the girl at the halfway house a story of the plains by emerson hough author of _the covered wagon_, _ - or fight_, _north of _, etc. grosset & dunlap publishers new york to edward kemeys, soldier, hunter, and sculptor, who knew and loved the west, and who has preserved its spirit imperishably, this book is inscribed with many grateful acknowledgments. contents book i the day of war chapter i. the brazen tongues ii. the players of the game iii. the victory book ii the day of the buffalo iv. battersleigh of the rile irish v. the turning of the road vi. edward franklin, lawyer vii. the new world viii. the beginning ix. the new movers x. the chase xi. the battle xii. what the hand had to do xiii. pie and ethics xiv. the first ball at ellisville xv. another day xvi. another hour book iii the day of the cattle xvii. ellisville the red xviii. still a rebel xix. that which he would xx. the halfway house xxi. the advice of aunt lucy xxii. en voyage xxiii. mary ellen xxiv. the way of a maid xxv. bill watson xxvi. ike anderson xxvii. the body of the crime xxviii. the trial xxix. the verdict book iv the day of the plough xxx. the end of the trail xxxi. the success of battersleigh xxxii. the calling xxxiii. the great cold xxxiv. the artfulness of sam xxxv. the hill of dreams xxxvi. at the gateway book i the day of war chapter i the brazen tongues the band major was a poet. his name is lost to history, but it deserves a place among the titles of the great. only in the soul of a poet, a great man, could there have been conceived that thought by which the music of triumph should pass the little pinnacle of human exultation, and reach the higher plane of human sympathy. forty black horses, keeping step; forty trumpeters, keeping unison; this procession, headed by a mere musician, who none the less was a poet, a great man, crossed the field of louisburg as it lay dotted with the heaps of slain, and dotted also with the groups of those who sought their slain; crossed that field of woe, meeting only hatred and despair, yet leaving behind only tears and grief. tears and grief, it is true, yet grief that knew of sympathy, and tears that recked of other tears. for a long time the lines of invasion had tightened about the old city of louisburg, and louisburg grew weaker in the coil. when the clank of the southern cavalry advancing to the front rang in the streets, many were the men swept away with the troops asked to go forward to silence the eternally throbbing guns. only the very old and the very young were left to care for the homes of louisburg, and the number of these grew steadily less as the need increased for more material at the front. then came the southern infantry, lean, soft-stepping men from georgia and the carolinas, their long black hair low on their necks, their shoes but tattered bits of leather bound upon their feet, their blankets made of cotton, but their rifles shining and their drill perfection. the wheat lay green upon the fields and the odours of the blossoms of the peach trees hung heavy on the air; but there was none who thought of fruitage or of harvest. out there in front, where the guns were pulsing, there went on that grimmer harvest with which the souls of all were intimately concerned. the boys who threw up their hats to greet the infantry were fewer than they had been before the blossoming of the peach. the war had grown less particular of its food. a boy could speed a bullet, or could stop one. there were yet the boys. of all the old-time families of this ancient little city none held position more secure or more willingly accorded than the fairfaxes and the beauchamps. there had always been a colonel fairfax, the leader at the local bar, perhaps the representative in the legislature, or in some position of yet higher trust. the beauchamps had always had men in the ranks of the professions or in stations of responsibility. they held large lands, and in the almost feudal creed of the times they gave large services in return. the curse of politics had not yet reached this land of born politicians. quietly, smoothly, yet withal keyed to a high standard of living, the ways of this old community, as of these two representative families, went on with little change from generation to generation. it was not unknown that these two families should intermarry, a fairfax finding a wife among the beauchamps, or perchance a beauchamp coming to the fairfax home to find a mistress for his own household. it was considered a matter of course that young henry fairfax, son of colonel fairfax, should, after completing his studies at the ancient institution of william and mary college, step into his father's law office, eventually to be admitted to the bar and to become his father's partner; after which he should marry miss ellen beauchamp, loveliest daughter of a family noted for its beautiful women. so much was this taken for granted, and so fully did it meet the approval of both families, that the tide of the young people's plans ran on with little to disturb its current. with the gallantry of their class the young men of the plantations round about, the young men of the fastidiously best, rode in to ask permission of mary ellen's father to pay court to his daughter. one by one they came, and one by one they rode away again, but of them all not one remained other than mary ellen's loyal slave. her refusal seemed to have so much reason that each disappointed suitor felt his own defeat quite stingless. young fairfax seemed so perfectly to represent the traditions of his family, and his future seemed so secure; and mary ellen herself, tall and slender, bound to be stately and of noble grace, seemed so eminently fit to be a beauchamp beauty and a fairfax bride. for the young people themselves it may be doubted if there had yet awakened the passion of genuine, personal love. they met, but, under the strict code of that land and time, they never met alone. they rode together under the trees along the winding country roads, but never without the presence of some older relative whose supervision was conventional if careless. they met under the honeysuckles on the gallery of the beauchamp home, where the air was sweet with the fragrance of the near-by orchards, but with correct gallantry henry fairfax paid his court rather to the mother than to the daughter. the hands of the lovers had touched, their eyes had momentarily encountered, but their lips had never met. over the young girl's soul there sat still the unbroken mystery of life; nor had the reverent devotion of the boy yet learned love's iconoclasm. for two years colonel fairfax had been with his regiment, fighting for what he considered the welfare of his country and for the institutions in whose justice he had been taught to believe. there remained at the old fairfax home in louisburg only the wife of colonel fairfax and the son henry, the latter chafing at a part which seemed to him so obviously ignoble. one by one his comrades, even younger than himself, departed and joined the army hastening forward toward the throbbing guns. spirited and proud, restive under comparisons which he had never heard but always dreaded to hear. henry fairfax begged his mother to let him go, though still she said, "not yet." but the lines of the enemy tightened ever about louisburg. then came a day--a fatal day--fraught with the tidings of what seemed a double death. the wife of colonel henry fairfax was grande dame that day, when she buried her husband and sent away her son. there were yet traditions to support. henry fairfax said good-bye to mary ellen upon the gallery of the old home, beneath a solemn, white-faced moon, amid the odours of the drooping honeysuckle. had mary ellen's eyes not been hid beneath the lids they might have seen a face pale and sad as her own. they sat silent, for it was no time for human speech. the hour came for parting, and he rose. his lips just lightly touched her cheek. it seemed to him he heard a faint "good-bye." he stepped slowly down the long walk in the moonlight, and his hand was at his face. turning at the gate for the last wrench of separation, he gazed back at a drooping form upon the gallery. then mrs. beauchamp came and took ellen's head upon her bosom, seeing that now she was a woman, and that her sufferings had begun. chapter ii the players of the game when the band major was twenty miles away in front of louisburg his trumpets sounded always the advance. the general played the game calmly. the line of the march was to be along the main road leading into the town. with this course determined, the general massed his reserves, sent on the column of assault, halted at the edge of the wood, deployed his skirmishers, advanced them, withdrew them, retreated but advanced again, ever irresistibly sweeping the board in toward the base of louisburg, knight meeting knight, pawn meeting pawn, each side giving and taking pieces on the red board of war. the main intrenchments erected in the defences of louisburg lay at right angles to the road along which came the northern advance, and upon the side of the wood nearest to the town. back of the trenches lay broken fields, cut up by many fences and dotted with occasional trees. in the fields both the wheat and the flowers were now trampled down, and a thousand industrious and complaining bees buzzed protest at the losing of their commerce. the defences themselves were but earthworks, though skilfully laid out. along their front, well hidden by the forest growth, ran a line of entangling abattis of stakes and sharpened interwoven boughs. in the centre of the line of defence lay the reserves, the boys of louisburg, flanked on either side by regiments of veterans, the lean and black-haired georgians and carolinians, whose steadiness and unconcern gave comfort to more than one bursting boyish heart. the veterans had long played the game of war. they had long since said good-bye to their women. they had seen how small a thing is life, how easily and swiftly to be ended. yellow-pale, their knees standing high in front of them as they squatted about on the ground, their long black hair hanging down uncared for, they chewed, smoked, swore, and cooked as though there was no jarring in the earth, no wide foreboding on the air. one man, sitting over his little fire, alternately removed and touched his lips to the sooty rim of his tin cup, swearing because it was too hot. he swore still more loudly and in tones more aggrieved when a bullet, finding that line, cut off a limb from a tree above and dropped it into his fire, upsetting the frying pan in which he had other store of things desirable. repairing all this damage as he might, he lit his pipe and leaned against the tree, sitting with his knees high in front of him. there came other bullets, singing, sighing. another bullet found that same line as the man sat there smoking. overhead were small birds, chirping, singing, twittering. a long black line of crows passed, tumbling in the air, with much confusion of chatter and clangour of complaint that their harvest, too, had been disturbed. they had been busy. why should men play this game when there were serious things of life? the general played calmly, and ever the points and edges and fronts of his advance came on, pressing in toward the last row of the board, toward the line where lay the boys of louisburg. many a boy was pale and sick that day, in spite of the encouraging calm or the biting jests of the veterans. the strange sighings in the air became more numerous and more urgent. now and then bits of twigs and boughs and leaves came sifting down, cut by invisible shears, and now and then a sapling jarred with the thud of an unseen blow. the long line in the trenches moved and twisted restlessly. in front of the trenches were other regiments, out ahead in the woods, unseen, somewhere toward that place whence came the steadiest jarring of artillery and the loudest rattling of the lesser arms. it was very hard to lie and listen, to imagine, to suspect, to dread. for hours the game went on, the reserves at the trenches hearing now distinctly and now faintly the tumult of the lines, now receding, now coming on. but the volume of the tumult, and its separation into a thousand distinct and terrifying sounds, became in the average ever an increasing and not a lessening thing. the cracker-popping of the musketry became less and less a thing of sport, of reminiscences. the whinings that passed overhead bore more and more a personal message. these young men, who but lately had said good-bye to the women of their kin, began to learn what war might mean. it had been heretofore a distant, unmeasured, undreaded thing, conquerable, not to be feared. it seemed so sweet and fit to go forth, even though it had been hard to say good-bye! now there began to appear in the woods before the trenches the figures of men, at first scattered, then becoming steadily more numerous. there came men bearing other men whose arms lopped loosely. some men walked with a hand gripped tightly to an arm; others hobbled painfully. two men sometimes supported a third, whose head, heavy and a-droop, would now and then be kept erect with difficulty, the eyes staring with a ghastly, sheepish gaze, the face set in a look of horrified surprise. this awful rabble, the parings of the defeated line in front, dropped back through the woods, dropped back upon the young reserves, who lay there in the line. some of them could go no farther, but fell there and lay silent. others passed back into the fields where droned the protesting bees, or where here and there a wide tree offered shelter. suddenly all the summer air was filled with anguish and horror. was this, then, the war? and now there appeared yet other figures among the trees, a straggling, broken line, which fell back, halted, stood and fired always calmly, coolly, at some unseen thing in front of them. but this line resolved itself into individuals, who came back to the edge of the wood, methodically picking their way through the abattis, climbing the intervening fences, and finally clambering into the earthworks to take their places for the final stand. they spoke with grinning respect of that which was out there ahead, coming on. they threw off their coats and tightened their belts, making themselves comfortable for what time there yet remained. one man saw a soldier sitting under a tree, leaning against the