eT See Nee ee a man is fighting for is kind-hearted, agreeable, and courteous all he loves best, he does not receive to women. On one occasion, at the Sand kindly the cringing overtures of a renegade. LIGHT ARTILLERY—A DETACHMENT OF GENERAL BRABANT'S HORSE, i Af

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; F we were asked to name the most striking characteristic of the English people, there is no doubt we should — unhesitatingly say their love of hos- pitality. No people are so open- handed, and kind in their welcome of friends, of any one to whom they are anxious to show so generous their regard, as we, and the expression of that feeling finds its outlet in hospitality. An Englishman’s first of kindness and friendship is to feed his friend. We never feel that we are on any terms i of intimacy unless we have bidden our friends and acquaintances to dinner. To break bread with them and let them eat our salt, is a real proof that we admit them to the innermost place in our regard. It is not so with other people, except with the Americans, who share our feelings to the full; for the hospitality of our cousins idea showing across the sea is a proverb. For many years we did not live up to our reputation for hospitality as regarded Americans, for any Englishman or English- woman who crossed the Atlantic experi- enced a kindness and generosity quite un- equaled; in fact, no Englishman had ever any occasion to go to a hotel, except on landing in New York, for as soon as he had presented his letters of introduction le was received as a member of the family, and handed on to other kind when each visit terminated, entertainers and many 4 English people spent months in the States without ever paying a hotel bill. To be it American cousins began said, when our first to visit our we were woefully remiss in our our shame shores, recognition of the sacred duties of hospi- tality, and the majority of them who came to England spent their time in London at the Langham Hotel—then the paradise of the American tourist—and if they saw the inside of an English house it was only in a perfunctory way, such as at luncheon or However, that is all changed now re- tea. and turning their kindness with interest. The truth is that while hospitality has always been an English characteristic, it is one that has developed and increased dur- Formerly it was no American can accuse us of not ing the last fifty years. considered that hospitality was the duty of the rich only, and could be done only on a great and lavish is a pleasure every member of the community may participate in. The increase in the size of society, and the facilities for get- ting about, make it more of a necessity; for whereas formerly friends rarely and at long intervals, now they see one another constantly, almost daily, and all the amusements of life England or other identified with food in some shape or other. Lawn- scale; now it people saw their in are somehow tennis requires a tea-party, so does croquet or any other outdoor amusement; and what locality is there, however small or isolated, that has not its croquet or tennis Evening Hunting is inaugurated by or cricket club? amusements entail supper. ameal. But the acme of hospitality is the

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THE ART OF ENTERTAINING. A} Ce Mf fog tra WAITING FOR THE GUESTS TO ARRIVE,

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Ot a oy em dinner; and that form of entertainment is becoming more and more the really recog- nized outward and visible sign of English hospitality. Fortunately for our purses, the modern dinner now dispenses with nearly all the solidity and formality which it originally possessed. We have said good-by to the groaning table, with its two soups, two fishes, five entrées, and endless joints and entremets, which not only were impossible to dispose of, but made the meal inter- minable; and the long time after dinner, when the women waited patiently in the drawing-room till the men had consumed their wine, has now given way to the short interval which it takes to smoke a civarette and drink perchance one more glass of champagne. The claret and port of for- mer days no longer appear nor are asked for. Those of us who are old enough to re- member the dinner-table of the past cannot in a way help missing the profusion of magnificent plate with which the table was varnished, for now one never sees it. The plate-room of most English houses is full of beautiful specimens of gold and silver plate which never leave its custody, and though the luxe of flowers which is now the fashion is beautiful and fresh-looking, still itis poor in comparison with the silver and glass which caught back its brillianey from the polished mahogany table, the pride of the butler and the glory of the dining-room. But it is not so much with the departed glory of the English dinner-table that we have now to deal, as with the question of entertainment. Entertaining in these days is much more complex, and yet easier, than it used to be: more difficult because the circle of our friends is much larger, and simpler because food, flowers, wine, and all the other minutiw of hospitality, are cheaper and more varied. The most difficult part of a dinner is to select the guests, and it is alwaysa problem whether it is better to invite people who know one another well, or to vary it by inviting one or two who do not belong to any clique or set, but who are interesting and worth meeting from personal reasons. Education is so general and so much im- THE ART OF ENTERTAINING. . i ? F = +4 sh afl - ae / ——~ — GOING OUT TO DINNER.

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78 THE ART OF ENTERTAINING. proved that there is never likely to be any one at a din- ner-table who does not know about the career of any dis- tinguished guest, and that at once makes a mixture of people profitable. Long ago, in the exclusive days of English society, no man or woman, however remarkable, who did not be long to society would have passed a pleasant evening at asmart dinner-table. The other guests would probably know nothing about what the person had done, or was remarkable for, and would regard him only in the light of a sort of wild beast— to be looked at from a dis- tance, but on no account to be viewed from any more in- timate point of view. Now there is no one remarkable in politics, art, literature or science who is not always an honored guest. Then, in London one meets the great- est variety wherever one goes, and the more cosmopolitan is its composition the pleas- ; anter the party will be. | It is curious how recent this change is, for twenty years ago, or less, the old exclusive dinner-party was the rule, and the more daring entertainers who mixed their guests and had _ intellectual salads were quite the excep- tion. Lady Molesworth, Lord Houghton and Lady Walde- grave were the three great people in London to break up the social ring, and though people shrugged their shoul- ders and talked of a_ bear- garden, they soon pocketed their pride and_ accepted their invitations. The great difficulty of en- iG tertaining in these days is ee the size of society. It is Drawn by Thomas Mitchell Peirce impossible to invite all one’s READY FOR THE THEATER-PARTY. acquaintances; one’s time, the TT RON AES, gee —

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SPRINT THE ART OF ENTERTAINING. AFTER A DANCE.

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Dr y Thomas Mitchell Peirce THE ART OF ENTERTAINING. hospitality, and by adhering to it one does clear a few difficulties out of one’s path. But not all, for they accumulate as a snowball. One's hospitality is also limited by the size of one’s table; and then the question arises, not how many people does one’s table hold, but how many people can be squeezed in. I know of two people who lay down opposite rules about invita- tions. One of them never at the beginning asks as many guests as the num- her her table will hold, as IN A CHILLY CONSERVATORY. size of one’s house, one’s strength, would not admit of it, and the ideal life of never going oneself but being always at home to receive is a dream. The difficulty of dividing one’s guests is also great. One would like to ask all one knows and likes, to dine, but then again one is confronted with the problem, how is it to be accomplished? The first rule to be laid down and rigidly adhered to is, never to dine or call at the house of any you do not intend to ask in return, and always to begin by returning the hos- pitality of those who have extended it to you. That must be the golden rule of she maintains that nearer the day she always meets more whom she wishes to invite. The other always invited more than her table would hold, because at the last mo- ment so many people, for various causes, failed her. And on the whole, I am inclined to think the latter course is the better. Some people make themselves very anxious and unhappy by inviting an equal number of men and women, for by a strange per- versity, it is almost sure to be men who fail one at the last minute, and then one, if not two, unhappy women have to go down to dinner alone. There is no mistake

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7 Cree i greater than this. The hostess, of course, says, ‘‘Oh, men so hate going down alone, ’’ and it may be they do so; but surely « man would prefer sitting beside some pleasant man, and taking his chance of find- ing an agreeable and pretty woman on his other hand, to being sent down and forced to devote himself during dinner to some old, middle-aged or stupid woman! At any rate, I should advise a hostess always to have two surplus men; and if she is, as I conceive, a pleasant, popular woman who gives good dinners, she will never find any man she invites refuse to go to her because he may probably have to go down to din- ner alone. She can always contrive, by a little diplomacy, to arrange that he may have the society of half a woman during that time. In America there are often given what are known as ‘‘hen parties,’’ where the male element is entirely ban- ished; and one can say from experience that they are very pleasant. To dine in the company of eight or ten agreeable, clever women, who know one another well, is a novel, entertaining amusement, and it would be good for the lords of creation if, unseen and unobserved, they could be present at such a symposium. But these parties are not a recognized form of enter- tainment in our country. The increasing influence of the younger generation on life and society is accepted now in England, and they take their part in the hospitality and entertaining of to- day with as much aplomb as their older sisters, and society is more amusing and brighter for their presence. The better education and intelligence of girls make them a very interesting element, and their freshness and beauty add luster to the scene. For those who entertain much, it is nec- essary to have wealth, and if so, the ex- pense and worry of entertaining are consid- erably lessened, for the anxiety, friction and uncertainty are diminished by the knowl- edge of the perfect smoothness with which the machinery will work. But there are the smaller homes of England where the love of hospitality also prevails, and in these it means great physical fatigue, apprehension and anxiety; and we have a deep sense of pity for the poor hostess who really makes a victim of herself on the shrine of her friends’ enjoyment. THE ART OF ENTERTAINING. 81 So many people are impressed by a false sense of the duties of hospitality, and con- ceive it to be incumbent on them, because they are invited out, to repay that hospi- tality in kind. Many of these are people who confer an honor on their host by ac- cepting his hospitality, and it is generally those who are entertained with pride and de- light who feel the obligation, which is quite superfluous, of returning it in some form or other. We conceive it is not because they do not realize the relative positions, but because of the English love of hospi- tality itself. Simple sorts of entertain- ment are the most enjoyable; but unluck- ily it is so much the fashion now to spend yast sums of money in the superfluities of life, such as flowers, decorations, et cetera, that it makes it more difficult every year for people of small means, who wish to emulate their richer neighbors, to enter- tain at all. It is because society is so huge, and time is so much occupied, that the most pleasant form of society, the small dinner of ten or twelve people, knowing one another well and coming only for the pleasure of an in- tellectual feast, is a thing of the past, and it is only on rare occasions that such an enjoyment is offered to us. There are recollections, however, of such events, and the ones which rise with greatest vividness to one’s memory are the Sunday ‘‘high teas’’ at Professor Huxley’s house in Marlborough Road, where a very few friends were permitted to have the rare delight of listening to his bright, forceful conversation with those he col- lected around him, and where the friend- liest welcome was always forthcoming. That, and one or two of the same kind, are oases in the dreary round of humdrum dinners, with their fatigue and doubtful enjoyment. If we could only realize that, as abroad, food and feeding is not the desideratum of entertainment, then it might become more of a pleasure and less of a labor than at the present moment. But we shall never attain to that ideal condition, so we must needs be content with our old-fashioned conception of the duties of hospitality. If the position held now by young people in society is maintained, some more simple way may become the fashion, and as they 6

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82 are now so powerful an influence in every question of social life, it is more than pos- sible that they may effect a revolution in even so conservative a matter, for they care less for the superfiuities of entertain- ments than their elders, and the quantities of flowers, choice wines and many elab- orate do not appeal to their sense of enjoyment. The French still of receiving on a given week, or less often—and there is no for- mality of any kind. The friends they expect simply drop in, evening dress not being obligatory, and after a short visit delicacies follow the old custom night—once a they go away and the party is over. A little tea, some ‘‘eau sucrée’’ or the most simple refreshment is all that is ex- pected or given. If we contrast this with the ordinary English evening party, one realizes how much greater an affair the one is than the other. At an English party the crowd is so great that any attempt at conversation is out of the question; the heat and the noise are often unbearable, and if the house is a fine one, or the host popular, it is often impossible to get up the stairs, and then, packed like herrings in a barrel, people are driven to get through the crowd, but never attempt to see or con- verse with their friends. A party at the Foreign Office royal birthday is a beautiful sight, but an entertainment in which very few of the guests can find much enjoyment. A few favored people or officials are admitted by the private entrance, but the rest of the company have to struggle through a crowd of carriages and then crush slowly and painfully up the great staircase, conscious that they are the butt and object of amuse- ment to the fortunate guests who have already arrived. When, after much agony and struggling, the guests arrive at the banqueting-room, it is only to find a larger and more hungry crowd fighting for re- freshments. It is said that a Foreign Office party costs two thousand pounds; and the pleasure it represents must fall very far short of what that sum should represent. It is, on a however, an interesting occasion, for there is generally gathered brilliant society in the world. together the most The polit- THE ART OF ENTERTAINING. ical, military and official classes are repre- sented, the royal family is always present in large numbers, while the leaders of society, and beautiful, well-dressed women, form a picture as dazzling as can be con- ceived, and the flowers which decorate the grand staircase are a fine background to a remarkable and unique scene. The most painful duty that can fall on a London is without doubt that of ball-giving. Her list is enormous, and she is a most hospitable woman. All her friends have grown-up daughters who are dying to be invited, and who know per- fectly well that it is impossible for her to ask all. The giving of a ball is a task no one should undertake lightly, for it is almost impossible to give one without offending half your friends. When a hostess sits down to write her cards, her heart must sink within her as she adds up the names of her guests, family friends or acquaintances who must be asked as a matter of course, and she reflects with a sigh of regret that nearly all the people she would like to invite must be omitted for want of space and other equally unhappy reasons. It is for that reason that it is now so much the fashion to hire some large public room and give a ball there. One offends fewer people, because one can ask more. But a greater charm in the entertainment is gone when it is given elsewhere than in one’s own house, though no one is prevented by that fact from accepting the invitation. The cost of a ball is very great, and in a hired room with the supper and band it amounts to nearly a pound a head; in one’s own house it can be done for much less and quite as well, and those people are in- deed lucky who make up their minds to entertain in a smaller way and give their dances at home. The difficulty in London is the uncer- tainty of the number who will come. As a rule, the women guests answer their invitations, and there is no difficulty on that score, but the men rarely reply, and as the success of a ball depends on there being plenty of dancing men, the hostess is ina quandary. It is said that if you ask one hundred girls you must invite between four and five hundred men, of whom a hundred and fifty will probably hostess in