trunk, his knees high in front of him, his pipe between his lips. getting no answer to his request for the loan of the pipe, he snatched it without leave, and then, discovering the truth, went on none the less to enjoy the luxury of a smoke, it seeming to him desirable to compass this while it yet remained among the possibilities of life. at last there came a continued, hoarse, deep cheering, a roaring wave of menace made up of little sounds. an officer sprang up to the top of the breastworks and waved his sword, shouting out something which no one heard or cared to hear. the line in the trenches, boys and veterans, reserves and remnants of the columns of defence, rose and poured volley after volley, as they could, into the thick and concealing woods that lay before them. none the less, there appeared soon a long, dusty, faded line, trotting, running, walking, falling, stumbling, but coming on. it swept like a long serpent parallel to the works, writhing, smitten but surviving. it came on through the wood, writhing, tearing at the cruel abattis laid to entrap it. it writhed, roared, but it broke through. it swept over the rail fences that lay between the lines and the abattis, and still came on! this was not war, but fate! there came a cloud of smoke, hiding the face of the intrenchments. then the boys of louisburg saw bursting through this suffocating curtain a few faces, many faces, long rows of faces, some pale, some red, some laughing, some horrified, some shouting, some swearing--a long row of faces that swept through the smoke, following a line of steel--a line of steel that flickered, waved, and dipped. chapter iii the victory the bandmaster marshalled his music at the head of the column of occupation which was to march into louisburg. the game had been admirably played. the victory was complete. there was no need to occupy the trenches, for those who lay in them or near them would never rally for another battle. the troops fell back behind the wood through which they had advanced on the preceding day. they were to form upon the road which had been the key of the advance, and then to march, horse and foot in column, into louisburg, the place of honour at the head being given to those who had made the final charge to the last trench and through the abattis. gorged with what it had eaten, the dusty serpent was now slothful and full of sleep. there was no longer need for hurry. before the middle of the morning the lines would start on the march of the few short miles. during the delay a young officer of engineers, captain edward franklin by name, asked permission of his colonel to advance along the line of march until he came to the earthworks, to which he wished to give some examination, joining his regiment as it passed beyond the fortifications on its march. the colonel gave his consent, not altogether willingly. "you may see more over there than you want to see, young man," said he. franklin went on, following as nearly as he could the line of the assault of the previous day, a track all too boldly marked by the horrid _debris_ of the fight. as he reached the first edge of the wood, where the victorious column had made its entrance, it seemed to him that there could have been no such thing as war. a gray rabbit hopped comfortably across the field. merry squirrels scampered and scolded in the trees overhead. the jays jangled and bickered, it is true, but a score of sweet-voiced, peaceful-throated birds sang bravely and contentedly as though there had never been a sound more discordant than their own speech. the air was soft and sweet, just cold enough to stir the leaves upon the trees and set them whispering intimately. the sky, new washed by the rain which had fallen in the night, was clean and bright and sweet to look upon, and the sun shone temperately warm. all about was the suggestion of calm and rest and happiness. surely it had been a dream! there could have been no battle here. this that had been a dream was changed into a horrid nightmare as the young officer advanced into the wood. about him lay the awful evidences. coats, caps, weapons, bits of gear, all marked and emphasized with many, many shapeless, ghastly things. here they lay, these integers of the line, huddled, jumbled. they had all the contortions, all the frozen ultimate agonies left for survivors to see and remember, so that they should no more go to war. again, they lay so peacefully calm that all the lesson was acclaim for happy, painless war. one rested upon his side, his arm beneath his head as though he slept. another sat against a tree, his head fallen slightly forward, his lax arms allowing his hands to droop plaintively, palms upward and half spread, as though he sat in utter weariness. some lay upon their backs where they had turned, thrusting up a knee in the last struggle. some lay face downward as the slaughtered fall. many had died with hands open, suddenly. others sat huddled, the closed hand with its thumb turned under and covered by the fingers, betokening a gradual passing of the vital spark, and a slow submission to the conqueror. it was all a hideous and cruel dream. surely it could be nothing more. it could not be reality. the birds gurgled and twittered. the squirrels barked and played. the sky was innocent. it must be a dream. in this part of the wood the dead were mingled from both sides of the contest, the faded blue and the faded gray sometimes scarce distinguishable. then there came a thickening of the gray, and in turn, as the traveller advanced toward the fences and abattis, the northern dead predominated, though still there were many faces yellow-pale, dark-framed. at the abattis the dead lay in a horrid commingling mass, some hanging forward half through the entanglement, some still in the attitude of effort, still tearing at the spiked boughs, some standing upright as though to signal the advance. the long row of dead lay here as where the prairie wind drives rolling weeds, heaping them up against some fence that holds them back from farther travel. franklin passed over the abattis, over the remaining fences, and into the intrenchments where the final stand had been. the dead lay thick, among them many who were young. out across the broken and trodden fields there lay some scattered, sodden lumps upon the ground. franklin stood looking out over the fields, in the direction of the town. and there he saw a sight fitly to be called the ultimate horror of all these things horrible that he had seen. over the fields of louisburg there came a fearful sound, growing, rising, falling, stopping the singing and the twitter of the birds. across the land there came a horrible procession, advancing with short, uncertain, broken pauses--a procession which advanced, paused, halted, broke into groups; advanced, paused, stopped, and stooped; a procession which came with wailings and bitter cries, with wringing of hands, with heads now and then laid upon the shoulders of others for support; a procession which stooped uncertainly, horribly. it was the women of louisburg coming to seek their slain--a sight most monstrous, most terrible, unknown upon any field of civilized war, and unfit to be tolerated even in the thought! it is for men, who sow the fields of battle, to attend also to the reaping. franklin stood at the inner edge of the earthworks, half hidden by a little clump of trees. it seemed to him that he could not well escape without being seen, and he hesitated at this thought, yet as he stood it appeared that he must be an intruder even thus against his will. he saw approaching him, slowly but almost in direct line, two figures, an older lady and a girl. they came on, as did the others, always with that slow, searching attitude, the walk broken with pauses and stoopings. the quest was but too obvious. and even as franklin gazed, uncertain and unable to escape, it seemed apparent that the two had found that which they had sought. the girl, slightly in advance, ran forward a few paces, paused, and then ran back. "oh, there! there!" she cried. and then the older woman took the girl's head upon her bosom. with bared head and his own hand at his eyes, franklin hurried away, hoping himself unseen, but bearing indelibly pictured on his brain the scene of which he had been witness. he wanted to cry out, to halt the advancing columns which would soon be here, to tell them that they must not come upon this field, made sacred by such woe. the column of occupation had begun its movement. far as the eye could see, the way was filled with the northern troops now swinging forward in the march. their course would be along this road, across these earthworks, and over the fields between the wood and the town. the rattle and rumble of the advance began. upon the morning air there rose the gallant and forgetful music which bade the soldier think not of what had been or would be, but only of the present. the bugles and the cymbals sounded high and strong in the notes of triumph. the game was over. the army was coming to take possession of that which it had won. it had won--what? could the answer be told by this chorus of woe which arose upon the field of louisburg? could the value of this winning be summed by the estimate of these heaps of sodden, shapeless forms? here were the fields, and here lay the harvest, the old and the young, the wheat and the flower alike cut down. was this, then, what the conqueror had won? near the intrenchment where the bitter close had been, and where there was need alike for note of triumph, and forgetfulness, the band major marshalled his music, four deep and forty strong, and swung out into the anthem of the flag. the march was now generally and steadily begun. the head of the column broke from the last cover of the wood and came into full sight at the edge of the open country. thus there came into view the whole panorama of the field, dotted with the slain and with those who sought the slain. the music of triumph was encountered by the concerted voice of grief and woe. there appeared for the feet of this army not a mere road, a mere battlefield, but a ground sacred, hedged high about, not rudely to be violated. but the band major was a poet, a great man. there came to him no order telling him what he should do, but the thing was in his soul that should be done. there came to him, wafted from the field of sorrow, a note which was command, a voice which sounded to him above the voices of his own brasses, above the tapping of the kettledrums. a gesture of command, and the music ceased absolutely. a moment, and it had resumed. the forty black horses which made up this regimental band were the pride of the division. four deep, forty strong, with arching necks, with fore feet reaching far and drooping softly, each horse of the famous cavalry band passed on out upon the field of louisburg with such carriage as showed it sensible of its mission. the reins lay loose upon their necks, but they kept step to the music which they felt. forty horses paced slowly forward, keeping step. forty trumpeters, each man with his right hand aloft, holding his instrument, his left hand at his side, bearing the cap which he had removed, rode on across the field of louisburg. the music was no longer the hymn of triumph. softly and sadly, sweetly and soothingly, the trumpets sang a melody of other days, an air long loved in the old-time south. and annie laurie, weeping, heard and listened, and wept the more, and blessed god for her tears! book ii the day of the buffalo chapter iv battersleigh of the rile irish colonel henry battersleigh sat in his tent engaged in the composition of a document which occasioned him concern. that colonel battersleigh should be using his tent as office and residence--for that such was the fact even the most casual glance must have determined--was for him a circumstance offering no special or extraordinary features. his life had been spent under canvas. brought up in the profession of arms, so long as fighting and forage were good it had mattered little to him in what clime he found his home. he had fought with the english in india, carried sabre in the austrian horse, and on his private account drilled regiments for the grand sultan, deep within the interior of a country which knew how to keep its secrets. when the american civil war began he drifted to the newest scene of activity as metal to a magnet. chance sent him with the union army, and there he found opportunity for a cavalry command. "a gintleman like battersleigh of the rile irish always rides," he said, and natural horseman as well as trained cavalryman was battersleigh, tall, lean, flat-backed, and martial even under his sixty admitted years. it was his claim that no sudanese spearsman or waddling assegai-thrower could harm him so long as he was mounted and armed, and he boasted that no horse on earth could unseat him. perhaps none ever had--until he came to the plains. for this was on the plains. when the bitter tide of war had ebbed, battersleigh had found himself again without a home. he drifted with the disintegrating bodies of troops which scattered over the country, and in course of time found himself in the only portion of america which seemed to him congenial. indeed, all the population was adrift, all the anchors of established things torn loose. in the distracted south whole families, detesting the new ways of life now thrust upon them, and seeing no way of retrieving their fortunes in the country which had borne them, broke away entirely from old associations and started on in the strange, vague american fashion of that day, in a hope of finding a newer and perhaps a better country. they moved by rail, by boat, by wagon, in such way as they could. the old mountain road from virginia was trodden by many a disheartened family who found kentucky also smitten, missouri and arkansas no better. the west, the then unknown and fascinating west, still remained beyond, a land of hope, perhaps a land of refuge. the men of the lower south, also stirred and unsettled, moved in long columns to the west and southwest, following the ancient immigration into texas. the men of texas, citizens of a crude empire of unproved resources, likewise cast about them restlessly. their cattle must some day find a market. to the north of them, still unknown and alluring, lay the new upper country known as the west. in the north the story was the same. the young