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Se * appear; then your ball is a success. It is by no means certain that the biggest host- esses have the best balls, for often men vote them dull and will not go, and rows of wallflowers stand round the rooms, anx- iously looking for the errant partners who never appear. The best balls are those where the host- ess attends to the invitation list herself, for if, as is often the case, the cards are sent out by a secretary, or by the hall porter, who copies the names out of the visiting-book, many are overlooked, people who are dead or gone away are invited, and then the ball is a failure. In enter- taining, as in all other matters, the master hand is the important one, and should direct and see to all those details which are sure to go wrong if left to others. There are such a variety of ways of en- tertaining in this country, and especially in London. There are the breakfast and tea in the Park, the tea and dinner at Hurlingham or Ranelagh, the tea and skating at Princes’ and Niagara, and the ball dinner-party at the restaurants, which are doing more to alter the dinner and English society than everything else. Twenty years ago there were no restau- rants in London where a respectable woman could dine, or where even in company with her father, husband or brothers she could venture to be seen. Now there are restaurants on every side; and it is becom- ing old-fashioned and out of date to dine anywhere except at the Savoy, Carlton, Chambers and Princes’. People give their dinners there, and are invited in return, and the former prejudices and objections as to being in a mixed company have en- tirely disappeared. Duchesses and Prin- cesses rub shoulders with actresses, the aristocratic mingle with the demi-monde, and nothing adds greater zest or interest to a dinner than the presence of some well- known man or woman who has been occu- pying public attention, not necessarily in a desirable direction. The large, brill- iantly lighted room, the hum of conversa- tion, the number of well-known persons and the strains of music are attractions no one can withstand. And so all the great people in the land are flocking to restau- rants and dining there, while their own fine houses are empty and their chefs are biting THE ART OF ENTERTAINING. 83 their finger-nails with disappointed rage. The whole charm and compliment of a dinner is, to our ideas, lost when it takes place at a restaurant, in the middle of a company of which one knows little and wishes to know less. But it is all part of the way in which we all live out-of-doors nowadays. The _ old-world hospitality which was dispensed at home, either in the ordinary English home or in the great homes in London, has disappeared, or is disappearing, and with it all the grace and charm which distinguished that hospi- tality; for there is surely no comparison between the compliment that is paid by inviting guests to one’s house and invit- ing them to that which forthe moment is considered equivalent. To compare the large dining-room, with its subdued lights, and beautiful flowers and plate, the quiet servants, the background of pictures and decoration, and the sense of the dignity of home, to what a London restaurant is, would be impossible. Our idea of hospi- tality is to give our friends the best we can, and in the best surroundings we can provide, and there can be no doubt that we find all that in our own houses and no- where else. The custom of entertaining at restaurants has another, and a very serious, drawback —itis enormously expensive; and when we remember that the hospitality people dis- pense there is often in addition to the cost of carrying on a large and expensive house, one does not wonder at the stories which tell of the difficulties people land them- selves in who indulge in this new hospitality. Probably enough, the fashion will change and the fancy wear itself out, as rinking, bicycling and many other amusements have done; but one cannot help regretting even its temporary sway, for it at present causes the disappearance of one of the most delightful characteristics of our English life. Our American cousins have much to answer for in the influences which they have brought to bear on us, and which are changing and medifying so much in our lives. We must keep in touch with the times, and be prepared to see much that we revere and appreciate swept away. But let us hope that some mercy will be shown to customs and traditions which are still very dear to many of us.

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THE FIRST MEN IN THE MOON. By H. G. WELLS. XXII. ASTONISHING COMMUNICATION OF MR. JULIUS WENDIGEE. THE HEN I had finished my account of my return to the earth at Little- stone, I wrote ‘‘The End’’ with a sort of flourish and threw’ my pen aside, fully be- lieving that the whole story of ‘‘The First Men in the Moon’’ was done. Not only had I done this, but I had placed my man- uscript in the hands of a literary agent, had permitted it to be sold, had seen the greater portion of it appear in THE Cosmo- POLITAN MaGazIneE, and was setting to work again upon the scenario of the play I had commenced at Lympne, before I realized that the end was not yet. And then, following me from Amalfi to Algiers, there reached me, it is now about six weeks ago, one of the most astounding communications I have ever been fated to receive. Briefly, it informed me that Mr. Julius Wendigee, a Dutch electrician who has been experimenting with certain ap- paratus akin to the apparatus used by Mr. Tesla in America, in the hope of discover- ing some method of communication with Mars, was receiving day by day a curiously fragmentary message in English which was indisputably emanating from Mr. Cavor in the moon. At first I thought the thing was an elab- orate practical joke by some one who had seen the manuscript of my narrative. I answered Mr. Wendigee jestingly. But he replied in a manner that put such sus- picion altogether aside, and in a state of inconceivable excitement I hurried from Algiers to the little observatory upon the St. Gothard in which he was working. In the presence of his record and his appli- ances, and above all of the messages from Mr. Cavor that were coming to hand, my lingering doubts vanished. I communi- cated at once with the editor of Tur Cosmo- POLITAN MAGAZINE, warning him of the necessary prolongation of my tale, and remained with Mr. Wendigee, assisting him to take down the record from day to day, and endeavoring with him to send a mes- sage back to the moon. Cavor is not only alive but free, in the midst of an almost inconceivable community of these ant-like beings, these ant-men, in the blue dark- ness of the lunar caves. He is lamed, it seems, but otherwise in quite good health —in better health, he distinctly says, than he usually enjoyed on earth. He has had a fever, but it has left no bad effects. But, curiously enough, he seems to be laboring under a conviction that I am either dead in the moon crater or lost in the deep of space. His messages began to be received by Mr. Wendigee when that gentleman was engaged in quite a different investigation. The reader will no doubt recall the little excitement that began the century, arising out of an announcement by Mr. Nikola Tesla, the American electrical celebrity, that he had received a message from Mars. His announcement presented in a popular form a fact that had long been familiar to scientific people, namely that, from some unknown source in space, waves of electro- magnetic disturbance, entirely similar to those used by Signor Marconi for his wire- less telegraphy, are constantly reaching the earth. Besides Mr. Tesla, quite a number of other observers have been engaged in perfecting apparatus for receiving and recording these vibrations, though few would go so far as to consider them actual messages from some extraterrestrial sender. Among that few, however, we must cer- tainly count Mr. Wendigee. Ever since 1898 he has devoted himself almost en- tirely to this subject, and being a man of ample means, he has erected an observa- tory on the flanks of Monte Rosa in a posi- tion singularly adapted in every way for such observations. My scientific attainments, I must admit, are not great, but, so far as they enable me to judge, Mr. Wendigee’s contrivances for detecting and recording any disturb- ances in the electromagnetic conditions of space. are singularly original and ingen- ious. And, by a happy combination of circumstances, they were set up and in oper- ation about two months before Mr. Cavor made his first attempt to call up the earth.

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Consequently, we have fragments of his communications even from the beginning. Unhappily, they are only fragments, and the most momentous of all the things that he had to tell humanity, the instructions, that is, for the making of Cavorite, have, if indeed he has yet transmitted them, throbbed themselves away unrecorded into space. So far no one has succeeded in getting a response back to Mr. Cavor. He cannot tell, therefore, what we have re- ceived or what we have -missed, nor indeed does he certainly know that any one on earth is really aware of his efforts to reach us. And the persistence he has displayed in sending over a dozen long descriptions of lunar affairs—as they would be if we had them complete—shows how much his mind has been turned back toward his native planet since he left it two years ago. You can imagine how amazed Mr. Wen- digee must have been when he discovered the record of electromagnetic disturbances interlaced by Mr. Cavor’s straightforward English. He knew nothing of our wild journey moonward, and suddenly—this English out of the void! It is well the reader should understand the conditions under which it would seem these messages are being sent. Somewhere within the moon, Cavor certainly has access to a considerable amount of elec- trical apparatus, and it would seem he has rigged up—perhaps furtively—a transmit- ting arrangement of the Marconi type. This he is able to operate at irregular inter- vals, sometimes for only half an hour or so, sometimes for three or four hours at a stretch. At these times he transmits his earthward message, regardless of the fact that the relative position of the moon and points upon the earth's surface is constantly altering. As a consequence of this, and of the necessary imperfections of our record- ing instruments, his communication comes and goes in an extremely fitful manner; it becomes blurred; it ‘‘fades out’’ in a mys- terious and altogether exasperating way. And added to this is the fact that Mr. Cavor is not an expert operator, he has partly for- gotten the code in general use, and as he becomes fatigued he drops words and mis- spells in a curious manner. Altogether, we are probably missing quite half of the communications he makes, THE FIRST MEN IN THE MOON. 85 and much of what we get is damaged, broken and partly effaced. In this ab- stract that follows, the reader must be pre- pared therefore for a considerable amount of break, hiatus and change of topic. Mr. Wendigee and I are collaborating on a complete and annotated edition of the Cavor record, which we hope to publish, together with a detailed account of the in- struments employed, beginning with the first volume in January next. That will be the scientific report of which this is only the popular first transcript, which my rela- tion to the publisher of Tut CosMoPpoLiTaN MAGAZINE has necessitated. When .the last volume of the ampler account will appear, depends upon Mr. Cavor much more than it does upon us. XXII. AN ABSTRACT OF THE SIX MESSAGES FIRST RECEIVED FROM MR. CAVOR. The two earlier messages of Mr. Cavor may very well be reserved for that larger volume. They simply tell with greater brevity, and with a difference in several details that is interesting but not of any vital importance, the bare facts of the mak- ing of the sphere and our departure from the world. Throughout, Cavor speaks of me as a man who is dead, but with a curi- ous change of temper as he approaches our landing on the moon. ‘‘Poor Bedford,’’ he says of me, and, ‘‘this poor young man’’; and he blames himself for inducing a young man, ‘‘by no means well equipped for such adventures,’’ to leave a planet ‘‘on which he was indisputably fitted to succeed’’ on so precarious a mission. I think he underrates the part my energy and practical capacity played in bringing about the realization of his theoretical sphere. ‘*We arrived,’’ he says, with no more ac- count of our passage through space than if we had made a journey of common occur- rence in a railway-train. And then he becomes unfair in his ac- count to an extent I should not have expected in a man trained in the search for truth. Looking back over my previ- ously written account of these things, I must insist that I have been altogether more fair to Cavor than he has been to me. I have extenuated little and suppressed nothing. But his account is:

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THE FIRST MEN IN THE MOON. ‘It speedily became apparent that the entire strangeness of our circumstances and surroundings—great loss of weight, atten- uated but highly oxygenated air, consequent exaggeration of the results of muscular effort, rapid development of weird plants from lurid sky—was exciting my companion unduly. On _ the moon his character seemed to deteriorate. He became impulsive, rash and quarrelsome. In a little while his folly in devouring some gigantic vesicles, and his consequent intox- ication, led to our capture by the Selenites —before we had had any opportunity of properly observing their ways.’’ (He says, you observe, nothing of his own concession to these same ‘‘vesicles.’’) And he goes on from that point to say that ‘‘we came to a difficult passage with them, and Bedford, mistaking certain gestures of theirs’’—pretty gestures they were —‘‘gave way to a panic violence. He ran amuck, killed three, and perforce I had to flee with him after the outrage. Subsequently we fought with a number who endeavored to bar our way, and slew seven or eight more. It says much for the tolerance of these beings, that on my re- capture I was not instantly slain. We made our way to the exterior, and sepa- rated in the crater of our arrival, to increase our chances of recovering our sphere. But presently I came upon a body of Selenites, led by two who were curiously different even in form from any of those we had seen hitherto, with larger heads and smaller bodies, much more elaborately wrapped about. And after evading them for some time, I fell into a crevasse, cut my head rather badly and displaced my patella, and finding crawling very painful, decided to surrender—if they would still permit me todo so. This they did; and perceiving my helpless condition, carried me with them again into the moon. And of Bed- ford I have heard or seen nothing more; nor, so far as I can gather, has any Sele- nite. Either the night overtook him in the crater, or else, which is more probable, he found the sphere, and desiring to steal a obscure spores, march upon me, made off with it—only, I fear, to find it uncontrollable and to meet .9 a more lingering fate in outer space. And with that Mr. Cavor dismisses me and goes on to more interesting topics. I dislike the idea of seeming to use my posi- tion as his editor to deflect his story in my own interest, but I am obliged to protest here against the turn he gives these occur- rences. He says nothing about that gasp- ing message on the blood-stained paper in which he told, or attempted to tell, a very different story. The dignified self-sur- render is an altogether new view of the affair that has come to him, I must insist, since he began to feel secure among the lunar people; and as for the ‘‘stealing a march’’ conception, I am quite willing to let the reader decide between us on what he has before him. I know I am nota model man—I have made no pretense to be. But am I that? However, that is the sum of my wrongs. From this point I can edit Mr. Cavor with an untroubled mind, for he mentions no more. It would seem the Selenites who had come upon him carried him to some point in the interior down ‘‘a great shaft’’ by means of what he describes as ‘‘a sort of balloon.’’? We gather from the rather con- fused passage in which he describes this, and from a number of chance allusions and hints in other and subsequent messages, that this ‘‘great shaft’’ is one of an enor- mous system of artificial shafts that run, each from what is called a lunar ‘‘crater,’’ downward for very nearly a hundred miles toward the central portion of our satellite. These shafts communicate by transverse tunnels, they throw out abysmal caverns and expand into great globular places; the whole of the moon’s substance for a hun- dred miles inward is a mere sponge of rock. ‘‘Partly,’’ says Cavor, ‘‘its spongi- ness is natural, but very largely it is due to the enormous industry of the Selenites in the past, the enormous circular mounds of the excavated rock and earth they have expelled forming those great circles about the ‘tunnels which the earthly astronomers, pursuing a false analogy, have identified ’ me as volcanoes.’ It was down this shaft they took him, in this ‘‘sort of balloon’’ he speaks of, at first into an inky blackness and then into a region of continually increasing phos- phorescence. Cavor’s dispatches show him to be curiously regardless of detail for a scientific man, but we gather that this

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THE FIRST MEN IN THE MOON. Drawn by E. Hering. “*“AMONG THEIR CATCH light was due to the streams and cascades of water—‘‘no doubt containing some phos- flowed ever the descended, he phorescent organism’’—that more abundantly downward toward Central And as he ‘‘the Selenites also nous.’’ And at far below saw as it were a lake of heatless fire, waters of the Central Sea, glowing eddying in strange perturbation, ‘‘like lu- Sea. became lumi- him, he the and says, last, WAS A MANY-TENTACULATE, EVIL-EYED THING, FEROCIOUSLY ACTIVE.’ " minous blue milk that is just on the boil.’’ ‘*This Lunar Sea,’’ says Cavor in a later passage, ‘‘is not a stagnant ocean. A solar tide sends it in a perpetual flow around the lunar axis, and strange storms and boilings and rushings of its waters occur, and at times cold winds and thunderings that ascend out of it into the busy ways of the great ant-hill above. It is only when the water is in motion that it gives out light;

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88 in its rare seasons of calm it is blue. Commonly when one sees it, its waters rise and fall in an oily swell, and flakes and big rafts of shining, bubbly foam drift with the sluggish, faintly glowing current. The Selenites navigate its cavernous straits and lagoons in little shallow boats of a -anoe-like shape, and even before my jour- ney to the galleries about the Grand Lunar who is Master of the Moon, I was permitted to make a brief excursion on its waters. ‘‘The caverns and passages are naturally very tortuous. A large proportion of these ways are known only to expert pilots among the fishermen, and not infrequently Selenites are lost forever in their labyrinths. In their remoter recesses, I am told, strange creatures lurk, some of the terrible and dangerous creatures that all the science of the moon has been unable to exterminate. There is particularly the Rapha, an inex- tricable mass of clutching tentacles that one hacks to pieces only to multiply; and the Tzee, a darting creature that is never seen, so subtly and suddenly does it slay. . . ”’ He gives a gleam of description :— ‘‘T was reminded on this excursion of what I have read of the Mammoth Cave; if only I had had a yellow flambeau in- stead of the pervading blue light, and a solid-looking boatman with an oar instead of a scuttle-faced Selenite working an engine at the back of the canoe, I could have imagined I had suddenly got back to earth. The rocks about us were very various —sometimes black, sometimes pale- blue and veined, and once they flashed and glittered as though we had come into a mine of sapphires. And below, one saw the ghostly, phosphorescent fishes flash and vanish in the hardly less phosphorescent deep. Then presently a long ultramarine vista down the turgid stream of one of the channels of traffic, and a landing-stage, and then perhaps a glimpse up the enormous crowded shaft of one of the vertical ways. ‘‘In one great place, heavy with glisten- ing stalactites, a number of boats were fishing. We went alongside one of these and watched the long-armed fishing Sel- enites winding in anet. They were little hunchbacked insects with very strong arms, short bandy-legs and crinkled face- masks. As they pulled at it, that net seemed the heaviest thing I had come upon THE FIRST MEN IN THE MOON. in the moon. It was loaded with weights —no doubt of gold—and it took a long time to draw, for in those waters the larger and more edible fish lurk deep. The fish in the net came up like a blue moonrise —a blaze of darting, tossing blue. ‘‘Among their catch was a many-tentac- ulate, evil-eyed, black thing, ferociously active, whose appearance they greeted with shrieks and twitters, and which with quick, nervous movements they hacked to pieces by means of little hatchets. All its dissevered limbs continued to lash and writhe in a vicious manner. Afterward, when fever had hold of me, I dreamed again and again of that bitter, furious creature rising so vigorous and active out of the unknown sea. It was the most active and malignant thing of all the liv- ing creatures I have yet seen in this world inside the moon. . . . ‘‘The surface of this sea must be very nearly two hundred miles (if not more) below the level of the moon’s exterior. All the cities of the moon lie, I learned, in such cavernous spaces and artificial gal- leries as I have described, immediately above this Central Sea, and communicate with the exterior by enormous vertical shafts which open invariably in what are called by earthly astronomers the ‘craters’ of the moon. The lid covering one such aperture I had already seen during the wanderings that had preceded my capture. ‘‘Upon the condition of the less central portion of the moon, I have not yet arrived at very precise knowledge. There is an enormous system of caverns in which the mooncalves shelter during the night, and there are abattoirs and the like, for in one of these it was that Bedford and I fought with the Selenite fletchers, and I have since seen balloons laden with meat descending out of the upper dark. I have as yet scarcely learned as much of these things as a Zulu in London would learn about the British corn supplies in the same time. It is clear, however, that these vertical shafts and the vegetation of the surface must play an essential role in ventilating and keeping fresh the atmosphere of the moon. At one time, and particularly on my first emergence from my prison, there was certainly a cold wind blowing down

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THE FIRST MEN IN THE MOON. 89 the shaft, and later there was a kind of sirocco upward that corresponded with my fever. For at the end Of about three weeks, I fell ill of an indefinable sort of fever, and in spite of sleep and the quinine I had in my pocket, I re- mained ill and fretting miserably almost to the time when I was taken into the palace of the Grand Lunar who is Master of the Moon. ‘*T will not dilate on the wretchedness of my condi- tion, ’’ heremarks, *‘during those days of ill health.’’ And he goes on with great amplitude with details I omit here. ‘‘My tempera- ture,’’ he concludes, ‘‘kept at over a hundred degrees for a long time, and I lost all desire for food. I had stagnant waking in- tervals, and sleep tormented by dreams, and at one phase I was, I remember, so weak as to be earth-sick and almost hysterical. I longed almost intolerably for color to break the ever- lasting blue.’’ He reverts again pres- ently to the topic of this sponge-caught lunar atmos- phere. I am told by astron- omers and physicists that all he tells is in absolute accordance with what was already known of the moon’s condition. Had earthly astronomers had the cour- and imagination to push home a bold induc- tion, says Mr. Wendigee, they might have foretold almost everything that Cavor has to say of the general structure of the moon. They know now pretty certainly that moon and earth are not so much satellite and primary as smaller and greater sisters, made out of one mass, age the same material. And since the density of the moon is only three-fifths that of the earth, there can be nothing for it but that she is hollowed out by a great system of caverns. There was no necessity, says Sir Jabez Flap, F.R.S., that most enter- taining exponent of the facetious side of the stars, that we should ever have gone to the moon to find out such easy infer- ences, and points the quip with an allusion of Gruyére —but he cer- tainly 1 ‘ Drawn by E. Hering. and consequently made of IN THE OBSERVATORY OF JULIUS WENDIGEE,

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90 might have announced his knowledge of the hollowness of the moon before. And if the moon is hollow, then the ap- parent absence of air and water is, of course, quite easily explained. The sea lies, of course, inside at the bottom of the caverns, and the air travels through the great galleries in accordance with simple physical laws. The caverns of the moon, on the whole, are very windy places. As the sunlight comes round the moon, the air in the outer galleries on that side is heated, its pressure increases, some flows out on the exterior and mingles with the evaporating air of the craters (where the plants remove its car- bonic acid), while the greater portion flows round through the galleries to replace the shrinking air of the cooling side that the sunlight has left. There is therefore a con- stant eastward breeze in the air of the outer galleries, and an upfiow during the lunar day in the shafts, complicated, of course, very greatly by the varying shape of the galleries and the ingenious contrivances of the Sele- sponge of nite mind. ARI. HISTORY OF THE SELENITES. THE NATURAL The messages of Cavor, from the sixth up to the one that was recorded by us yesterday, April 19th, are for the most part so much broken, and they abound so in repetitions, that they scarcely form a con- secutive narrative. They will be given in full course in the scientific report, but here it will be far more convenient to continue simply to abstract and quote, as in the former chapter. We have subjected every word to a keen critical scrutiny, and my own brief memories and impressions of lunar things have been of inestimable help in interpreting what would otherwise have And naturally, our interest as that of living beings centers far more upon the strange community of been impenetrably dark. lunar insects in which he is living, it would seem as an honored guest, than upon the mere physical condition of the world. I have already made it clear, I think, that the Selenites whom I saw resembled man in maintaining the erect attitude and in having four limbs, and I have compared the general appearance of their heads and the jointing of their limbs to that of in- ‘of which Cavor tells. THE FIRST MEN IN THE MOON. sects. I have mentioned, too, the peculiar consequence of the smaller gravitation of the moon on their fragile slightness. Cavor confirms me upon all these points. He calls them ‘‘animals,’’ though of course they fall under no division of the classification of earthly creatures, and, he points out, ‘‘the insect type of anatomy had, fortunately for men, never exceeded a relatively very small size on earth.’’ The largest insects, living or extinct, do not, as a matter of fact, measure six inches in length—‘‘but here, against the lesser gravitation of the moon, a creature cer- tainly as much insect as vertebrate seems to have been able to attain to human and ultrahuman dimensions. ’’ He does not mention the ant, but throughout his allusions the ant is con- tinually being brought before my mind, in its sleepless activity, in its intelligence and social organization, in its structure, and more particularly in the fact that it displays in addition to the two forms, the male and the female form, that almost all animals possess, a number of other sexless creatures—workers, soldiers and the like —differing from one another in structure, character, power and use, and yet all members of the same species. But of course these Selenites are not only colos- sally greater in size than ants but also, in Cavor’s opinion, in respect to intelligence, morality and social wisdom, on the same scale are they greater than men. There are almost innumerable sorts of Selenite. I have endeavored to indicate the very considerable difference observable in such Selenites of the Outer Crust as I happened to encounter. The differences in size, hue and shape were certainly as wide as the differences between. the most widely separated races of men. But such differ- ences as I saw fade absolutely to nothing in comparison with the huge distinctions It would seem that the exterior Selenites I saw were indeed mostly of one color and occupation, moon- calf herds, butchers and fletchers and the like. But within the moon, practically unsuspected by me, there are, it seems, a number of other sorts of Selenite, differing in size, differing in form, differing in power and appearance, and yet not dif- ferent species of creatures, but only dif-

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7HE FIRST MEN IN THE MOON. gI ferent forms of one species. The moon is indeed a sort of vast ant-hill, only instead of there being only four or five sorts of ant—worker, soldier, winged male, queen hundred dif- every and slave—there are ferent sorts of Selenite, gradation between one sort and another. It would seem the discovery came upon Cavor very speedily. I infer, rather than learn from his narrative, that he was capt- ured by the mooncalf herds under the di- rection of those other Selenites who ‘‘have many and almost larger brain-cases [heads?] and very much shorter legs.’’ Finding he would not walk, even under the goad, they carried him into darkness—crossed a_ narrow, plank-like bridge that may have been the identical bridge I had refused—and_ put him down in something that must have seemed at first to sort of lift. This was the balloon—it had certainly been absolutely invisible to us in the darkness— and what had seemed to me a mere plank- walking into the void was really no doubt this he be some the passage of the gangway. In descended toward constantly more lumi- nous strata of the moon. At first they de- scended in silence—save for the twitterings of the Selenites—and then into a stir of windy movement. In a little while the profound blackness had made his eyes so sensitive that he began to see more and more of the things about him, and at last the vague took shape. ‘*Conceive an enormous space,’’ says Cavor in his seventh message, ‘‘a quarter of a mile across perhaps, very dimly lit at first and then brighter, with big platforms twisting down its sides in a spiral that vanishes at last below in a blue profundity; and lit even more brightly— one could not tell how or why. Think of the well of the very largest spiral staircase or lift-shaft that you have ever looked down, and magnify that by a hundred. Imagine it at twilight and seen through blue glass. Imagine looking down that—only imagine also that you feel extraordinarily light and have got rid of any giddy feeling you might have on earth—and you will have the first condi- tions of my impression. Round this enor- mous shaft imagine a broad gallery running in a much steeper spiral than would be credible on earth, and forming a steep road cylindrical yourself protected from the gulf only by a little parapet that vanishes at last in perspective a couple of miles below. ‘‘Looking up, I saw the very fellow of the had, of course, the effect of looking into a very steep cone. A wind was blowing down the shaft, and far above, I fancy, I heard, growing fainter moon- downward vision; it and fainter, the bellowing of the calves that were being driven down again from their evening the ex- terior, and through long transverse tunnels the next crater. And down on the scattered numerous moon people, pallid, faintly self- past urage on available were toward galleries luminous insects, regarding our appearance or busied on unknown errands. ‘*Either I fancied it, or a flake of snow drifting swiftly down the icy breeze. And then, falling like a flake, a little figure, a little man-insect clinging to a parachute, drove down very swiftly toward the central places of the moon. ‘*The big-headed Selenite sitting beside me, seeing me move my head with the came on snow- gesture of one who saw, pointed with his trunk-like ‘hand’ and indicated a sort of jetty coming into sight very far below; a little landing-stage as it were, hanging into the void. As it swept up toward us, our pace diminished very rapidly, and in a few seemed, we were abreast of it and at rest. A mooring rope was flung and grasped, and I found myself pulled down to a level with a great crowd of Selenites who jostled to see me. ‘Tt was an incredible crowd. Suddenly and violently there was forced upon my attention the vast difference there is amongst the people of the moon. Indeed, there seemed not two alike in all that jostling multitude. They differed in shape, they differed in size. Some bulged and overhung, some ran about among the feet of their some twined and interlaced like snakes. All of them had a grotesque and disquieting suggestion of an insect that has somehow contrived to mock humanity. All seemed to present an in- credible exaggeration of some particular feature. One had a vast right fore-limb, a huge antennal arm as it One seemed all legs, poised as it were on stilts. Another protruded an enormous nose-like organ beside a sharply speculative eye that moments, as_ it amount of fellows, were.