men, taken from the fields and marts to the camps and marches of the war, could not easily return to the staid ways of their earlier life. from new england to michigan, from michigan to minnesota, many northern families began to move also toward that west which offered at least opportunity for change. thus there poured into the west from many different directions, but chiefly from two right-angling directions which intersected on the plains, a diverse population whose integers were later with phenomenal swiftness to merge and blend. as in the war the boldest fought, so in emigration the boldest travelled, and the west had the pick of the land. in illinois and iowa, after the war had ended, you might have seen a man in flapping blue army overcoat hewing timber for fences on the forgotten farms, or guiding the plough across the black reeking sod; but presently you must have also seen the streams of white-topped wagons, sequel to the white tented fields, moving on, pushing toward the west, the land of action and adventure, the land of hope and promise. as all america was under canvas, it was not strange that colonel battersleigh should find his home in a tent, and that this tent should be pitched upon the western plains. not that he had gone directly to the west after the mustering out of his regiment. to the contrary, his first abode had been in the city of new york, where during his brief stay he acquired a certain acquaintance. colonel battersleigh was always a striking figure, the more so by reason of his costume, which was invariably the same. his broad cavalry hat, his shapely varnished boots, his gauntlets, his sweeping cloak, made him fairly historic about the clubs. his air, lofty, assured, yet ever suave, showed that he classified himself cheerfully as being of the natural aristocracy of the earth. when colonel battersleigh had occasion to sign his name it was worth a dinner to see the process, so seriously did he himself regard it. "battersleigh"--so stood the name alone, unsupported and self-sufficient. seeing which inscription in heavy black lines, many a man wondered, considering that he had discovered an old-world custom, and joining in the belief of the owner of the name that all the world must know the identity of battersleigh. what were the financial resources of battersleigh after the cessation of his pay as a cavalry officer not even his best friends could accurately have told. it was rumoured that he was the commissioner in america of the london times. he was credited with being a fellow of the royal geographical society. that he had a history no one could doubt who saw him come down the street with his broad hat, his sweeping cloak, his gauntlets, his neatly varnished boots. in reality colonel henry battersleigh lived, during his city life, in a small, a very small room, up more than one night of stairs. this room, no larger than a tent, was military in its neatness. battersleigh, bachelor and soldier, was in nowise forgetful of the truth that personal neatness and personal valour go well hand in hand. the bed, a very narrow one, had but meagre covering, and during the winter months its single blanket rattled to the touch. "there's nothing in the world so warm as newspapers, me boy," said battersleigh. upon the table, which was a box, there was displayed always an invariable arrangement. colonel battersleigh's riding whip (without which he was rarely seen in public) was placed upon the table first. above the whip were laid the gauntlets, crossed at sixty degrees. on top of whip and gloves rested the hat, indented never more nor less. beyond these, the personal belongings of battersleigh of the rile irish were at best few and humble. in the big city, busy with reviving commerce, there were few who cared how battersleigh lived. it was a vagrant wind of march that one day blew aside the cloak of battersleigh as he raised his hat in salutation to a friend--a vagrant wind, cynical and merciless, which showed somewhat of the poverty with which battersleigh had struggled like a soldier and a gentleman. battersleigh, poor and proud, then went out into the west. the tent in which colonel battersleigh was now writing was an old one, yellow and patched in places. in size it was similar to that of the bedroom in new york, and its furnishings were much the same. a narrow bunk held a bed over which there was spread a single blanket. it was silent in the tent, save for the scratching of the writer's pen; so that now and then there might easily have been heard a faint rustling as of paper. indeed, this rustling was caused by the small feet of the prairie mice, which now and then ran over the newspaper which lay beneath the blanket. battersleigh's table was again a rude one, manufactured from a box. the visible seats were also boxes, two or three in number. upon one of these sat battersleigh, busy at his writing. upon the table lay his whip, gloves, and hat, in exactly the same order as that which had been followed in the little chamber in the city. a strip of canvas made a carpet upon the hard earthen floor. a hanging cloth concealed a portion of the rear end of the tent. such had been battersleigh's quarters in many climes, under different flags, sometimes perhaps more luxurious, but nevertheless punctiliously neat, even when fortune had left him servantless, as had happened now. colonel battersleigh as he wrote now and then looked out of the open door. his vision reached out, not across a wilderness of dirty roads, nor along a line of similar tents. there came to his ear no neighing of horses nor shouting of the captains, neither did there arise the din of the busy, barren city. he gazed out upon a sweet blue sky, unfretted by any cloud. his eye crossed a sea of faintly waving grasses. the liquid call of a mile-high mysterious plover came to him. in the line of vision from the tent door there could be seen no token of a human neighbourhood, nor could there be heard any sound of human life. the canvas house stood alone and apart. battersleigh gazed out of the door as he folded his letter. "it's grand, just grand," he said. and so he turned comfortably to the feeding of his mice, which nibbled at his fingers intimately, as had many mice of many lands with battersleigh. chapter v the turning of the road at the close of the war captain edward franklin returned to a shrunken world. the little illinois village which had been his home no longer served to bound his ambitions, but offered only a mill-round of duties so petty, a horizon of opportunities so restricted, as to cause in his mind a feeling of distress equivalent at times to absolute abhorrence. the perspective of all things had changed. the men who had once seemed great to him in this little world now appeared in the light of a wider judgment, as they really were--small, boastful, pompous, cowardly, deceitful, pretentious. franklin was himself now a man, and a man graduated from that severe and exacting school which so quickly matured a generation of american youth. tall, finely built, well set up, with the self-respecting carriage of the soldier and the direct eye of the gentleman, there was a swing in his step not commonly to be found behind a counter, and somewhat in the look of his grave face which caused men to listen when he spoke. as his hand had fitted naturally a weapon, so his mind turned naturally to larger things than those offered in these long-tilled fields of life. he came back from the war disillusionized, irreverent, impatient, and full of that surging fretfulness which fell upon all the land. thousands of young men, accustomed for years to energy, activity, and a certain freedom from all small responsibility, were thrust back at once and asked to adjust themselves to the older and calmer ways of peace. the individual problems were enormous in the aggregate. before franklin, as before many other young men suddenly grown old, there lay the necessity of earning a livelihood, of choosing an occupation. the paternal arm of the government, which had guided and controlled so long, was now withdrawn. the young man must think for himself. he must choose his future, and work out his way therein alone and unsupported. the necessity of this choice, and the grave responsibility assumed in choosing, confronted and oppressed edward franklin as they did many another young man, whose life employment had not been naturally determined by family or business associations. he stood looking out over the way of life. there came to his soul that indefinite melancholy known by the young man not yet acquainted with the mysteries of life. franklin had been taken away at the threshold of young manhood and crowded into a rude curriculum, which taught him reserve as well as self-confidence, but which robbed him of part of the natural expansion in experience which is the ordinary lot of youth. he had seen large things, and had become intolerant of the small. he wished to achieve life, success, and happiness at one assault, and rebelled at learning how stubborn a resistance there lies in that perpetual silent line of earth's innumerable welded obstacles. he grieved, but knew not why he grieved. he yearned, but named no cause. to this young man, ardent, energetic, malcontent, there appeared the vision of wide regions of rude, active life, offering full outlet for all the bodily vigour of a man, and appealing not less powerfully to his imagination. this west--no man had come back from it who was not eager to return to it again! for the weak and slothful it might do to remain in the older communities, to reap in the long-tilled fields, but for the strong, for the unattached, for the enterprising, this unknown, unexplored, uncertain country offered a scene whose possibilities made irresistible appeal. for two years franklin did the best he could at reading law in a country office. every time he looked out of the window he saw a white-topped wagon moving west. men came back and told him of this west. men wrote letters from the west to friends who remained in the east. presently these friends also, seized upon by some vast impulse which they could not control, in turn arranged their affairs and departed for the west. franklin looked about him at the squat buildings of the little town, at the black loam of the monotonous and uninviting fields, at the sordid, set and undeveloping lives around him. he looked also at the white wagons moving with the sun. it seemed to him that somewhere out in the vast land beyond the missouri there beckoned to him a mighty hand, the index finger of some mighty force, imperative, forbidding pause. the letter of battersleigh to his friend captain franklin fell therefore upon soil already well prepared. battersleigh and franklin had been friends in the army, and their feet had not yet wandered apart in the days of peace. knowing the whimsicality of his friend, and trusting not at all in his judgment of affairs, franklin none the less believed implicitly in the genuineness of his friendship, and counted upon his comradeship as a rallying point for his beginning life in the new land which he felt with strange conviction was to be his future abiding place. he read again and again the letter battersleigh had written him, which, in its somewhat formal diction and informal orthography, was as follows: "_to capt. edw. franklin, bloomsbury, ill._ "my dear ned: i have the honour to state to you that i am safely arrived and well-established at this place, ellisville, and am fully disposed to remain. at present the railway is built no further than this point, and the labourers under charge of the company engineers make the most of the population. there is yet but one considerable building completed, a most surprising thing to be seen in this wild region. it is of stone and built as if to last forever. it is large as a courthouse of one of your usual towns, and might seem absurd in this country did it not suggest a former civilization instead of one yet to come. it is full large enough for any town of several thousand people. this is the property of the co. that is building the ry. it is said that the co. will equip it fully, so that the country round about may depend upon it for rations. "there is another building, intended also for an hotel, but of a different sort. this is called the cottage, and is much frequented by fellows of the lower sort, the labourers and others now stopping in this vicinity. it is the especial rendezvous of many men concerned with the handling of cattle. i must tell you that this is to be a great market for these western beeves. great numbers of these cattle are now coming in to this country from the far south, and since the ry. is yet unable to transport these animals as they arrive there is good numbers of them in the country hereabout, as well as many strange persons curiously known as cowboys or cow-punchers, which the same i may call a purely heathan sort. these for the most part resort at the cottage hotel, and there is no peace in the town at this present writing. "for myself i have taken entry upon one hundred and sixty acres govt. land, and live a little way out from the town. here i have my quarters under tent, following example of all men, for as yet there are scarce a dozen houses within fifty miles. i find much opportunity for studies to be presented to the london times, which paper as you know i represent, and i prosecute with great hopes the business of the british american colonization society, of which corporation i am resident agent. "i have chosen this point because it was the furtherest one yet reached by rail. back of this, clean to the missouri river, new towns have grown up in most wonderful fashion. i have been advised that it is highly desirable to be in at the beginning in this country if one is to stay in the hunt, therefore i have come to a town which has just begun. believe me, dear ned, it is the beginning of a world. such chances are here, i am sure as do not exist in any other land, for behind this land is all the richer and older parts, which are but waiting to pour money and men hither so soon as the ry. shall be fully completed. i have heard of many men who have made fortunes since the war. it is truly a rapid land. "i am persuaded, my dear boy, that this is the place for you to come. there are an hundred ways in which one may earn a respectable living, and i find here no class distinction. it is an extraordinary fact that no man and no profession ranks another here. one man is quite good as another. "of society i regret to say we can not as yet offer you much. there is yet but four women in the place and for the men a part seem mostly busy consuming whisky at the cottage, at which i wonder, for i have found the whisky very bad. let this not dishearten you, for many things will change when the ry. is completed. we are to have shops here, and i understand this is to be the seat of the county. a year from now, as i am told, we shall have , persons living here, and in five years this will be a city. conceive the opportunity meantime. the cattle business is bound to grow, and i am advised that all this land will ultimately be farmed and prove rich as that through which i past in coming out. you are welcome, my dear ned, as i am sure you know, to half my blankets and rations during your stay here, however long same may be, and i most cordially invite you to come out and look over this country, nor do i have the smallest doubt that it will seem to you quite as it does to me, and i shall hope that we make a citizen of you. "above all is this a man's country. for sport it has no equal i have ever seen, and as you know i have visited some parts of the world. the buffaloes is to be found by millions within a few miles of this point, and certain of the savidge tribes still live but a short journey from this point, though now the army has pretty much reduced them. antelopes there is all around in thousands, and many wolves. it is, indeed, my boy, as i have told you, a country entirely new. i have travelled much, as you know, and am not so young as yourself, but i must say to you that your friend batty feels like a boy again. there is something strange in this air. the sky is mostly clear, and the air very sweet. the wind is steady but pleasant, and a man may live in comfort the year round as i am told. i am but new here as yet myself, but am fully disposed, as they say in the strange language here, to drive my stake. i want you, my dear boy, also to drive yours beside me, and to that effect i beg to extend you whatever aid may lie in my power. "hoping that you may receive this communication duly, and make reply to same, and hoping above all things that i may soon meet again my companion of the th., i beg to subscribe myself, my dear boy, ever your obdt. & affect. friend, "battersleigh. "p.s.--pray herild your advent by a letter & bring about lbs. or lbs. of your favourite tea, as i am short of same." the letter ended with battersleigh's best flourish. franklin turned it over again and again in his hand and read it more than once as he pondered upon its message. "dear old fellow," he said; "he's a good deal of a don quixote, but he never forgets a friend. buffalo and indians, railroads and hotels--it must at least be a land of contrasts!" chapter vi edward franklin, lawyer edward franklin had taken up his law studies in the office of judge bradley, the leading lawyer of the little village of bloomsbury, where franklin was born, and where he had spent most of his life previous to the time of his enlistment in the army. judge bradley was successful, as such matters go in such communities, and it was his open boast that he owed his success to himself and no one else. he had no faith in such mythical factors as circumstances in the battle of life. this is the common doctrine of all men who have arrived, and judge bradley had long since arrived, in so far as the possibilities of his surroundings would admit. his was the largest law library in the town. he had the most imposing offices--a suite of three rooms, with eke a shiny base-burner in the reception room. his was one of the three silk hats in the town. thirty-five years earlier, a raw youth from old vermont, hollis n. bradley had walked into the embryonic settlement of bloomsbury with a single law book under his arm, and naught but down upon his chin. he pleaded his first cause before a judge who rode circuit over a territory now divided into three congressional districts. he won his first case, for his antagonist was even more ignorant than he. as civilization advanced, he defended fewer men for stealing hogs, and more for murder and adultery. his practice grew with the growth of the population of the country about him. he was elected county attorney, local counsel for the railroad, and judge of the circuit court. he was mentioned for gubernatorial honours, and would perhaps have received the party nomination but for the breaking out of the civil war. not fancying the personal risks of the army, he hired a substitute, and this sealed his political fate; for illinois at that time did not put in power men who sent substitutes to the war. none the less, the lands and moneys of the most prominent lawyer of the place kept him secure, and human memories are short; so that, when edward franklin and others of the young men of bloomsbury returned from the war, they saw upon the streets of the little town, as they had seen before they went away, the tall form, the portly front, the smooth-shaven face, and the tall silk hat of judge hollis n. bradley, who had in every sense survived the war. it was an immemorial custom in bloomsbury for the youth who had aspirations for a legal career to "read law" in judge bradley's office. two of his students had dropped their books to take up rifles, and they came not back to their places. they were forgotten, save once a year, upon decoration day, when judge bradley made eloquent tribute above their graves. upon such times judge bradley always shed tears, and always alluded to the tears with pride. indeed, his lachrymal ability was something of which he had much right to be proud, it being well known in the legal profession that one's fees are in direct proportion to his ability to weep. judge bradley could always weep at the right time before a jury, and this facility won him many a case. through no idle whim had public sentiment, even after the incident of the substitute, confirmed him in his position as the leading lawyer of bloomsbury. it was therefore predetermined that edward franklin should go into the office of judge bradley to begin his law studies, after he had decided that the profession of the law was the one likely to offer him the best career. in making his decision, franklin was actuated precisely as are many young men who question themselves regarding their career. he saw the average results of the lives of others in a given calling, and conceived, without consulting in most jealous scrutiny his own natural fitnesses and preferences, that he might well succeed in that calling because he saw others so succeeding. already there were two dozen lawyers in bloomsbury, and it was to be questioned whether they all did so well as had judge bradley in the hog-stealing epoch of the local history. yet it was necessary for him to take up something by way of occupation, and it resolved itself somewhat into a matter of cancellation. for the profession of medicine he had a horror, grounded upon scenes of contract surgery upon the fields of battle. the ministry he set aside. from commerce, as he had always seen it in his native town, twelve hours a day of haggling and smirking, he shrank with all the impulses of his soul. the abject country newspaper gave him no inkling of that fourth estate which was later to spring up in the land. arms he loved, but there was now no field for arms. there were no family resources to tide him over the season of experiment, and, indeed, but for a brother and a sister, who lived in an adjoining farming community, he had no relatives to be considered in his plans. perforce, then, franklin went into the law, facing it somewhat as he had the silent abattis, as with a duty to perform. certainly, of all students, judge bradley had never had a handsomer, a more mature, or a more reluctant candidate than this same edward franklin, late captain in the united states army, now getting well on into his twenties, grave, silent, and preoccupied, perhaps a trine dreamy. he might or might not be good material for a lawyer; as to that, judge bradley did not concern himself. young men came into his office upon their own responsibility. it was one of the unvarying rules of judge bradley's office, and indeed this was almost the only rule which he imposed, that the law student within his gates, no matter what his age or earlier servitude, should each morning sweep out the office, and should, when so requested, copy out any law papers needing to be executed in duplicate. so long as a student did these things, he was welcome as long as he cared to stay. the judge never troubled himself about the studies of his pupil, never asked him a question, indeed never even told him what books it might be best to read, unless this advice were asked voluntarily by the student himself. he simply gave the candidate a broom, a chair, and the freedom of the library, which latter was the best law library in the town. what more could one ask who contemplated a career at law? it was for him to work out his own salvation; and to sweep the stairs each morning. edward franklin accepted his seat in judge bradley's office without any reservations, and he paid his daily fee of tenure as had all the other students before him, scorning not the broom. indeed, his conscience in small things augured well, for it was little cousin to his conscience in great things. ardent, ambitious, and resolute, he fell upon blackstone, chitty, and kent, as though he were asked to carry a redoubt. he read six, eight, ten hours a day, until his head buzzed, and he forgot what he had read. then at it all over again, with teeth set. thus through more than a year he toiled, lashed forward by his own determination, until at length he began to see some of the beautiful first principles of the law--that law, once noble and beneficent, now degraded and debased; once designed for the protection of the individual, now used by society as the instrument for the individual's extermination. so in his second year franklin fared somewhat beyond principles merely, and got into notes and bills, torts, contracts, and remedies. he learned with a shiver how a promise might legally be broken, how a gift should be regarded with suspicion, how a sacred legacy might be set aside. he read these things again and again, and forced them into his brain, so that they might never be forgotten; yet this part of the law he loved not so much as its grand first principles of truth and justice. one morning, after franklin had finished his task of sweeping down the stairs, he sat him down by the window with battersleigh's letter in his hand; for this was now the third day since he had received this letter, and it had been in his mind more vividly present than the pages of the work on contracts with which he was then occupied. it was a bright, fresh morning in the early spring. a little bird was singing somewhere near the window. from where franklin sat he could see the green grass just starting, over in the courthouse yard. a long and lazy street lay in perspective before the window, and along it, out beyond the confines of the town, there reached the flat monotony of the dark prairie soil. the leaves of the soft maples were beginning to show over there, near the village church. a dog crossed the street, pausing midway of the crossing to scratch his ear. the cart of the leading grocer was hitched in front of his store, and an idle citizen or two paused near by to exchange a morning greeting. all the little, uneventful day was beginning, as it had begun so many times before here in this little, uneventful town, where the world was finished, never more to change. franklin shuddered. was this, then, to be his life? he turned to the rows of scuffed-backed law books on their shelves. then he turned again to his letter, and to the window, and to the birds and the grass. he caught himself noting how long the dog's hind leg looked, how impossible the angle between the fore leg and the spine, as it half sat in flea-compelled contortions. there came a regular tread upon the stair, as there had always for years come at this hour of half past seven in the morning, rain or shine. judge bradley entered, tall, portly, smooth shaven, his silk hat pushed back upon his brow, as was his fashion. franklin turned to make the usual morning salutation. "good-morning, ned," said the judge, affably. "good-morning, judge," said franklin. "i hope you are well." "yes, thank you. nothing ever the matter with me. how are things coming?" "oh, all right, thank you." this was the stereotyped form of the daily greeting between the two. judge bradley turned as usual to his desk, but, catching sight of the letter still held in franklin's hand, remarked carelessly: "got a letter from your girl?" "not so lucky," said franklin. "from a friend." silence resulted. judge bradley opened his desk, took off his coat and hung it on a nail, after his custom, thereafter seating himself at his desk, with the official cough which signified that the campaign of the day had begun. he turned over the papers for a moment, and remarked absent-mindedly, and more to be polite than because the matter interested him, "friend, eh?" "yes," said franklin, "friend, out west"; and both relapsed again into silence. franklin once more fell to gazing out of the window, but at length turned toward the desk and pulled over his chair to a closer speaking distance. "judge bradley," said he, "i shouldn't wonder if i could pass my examination for the bar." "well, now," said the judge, "i hope you can. that's nice. goin' to hang out your own shingle, eh?" "i might, if i got my license." "oh, that's easy," replied the other; "it's mostly a matter of form. the court'll appoint a committee of three members of the bar, an' they'll tell you when they want to see you for the circus--some evening after court. they'll ask you where you've been readin' law, an' for how long. if you tell 'em you've read in my office, it'll be all right. i never knew 'em to fail to pass a student that had read with me--it wouldn't be professional courtesy to me. you'll go through all right, don't worry. you want to post up on a few such questions as, 'what is the law?' and 'what are the seven--or is it eight?