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92 made him startlingly human until one saw his expressionless mouth. One has seen punchinellos made of lobster-claws—he was like that. The strange and (except for the want of mandibles and palps) most insect-like head of the mooncalf-minders, underwent astounding transformations: here it was broad and low, here high and narrow; here its vacuous brow was drawn out into horns and strange features, here it was whiskered and divided and there with a grotesquely human profile. There were several brain-cases distended like bladders to a huge size. The eyes too were strangely varied—some quite ele- phantine in their small alertness, huge pits of darkness. There were amaz- ing forms with heads reduced to micro- scopic proportions and blobby bodies, and fantastic, flimsy things that existed, it would seem, only as a basis for vast, white- rimmed, glaring eyes. And oddest of all, as it seemed to me for the moment—two or three of these weird inhabitants of a subterranean world, a world sheltered by innumerable miles of rock from sun or rain, carried umbrellas in their tentaculate hands—real, terrestrial-looking umbrellas! And then I thought of the parachutist I had watched descend. ‘*These moon people behaved exactly as a human crowd might have done in similar circumstances: they jostled and thrust one another, they shoved one another aside, they even clambered upon one an- other to get a glimpse of me. Every moment they increased in numbers, and pressed more urgently upon the disks of my ushers’’—Cavor does not explain what he means by this—‘‘every moment fresh forced themselves upon my astounded attention. And presently I was signed and helped into a sort of litter, and lifted up on the shoulders of strong-armed bearers and so borne over this seething nightmare toward the apart- ments that were provided for me in the moon. All about me were eyes, faces, masks, tentacles, a leathery noise like the rustling of beetle-wings, and a great bleat- ing and twittering of Selenite voices.’ some shapes We gather he was taken to a ‘‘ hexagonal apartment,’’ and there for a space was Afterward he was given a much confined. THE FIRST MEN IN THE MOON. more considerable liberty, indeed almost as much freedom as one has in a civilized town: on earth. It would appear that this mysterious Being, the central intelli- gence of the moon, has appointed two Selenites with large heads to guard and study him, and to establish whatever mental communications are possible with him. And, amazing and incredible as it may seem, these two creatures, these gigantic men-insects, these beings of an- other world, are even now rapidly master- ing the English tongue. Cavor speaks of them as Phi-oo and Tsi-puff. Phi-oo, he says, is about five feet high; he has slender legs about eighteen inches long, and slight feet of the common lunar pattern; on this rises a little body, which throbs with the pulsa- tions of his heart. He has long, soft, many-jointed arms ending in a tentacled grip, and his neck is many-jointed in the usual way, but exceptionally short and thick. His head, says Cavor—apparently alluding to some previous description that has gone astray in space—is of the common lunar type, but strangely modified. The mouth has the usual expressionless gape, but it is unusually small and pointing downward, and the mask is reduced to the size of a large, flat nose-flap. On either side are the little hen-like eyes. The rest of the head is distended into a huge globe, and the chitinous leathery cuticle of the mooncalf herds to a mere membrane through which the pulsating brain movements are distinctly visible. He is a creature, indeed, with a tremen- dously hypertrophied brain, and with the rest of his organism both relatively and absolutely dwarfed. In one passage Cavor compares the back view of him to Atlas Tsi-puff, it seems, ’ supporting the world. is a very similar insect, but his ‘‘face’ is drawn out to a considerable length, and the brain hypertrophy being in different regions, his head is not round but pear- shaped, with the stalk downward. There are also litter-carriers, lop-sided beings with enormous shoulders; very spidery ushers; and a squat food-attendant, in Cavor’s present retinue. The manner in which Phi-oo and Tsi- puff attacked the problem of speech was fairly obvious.

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THE FIRST MEN IN THE MOON. Drawn by E. Hering. ‘** THERE SEEMED NOT TWO ALIKE IN ALL THAT JOSTLING MULTITUDE.’ They came into this ‘‘hexagonal cell’’ in which Cavor was confined, and began imitating every sound he made, beginning with a cough. He seems to have grasped their intention with great quickness and begun repeating words to them and pointing. The procedure was probably always the same. Phi-oo would attend to Cavor for a space, then point also and say the word he had heard. The first word he mastered was ‘‘man,’’ and the second ‘‘Mooney’’ —which Cavor on the spur of the moment seems to have used instead of ‘‘Selenite’’ for them. As soon as Phi-oo was assured of the meaning of a word, he repeated it to Tsi-puff, who remembered it infallibly. They mastered over one hundred English nouns at their first session. Subsequently, it seems, they brought an artist with them to assist the work of explanation with sketches and diagrams —Cavor’s drawings being rather crude. He was, says Cavor, ‘‘a being with an active arm and an arresting eye,’’ and he seems to draw with incredible swiftness. The eleventh message is undoubtedly only a fragment of a longer communica- tion. After some broken sentences the record of which is unintelligible, it goes on :— ‘*But it will interest only linguists, and delay me too long, to give the details of the series of intent parleys of which these were the beginning, and indeed I very much doubt if I could give in anything like the proper order all the twistings and turnings that we made in our pursuit of mutual comprehension. Verbs were soon plain sailing—at least such active verbs as I could express by drawings; some adjec- tives were easy; but when it came to ab- stract nouns, to prepositions, and the sort of hackneyed figures of speech by means of which so much is expresséd on earth, it was like diving in cork jackets. Indeed, these difficulties were insurmountable until to the sixth lesson came a fourth assistant, a being with a huge football-shaped head, forte was clearly the pursuit of intricate analogy. He entered in a pre- occupied manner, stumbling against a stool, and the difficulties that arose had to be presented to him with a certain amount of clamor and hitting and pricking before they reached his apprehension. But once he was involved, his penetration was amaz- ing. Whenever there came a need of thinking beyond Phi-oo’s by means limited scope, this prolate-headed person was in request, but he invariably told the conclusion to Tsi-puff, in order that it might be remembered ; Tsi-puff was ever the ~ whose no

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94 arsenal of facts. And so we advanced again. ‘‘It seemed long, and yet brief—a matter of days—before I was positively talking with these insects of the moon. Of course, at first it was an intercourse tedious and: exasperating, but impercepti- bly it has grown to comprehension. And my patience has grown to meet its limita- tions. Phi-oo it is who does all the talk- ing. He does it with a vast amount of meditative provisional ‘M’m—m’m’; and he has caught up one or two phrases, ‘If I may say,’ ‘If you understand,’ and beads all his speech with them. ‘‘Thus he would discourse. Imagine him explaining his artist: ‘M’m—m’m —he—if I may say—draw. Eat little drink littl—draw. Love draw. No other thing. Hate all who not draw like him. Angry. Hate all who draw like him better. Hate most people. _ Hate all who not think all world for to draw. Angry. M’m. All things mean nothing to him—only draw. He like you if you understand—new thing to draw. Ugly— striking. Eh? ‘* ‘He’—turning to Tsi-puff—‘love re- member words. Remember wonderful more than any. Think no, draw no— remember! Say’—here he referred to his gifted assistant for a word—‘histories —all things. He hear once—say ever.’ ‘‘It is more wonderful to me than I had dreamed that anything ever could be again, to hear these extraordinary creatures—for even familiarity fails to weaken the in- human effect of their appearance—con- tinually piping a nearer approach to co- herent earthly speech, asking questions, giving answers. I feel that I am casting back to the fable-hearing period of child- hood again when the ant and the grasshopper talked together and the bee judged be- tween them.”’ And while these linguistic exercises have been going on, Cavor seems to have experienced a considerable relaxation of his confinement. The first dread and dis- trust our unfortunate conflict aroused is being, he says, ‘‘continually effaced by the deliberate rationality of allI do. . . . I am now able to come and go as I please, or Iam restricted only formy own good. So it is I have been able to get at this appa- THE FIRST MEN IN THE MOON. ratus, and, assisted by a happy find among the material that is littered in this enor- mous store-cave, have contrived to dispatch these messages. So far, not the slightest attempt has been made to interfere with me in this, though I have made it quite clear to Phi-oo that I am signaling to the earth. ‘* “You talk to other?’ he asked, watch- ing me. ‘* ‘Others,’ said I. ‘* ‘Others,’ he said. ‘Oh, yes.’ ‘‘And I went on transmitting. That was the little break in yesterday’s com- munication. ”’ Neither Mr. Wendigee nor myself can as yet identify that break. Cavor is continually transmitting correc- tions to his previous accounts of the Sele- nites, as fresh facts flowin upon him to modify his conclusions, and accordingly one gives the quotations that follow with a certain amount of reservation. They are quoted from the ninth, the thirteenth, and the seventeenth message (which is, up to the date of writing this, the last received), and they seem to express his present knowledge of the moon-folk. ‘*In the moon,’’ he says, ‘‘every citizen knows his place. He is that place, and the elaborate discipline of train- ing and education and surgery he under- goes fits him at last so completely to it that he has neither ideas nor organs for any purpose beyond it. ‘Why should he?’ Phi-oo would ask. If, for example, a Selenite is destined to be a mathematician, his teachers and trainers set out at once to that end. They check any incipient dis- position to other pursuits, they encourage his mathematical bias with a perfect psy- chological skill. His brain grows, or at least the mathematical faculties of his brain grow, and the rest of him only so much as is necessary to sustain this essential part of him. At last, save for rest and food, his one delight lies in the exercise and display of his faculty, his one interest in its application, his sole society with other specialists in his own line. His brain grows continually larger, at least so far as the portions engaging in mathematics are concerned; they bulge ever larger and seem to suck all life and born to

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THE FIRST MEN IN THE MOON. 95 vigor from the rest of his frame. His limbs shrivel, his heart and digestive organs diminish, his insect face is hidden under its bulging contours. His voice be- comes a mere squeak for the stating of formulas; he seems deaf to all but prop- erly enunciated problems. The faculty of laughter, save for the sudden discovery of some paradox, is lost to him. His deepest emotion is the evolution of a novel putation. And so he attains his end. ‘‘Or again, a Selenite appointed to be a com- minder of mooncalves is from his earliest years induced to think and live mooncalf, to find his pleasure in mooncalf lore, his exercise in the tending and pursuit of this creature. He is trained to become wiry and active, his indurated to the tight wrappings, the angular contours, that constitute a ‘smart mooncalfishness.” He takes at last no interest in the deeper part of the moon; he regards all Selenites not equally versed in mooncalves with indiffer- ence, derision or hostility. His thoughts are of mooncalf pastures, and his dialect is an accomplished mooncalf technique. So also he loves his work and discharges in perfect happiness the duty that justifies And so it is with all sorts and zach is a perfect eye is his being. conditions of Selenites: unit in a world-machine. ‘‘These big-heads form a sort of aristoc- racy in this strange society, and at the head of them, quintessential of the moon, is that marvelous gigantic ganglion, the Grand Lunar, into whose presence I am finally to come. The unlimited develop- ment of the minds of the intellectual class is rendered possible by the absence of any bony skull in the lunar anatomy, that strange box of bone that clamps about the developing brain of man imperiously in- sisting ‘Thus far and no farther’ to all his possibilities. They fall into three main classes, differing greatly in influence and respect. There are the administrators, of whom Phi-oo was one—Selenites of considerable initiative and versatility, re- sponsible each for a certain cubic content of the moon’s bulk; the experts, like the football-headed thinker, who were trained to perform certain special operations; and the erudite, who were the repositories of all knowledge. To this little class be- longed Tsi-puff, the first lunar professor of terrestrial languages. With regard to these latter, it is a curious little thing to note that the unlimited growth of the lunar brain has rendered unnecessary the invention of all those mechanical aids to brainwork which have distinguished the career of man. are no books, no records of any sort, no libraries or inscrip- tions. All knowledge dis- tended brains, much as the honey-ants of Texas store honey in their distended abdo- mens. The lunar Somerset House and the lunar British Museum Library are collec- tions of living brains. ‘‘The less specialized administrators, I note, for the part take a very lively interest in me whenever they en- counter me. They will come out of the way and stare at me, and ask questions, to view them There is stored in do most which Phi-oo will reply. I going hither and thither with a retinue of shouters, parachute- attendants, carriers, and so forth—queer groups to see. The experts for the most part ignore me completely, even as they ignore each other, bearers, or notice me only to begin a clamorous exhibition of their distinctive skill. The erudite for the most part are rapt in an impervious and apoplectic complacency, from which only a denial of their erudition can rouse them. Usually they are led about by little watchers and attendants, and often among these there are small and active-looking creatures, small females us- ually, that I am inclined to think are a sort of wife to them; but some of the pro- founder scholars are altogether too great for locomotion and are carried from place to place in a sort of sedan tub, wabbling jellies of knowledge that enlist my respect- ful astonishment. I have just passed one in coming to this place where I am per- mitted to amuse myself with these elec- trical toys—a vast shaven shaky head, bald and thin-skinned, carried on his grotesque stretcher. In front and behind, his bearers, and curious, almost trumpet-faced, news- disseminators, shrieked his fame. ‘‘T have already mentioned the retinues that accompanied most of the intellectuals: ushers, bearers, valets—extraneous tenta- cles and muscles, as it were, to replace the abortive physical powers of these hypertro- phied minds. Porters almost invariably accompanied them. There are also ex-

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96 tremely swift messengers, with spider-like legs and ‘hands’ for grasping parachutes; and attendants with vocal organs that could well-nigh wake the dead. Apart from their controlling intelligence, these subordi- nates are as inert and helpless as umbrellas inastand. They exist only in relation to the orders they have to obey, the duties they have to perform. Their interests are limited by their necessities. ‘‘The bulk of these insects, however, who go to and fro upon the spiral ways, who fill the ascending balloons and drop past me clinging to flimsy parachutes, are, I gather, of the operative class. ‘Machine hands’ indeed some of these are in actual nature—it is no figure of speech; the single tentacle of the mooncalf herd is re- placed by huge single or paired bunches of three or five or seven digits for clawing, lifting, guiding; the rest of them no more than necessary subordinate appendages to these important parts. Some, who I sup- pose deal with bell-striking mechanisms, have enormous rabbit-like ears just behind the eyes; some whose work lies in delicate chemical operations project a vast olfactory organ ; feet for treadles, with anchylosed joints; and others —who I have been told are glass-blowers —seem mere lung-bellows. But every one of these common Selenites I have seen at work is exquisitely adapted to the social Fine work is done by fined- workers, amazingly dwarfed and Some I could hold on the palm of There is even a sort of turnspit others, again, have flat need it meets. down neat. my hand. Selenite, very common, whose duty and only delight it is to supply the motive- power for various small appliances. And to rule over these things and order any erring tendency there might be in some aberrant nature, are the finest muscular beings 1 have seen in the moon, a sort of lunar police, who must have been trained from their earliest years to give a perfect respect and obedience to the swollen-heads. ‘‘The making of these various sorts of operative must be a very curious and interesting process. I am still very much in the dark about it, but quite recently I came upon a number of young Selenites confined in jars from which only the fore- limbs protruded, who were being com- pressed to become machine-minders of a THE FIRST MEN IN THE MOON. special sort. The extended ‘hand’ is stimulated by irritants, and nourished by injection, while the rest of the body is starved. Phi-oo, unless I misunderstood him, explained that in the earlier stages these queer little creatures are apt to dis- play signs of suffering in their various cramped situations, but they easily become indurated to their lot; and he took me on to where a number of flexible-limbed mes- sengers were being drawn out and broken in. It is quite unreasonable, I know, but this glimpse of the educational methods of these beings has affected me disagree- ably. I hope, however, that may pass off and I may be able to see more of this aspect of this wonderful social order. That wretched-looking hand sticking out of its jar seemed to have a sort of limp ap- peal for lost possibilities; it haunts me still, although of course it is really in the end a far more humane proceeding than our earthly method of leaving children to grow into human beings and then making machines of them. ‘*Quite recently, too—I think it was on the eleventh or twelfth visit I made to this apparatus—I had a curious light upon the lives of these operatives. I was being brought through a shori cut hither, in- stead of down the spiral and by the sea jetty. From the devious windings of a long, dark gallery, we emerged into a vast, low cavern, pervaded by an earthy smell and rather brightly lit. The light came from a tumultuous growth of livid fungoid shapes—some indeed singularly like our terrestrial mushrooms, but stand- ing as high as or higher than a man. ‘* “Mooneys eat these?’ said I to Phi-oo. ‘* “Yes—food.’ ‘* “Goodness me!’ I cried, ‘what’s that!’ ‘*‘My eye had just caught the figure of an exceptionally big and ungainly Selenite lying motionless among the stems face downward. We stopped. ‘* ‘Dead?’ I asked. (For as yet I have seen no dead in the moon and I have been growing curious. ) ‘**No!’ exclaimed worker—no work to do. then—make sleep—till we What good him wake, eh? walking about.’ ‘* ‘There’s another!’ cried I. Phi-oo. ‘Him— Get little drink him want. No want him

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THE FIRST MEN IN THE MOON. hp aetieesk ee ES Drawn by E. Hering. ae FAR, NOT THE SLIGHTEST ATTEMPT HAS BEEN MADE TO INTERFERE WITH ME.’”

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98 ‘‘And indeed all that huge extent of mushroom ground was, I found, peppered with these prostrate figures sleeping under an opiate until the moon had need of them. There were scores of them of all sorts, and we were able to turn over some of them and examine them more precisely than I had been able to do previously. They breathed noisily at my doing so, but did not wake. One I remember very dis- tinctly; he left a strong impression, I think, because some trick of the light and of his attitude was strongly suggestive of a drawn-up human figure. His fore-limbs were long, delicate tentacles—he was some kind of refined manipulator—and that pose of his slumber suggested a submissive suffering, No doubt it was quite a mis- take for me to interpret his expression in that way, but I did. And as Phi-oo rolled him over into the darkness among the livid fleshiness again, I felt a distinctly un- pleasant sensation, although as he rolled the insect was confessed. ‘It simply illustrates the unthinking way in which one acquires habits of thought and feeling. To drug the worker one does not want and toss him aside, is surely far better than to expel him from his factory to wander starving in the streets. In every complicated social com- munity there is necessarily a certain inter- mittency in the occupation of all civilized labor, and in this way the trouble of an unemployed problem is altogether antici- pated. And yet, so unreasonable are even scientific minds, I still do not like the memory of those prostrate forms amidst those quiet luminous arcades of fleshy growth, and I avoid that short cut in spite of its longer, more noisy and more crowded alternative. ‘*My alternative route takes me round by a huge shadowy cavern, very crowded and clamorous, and here it is I see—peer- ing out of the hexagonal openings of a sort of honeycomb wall, or parading a large open space behind, or selecting the toys and amulets made to please them by the acephalic, dainty-fingered jewelers who work in kennels below—the mothers of the moon-world, the queen-bees, as it were, of the hive. They are noble-looking beings, fantastically and sometimes quite beauti- THE FIRST MEN IN THE MOON. fully adorned, with a proud carriage and, save for their mouths, almost microscopic heads. . ‘‘Of the condition of the moon sexes, marrying and giving in marriage, and of birth and so forth among the Selenites, I have as yet been able to learn very little. With the steady progress of Phi-oo in English, however, my ignorance will no doubt as steadily disappear. I am of opinion that, as with the ants and bees, there are a large majority of the members in this community of the neuter sex. Of course, on earth in our cities there are many who never live that life of parentage which is the natural life of man. Here, as with the ants, this thing has become a normal condition of the race, and the whole of such replacement as is necessary falls upon this special and by no means numer- ous class of matrons, the mothers of the moon-world, large and stately beings beau- tifully fitted to bear the larval Selenite. Unless I misunderstand an explanation of Phi-oo’s, they are absolutely iucapable of cherishing the young they bring into the moon; periods of foolish indulgence alter- nating with moods of aggressive violence, and as soon as possible the little creatures, who are quite soft and flabby and pale- colored, are transferred to the charge of a variety of celibate females, women ‘workers’ as it were, who in some cases possess brains of almost masculine dimensions. ’’ Just at this point, unhappily, the mes- sage broke off. It is the last so far that has come to hand. We are, however, hourly expecting others, and so soon as we receive them they will be placed before the reader. Fragmentary and tantalizing as this portion is, it does nevertheless give a vague, broad impression of an altogether strange and wonderful world, a world with which our own must now prepare to reckon very speedily. This intermittent trickle of messages, this whispering of a record needle in the darkness of the mountain slopes, is the first warning of such a change in human conditions as mankind has scarcely imagined heretofore. In that planet there are new elements; new appli- ances; new traditions; an overwhelming avalanche of new ideas; a strange race with whom we must inevitably struggle for mastery; gold, as common as iron or wood.

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By AGNES AND Book II. (Continued).—Tur EVENING OF THE SECRET ORCHARD. EGERTON CASTLE. Day. THE “And thy heaven that is over thy head shall be brass, and the earth that is under thee shall be iron.’’— Deuteronomy. 1 oe was a general sensation. Toto] upon one side, the Duke upon the other, advanced together, to rule, to lead in the lady, who, in a vo- luminous garment of purple silk and float- ing veils of black lace that exhaled faint of lavender and pepper, looked more imposing than ever. odors Her first glance was, as usual, a master- piece of comprehensive disfavor upon the company at large. It took in the solid figure of her first son, who made no at- tempt to advance to her aid. Indeed, un- less he had contented himself with propel- ling her from behiud, there was nothing left for him to do in that respect. It next withered Favereau, first for the indecency of his existing at all, secondly for his ex- the government of Neither Joy nor Nessie alted position in an odious Republic. was forgotten; old scores were looked, with interest, at the latter; while in the dart of displeasure vouchsafed toward the former there was a vivacity called forth by the freshness of a new grievance. ‘‘T trust you are more rested, dear aunt,’’ said Helen, gently. Under her guidance, the process of estab- lishing the majestic relative in the arm- chair was accomplished without a hitch. ‘*There is no rest for me in this world,’’ responded the high dame, sepulchrally. ‘*T thank you, Charles-Edward,’’ placing a still handsome foot, clad in a flat slipper, upon the proffered footstool. ‘‘ Anatole, my shawl.’’ When the dutiful son had carefully en- veloped his mother, he was peremptorily shown a high chair at her side. Having thus strategically divided him from the dangerous proximity of Madame Rodriguez, the Marquise, with a folded her hands and prepared herself with an air of deep resignation for whatever conversation might be inflicted upon her. sigh, according Copyright, 1901, by Egerton Castle. little figure seemed Helen turned and into the firelight Feeling that the abandoned, the somewhat boldly circle. ‘*We have yet to thank you, aunt,’’ said drew girl she, ‘‘for your kind care of this young traveler. I fear she is still too timid to speak for herself.’’ ‘‘It did not strike responded the Marquise, without lift heavy lids—‘‘it did not strike me, Helen, that conversa- me,’’ deigning to her to-day, of during our mademoiselle’s decided lack tion arose from timidity.’’ ‘*‘Ah!’’ cried Helen, gaily, ‘‘if you had seen her as I did just now. listen, Nessie; a cruel godmother actually left this unhappy child alone for five min- utes with two great ogres of men!’’ weary journey Fancy, aunt; The Duchess sat down on the sofa as she spoke, and drew Joy by her side. Madame de Lormes her leaned rigidly back upon her chair, everything in her attitude conveying that, benevolent as she was, she could not be expected to 3ut Helen closed eyes and listen to this sort of thing. pursued, smiling: ‘*Tf I could, I would show you the faces of the trio as I came in. She, this creature, was just like some poor little rabbit caught in a trap. And they, Faver- eau and Cluny, oh’’—merriment over- flowed her sweet lips—‘‘I told them they looked more alarmed even than she.’’ ‘*My!’’ commented Nessie, sarcastically ; ‘*vou don’t say !"’ Leaning on the back of the sofa, she had -propped her chin upon her hands, and from this coign of vantage could not only grimaces with the mother’s deliberately exchange audacious Marquis across his unseeing countenance, but was also enabled to keep an alert eye upon the movements of the three men, who, in undertones, were conversing in the distance. The more, however, her intimate circle seemed disposed covertly to snub her pro-

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100 tégée, the more was Helen determined to carry off the situation in her own way. Feigning not to hear Nessie’s jeer, she now continued to address the silent girl beside her in the former strain of tender gaiety. ‘*Though men are such great big creatures, dear,’’ she said, ‘‘and wear hair upon their faces, and have such strange, ugly clothes, when you come to know them you will really find that they are good, kind, simple beings.”’ ‘*And they are always particularly kind to little girls,’’ interposed Madame Rod- riguez, mimicking Helen’s tone; ‘‘bless their simple hearts! And they never, never want to eat them up, if they are good.’’ Looking like a pretty Puck, she had thrust her face between her friend and Joy. This time Helen was forced to take notice of her. ‘‘Hush, Nessie! Remember, if you please, that Joy has probably never seen a gentleman to speak to, except perhaps the chaplain or the school doctor.’’ ‘*Quite Eve before the fall, in fact,’’ said Mrs. Nessie, drawing back to ex- change a glance of meaning with the Mar- quis Totol. The latter could find no better way of ex- pressing his delighted appreciation of her wit than by cracking all his finger-joints in turn—a token of admiration which, for want of a better, was sufficient to stimulate Nessie to further sparkles. ‘*Quite Eve before the fall,’’ she reiter- ated, ‘‘isn’t it? Beg pardon, though, Eve had been introduced to Adam, I believe. But mademoiselle didn’t seem to be so offish, just now, with your cousin Mr. George P. Dodd.’’ ‘*Nessie,’’ cried Helen, flushing, ‘‘you really must not.”’ Here Madame de Lormes opened her eyes as suddenly as a mechanical doll that is patted on the back. ‘‘Pray, Madame Rodriguez,’’ she inter- polated, ‘‘be good enough not to drag the name of any son of mine into this foolish discussion. ’’ Upon this she immediately relapsed into her feint of slumber. Joy, immovable, save for the plucking fingers, suddenly shot a glance from the elder lady’s large, re- pressive profile to Nessie’s small face, quiv- Madame de Lormes ering with mischief. THE SECRET ORCHARD. sustained it, of course, with serene un- consciousness; but Nessie started with a little cry that was more than half genuine. “*My!’’ she exclaimed, ‘‘don’t!’’ and put up her fan as if for a screen. ‘‘I say, Helen, the new pet seems like the cele- brated old parrot: if it doesn’t say much, it thinks a deal more. Her eyes are elo- quent enough, anyhow.’’ Helen, glancing down at the girl, saw nothing but long lashes trembling on small, pale cheeks. She flung her arm protect- ingly round her. In her gentle heart she was now as angry with Nessie as she could be angry with any one; but she was still resolved not to betray it, her one desire being to keep the poor little stranger from any suspicion of unwelcome. After noting the action, Madame Rod- riguez proceeded in her high, nasal tone of irony: ‘‘But we must not tell her that, must we? Or she would never dare to raise them again. She’s so shy, you know.”’ Glancing round, she caught Cluny’s intent look upon the group; and, inspired by a fresh imp, she hailed him. ‘‘Say, Duke, come here a minute. Seems you’ve fright- ened a bashful lamb. Come right here, you bad wolf, and tell her that you never harmed youth and innocence in your life; and that you just love to watch the dear little white-woolly darlings gambol on the green.’’ Cluny stood a moment, and felt as if turned to lead. He heard his wife’s rebuk- ing voice, ‘‘Nessie, Nessie, you’re too bad !’’ and then the exquisite caress of her tone to Joy, ‘‘You must not mind her; she’s only a wicked tease.’’ Then she spoke to him. There was in her voice a special accent reserved for him only. It pierced him now to the marrow. ‘*Yes, come to us, Cluny,’’ she was say- ing, ‘‘and make amends. You did frighten her, you know.”’ He came forward, his limbs moving, it seemed, independently of his will. ‘‘How can I make amends?’’ he asked, his eyes, dark with trouble, fixed on his wife’s face. The hoarseness of his own accents frightened him, but he pulled him- self together by a strenuous effort. With a semblance of gaiety, that factitious merri- ment which to this naturally light-hearted