--forms of actions at law?' then you want to be able to answer on 'what was the rule in shelley's case?' there's sure to be some fool or other that'll ask you that question, just to show off--i don't remember what the d----d thing is myself--and you'll never hear of it again; but you get fixed to answer them three questions, an' you can be admitted to the bar all right anywhere in the state of illinois, or leastways in this county. then it's customary for a fellow just admitted to the bar to have a little jug around at his office before court adjourns--just to comply with a professional custom, you know. no trouble about it--not in the least. i'll see you through." "i am clear in my own mind that i don't know much about the law," said franklin, "and i should not think of going up for examination if that ended my studies in the profession. if i were intending to go into practice here, sir, or near by, i should not think of applying for admission for at least another year. but the fact is, i'm thinking of going away." "goin' away?" judge bradley straightened up, and his expression if anything was one of relief. he had had his own misgivings about this grave-faced and mature young man should he go into the practice at the bloomsbury bar. it was well enough to encourage such possibilities to take their test in some other locality. judge bradley therefore became more cheerful. "goin' away, eh?" he said. "where to?" "out west," said franklin, unconsciously repeating the phrase which was then upon the lips of all the young men of the country. "out west, eh?" said the judge, with still greater cheerfulness. "that's right, that's right. that's the place to go to, where you can get a better chance. i came west in my day myself, though it isn't west now; an' that's how i got my start. there's ten chances out there to where there's one here, an' you'll get better pay for what you do. i'd advise it, sir--i'd advise it; yes, indeed." "i think it will be better," said franklin calmly. "hate to lose you," said the judge, politely--"hate to lose you, of course, but then a young man's got to make his way; he's got to get his start." franklin sat silent for a few moments, musingly staring out of the window, and listening, without active consciousness of the fact, to the music of the singing bird which came from somewhere without. at length he rose and turned toward the elder man. "if you please, judge," said he, "get the committee appointed for to-night if you can. i'll take the examination now." "yes? you are in a hurry!" "then to-morrow i'll go over and say good-bye to my sister; and the next day i think i'll follow the wagons west. i've not much to put in a wagon, so i can go by rail. the road's away west of the missouri now, and my letter comes from the very last station, at the head of the track." "so?" said the judge. "well, that ought to be far enough, sure, if you go clean to the jumping-off place. goin' to leave your sweetheart behind you, eh?" franklin laughed. "well, i don't need face that hardship," said he, "for i haven't any sweetheart." "ought to have," said the judge. "you're old enough. i was just twenty-two years old when i was married, an' i had just one hundred dollars to my name. i sent back to vermont for my sweetheart, an' she came out, an' we were married right here. i couldn't afford to go back after her, so she came out to me. an' i reckon," added he, with a sense of deep satisfaction, "that she hasn't never regretted it." "well, i don't see how love and law can go together," said franklin sagely. "they don't," said the judge tersely. "when you get so that you see a girl's face a-settin' on the page of your law book in front of you, the best thing you can do is to go marry the girl as quick as the lord'll let you. it beats the world, anyhow, how some fellows get mixed up, and let a woman hinder 'em in their work. now, in my case, i never had any such a trouble." "and i hope i never shall," said franklin. "well, see that you don't. you hit it close when you said that love an' law don't go together. don't try to study 'em both at the same time; that's my advice, an' i don't charge you anything for it, seeing it's you." with a grin at his little jest, judge bradley turned back to his desk and to his little world. chapter vii the new world franklin crossed the missouri river, that dividing stream known to a generation of western men simply as "the river," and acknowledged as the boundary between the old and the new, the known and the untried. he passed on through well-settled farming regions, dotted with prosperous towns. he moved still with the rolling wheels over a country which showed only here and there the smoke of a rancher's home. not even yet did the daring flight of the railway cease. it came into a land wide, unbounded, apparently untracked by man, and seemingly set beyond the limit of man's wanderings. far out in the heart of this great gray wilderness lay the track-end of this railroad pushing across the continent. when franklin descended from the rude train he needed no one to tell him he had come to ellisville. he was at the limit, the edge, the boundary! "well, friend," said the fireman, who was oiling the engine as he passed, and who grinned amiably as he spoke, "you're sure at the front now." franklin had not advised his friend battersleigh of his intended arrival, but as he looked about him he saw that he had little need for any guide. ellisville as an actual town did not yet exist. a rude shanty or two and a line of tents indicated the course of a coming street. the two hotels mentioned by battersleigh were easily recognised, and indeed not to be evaded. out of the middle of this vast, treeless plain the great stone hotel arose, with no visible excuse or palliation, a deliberate affront to the solitude which lay far and wide about. even less within the bounds of reason appeared the wooden building which franklin learned was the cottage. "surely," thought he, "if the railroad company had been mad in building the stone hotel, much worse must have been the man who erected this rambling wooden structure, hoping for customers who must come a thousand miles." yet was this latter mad act justified before his very eyes. the customers had come. more than forty cow ponies stood in the cottage corral or in the street near by. afar there swelled the sound of morning revelries. franklin wanted breakfast, and instinctively turned toward the stone hotel at the depot, where he learned were quartered the engineers and contractors on the railroad work. he seated himself at one of the many tables in the vast, barren dining room. half the attendants were haughty young women, and half rather slovenly young men. franklin fell under the care of one of the latter, who greeted him with something of the affection of an old acquaintance. coming to the side of his chair, and throwing an arm carelessly across franklin's shoulder, the waiter asked in a confidential tone of voice, "well, cap, which'll you have, hump or tongue?" whereby franklin discovered that he was now upon the buffalo range, and also at the verge of a new etiquette. after breakfast franklin paused for a moment at the hotel office, almost as large and empty as the dining room. different men now and then came and passed him by, each seeming to have some business of his own. the clerk at the hotel asked him if he wanted to locate some land. still another stranger, a florid and loosely clad young man with a mild blue eye, approached him and held some converse. "mornin', friend," said the young man. "good-morning," said franklin. "i allow you're just in on the front," said the other. "yes," said franklin, "i came on the last train." "stay long?" "well, as to that," said franklin, "i hardly know, but i shall look around a bit." "i didn't know but maybe you'd like to go south o' here, to plum centre. i run the stage line down there, about forty-six miles, twict a week. that's my livery barn over there--second wooden building in the town. sam's my name; sam poston." "i never heard of plum centre," said franklin, with some amusement. "is it as large a place as this?" "oh, no," said sam hurriedly, "not nigh as large as this, but it's a good town, all right. lots on the main street there sold for three hundred dollars last week. you see, old man plum has got it figgered out that his town is right in the middle of the united states, ary way you measure it. we claim the same thing for ellisville, and there you are. we've got the railroad, and they've got my stage line. there can't no one tell yet which is goin' to get the bulge on the other. if you want to go down there, come over and i'll fix you up." franklin replied that he would be glad to do so in case he had the need, and was about to turn away. he was interrupted by the other, who stopped him with an explosive "say!" "yes," said franklin. "did you notice that girl in the dining room, pony-built like, slick, black-haired, dark eyes--wears glasses? say, that's the smoothest girl west of the river. she's waitin', in the hotel here, but say" (confidentially), "she taught school onct--yes, sir. you know, i'm gone on that girl the worst way. if you get a chanct to put in a word for me, you do it, won't you?" franklin was somewhat impressed with the swiftness of acquaintanceships and of general affairs in this new land, but he retained his own tactfulness and made polite assurances of aid should it become possible. "i'd be mightily obliged," said his new-found friend. "seems like i lose my nerve every time i try to say a word to that girl. now, i plum forgot to ast you which way you was goin'. do you want a team?" "thank you," said franklin, "but i hardly think so. i want to find my friend colonel battersleigh, and i understand he lives not very far away." "oh, you mean old batty. yes, he lives just out south a little ways--section no. , southeast quarter. i suppose you could walk." "i believe i will walk, if you don't mind," said franklin. "it seems very pleasant, and i am tired of riding." "all right, so long," said sam. "don't you forgit what i told you about that nora girl." franklin passed on in the direction which had been pointed out to him, looking about him at the strange, new country, in which he felt the proprietorship of early discovery. he drew in deep breaths of an air delightfully fresh, squaring his shoulders and throwing up his head instinctively as he strode forward. the sky was faultlessly clear. the prospect all about him, devoid as it was of variety, was none the less abundantly filling to the eye. far as the eye could reach rolled an illimitable, tawny sea. the short, harsh grass near at hand he discovered to be dotted here and there with small, gay flowers. back of him, as he turned his head, he saw a square of vivid green, which water had created as a garden spot of grass and flowers at the stone hotel. he did not find this green of civilization more consoling or inspiring than the natural colour of the wild land that lay before him. for the first time in his life he looked upon the great plains, and for the first time felt their fascination. there came to him a subtle, strange exhilaration. a sensation of confidence, of certainty, arose in his heart. he trod as a conqueror upon a land new taken. all the earth seemed happy and care-free. a meadow lark was singing shrilly high up in the air; another lark answered, clanking contentedly from the grass, whence in the bright air its yellow breast showed brilliantly. as franklin was walking on, busy with the impressions of his new world, he became conscious of rapid hoof-beats coming up behind him, and turned to see a horseman careering across the open in his direction, with no apparent object in view beyond that of making all the noise possible to be made by a freckled-faced cowboy who had been up all night, but still had some vitality which needed vent. "eeeeee-yow-heeeeee!" yelled the cowboy, both spurring and reining his supple, cringing steed. "eeeeeee-yip-yeeeee!" thus vociferating, he rode straight at the footman, with apparently the deliberate wish to ride him down. he wist not that the latter had seen cavalry in his day, and was not easily to be disconcerted, and, finding that he failed to create a panic, he pulled up with the pony's nose almost over franklin's shoulder. "hello, stranger," cried the rider, cheerfully; "where are you goin', this bright an' happy mornin'?" franklin was none too pleased at the method of introduction selected by this youth, but a look at his open and guileless face forbade the thought of offence. the cowboy sat his horse as though he was cognizant of no such creature beneath him. his hand was held high and wabbling as he bit off a chew from a large tobacco plug the while he jogged alongside. franklin made no immediate reply, and the cowboy resumed. "have a chaw?" he said affably, and looked surprised when franklin thanked him but did not accept. "where's yore hoss, man?" asked the new-comer with concern. "where you goin', headin' plum south, an' 'thout no hoss?" "oh," said franklin, smiling, "i'm not going far; only over south a mile or so. i want to find a friend. colonel battersleigh. i think his place is only a mile or so from here." "sure," said the cowboy. "old batty--i know him. he taken up a quarter below here. ain't got his shack up yet. but say, that's a full mile from yer. you ain't goin' to walk a mile, are you?" "i've walked a good many thousand miles," said franklin, "and i shouldn't wonder if i could get over this one." "they's all kind of fools in the world," said the rider sagely, and with such calm conviction in his tone that again franklin could not take offence. they progressed a time in silence. "say," said the cowboy, after a time--"say, i reckon i kin lick you." "do you think so?" said franklin calmly, pulling up his shoulders and feeling no alarm. "shorely i do," said the other; "i reckon i kin lick you, er beat you shootin', er throw you down." "friend," said franklin judicially, "i have a good many doubts about your being able to do all that. but before we take it up any further i would like to ask you something." "well, whut?" "i'd just like to ask you what makes you tell me that, when i'm a perfect stranger to you, and when perhaps you may never see me again?" "well, now," said the cowboy, pushing back his hat and scratching his head thoughtfully, "blame if i know why, but i just 'lowed i could, sorter. an' i _kin_!" "but why?" "say, you're the d----dest feller i ever did see. you got to have a reason fer everything