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man seemed perhaps more hideous than it would to any other, he repeated, ‘‘How can I make amends?’’ It surprised him that no one seemed to notice anything peculiar in his manner. Helen smiled back at him. ‘‘Look up, Joy,’’ she said. darling; answer the Duke.’’ The girl’s restless hands became sud- denly still. ‘‘What do you wish me to say, madame?’’ she asked, after a marked pause, in her small, measured voice. ‘Why, tell him that you bear him no malice, that you and he are going to be the best of friends.’’ ‘* Speak, Cluny’s smiling lips twitched. There was a moment’s expectant pause. Then Nessie broke it with a laugh. ‘‘T reckon,’’ said the little lady, while her mocking eyes scanned her host’s coun- tenance, ‘‘that you were in the right of it just now, Helen. It’s the Duke that’s the frightened one.”’ Joy looked up swiftly. into a jarring laugh. ‘*What is this?’’ exclaimed Favereau, breaking off his with Mr. Dodd in an unwontedly abrupt manner and advancing toward the fireplace. ‘‘You seem all very merry here. Let me join in the joke.”’ ‘‘They have put me on the stool of re- pentance,’’ said Cluny, still with laughter absurdly in excess of the humor of the situ- ation. ‘‘ ’Tis a trying ordeal for a retir- ing and—aha, innocent man.”’ Here Joy startled them all by suddenly breaking into shrill merriment, which she as suddenly stifled with her handker- chief pressed to her mouth. Madame de Lormes aroused herself sufficiently from her inner meditation to throw her a look of scathing reprobation. The Duke burst conversation But Helen was delighted. So, too, was Mr. Dodd, who promptly turned round from his renewed contemplation of the famous Vandyke, with a broad, sympa- thetic smile on his countenance. ‘‘So she can laugh; the monkey,’’ said the Duchess, and patted the frail shoulder beside her. ‘‘Ah, how sweet it is to hear the laugh of a young thing! Don’t ashamed of it, ma petite. That is a sound I shall often want to greet my ears. There, peace is signed, is it not?’’ be THE SECRET ORCHARD. 10I Cluny had recovered his self-control. He now advanced a step, and addressed Joy with formal courtesy. ‘*Let me assure you most solemnly, mad- emoiselle,’’ said he, ‘‘that while I have the privilege of receiving you in my house, I, as your host, have no desire but for your welfare.’’ The girl seemed to revolve these words in her mind before answering. Then she murmured, her head bent, ‘her eyes cast down in her favorite attitude: ‘*Thank you.’’ ‘*Oh dear! oh dear!’’ amused, half vexed, ‘‘how formal we are!’ cried Helen, half ’ XVI. In bustled Doctor Lebel, with his frock- coat neatly buttoned up and a brand-new tie—his notion of dinner-dress never went further—rubbing his hands and diffusing a strong odor of scented soap. ‘*Eh, eh! I thought I was the last, but our friend the canon,’’ cried he, ‘‘is late, as usual, I perceive. Ah, Monsieur le Duc! Is that the face you bring us back from Paris? Better have stopped at home! Madame la Marquise, your servitor.’’ The lady made him a regal bow—a bow the graciousness of which was tempered by the consideration that, though he under- stood her digestion to a nicety, she could not blind herself to the fact that his polit- ical opinions were generally reprehensible. ‘‘Ah, and do I see my young friend, the Marquis?’’ Lebel went on. ‘‘Posi- tively, my dear madame, he has not changed since I was called in to save his life the day of his first cigar. Do you remember, Monsieur Totol? Eh, eh, eh!’’ Doctor Lebel rubbed his hands again. ‘*‘Rose is oD doing capitally—capitally,’’ said he, in a professional undertone, to Helen. Then he wheeled his sharp eye upon Dodd. ‘‘Aha, the famous cousin!’’ The voluble little man clasped the American warmly by the hand and shook it up and down, the while, from his inferior level, he gazed at him with critical, scientific scrutiny. ‘*What a type of the Anglo-Saxon! Ah, the fine race! Madame,’’ said he, wheel- ing his tubby figure once again to the dowager, ‘‘I congratulate you.’’ There was a tone of real respect in his He had not, in truth, believed the voice.

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102 lady capable of producing anything so sensible. Helen was burning to show off her new acquisition. ‘*But my child, Doctor, my child,’’ she began. ‘‘I have to be felicitated too.’’ Even as she spoke, the folding-doors into the hall were ceremoniously thrown open. ‘*The canon, nounced the majordomo, scarcely less ma- jestic himself than the personage he was ‘*Monsieur le Duc, dinner Monsieur le Due,’’ an- ushering in. is served.’’ Bland, dignified, sure of himself and of his hosts, the canon entered. ‘‘Am I late, my dear child? What a happy gathering! Madame la Marquise!’ ‘*Monsieur le Chanoine!”’ George Dodd, looking on, smiled to himself as he watched the ceremony of greeting between the two dignitaries. . It was as good as a play, he told himself. And what tickled him most was the ear- nestness of both the actors. The canon bowed. The lady, who had risen to meet him, swept him one of those courtesies that are a revelation to the younger generation. Here she could conscientiously bestow un- reserved approval, not only upon the churchman, but upon the man of family. She next extended her hand. As he took it with a second inclination: ‘‘T trust I see Madame la Marquise in good health,’’ said he. ‘*Alas, Monsieur le Chanoine—— I do not complain.’’ The hands parted, and upon the parting a gracefully retiring courtesy and congé were duly enacted. Cordially then the good canon shook hands with the master of the house. Indulgently he received the introduction of the heretic American. -atronizingly he nodded to Totol. -‘*Madame,’’ said he to Nessie, ‘‘we have met before.’ Then Helen was able to draw his atten- tion to Joy. ‘‘But here is one you have not met be- fore, Canon. This is Gioja.’’ Instantly the canon dropped his man-of- the-world air, and became the priest. 3enevolently, yet searchingly, he examined the little figure thrust, shrinking, forward And as he looked, approval But to his notice. began to beam from his eyes. THE SECRET ORCHARD. On the other side, the doctor, both thumbs hooked into his trousers pockets (an attitude which entailed a somewhat curious arrangement of frock-coat), his scrubby, bearded chin sunk in his breast and his eyes very keen under their bushy brows, was engaged in the same scrutiny. But apparently with less satisfaction, for the lines of perplexity on his face grew deeper every moment. ‘*So this is the child?’’ said the canon. ‘‘T have heard of you, my dear. Come, let us make acquaintance.’’ He took her by both hands and drew her toward him. She hung her head, a shy maiden. After his pause of investiga- tion, the priest looked at Helen, and both these worthy, innocent-minded people ex- changed a silent, smiling look. The work of charity seemed indeed to have been pleasantly rewarded. Then he laid his hand for a moment upon the girl’s head. ‘*The good God,’’ said he, *‘who loves the young, has dealt very tenderly with you, my child. Have you thought of thanking Him for His extraordinary pro- tection?’’ The little head, with its wealth of curls, was bowed still deeper. ‘‘That is well,’’ went on the priest. ‘*Your name, the Duchess tells me, is Gioja. Gioja—-Joy, a pretty name! May it be an omen of what you will bring to this house, and what you will find here for yourself. God bless you!”’ The doctor turned upon his heel with a hideous grimace, and, rubbing his chin, produced a quite audible crackle. He looked round the room, irresponsively pass- ing Nessie’s eager, interrogative gaze, his glance resting finally upon Favereau’s tired face. Then the two elderly men, who knew the world, had a swift interchange of thought. Said the doctor’s eye: ‘‘What have we here?’’ Said Favereau’s in a ‘*Don’t ask me.’’ Then exclaimed the eyes of both: ‘‘Ah, m9 diable ! sort of agony: ‘*Helen,’’ inquired Madame de Lormes, blandly, ‘‘is it intended that we should dine to-night?’’ Helen started, blushed laughed. and

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‘My dear aunt, my dear guests, indeed I must beg pardon.’’ Cluny, with alacrity, offered his arm to his formidable relative. Nessie, avowing that she was ‘‘that hollow she couldn’t have held up another moment,’’ fluttered to Favereau’s side. ‘*Now, Canon,’’ cried gaily, ‘‘I claim your arm.’ Then she hesitated, looking at Joy and the three remaining men. Totol glanced askance over his shoulder, and endeavored to hide his minuteness behind the doctor’s breadth. ‘*So long as they don’t glue me to the school-girl,’? he whispered. ‘‘Ah ¢a, Doctor, my friend, how I do hate a bread- and-butter miss !’’ Helen noted her younger cousin’s retreat, and the simultaneous involuntary step for- ward of the elder. She smiled. ‘‘George,’’ said she, ‘‘you will escort Joy.’’ Then, under pretense of settling the girl’s lace, she bent over and whis- pered in her ear: ‘‘This gentleman, dear, will give you his arm to take you in to dinner. Why »» Her fingers had fallen on the string of pearls. She drew it out, amused. ‘‘Ah, little Miss Vanity, what is this???’ Her amusement changed to deep surprise. This, in sooth, was no school-girl’s jewel. ‘*Pearls, if you please! And such pearls! Who could have given you such pearls, child?’’ Cluny at the door of the room stopped involuntarily; Favereau, second in the procession, turned round with desperate deliberation, ready for emergencies. Joy looked full from one man to the other, then turned to her godmother. ‘*‘One who loved me, as I was told, sent them to me, madame,’’ she answered at last, slowly and distinctly. ‘‘Ah!’’ cried Helen, and the tears sprang to her eyes. ‘‘I am doing nothing but stupid things this evening,’’ she went on, in an undertone to the canon. ‘‘The poor mother! I might have known. ’ , the Duchess, ? Come, Canon, let us dine.’ ‘*Pray,’’ said Nessie, in a vicious under- tone, to the doctor, as she settled into her seat at the farther end of the rose-decked table—‘‘ pray, what is your opinion of the Duchess’s new daughter?”’ ‘*Madame, said Doctor Lebel, good- THE SECRET ORCHARD. 103 humoredly, while he tucked his napkin under his chin, ‘‘the young lady would seem to me to belong to a type sufficiently rare to be interesting as a curiosity to a medical mind, but otherwise, since vivisection is not allowed on the human subject. There is one, if you like, who will never be ill unless she were to take poison. Red blood she has, that one! And nerves —oh, ma’am, nerves of steel !’’ ‘*Red blood!’’ ejaculated Nessie, con- temptuously. ‘‘With that whey face?’’ ‘A thick skin, yes. Creamy-white,’’ said the doctor with conviction. ‘‘That is of the type.”’ He sucked in his first spoonful of soup with every symptom of appreciation. Nessie pondered for a moment, marking across the table how Dodd’s sea-blue eyes kindled and how soft his voice grew as he turned to address his impassive partner. ‘*Then you don’t think it is such a timid, fragile soul?’’ she said spitefully. The doctor finished his last mouthful of soup, laid down his spoon with a sigh, and polished his mouth with his napkin. ‘*Eh, ma’am,’’ said he, ‘‘you must not come to me with questions about souls. Inquire for this article over the way. Ask our friend the canon yonder. The body of my neighbor gives me quite enough to think about.’’ not XVII. The dining-table was a large one for the comparatively small party. But Helen, who since she had entered this noble house had had but one thought, that of keeping up its dignity; who spent her time like some vestal virgin, continually feeding the sacred fires of her temple, would have thought it desecration to replace the great carved oak by any modern, if more con- venient, board. On the rare occasions when she and Cluny were quite alone in the castle, they had their meals in a gay little Chinese room looking on the conservatory. There, unless detained by their spiritual or tem- poral duties, the canon and the doctor in- variably found their places laid as a matter of course, at a table just large enough to hold them all four round a silver bow of flowers. But when there were other guests, the dining-hall was roused from its slum-

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IO4 berous antique solemnity. And though the guests were rather too far from one another for the stimulation of conviviality, the huge board was as harmoniously gay as flowers and fruit and the accumulated silver treasure of the house could make it. This night, to any one not gifted with the powers of Asmodeus, in this rare old- world room, between the dark walls hung with historic tapestry, under a ceiling where, round the central quasi-royal arms of the first Duke, were blazoned all the subsequent honors the race had gathered to itself, the company assembled would have seemed, if somewhat incongruously matched, in the highest possible humor. Most of the diners, after the genial French way, talked at the top of their voices, at the same time, and with much gesticula- tion. A flush had risen to Cluny’s cheek; his eyes were bright. The almost hysterical reaction after the moment of mortal peril successfully escaped, was upon him, to- gether with the recklessness, the joy of his despair, if one may use so paradoxical a phrase. The conflict with conscience was over, that was one thing. He was, he reflected, going to the devil, and the devil was making it easy for him at last; he would not fail to continue to show the way. The girl had accepted the situation, it seemed. The moment when, by a word, she could have blasted him, was over forever. Who would be- lieve her now? He had but to go on as he had begun, ‘‘to lie like a man,’’ and Helen, his Helen, would never know. His laugh rang out. Never had his wit been more pointed, his illustration more apt. Even Madame de Lormes, who, as was said, regarded Cluny with the peculiar favor her lofty mind could have accorded to no lesser star of the ‘‘Almanach de Gotha’’—even Madame de Lormes’ spirits began to react against the depression caused by the strange action of a ruling providence in permitting the reappearance of her American son. As for this latter, he found, as the minutes passed by, that the personality of his quiet little neighbor was affecting him in a more and more troubling 3 manner. He had first been drawn to her out of a of manly championship natural instinct THE SECRET ORCHARD. evoked by his mother’s ungenerous attitude on the one side, and his brother’s undis- guised, impertinent aversion on the other. She had seemed so small, so white, so childish a thing, that he would have liked to call her ‘‘my dear,’’ and throw his strong arm round her in protective, broth- erly fashion. But now, by some magnetic influence that seemed to emanate even from her very reserve, by the curious flut- tering glances she flung at him from time to time, by the dimple that a little secret smile, caused by some chance remark of his, printed in the half-averted cheek, by the stirring of his own blood, he felt that this child was very woman after all. As the meal progressed, who shall say what conflicting thoughts, what emotions, were revolving in the girl’s own busy mind? She would not have been, as she was, human of elemental humanity, had she not felt the intoxication of the luxury and the beauty around her—luxury such as in her most ambitious dreams she could not have conceived; beauty which awoke every dormant artistic passion in an extra- ordinarily passionate nature. ‘‘He is mastér here. He isa Duke. A King’s son. How I hate him! He laughs! What beautiful teeth he has! How I love him! We shall live in the same house, and it is I who will hold him. My God, how her eyes devour him! She is beautiful—but she is stupid. He looks at me. He did love me. I made him love me once. And this great American, he loves me too, and I never thought of it, or of him. How good these flowers, this champagne. He gave me champagne that day—ah, that day! If I think of it, per- haps I can make him think of it too.’ ‘‘Look at the dear little one,’’ said Helen, whispering to the canon; ‘‘it is like a blossom opening out to the warmth and the light.’’ But here the doctor’s voice rose with sudden rasping insistence. He had heard the Marquis drop the fatal word, ‘‘Drey- fus.’’ He thumped the table with the handle of his knife. ‘‘But you can’t condemn a man if you can’t prove him guilty: no honest man can get out of that.’’ ‘*For me,’’ Madame de Lormes was say- ing, as she spread out her white hands,

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‘‘the man is a criminal. I bow to the decision of the tribunals of my country.”’ ‘*What, aunt,’’ cried Cluny, mockingly, ‘*bow to Republican tribunals?’’ ‘*My dear Charles-Edward,’’ lady; ‘‘why, the man is a Jew!’’ ‘*Aie, aie, aie!’’ interrupted Totol, in an acute voice. He _ thrust into his ears and waggled his wizened face from side to in comic despair. ‘*How can any one still talk of this weary said the his fingers side business?) Who cares, who did ever care, whether the wretched creature did or didn’t? I am sure if anybody in France had a penn’orth of wit and go, he would have put a ball through his head long ago—sent him to some Devil’s Island whence he could not have come back in such a hurry, to bother us all to death.’’ The doctor, who had been craning his neck forward with angry intentness and rolling his ensanguined eye from one speaker to the other, here opened his mouth as if for the passage of a roar. He changed his mind, however, and closed it again with a snap. The American, who, although well acquainted with French, had not yet an ear attuned to the rapid assimilation of table-talk, was just a minute behind in the following of the conversation. Then, a fine flush of indignation mounting te his brow, he ‘in his turn looked round the table to see if the doctor was to be the only representative of common fairness of judgment. Favereau wrapt in garments of official reserve. The Duke, as he met the inquiring eye, said, over the edge of his was glass: ‘*A dirty business altogether ;’’ but left his guest to elucidate for himself on which side cleaved the dirt. From the con- temptuous indifference of his manner, it was probable that he referred impartially to both. ‘*Poor France !’’ cried the doctor at last, his pent-up feelings bursting out irrepress- ibly. ‘‘If she were a person, one would have to say that she was very ill—very uh”? As the doctor spoke, Dodd saw that he instinctively addressed himself to the Min- ister. The latter jerked his head with an affirmative melancholy that seemed beyond words. THE SECRET ORCHARD. 105 ‘*Ah, tenez,’’ said Doctor Lebel, gestic- ulating with a silver fork on which was stuck a large piece of pine-apple; ‘‘I am a doctor, I, and I ought to know something France has had some very ugly symptoms—enough to warn those who her. Oh, I'll pass the sur- renders—Sedan and Metz, and the horrors of diagnosis. love over of the Commune; over the decoration bus- Panama business, all that belongs to the now mature generations. Take the last couple of years only. You want to know what’s the condition of the youth of France—the gilded youth—the educated, the wealthy youth, that ought to be regarded as the hope of the nation, the class that ought to lead the others? Well, then, see it put to the test: take the Bazar de la Charité.’’ A low murmur of horror ran round the table. Cluny drew his sensitively. ‘*But I think,’’ said Madame de Lormes, addressing space with an air of grandiose rebuke, ‘‘that we great ladies of France were not behindhand in giving an example of heroism to the populace.’’ ‘*Because, madame,’’ said the canon, ‘‘you had the courage of religion, which, iness, over the brows together alas——’’ ‘*Wait, wait, my friend,’’ interrupted the doctor, who, having triumphantly masticated his piece of pine-apple, was ready to speak again; ‘‘I am coming to you and to the priesthood in France pres- ently. The women stuck to their post upon that day of shame, for the simple reason that the one section not totally cor- rupt in our country to-day is woman. Woman—God bless her!—as we doctors know, is ever the last to fail in great Self-sacrifice is ingrained in It will be a bad day for emergencies. her very nature. France when that last rope of salvation breaks. Yet even that———’’ He made an expressive grimace. ‘‘There was a day, when I was young, when Mme. George Sand was supposed (by well-think- ing people) to be a baneful writer.’’ He laughed angrily. ‘‘Now, your favorite woman writer, mesdames of the Fauboure St. Germain, is—‘Gyp’!’’ He thrust out his underlip with huge contempt. Totol burst into a delighted cackle.

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cnn 106 THE SECRET ORCHARD. ‘*Famously droll, all the same, Madame ‘Gyp,’’’ he cried. Nessie gave a guilty little giggle, con- scious of having found some amusement in such books. Madame de Lormes rinsed her fat, taper finger in the Venetian bowl with a detached air. ‘*But, Doctor,’’ said Helen, trying to follow the arguments with her earnest, sweet, but somehow slow mind—‘‘but, Doctor, you are diverging from the ques- tion. I do not know ‘Gyp’s’ books, but I know how good, how charitable, my French friends are, and surely, surely it is not fair to blast all our aristocracy be- cause of the cowardice of a few worthless young men*’—here, all unconsciously, her tender lip curved into scorn. ‘‘If Cluny had been there on that horrible day’’— her eye seemed to say proudly, ‘‘my Cluny’’—‘‘(and it is but a chance we were not, I had actually promised the poor Duchesse d’Alencon), you would have had another story to tell.”’ ‘*Ah, if Cluny had been there,’’ inter- rupted Favereau, with the first warm look he had given his host that night—‘‘if he had been there, with you, he would have done the impossible to save you. But as you would not have been saved alone— I know you—you would both have re- mained to perish.”’ ‘““Well, as for me,*’ yelped Totol, his face crinkling, with the most good-nat- ured, cynical frankness, ‘‘I don’t go in for pose, not I. I go in for raw truth. If people don’t like it, so much the worse. I was not at the bazaar. They bore me, bazaars do. Wasn't it lucky now?’’ He looked round amiably for congratulation. ‘*But, faith, if I'd been there, I’d have looked after Number One, you’ know. Come, come,’’ he went on, shrilly crying down the chorus of exclamations, derisive and otherwise, ‘‘I’m only saying what every reasonable man thinks. Come, Doc- tor, aren’t you the apostle of materialism? Aren’t we all animals, and isn’t it animal instinct to save one’s skin, to shun pain? Oh, eh? If one goes in for free-thinking, you know, one should be consistent. Let us be consistent.’ ‘*Hear, hear!’’ said the canon, softly, and flung a triumphant look at the doctor. ‘*Poor Totol,’’ sighed Helen, indul- RS RRR INE ET HENNE gently. ‘‘Who would believe, to hear him, that it is the kindest little heart in all the world?’’ Nessie, who had laughed openly and delightedly at the little décadent’s pro- nouncement, now voiced the general opin- ion of her world to the doctor. ‘*My word,’’ said she, ‘‘what a face, Doctor! Don’t you know by this time that nobody ever minds the Marquis?”’ ‘*‘A lucky thing, madame,’’ responded the other, with his prompt, incisive humor. ‘*But for that, one would have had to kill him long ago.’’ ‘It’s all right,’’ the young man was pursuing, charmed to find himself for once the center of attention. ‘‘It’s all very well for abbés and women to stand still and be frizzled for the sake of a lot of people they don’t care a cent about; I’d have used my legs and arms to save my own skin—et v’la!’’ Doctor Lebel spread out his square hand with an inimitable gesture. ‘*My friends,’’ said he, ‘‘the noble Marquis Anatole de Lormes has so well illustrated the first. part of my thesis that I have not a word to add.’’ George Dodd had completely turned round in his chair to survey his brother, with the air of one who examines a totally unknown species of beast, wonder for the moment superseding all other emotion. ‘*Why, the little cuss isn’t even ashamed of himself !’’ thought he. ‘‘The whole business,’’ said the Mar- quise, somewhat acidly, ‘‘has been grossly 9 exaggerated.’’ ‘*Well, now,’’ said the undaunted doctor, removing his napkin from under his chin and holding it stretched out in both hands, preliminary to a final scrub of beard and mustache, ‘‘so much for the upper class at the hour of test. What about the lower? If the aristocracy is, or ought to be, the head, the people are, or ought to be, the heart. That’s what we are told. What about the people—again at the hour of test? Take the foundering of the ‘Bour- gogne’?’’ Having thrown his second bomb, he paused, and proceeded vigorously with the napkin operation. ‘‘That was another bad business, Dodd, gravely. ” said

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‘‘The doctor is determined not to spare us his diagnosis,’’ said Favereau, with a rather weary smile. How this man’s heart had bled for his France; how ceaselessly had he striven to work at the task of reparation, of uplift- ing! How hopelessly, none would ever know but himself. The doctor was a sanguine man. That he could still see a use in such indictments was because he could still hope. Deep in a sacred silence, Favereau, the of country, had hidden the fact that he had devoted servant his no illusions left. ‘A bad even in his indignation. la paire! The match He balanced his hands expressively. little aristocrat the ladies of his acquaintance back into the flames with heel rough, honest matelot women and children on the head with oars as they would cling to his boat. Yes, they match quite nicely. It is on record,’’ he added, dropping his satiric emphasis Lebel, ‘*Les deux font business !’’ cried jovial other.”’ ‘*The delicate two each stamps fine and cane; and hits the drowning your for a perfectly even voice, ‘‘that neither a single young swell was shriveled in the flames, nor a single horny-handed son of toil perished in the ocean wave, whatever may have happened to the rest.’’ ‘‘Ah, you forget,’’ said Helen, earnestly. ‘*Monsieur de Rothschild’s groom——"’ ‘*English, madame — Anglo - Saxon!’’ said the doctor, laconically. The folded his beautiful hands over his finger-bowl. He had bided his time, but now he was going to speak. ‘‘T would point out to my friend the doctor,’’ he began, in his gentle, deliberate voice, ‘‘that the Marquis made just now a remark pregnant with truth. In a word, he gave the reason for the whole deplor- able state of affairs. Why, said he, should the materialist think of others? Why, indeed? If a man does not that ‘he who loses his life shall gain it,’ why should he depart from the common animal instinct of self-preservation, no matter at what cost to others? Alas, if our France is ill, is it not because she has thrust health from her, the health of the soul— religion? Religion, which made the hero- ines and martyrs in that catastrophe we have just spoken of.’’ canon believe THE SECRET ORCHARD. 107 of Every eye was turned upon the There was a moment impressive silence. doctor. Even the most skeptical felt that the canon’s arguments seemed at least supported by facts. The doctor, however. was too true a fighter to be otherwise than stimulated by a direct attack. ‘*Aha, expected you there, my friend, ’’ **but I’m not denying that religion, as a human in- he cried ; I’m ready for you. stitution, is a remarkably useful thing for the morals of the people. But, like all other human institutions, canon, i’ll make you observe that it is as much subject to the nation’s corruption as any other. Let us look at your religion in France. What has it done for you? Has it upheld justice? out of the Dreyfus case?’’ Totol put supported shrieks. How have you good priests come again gave his dismal howl, and Nessie with a of little the Duke and Favereau raised their voices. But the doctor had a powerful organ, and he outbellowed them all. ‘*What about your holy brothers of ‘La What about your Christian atti- tude toward the Jew? What doctrines of peace, of of the charity that thinketh no evil, have been preached to the most ignorant hamlets in the country? Where would the priest have led France to- day?”’ his fingers in his him Even ars. again series Croix’? justice, Every question was emphasized by the darting of a stubby forefinger, the speaker were thrusting a rapier under the of his friend. Helen threw toward Cluny a look of comical de- The inevitable battle in as if well-covered ribs spair. began earnest. Without any further loss of placidity, without ures of utter reprobation, she waited the this heeding her aunt’s shocked gest- canon’s defense to violent counter- attack. ‘*My good Doctor,’’ he began, as soon himself heard—and his placid, well-bred accents were in marked as he could make contrast to the other’s broad vehemence— ‘*far be it from me to deny that injudicious things have been said and pernicious advice given from quarters from which no teach- ing but that of the Gospel should have

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ERA ie tas 108 THE SECRET ORCHARD. been heard. But that, my friend, is be- sause, if the teaching is divine, the min- istry of the church is yet human, and errare humanum est. The errors of hu- manity, of the believer, of the priest, do not affect the divinity of the principle, any more than the corruptness of the judge can alter the inherent quality of justice. It is not for me to pronounce upon my colleagues—thank God! I do not either impugn or defend them. All I maintain is that if you take away from man the belief in his soul, that is, in his ideal, that is, in his God, you take away from him all motives for righteousness. Nay, the only logical conclusion, then, is that of Mon- sieur le Marquis—every man for himself.’’ ‘‘There you are,’’ cried the doctor, who, finding himself beaten upon the frontal attack, with the fighter’s instinct nimbly leaped upon another. breach. ‘‘Listen to him: ‘It is not for me to pro- nounce—thank God!’ Even you—even he’'—appealing to the table—‘‘is suffering from the universal disease. There is not one of you who can face the truth. The Duke has already shown that he cannot.’’ Cluny started. The doctor proceeded inex- orably. ‘*Yes, even you, Duke, from the height of your chivalrous honor, all you can find for your unhappy country is contempt: ‘I wash my hands of it. These things are too dirty for me to touch.’ ”’ Cluny smiled, smiled to hide a horrible return of invading misery: Alas, his chiv- alrous honor! And that girl’s eyes upon him, and Helen’s worshiping glance ever seeking him across the table! ‘*So much for you,’’ pursued the doctor. ‘*You’re one type. There’s Monsieur Fa- vereau, that’s another. He folds himself up in his leaves; you'll never get at the thought of him. ‘Respect my silence, respect my sorrow.’ Useful, is it not?’’ Favereau laughed with some bitterness. ‘Wrong in your diagnosis for once,’’ said he, dryly. ‘‘I take things philosophically, my good Esculapius.’’ ‘*But surely, Doctor,’’ said Dodd, in his sound, if rather labored, French, ‘‘if a man cannot help his country by speaking, the best he can do is to keep silence.’’ ‘*But cannot every man help his country by speaking?’’ inquired the doctor, ex- plosively. ‘‘What help is there for a nation if all its honest men preserve the policy of dignified silence, and so leave the rogues, the cranks and the décadents to speak for her, to rule her? What is to become of a country that has no moral courage?’’ ‘*For me,’’ declared Madame de Lormes, in the tone of one putting an end to a dis- cussion, ‘*I am amazed at the patience with which you all listen to Monsieur le Doc- teur. I should call that man a bad patriot who takes part with the enemies of his fatherland. ’’ Doctor Lebel looked at her with his jaw on one side and much humor in his eye. ‘*Third type, ’’ said he quietly ; ‘‘ Madame la Marquise represents the class of the wilfully blind. ‘It is impossible that our army should go wrong; it is impossible that so holy a paper as ‘‘ La Croix’’ should mislead us.’ But your generals have ad- mitted forgery, fear of the enemy, false witness.”’ Then, drawing himself to- gether and answering himself with an air of great dignity, unconsciously mimicking the Marquise’s manner: ‘*‘ ‘Monsieur, if our generals committed forgery, it was from the noblest of motives..—And ‘La Croix,’ madame? That rag that you, an intelligent woman, know to be propagating lies under the cloak of the monk, lies that would plunge this country into a war for which we were never worse prepared, pro- vided that such a war secured the over- throw of the government?’’ ‘*Sir,’’ interrupted the Marquise tartly, opening her eyes to throw a severe glance at the speaker, ‘‘it is not from you, free- thinker, that I should expect justice toward ministers of my holy religion.’’ ‘‘T am answered,’’ said the doctor, irre- pressibly. ‘‘TIt is strange to me,’’ said Dodd, who had been following this unexpected indict- ment of his host’s own country with great interest, ‘‘that such a state of things as you describe can coexist with such marvel- ous prosperity, such scientific advance, as I have seen manifested since.my return to Paris, which struck even me, a member of the richest, of the most scientific country in the world.’’ ‘‘My young friend,’’ said the doctor, and planted his forefinger on the table,