on earth?" his tone became more truculent. "first place, 'f i didn't have no other reason, i kin lick ary man on earth that walks." "friend," said franklin, "get down off that horse, and i'll give you a little wrestle to see who rides. what's your name, anyhow?" "whoa!" said the other. "name's curly." he was on the ground as he said this last, and throwing the bridle over the horse's head. the animal stood as though anchored. curly cast his hat upon the ground and trod upon it in a sort of ecstasy of combat. he rushed at franklin without argument or premeditation. the latter had not attended country school for nothing. stepping lightly aside, he caught his ready opponent as he passed, and, with one arm about his neck, gave him a specimen of the "hip-lock" which sent him in the air over his own shoulder. the cowboy came down much in a heap, but presently sat up, his hair somewhat rumpled and sandy. he rubbed his head and made sundry exclamations of surprise. "huh!" said he. "well, i'm d----d! now, how you s'pose that happened? you kain't do that again," he said to franklin, finally. "shouldn't wonder if i could," said franklin, laughing. "look out fer me--i'm a-comin'!" cried curly. they met more fairly this time, and franklin found that he had an antagonist of little skill in the game of wrestling, but of a surprising wiry, bodily strength. time and again the cowboy writhed away from the hold, and came back again with the light of battle in his eye. it was only after several moments that he succumbed, this time to the insidious "grapevine." he fell so sharply that franklin had difficulty in breaking free in order not to fall upon him. the cowboy lay prone for a moment, then got up and dusted off his hat. "mount, friend," said he, throwing the bridle back over the horse's neck without other word. "you done it fair!" "i'll tell you what we'll do," said franklin, extending his hand. "we'll just both walk along together a way, if you don't mind. i'll get me a horse pretty soon. you see, i'm a new man here--just got in this morning, and i haven't had time to look around much yet. i thought i'd go out and meet my friend, and perhaps then we could talk over such things together." "shore," said curly. "why didn't you tell me? say, ole batty, he's crazy to ketch a whole lot o' hosses out'n a band o' wild hosses down to the beaver creek. he always a-wantin' me to help him ketch them hosses. say, he's got a lot o' sassafiddity, somethin' like that, an' he says he's goin' to soak some corn in that stuff an' set it out fer hosses. says it'll make 'em _loco_, so'st you kin go right up an' rope 'em. now, ain't that the d----dest fool thing yet? say, some o' these pilgrims that comes out here ain't got sense enough to last over night." "battersleigh is fond of horses," said franklin, "and he's a rider, too." "that's so," admitted curly. "he kin ride. you orter see him when he gits his full outfit on, sword _an_' pistol by his side, uh-huh!" "he has a horse, then?" "has a boss? has a hoss--has--what? why, o' course he has a boss. is there anybody that ain't got a hoss?" "well, i haven't," said franklin. "you got this one," said curly. "how?" said frank, puzzled. "why, you won him." "oh, pshaw!" said franklin. "nonsense! i wasn't wrestling for your horse, only for a ride. besides, i didn't have any horse put up against yours. i couldn't lose anything." "that's so," said curly. "i hadn't thought of that. say, you seem like a white sort o' feller. tell you what i'll just do with you. o' course, i was thinkin' you'd win the whole outfit, saddle an' all. i think a heap o' my saddle, an' long's you ain't got no saddle yet that you have got used to, like, it don't make much difference to you if you get another saddle. but you just take this here hoss along. no, that's all right. i kin git me another back to the corral, just as good as this one. jim parsons, feller on the big bunch o' cows that come up from the san marcos this spring, why, he got killed night before last. i'll just take one o' his hosses, i reckon. i kin fix it so'st you kin git his saddle, if you take a notion to it." franklin looked twice to see if there was affectation in this calm statement, but was forced, with a certain horror, to believe that his new acquaintance spoke of this as a matter of fact, and as nothing startling. he had made no comment, when he was prevented from doing so by the exclamation of the cowboy, who pointed out ahead. "there's batty's place," said he, "an' there's batty himself. git up, quick; git up, an' ride in like a gentleman. it's bad luck to walk." franklin laughed, and, taking the reins, swung himself into the saddle with the ease of the cavalry mount, though with the old-fashioned grasp at the cantle, with the ends of the reins in his right hand. "well, that's a d----d funny way gittin' on top of a hoss," said curly. "are you 'fraid the saddle's goin' to git away from you? better be 'fraid 'bout the hoss.--git up, bronch!" he slapped the horse on the hip with his hat, and gave the latter a whirl in the air with a shrill "whoooop-eee!" which was all that remained needful to set the horse off on a series of wild, stiff-legged plunges--the "bucking" of which franklin had heard so much; a manoeuvre peculiar to the half-wild western horses, and one which is at the first experience a desperately difficult one for even a skilful horseman to overcome. it perhaps did not occur to curly that he was inflicting any hardship upon the newcomer, and perhaps he did not really anticipate what followed on the part either of the horse or its rider. had franklin not been a good rider, and accustomed to keeping his head while sitting half-broken mounts, he must have suffered almost instantaneous defeat in this sudden encounter. the horse threw his head down far between his fore legs at the start, and then went angling and zigzagging away over the hard ground in a wild career of humpbacked antics, which jarred franklin to the marrow of his bones. the air became scintillant and luminously red. his head seemed filled with loose liquid, his spine turned into a column of mere gelatine. the thudding of the hoofs was so rapid and so punishing to his senses that for a moment he did not realize where he actually was. yet with the sheer instinct of horsemanship he clung to the saddle in some fashion, until finally he was fairly forced to relax the muscular strain, and so by accident fell into the secret of the seat--loose, yielding, not tense and strung. "go it, go it--whooop-e-e-e!" cried curly, somewhere out in a dark world. "ee-eikee-hooo! set him fair, pardner! set him fair, now! let go that leather! ride him straight up! that's right!" franklin had small notion of curly's locality, but he heard his voice, half taunting and half encouraging, and calling on all his pluck as he saw some hope of a successful issue, he resolved to ride it out if it lay within him so to do. he was well on with his resolution when he heard another voice, which he recognised clearly. "good boy, ned," cried out this voice heartily, though likewise from some locality yet vague. "r-ride the divil to a finish, me boy! git up his head, ned! git up his head! the murdering haythin' brute! kill him! ride him out!" and ride him out franklin did, perhaps as much by good fortune as by skill, though none but a shrewd horseman would have hoped to do this feat. hurt and jarred, he yet kept upright, and at last he did get the horse's head up and saw the wild performance close as quickly as it had begun. the pony ceased his grunting and fell into a stiff trot, with little to indicate his hidden pyrotechnic quality. franklin whirled him around and rode up to where battersleigh and curly had now joined. he was a bit pale, but he pulled himself together well before he reached them and dismounted with a good front of unconcern. battersleigh grasped his hand in both his own and greeted him with a shower of welcomes and of compliments. curly slapped him heartily upon the shoulders. "you're all right, pardner," said he. "you're the d----dest best pilgrim that ever struck this place, an' i kin lick ary man that says differ'nt. he's yore horse now, shore." "and how do ye do, ned? god bless ye!" said battersleigh a moment later, after things had become more tranquil, the horse now falling to cropping at the grass with a meekness of demeanour which suggested innocence or penitence, whichever the observer chose. "i'm glad to see ye; glad as ivver i was in all me life to see a livin' soul! why didn't ye tell ye was coming and not come ridin' like a murderin' cintaur--but ay, boy, ye're a rider--worthy the ould forty-siventh--yis, more, i'll say ye might be a officer in the guards, or in the rile irish itself, b'gad, yes, sir!--curly, ye divvil, what do ye mean by puttin' me friend on such a brute, him the first day in the land? and, ned, how are ye goin' to like it here, me boy?" franklin wiped his forehead as he replied to battersleigh's running fire of salutations. "well, battersleigh," he said, "i must say i've been pretty busy ever since i got here, and so far as i can tell at this date, i'm much disposed to think this is a strange and rather rapid sort of country you've got out here." "best d----n pilgrim ever hit this rodeo!" repeated curly, with conviction. "shut up, curly, ye divvil!" said battersleigh. "come into the house, the both of you. it's but a poor house, but ye're welcome.--an' welcome ye are, too, ned, me boy, to the new world." chapter viii the beginning franklin's foot took hold upon the soil of the new land. his soul reached out and laid hold upon the sky, the harsh flowers, the rasping wind. he gave, and he drank in. thus grew the people of the west. the effect upon different men of new and crude conditions is as various as the individuals themselves. to the dreamer, the theorist, the man who looks too far forward into the future or too far back into the past, the message of the environment may fall oppressively; whereas to the practical man, content to live in the present and to devise immediate remedies for immediate ills, it may come sweet as a challenge upon reserves of energy. the american frontier subsequent to the civil war was so vast, yet so rapid, in its motive that to the weak or the unready it was merely appalling. the task was that of creating an entire new world. so confronted, some sat down and wept, watching the fabric grow under the hands of others. some were strong, but knew not how to apply their strength; others were strong but slothful. the man of initiative, of executive, of judgment and resource, was the one who later came to rule. there was no one class, either of rich or of poor, who supplied all these men. the man who had been poor in earlier life might set to work at once in bettering himself upon the frontier; and by his side, equally prosperous, might be one who in his earlier days had never needed to earn a dollar nor to thrash a fellow-man. civilization at its later stages drives the man into a corner. in its beginning it summons this same man out of the corner and asks him to rely upon himself for the great and the small things of life, thus ultimately developing that sturdy citizen who knows the value of the axiom, "_ubi bene, ibi patria_." the great deeds, the great dreams become possible for nation or for individual only through the constant performance of small deeds. "for it must be remembered that life consists not of a series of illustrious actions or elegant enjoyments. the greater part of our time passes in compliance with necessities, in the performance of daily duties, in the removal of small inconveniences, in the procurement of petty pleasures; and we are well or ill at ease as the main stream of life glides on smoothly, or is ruffled by small obstructions and frequent interruptions." such philosophy was for franklin unformulated. care sat not on his heart. there were at first no problems in all the world for him. it was enough to feel this warm sun upon the cheek, to hear the sigh of the wind in the grasses, to note the nodding flowers and hear the larks busy with their joys. the stirring of primeval man was strong, that magnificent rebellion against bonds which has, after all, been the mainspring of all progress, however much the latter may be regulated by many intercurrent wheels. it was enough for franklin to be alive. he stood straight, he breathed deep. this infection was in his blood. "think you, ned, me boy," said battersleigh, one day, as they stood at the tent door--"think you, this old gray world has been inhabited a million years, by billions of people, and yet here we have a chance to own a part of it, each for himself, here, at this last minute of the world's life! do you mind that, what it means? never you think a chance like that'll last forever. yet here we are, before the law, and almost antedatin' the social ijee. it's the beginning man, it's the very beginnin' of things, where we're standin' here, this very blessed day of grace. it's batty has travelled all his life, and seen the lands, but never did batty live till now!" "it's grand," murmured franklin, half dreamily and unconsciously repeating the very words of his friend, as he had done before. yet franklin was well bitten of the ambition germ. it would serve him to run only in the front rank. he was not content to dream. he saw the great things ahead, and the small things that lay between. in a week he was the guiding mind in the affairs of the odd partnership which now sprang between him and his friend. battersleigh would have lived till autumn in his tent, but franklin saw that the need of a house was immediate. he took counsel of curly, the cowboy, who proved guardian and benefactor. curly forthwith produced a workman, a giant mexican, a half-witted _mozo_, who had followed the cow bands from the far southwest, and who had hung about curly's own place as a sort of menial, bound to do unquestioningly whatever curly bade. this curious being, a very colossus of strength, was found to be possessed of a certain knowledge in building houses after the fashion of that land--that is to say, of sods and earthen unbaked bricks--and since under his master's direction he was not less serviceable than docile, it was not long before the "claim" of battersleigh was adorned with a comfortable house fit for either winter or summer habitation. franklin meantime selected the body of land upon