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‘‘vou have hit it. France is prosperous, extraordinarily prosperous, but it is only material _ prosperity, and every Spartan virtue ig dying out. Is it because of her very riches? I know not. Will our wealth yet help us out of our ditch? I know not. Riches, when used for pa- triotism, as, by the way, England is using hers just now——’’ ‘*T felt,’’ said Madame de Lormes, au- dibly enough, to the Duke, ‘‘that Monsieur Lebel would come to taking the part of our enemies.’’ But the doctor proceeded without heed- ing. ‘‘Butour science. Ah, young man, there is the salvation of our country, there alone do I see hope ahead! Science is great in France. Literature is debased, art is debased, the army is corrupt, politics are a sink, religion is not a guide but a tool. Science we have yet.’’ ‘*What!’’ said the canon, in a loud voice, ‘‘is that all we have to hope in? Then it is indeed unhappy France !’’ ‘‘Oh, Doctor,’’ exclaimed Helen, ‘‘you know as well as I do how much good there is about us, even in this little corner of the world. How simple and brave and pious and charitable is our poor peasantry, how devoted their doctor, what an apostle their priest !’’ The doctor turned his eyes upon her and the light of battle went out of them, to be replaced by an extraordinary tenderness. ‘*Ah, madame,’’ he cried, ‘‘have I not already said that there are still good women ?”? ‘‘And good men!’’ cried the Duchess, gaily. ‘‘Cluny, we have heard enough pessimism this evening: speak for your beautiful France. Speak !’’ The Duke’s blood rose at the call. Speak for France! Who could do it better ’ than he? Who could love his France better than he? Not indeed the France of a corrupt, self-seeking oligarchy, nor yet the France of advanced thought and far- seeing science, but the France of the old traditions, the nation of all wit, of all elegance, of chivalry, of refinement! France of the gentilhomme, who did brave deeds with a jest; who bragged not, but did! In the return of this royal France it was part of his creed to believe, to believe that when her hour struck, from all over THE SECRET ORCHARD. 109 the fair country his compeers would arise to uphold her and take their rightful place again by throne and fleur-de-lys. Words crowded to his tongue, fire sprang into his eyes. Then, even as he opened his mouth, he felt upon him the gaze of Joy. A-cold sweat broke upon him; he paused as if paralyzed. After a moment’s painful silence, with a second revulsion the blood rushed to his face again. ‘*Speak for France!’’ he cried, with sudden anger, flinging his napkin on the floor; ‘‘I speak for France!’’ The bit- terest laughter rose to his lips from the bottom of his sore heart. ‘‘What have I to say? Lebel is right. We are a worth- less race.”’ XVIII. ’ ‘*Saperlipopette !’’ said the doctor, gen- uinely disconcerted by this unexpected con- version to his views. The color had faded from Helen’s face as she rose and broke up the circle. Anxiously her eyes sought to meet her hus- band’s, but in vain. Many times had Cluny listened to the diatribes of the country doctor, without manifesting any other emotion than gentle laughter. Many times indeed had he, boyishly mischievous, deliberately started the friendly antago- nists upon one of their heated discussions. 3ut the doctor had been unpardonable to- night. Evidently Cluny’s endurance had its limits; even she, she told herself rebuk- ingly, had not sounded all the depth, all the refinement, of that rare nature. ‘Lebel was really beyond everything just now,’’ said she to the canon, as they ceremoniously returned to the drawing- room. ‘*Alas, madame,’’ said the canon, wist- fully, ‘‘one must pardon all the same. Poor fellow, he knows not what he says.’’ A chill had fallen over them all—a chill which became accentuated on their returr to the library. Helen, yearning to have her arm round her husband and lay tender fingers upon that hidden sore place she feit within him, had lost for the moment her usual power of drawing her guests into comfort and sympathy. Thus, after half an hour’s ungenial, disjointed conversa- tion, every one was glad to hear Madame de Lormes announce her intention of con-

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IIo veying her exhausted body and her sorely tried soul to retirement for the night. Upon this relief, Totol skipped off with Nessie to the billiard-room. Then the canon faded out of the com- pany; it was his hour for the night visit to the chapel. And the doctor, after sev- eral noisy yawns, declared his intention of trotting home as soon as he had _ had a last glance at his patient, Rose. Helen was suddenly struck wanness of Joy’s face. ‘*Say good-night, my dear,’’ said she, after kissing her on the forehead. ‘‘I shall take a peep in at you by and by.”’ ‘*Good-night,’’ said the girl, passively. Then she paused a second; the sailor was by the next to her. ‘*Good-night, Miss Joy,’’ ily, and extended his hand. After a second’s pause she slid her fingers into it, and felt them engulfed in a warm, close, protecting clasp. His eyes were vainly seeking hers. ‘‘What an ugly great hand!’’ she thought. ‘*Good-night, sir,’’ said she to the Duke. And within herself: ‘‘And you, I love you, and now I shall again touch your said he heart- hand.”’ Cluny was struggling with an absolutely physical repulsion. In this moment of hardly perceptible hesitation, Favereau, the ever-watchful, stepped quite naturally between him and the girl. ‘*Mademoiselle, I wish you a very good- night,’’ he said, in a tone that was admira- bly balanced between the paternal and the ceremonious. She shrank in her turn, but could not avoid submitting to his handshake, which was at the same time so manceuvered as to dismiss her from the room. ‘*That horrid old man! That bad old man! How I hate him!’’ she said to her- self all the way up the stairs. When in the smoking-room the Duke sank into his chair behind his cigar, the strain of pretense was at length relaxed, and—for life is full of these ironical com- pensations—he welcomed the moment when he could give way and listen to his own pain. Neither Favereau nor Dodd, each like- THE SECRET ORCHARD. wise extended on his lounge, seemed dis- posed to make any tax on his powers of entertainment. Silence therefore reigned in the room, a silence grateful to each in his own mood, broken only on occasions by the distant click of balls in the billiard- room beyond or a faint squeal from either or both of the light-hearted players. At first Cluny smoked mechanically. Fragments of the evening conversation, echoes of the doctor’s rough voice, mingled with the turmoil of his thoughts—thoughts by turn self-accusing and self-exculpating. By and by the red glow died away on the brown leaf, his hands dropped inertly on the long, cushioned arms. ‘*A worthless race! ‘Even you, even you, Duke, from the height of your deli- cate honor—unhappy France!’ Unhappy France, indeed !’’ Was Lebel right? very blood? His delicate honor! these things are too dirty for touch!’’ God help us! What! This affair where men, his countrymen, had lied for a good end—for a good end no doubt, as they thought—his ‘‘honor’’ had been too delicate even to speak of it. And yet how was he better to-day than the false witness, than the men who forged ‘*for a good purpose,’’ as they said? And Favereau, the upright, the benevolent, he had lied too—nay, had suggested the lie, for a good purpose—oh, for a good pur- pose! ‘*The aristocrat thrusts the delicate fine lady with heel and cane back into the flames. The honest sailor clubs the drown- ing woman and the child back into the water with his oar.’? Why? ‘Totol gave the reason: ‘*To save themselves, par- dieu!’’ Helen had cried, ‘‘If my Cluny had been there!’’ Oh, God! oh, God! oh, God !—oh, devil! Her Cluny! ‘‘You are brave gentlemen! Two men against a girl.’’ Brave? Aye, ‘‘take them at the test, neither moral nor physical courage.’’ What had he, the man of delicate honor, done with the woman—the child? Into what flames had he not thrust her, back into what waters of perdition and of de- spair? And why, why, why? Totol had screeched the infamous reason for him: ‘‘To save himself, pardieu!’’ Himself? Ah, no, not that! To save her, to save Helen! Was decay in their **Oh, me_ to

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THE SECRET ORCHARD. The man’s whole soul surged on the tide of passionate tenderness toward his wife. The vision of Helen, pure, simple, loving, rose before his mind, the most beautiful image of peace, of healing, surrounded with the perfume of all womanliness, all lovableness. For a moment he saw himself on knees, his head upon her lap, and he pict- ured to himself his own rapture of relief in confiding his trouble to her. Had she not always soothed away his difficulties? Had she not always understood him as nobody else ever did? Then his own cry to Faver- eau came back to him like the howl of the lost soul. No, Helen could not under- stand! She is not one of those women who could understand! Oh, than ever now! If at one moment he had had a chance of redemption, now it was gone. Yes, Favereau had shown him the right road. Both had quailed from its steepness. And now they had wilfully entered on the de- scent, and the mire of it could never be brushed from their garments. his less Luxuriously outstretched in his great leather arm-chair, George Dodd, delight- fully at ease both morally and physically, his square head thrown back, his sea-blue eyes watching vaguely the opalescent spirals of a choice Havana’s vanishing life, was seeing strange visions in the smoke. ‘Why, the little creature has bewitched Who would have thought it?’’ There was humor me! It was a revelation. also in the situation. He felt tonishment at himself, but withal an extra- ordinary, warm expansion. ‘‘T could crush her with one hand, and yet the little thing—one of those glances of hers, where the shy woman peeps from of the child—makes me George Dodd, man, You always said the a Vast as- inside the heart feel downright silly. what’s come to you? sea would be your only mistress, your only What, anyhow, has a sailor to do Unless she had bride. with a wife? eyes like that, and baby-hair—— At this point there suddenly rose before his mind a picture of a small face, half child’s, half woman’s, under a bridal veil, and his strong heart began to thump. ‘‘’m bewitched; and—well, what in the wide world is to hinder me, if I IIl choose? Mighty Neptune! I believe I’d rather to-night kiss that little creature on the lips than sink the ‘Merrimac.’ Ina bad way, George, my boy!”’ A smile, however, hovered on the sail- or’s face. While he tried mentally to shake his head at himself, the deep delight evoked by the mere lover’s dream invaded his whole being. As Favereau mechanically smoked one cigarette after another and reviewed the events of the night in his clean, orderly mind, he was conscious, with that precision which accompanied all its operations, that this evening’s work had brought him to a critical epoch in his life. For years he had thought himself finally shorn of all illusions, for years he had looked upon life as an observer; emotions, whether pleasurable or the reverse, being to him merely objective. Life, he had believed, had ceased to have a_ personal meaning to him from the day when he had definitely given up all hope of those things that go to make a man’s life—love, mar- riage, paternity. His work he gave to his country, not with any personal am- bition, not even with any hope of lasting influence, but from the same sense of duty that ruled the rest of his actions—the duty of acting the part of an honest man while he still cumbered the earth. Yet to-night he found himself separated by a gulf from the moral standpoint of this morning. And, by the pain he felt in the sense of loss, he realized how many illu- sions he had still unconsciously held, recog- nized how impossible it is for man to avoid his personal share in others’ existence, in others’ responsibilities. A profound con- viction of the the world had ever been with him, yet he had flattered himself as through this wretched masquerade they call life, not ‘*oravely,’’ as a certain thinker advises us, but as that highest type of philosopher, the true humorist. To-night, however, his whole system was crumbling around him. He had laid his foundations upon the certitude of his own moral strength, of his own personal worth. To him also the doctor’s words recurred as an echo: ‘‘Take them at the test, they fail!’’ In a larger spirit than that of his unhappy accomplice, sorrow of able to pass

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ti2 and from a different standpoint, he viewed his own fall as part of the miserable in- heritance of humanity, accepted it without a moment’s weakening, even without re- morse. But he was sad, sad to the soul. ‘‘The chance of keeping that horror of disillusion from Helen? It was worth it. I would do it again for that. Poor Helen —my beautiful Helen! And I, who thought that I could direct her fate, thought that the greatness of my sacrifice must secure her happiness! ‘What man could keep himself, year in year out, on Helen’s level?’ Thus her husband—the husband I gave her! What man? I could have done it—I! And he could not. I knew how to love her. She loved me always as a child does. I could have taught her to love me as a woman. What devil inspired me? I thought it was the voice of God, the voice of right, just be- cause it was so hard. Monstrous selfish- ness, a crime, to unite my staid manhood to her bright youth! Oh, miserable world! oh, unhappy, groping humanity! Our greatest sacrifices are almost ever our great- est mistakes. Where is God in all this? Where is right? And yet—and yet! What was it Cluny said? Could I, could any other man but this Cluny himself, have given to that woman’s face her aureole of joy? Youth calls to youth, beauty to beauty, brilliancy to brilliancy. Had she been mine, the poignancy of anguish which now threatens her soul could never have reached her—it never would; but neither could have reached her that poignancy of THE SECRET ORCHARD. He stroked his gray beard with a steady hand. ‘‘To-night how beautiful she looked! Oh, it shall not all be lost! Helen, if there be a ministering God and I must lose my soul for it, you at least shall keep your earthly paradise !’’ He flung his final cigarette into the dish, and looked at Cluny, whose face was now compressed into lines of pain, whose eyes were closed. He rose from his chair, went over to his friend, laid a kind hand upon his shoulder, and said in his ear: ‘‘Cluny, it is getting late. Helen will be waiting for you.”’ Cluny looked up. And astonishment first, then a wistful, incredulous question- ing, came hungrily into his eyes. ‘‘Go to her,’’ repeated Favereau, and paused. ‘‘My God, man,’’ he went on in a passionate whisper, ‘‘have you not the present still? He who .knows how to hold the present must not fear the future. Go!”’ Cluny sprang to his feet like one recalled to life. His was a nature that must utterly despond or buoyantly hope; but too eagerly will such natures seize upon hope again. He wrung Favereau’s hands. ‘‘God bless you,’’ said he. ‘‘What should I have done without you? Ah, Favereau, if we get out of this, I shall be ‘a very different man.’’ Favereau looked after him as Cluny hur- ried from the room, forgetting even to be- stow a good-night word upon the dreaming Dodd, still sunk in his arm-chair; there was no lightening of the melancholy in his eyes. bliss.’’ (To be continued.) . A MORNING. By THEODOSIA PICKERING GARRISON. SUMMER and sun and ecstasy of day, Tremor of trees beneath the wind’s swift kiss— Sing, O my heart! the robin on the spray Sends you a challenge in each note of his.

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