which he proposed to make settlers' entry, this happily not far from his friend, and soon this too had its house--small, crude, brown, meagre, but not uncomforting to one who looked over the wide land and saw none better than his own. then, little by little, they got precious coal from the railroad, this land having but scant fuel near at hand, and they built great stacks of the _bois des vaches_, that fuel which nature left upon the plains until the railroads brought in coal and wood. each man must, under the law, live upon his own land, but in practice this was no hardship. each must of necessity cook for himself, sew for himself, rely upon himself for all those little comforts which some men miss so keenly, and which others so quickly learn to supply. to these two this was but comfortable campaigning. there remained ever before the minds of the settlers the desirability of laying this land under tribute, of forcing it to yield a livelihood. franklin had no wish to depart from his original plans. he looked to see all the ways of the civilization he had left behind come duly hither to search him out. he was not satisfied to abandon his law books for the saddle, but as yet there was no possibility of any practice in the law, though meantime one must live, however simply. it was all made easy. that wild nature, which had erected rude barriers against the coming of the white man, had at her reluctant recession left behind the means by which the white man might prevail. even in the "first year" the settler of the new west was able to make his living. he killed off the buffalo swiftly, but he killed them in numbers so desperately large that their bones lay in uncounted tons all over a desolated empire. first the hides and then the bones of the buffalo gave the settler his hold upon the land, which perhaps he could not else have won. franklin saw many wagons coming and unloading their cargoes of bleached bones at the side of the railroad tracks. the heap of bones grew vast, white, ghastly, formidable, higher than a house, more than a bowshot long. there was a market for all this back in that country which had conceived this road across the desert. franklin put out a wagon at this industry, hauling in the fuel and the merchandise of the raw plains. he bought the grim product of others who were ready to sell and go out the earlier again. he betimes had out more than one wagon of his own; and battersleigh, cavalryman, became batty, scouter for bones, while franklin remained at the market. it was franklin who, bethinking himself of the commercial difference between hard black horn and soft, spongy bone, began the earliest shipments of the tips of the buffalo horns, which he employed a man to saw off and pack into sacks ready for the far-off button factories. many tons of these tips alone he came to ship, such had been the incredible abundance and the incredible waste; and thus thriving upon an industry whose cause and whose possibility he deplored, he came to realize considerable sums and saw the question of subsistence pass rapidly into unconcern. thus he had gone to work in his new and untried world with a direct and effective force. he dropped from him as a garment the customs and standards of the world he had left behind, and at once took his place as a factor in a new order of things. meantime the little town added building after building along its straggling street, each of these houses of a single story, with a large square of board front which projected deceptively high and wide, serving to cover from direct view the rather humiliating lack of importance in the actual building. these new edifices were for the most part used as business places, the sorts of commerce being but two--"general merchandise," which meant chiefly saddles and firearms, and that other industry of new lands which flaunts under such signboards as the lone star, the happy home, the quiet place, the cowboy's dream, and such descriptive nomenclature. of fourteen business houses, nine were saloons, and all these were prosperous. money was in the hands of all. the times had not yet come when a dollar seemed a valuable thing. men were busy living, busy at exercising this vast opportunity of being prehistoric. one by one, then in a body, as though struck by panic, the white tents of the railroad labourers vanished, passing on yet farther to the west, only the engineers remaining at ellisville and prosecuting from the haven of the stone hotel the work of continuing the line. the place of the tents was taken by vast white-topped wagons, the creaking cook carts of the cattle trail, and the van of the less nomadic man. it was the beginning of the great cattle drive from the southern to the northern ranges, a strange, wild movement in american life which carried in its train a set of conditions as vivid and peculiar as they were transient. at ellisville there was no ordered way of living. the frontier was yet but one vast camp. it was, as battersleigh had said, the beginning of things. many of the white-topped wagons began to come from the east, not following the railroad, but travelling the trail of the older adventurers who had for a generation gone this way, and whose pathway the railroad took for its own. some of these wagons passed still onward, uncontent. others swerved and scattered over the country to the south and southwest, from which the indian tribes had now been driven, and which appeared more tempting to the farming man than lands farther to the west and higher up that gradual and wonderful incline which reaches from the missouri river to the rockies. one by one, here and there, these new men selected their lands and made their first rude attempts at building for themselves the homes which they coveted and had come far to win. ellisville lay at an eddy in the plains, and gathered toll of the strange driftwood which was then afloat. though the chutes at the railway were busy, yet other herds of cattle passed ellisville and wandered on north, crowding at the heels of the passing indians, who now began to see their own cattle to be doomed. the main herd of the buffalo was now reported to be three or four days' drive from ellisville, and the men who killed for the railroad camps uttered loud complaints. the skin-hunting still went on. great wagons, loaded with parties of rough men, passed on out, bound for the inner haunts, where they might still find their prey. the wagons came creaking back loaded with bales of the shaggy brown robes, which gave the skin-hunters money with which to join the cowmen at the drinking places. some of the skin-hunters, some of the railroad men, some of the cowmen, some of the home-seekers, remained in the eddy at ellisville, this womanless beginning of a permanent society. not sinless was this society at its incipiency. in any social atmosphere good and evil are necessary concomitants. sinless men would form a community at best but perishable. tolerance, submission, patriotism so called, brotherly love so named--all these things were to come later, as they have ever done in the development of communities, builded mainly upon the foundation of individual aggressiveness and individual centrifugence. having arrived, we wave scented kerchiefs between us and the thought of such a beginning of our prosperity. having become slaves, we scoff at the thought of a primitive, grand, and happy world, where each man was a master. having lost touch of the earth, having lost sight of the sky, we opine there could have been small augur in a land where each man found joy in an earth and sky which to him seemed his own. there were those who knew that joy and who foresaw its passing, yet they were happy. edward franklin saw afar off the dim star of his ambition; yet for him, as for many another man in those days, it was enough to own this earthy this sky, to lie down under his own roof at night to untroubled dreams, to awake each morning to a day of hopeful toil. chapter ix the new movers far away, across the wide gray plain, appeared a tiny dot, apparently an unimportant fixture of the landscape. an hour earlier it might not have been observed at all by even the keenest eye, and it would have needed yet more time to assure an observer even now that the dot was a moving object. under the shifting play of the prairie sun the little object appeared now dark, now light in colour, but became gradually more distinct. it came always crawling steadily on. presently an occasional side-blown puff of dust added a certain heraldry, and thus finally the white-topped wagon and its plodding team came fully into view, crawling ever persistently from the east into the west. meantime, from the direction of the north, there came travelling across the prairie another cloud of dust more rapid than that stirred up by the slow-moving emigrant wagon. sam, the stage driver, was crossing on his regular buckboard trip from ellisville to plum centre, and was now nearly half-way on his journey. obviously the courses of these two vehicles must intersect, and at the natural point of this intersection the driver of the faster pulled up and waited for the other. "movers" were not yet so common in that region that the stage driver, natural news agent, must not pause for investigation. the driver of the wagon, a tall, dark man, drew rein with a grave salutation, his tired horses standing with drooping heads while there took place one of the pregnant conversations of the plains. "mornin', friend," said sam. "mornin', sir," said the other. "which way you headin', friend?" asked sam. "well, sir," came the answer, slowly, "i rather reckon you've got me. i've just been movin' on out. i want to locate, but i reckon my team could travel a little further if they had to." this with a certain grimness in his smile, as though he realized the whimsicality of the average motive which governed in that day in quests like his. "is there much travel comin' through here this season?" he resumed, turning in his seat and resting one foot on the wheel as he sat still perched on the high wagon seat. "well," replied sam, "they ain't so much just yet, but they will be pretty soon. you see, the land office is about sixty mile east of here yet, and folks is mostly stoppin' in there. land around here is pretty much all open yet. if they move the land office to the track-end, of course all this land will be taken up a good deal faster." "is it good farmin' land around here?" "sure. better'n it is farther west, and just as good as it is farther east. wheat'll do well here, and it ain't too cold for corn. best cow country on earth." "how is ellisville doing now?" "bloomin'." "yes, sir, so i heard farther back. is it goin' to be a real town?" "that's whatever! how can it help it? it's goin' to be a division point on the road. it's goin' to have all the cattle-shippin' trade. after a while it'll have all the farmin' trade. it's goin' to be the town, all right, don't you neglect that. they's fifteen thousand head of cattle in around here now. town's got two hotels, good livery stable--that's mine--half a dozen stores, nigh on to a dozen saloons, an' two barber-shops. yes, sir, ellisville is the place!" "which way are you bound, sir?" asked the stranger, still sitting, apparently in thought, with his chin resting on his hand. "well, you see, they's another town goin' up below here about twenty mile--old man plum's town, plum centre. i run the mail an' carry folk acrost from ellisville to that place. this here is just about halfway acrost. ellisville's about twenty or twenty-five mile north of here." sam spoke lucidly enough, but really he was much consumed with curiosity, for he had seen, behind the driver of the wagon, a face outlined in the shade. he wondered how many "women-folk" the new mover had along, this being ever a vital question at that day. the tall man on the wagon seat turned his face slowly back toward the interior of the wagon. "what do you think, lizzie?" he asked. "dear me, william," came reply from the darkness in a somewhat complaining voice, "how can i tell? it all seems alike to me. you can judge better than i." "what do you say, niece?" the person last addressed rested a hand upon the questioner's shoulder and lightly climbed out upon the seat by his side, stooping as she passed under the low bow of the cover frame. she stood upright, a tall and gracious figure, upon the wagon floor in front of the seat, and shaded her eyes as she looked about her. her presence caused sam to instinctively straighten up and tug at his open coat. he took off his hat with a memory of other days, and said his "good-mornin'" as the schoolboy does to his teacher--superior, revered, and awesome. yet this new character upon this bare little scene was not of a sort to terrify. tall she was and shapely, comely with all the grace of youth and health, not yet tanned too brown by the searing prairie winds, and showing still the faint purity of the complexion of the south. there was no slouch in her erect and self-respecting carriage, no shiftiness in her eye, no awkwardness in her speech. to sam it was instantaneously evident that here was a new species of being, one of which he had but the vaguest notions through any experiences of his own. his chief impression was that he was at once grown small, dusty, and much unshaven. he flushed as he shifted and twisted on the buckboard seat. the girl looked about her for a moment in silence, shading her eyes still with her curved hand. "it is much alike, all this country that we have seen since we left the last farms. uncle william," she said, "but it doesn't seem dreary to me. i should think--" but what she would have thought was broken into by a sudden exclamation from farther back in the wagon. a large black face appeared at the aperture under the front wagon bow, and the owner of it spoke with a certain oracular vigour. "fo' gawd, mass' william, less jess stop right yer! i 'clare, i'se jess wore to a plum frazzle, a-travelin' an' _a-travelin'_! ef we gwine settle, why, less _settle_, thass all i say!" the driver of the wagon sat silent for a moment, his leg still hanging over the end of the seat, his chin in the hand of the arm which rested upon his other leg, propped up on the dashboard of the wagon. at length, quietly, and with no comment, he unbuckled the reins and threw them out and down upon the ground on either side of the wagon. "whoa, boys," he called to the horses, which were too weary to note that they were no longer asked to go farther on. then the driver got deliberately down. he was a tall man, of good bearing, in his shoulders but little of the stoop of the farmer, and on his hands not any convincing proof that he was personally acquainted with continuous bodily toil. his face was thin, aquiline, proud; his hair dark, his eyes gray. he might have been a planter, a rancher, a man of leisure or a man of affairs, as it might happen that one met him at the one locality or the other. one might have called him a gentleman, another only a "pilgrim." to sam he was a "mover," and that was all. his own duty as proselyter was obvious. each new settlement was at war with all others, population being the first need. "we'll turn out here," said the man, striking his heel upon the ground with significant gesture, as was an unconscious custom among the men who chose out land for themselves in a new region. "we'll stop here for a bite to eat, and i reckon we won't go any farther west. how is this country around here for water?" "sure," said sam, "excuse me. i've got a jug along with me. i nearly always carry some water along, because they ain't but one creek, and they ain't no wells.--have a drink, miss?" and he politely pulled out the wooden stopper of a jug and offered it with a hand which jumped in spite of himself. "thank you, sir," said the girl, and her uncle added his courteous thanks also. "what i meant to ask, sir, however," he continued, "is what is the prospect of getting water in this part of the country in case we should like to settle in here?" "oh, that?" said sam. "why, say, you couldn't very well hit it much better. less'n a mile farther down this trail to the south you come to the sinks of the white woman creek. they's most always some water in that creek, and you can git it there any place by diggin' ten or twenty feet. "that's good," said the stranger. "that's mighty good." he turned to the wagon side and called out to his wife. "come, lizzie," he said, "get out, dear, and take a rest. we'll have a bite to eat, and then we'll talk this all over." the woman to whom he spoke next appeared at the wagon front and was aided to the ground. tall, slender, black clad, with thin, pale face, she seemed even more unsuited than her husband to the prospect which lay before them. she stood for a moment alone, looking about her at the land which had long been shut off from view by the wagon tent, then turned and went close to the man, upon whom she evidently relied for the solution of life's problems. immediately behind her there clambered down from the wagon, with many groanings and complaints, the goodly bulk of the black woman who had earlier given her advice. "set down yer, mis' lizzie, in the shade," she said, spreading a rug upon the ground upon the side of the wagon farthest from the sun. "set down an' git a ress. gawd knows we all needs it--this yer fo'saken kentry. 'tain' good as mizzoury, let 'lone kaintucky er ole vehginny--no, mam!" there was thus now established, by the chance of small things, the location of a home. this wagon, with its occupants, had come far and journeyed vaguely, having no given point in view. the meeting of this other vehicle, here in the middle of the untracked prairie, perhaps aided by the chance words of a tired negress, made the determining circumstances. it was done. it was decided. there was a relief at once upon every countenance. now these persons were become citizens of this land. unwittingly, or at least tacitly, this was admitted when the leader of this little party advanced to the side of the buckboard and offered his hand. "my name is buford," he said slowly and with grave courtesy. "this is my wife; my niece, miss beauchamp. your name, sir, i don't know, but we are very glad to meet you." "my name's poston," said sam, as he also now climbed down from his seat, seeing that the matter was clinched and that he had gained a family for his county--"sam poston. i run the livery barn. i sure hope you'll stop in here, for you won't find no better country. do you allow you'll move up to ellisville and live there?" "well, i've started out to get some land," said buford, "and i presume that the first thing is to find that and get the entry made. then we'll have to live on it till we can commute it. i don't know that it would suit us at ellisville just yet. it must be a rather hard town, from all i can learn, and hardly fit for ladies." "that's so," said sam, "it ain't just the quietest place in the world for women-folks. only five or six women in the place yet, outside the section boss's wife and the help at the depot hotel. still," he added apologetically, "folks soon gets used to the noise. i don't mind it no more at all." buford smiled as he glanced quizzically at the faces of his "women-folks." at this moment sam broke out with a loud exclamation. "say!" he cried. "yes, sir," said buford. "i'll tell you what!" "yes?" "now, you listen to me. i'll tell you what! you see, this here place where we are now is just about a mile from the white woman sinks, and that is, as i was sayin', just about halfway between ellisville and plum centre. now, look here. this country's goin' to boom. they's goin' to be a plenty of people come in here right along. there'll be a regular travel from ellis down to plum centre, and it's too long a trip to make between meals. my passengers all has to carry meals along with 'em, and they kick on that a-plenty. now, you look here. listen to me. you just go down to the white woman, and drive your stake there. take up a quarter for each one of you. put you up a sod house quick as you can--i'll git you help for that. now, if you can git anything to cook, and can give meals to my stage outfit when i carry passengers through here, why, i can promise you, you'll git business, and you'll git it a-plenty, too. why, say, this'd be the best sort of a lay-out, all around. you can start just as good a business here as you could at ellisville, and it's a heap quieter here. now, i want some one to start just such a eatin' place somewheres along here, and if you'll do that, you'll make a stake here in less'n two years, sure's you're born." sam's conviction gave him eloquence. he was talking of business now, of the direct, practical things which were of immediate concern in the life of the region about. the force of what he said would not have been apparent to the unpracticed observer, who might have seen no indication in the wide solitude about that there would ever be here a human population or a human industry. buford was schooled enough to be more just in his estimate, and he saw the reasonableness of what his new acquaintance had said. unconsciously his eye wandered over to the portly form of the negress, who sat fanning herself, a little apart from the others. he smiled again with the quizzical look on his face. "how about that, aunt lucy?" he said. "do hit, mass' william," replied the coloured woman at once with conviction, and extending an energetic forefinger. "you jess do whut this yer man says. ef they's any money to be made a-cookin', i kin do all the cookin' ever you wants, ef you-all kin git anything to cook. yas, suh!" "you ain't makin' no mistake," resumed sam. "you go in and git your land filed on, and put you up a sod house or dugout for the first season, because lumber's awful high out here. it's pretty late to do anything with a crop this year, even if you had any breakin' done, but you can take your team and gether bones this fall and winter, and that'll make you a good livin', too. you can git some young stock out of the trail cattle fer a'most anything you want to give, and you can hold your bunch in here on the white woman when you git started. you can cut a little hay a little lower down on the white woman for your team, or they can range out in here all winter and do well, just like your cows can. you can git a lot of stock about you before long, and what with keepin' a sort of eatin' station and ranchin' it a bit, you ought to git along mighty well, i should say. but--'scuse me, have you ever farmed it much?" "well, sir," said buford, slowly, "i used to plant corn and cotton, back in kentucky, befo' the war." "and you come from kentucky out here?" "not precisely that; no, sir. i moved to missouri from kentucky after the war, and came from missouri here." sam looked at him, puzzled. "i allowed you'd never ranched it much," he said, vaguely. "how'd you happen to come out here?" the quizzical smile again crossed buford's face. "i think i shall have to give that up, on my honour," he said. "we just seem to have started on west, and to have kept going until we got here. it seemed to be the fashion--especially if you'd lost about everything in the world and seen everything go to pieces all about you." he added this with a slow and deliberate bitterness which removed the light trace of humour for the time. "from kentucky, eh?" said sam, slowly and meditatively. "well, it don't make no difference where you come from; we want good men in here, and you'll find this a good country, i'll gamble on that. i've followed the front clean acrost the state, the last ten years, and i tell you it's all right here. you can make it if you take hold right. now i must be gittin' along again over toward plum centre. see you again if you stop in here on white woman--see you several times a week, like enough. you must come up to ellis soon as you git straightened out. ain't many women-folks up there, but then they're fine what there is. say," and he drew buford to one side as he whispered to him--"say, they's a mighty fine girl--works in the depot hotel--nory's her name--you'll see her if you ever come up to town. i'm awful gone on that girl, and if you git any chanct, if you happen to be up there, you just put in a good word for me, won't you? i'd do as much for you. i didn't know, you know, but what maybe some of your women-folks'd sort of know how it was, you know. they understand them things, i reckon." buford listened with grave politeness, though with a twinkle in his eye, and promised to do what he could. encouraged at this, sam stepped up and shook hands with mrs. buford and with the girl, not forgetting aunt lucy, an act which singularly impressed that late inhabitant of a different land, and made him her fast friend for life. "well, so long," he said to them all in general as he turned away, "and good luck to you. you ain't makin' no mistake in settlin' here. good-bye till i see you all again." he stepped into the buckboard and clucked to his little team, the dust again rising from under the wheels. the eyes of those remaining followed him already yearningly. in a half hour there had been determined the location of a home, there had been suggested a means of livelihood, and there had been offered and received a friendship. here, in the middle of the great gray plains, where no sign of any habitation was visible far as the eye could reach, these two white men had met and shaken hands. in a half hour this thing had become matter of compact. they had taken the oath. they had pledged themselves to become members of society, working together--working, as they thought, each for himself, but working also, as perhaps they did not dream, at the hest of some destiny governing plans greater than their own. as buford turned he stumbled and kicked aside a bleached buffalo skull, which lay half hidden in the red grass at his feet. chapter x the chase the summer flamed up into sudden heat, and seared all the grasses, and cut down the timid flowers. then gradually there came the time of shorter days and cooler nights. the grass curled tight down to the ground. the air carried a suspicion of frost upon some steel-clear mornings. the golden-backed plover had passed to the south in long, waving lines, which showed dark against the deep blue sky. great flocks of grouse now and then rocked by at morning or evening. on the sand bars along the infrequent streams thousands of geese gathered, pausing in their flight to warmer lands. on the flats of the rattlesnake, a pond-lined stream, myriads of ducks, cranes, swans, and all manner of wild fowl daily made mingled and discordant chorus. obviously all the earth was preparing for the winter time. it became not less needful for mankind to take thought for the morrow. winter on the plains was a season of severity for the early settlers, whose resources alike in fuel and food were not too extensive. franklin's forethought had provided the houses of himself and battersleigh with proper fuel, and he was quite ready to listen to curly when the latter suggested that it might be a good thing for them to follow the usual custom and go out on a hunt for the buffalo herd, in order to supply themselves with their winter's meat. before the oncoming white men these great animals were now rapidly passing away, from month to month withdrawing farther back from the settlements. reports from the returning skin-hunters set the distance of the main herd at three to five days' journey. the flesh of the buffalo was now a marketable commodity at any point along the railway; but the settler who owned a team and a rifle was much more apt to go out and kill his own meat than to buy it of another. there were many wagons which went out that fall from ellisville besides those of the party with which franklin, battersleigh, and curly set out. these three had a wagon and riding horses, and they were accompanied by a second wagon, owned by sam, the liveryman, who took with him curly's _mozo_, the giant mexican, juan. the latter drove the team, a task which curly scornfully refused when it was offered him, his cowboy creed rating any conveyance other than the saddle as far beneath his station. "juan can drive all right," he said. "he druv a cook wagon all the way from the red river up here. let him and sam drive, and us three fellers'll ride." the task of the drivers was for the most part simple, as the flat floor of the prairies stretched away evenly mile after mile, the horses jogging along dejectedly but steadily over the unbroken short gray grass, ignorant and careless of any road or trail. at night they slept beneath the stars, uncovered by any tent, and saluted constantly by the whining coyotes, whose vocalization was betimes broken by the hoarser, roaring note of the great gray buffalo wolf. at morn they awoke to an air surcharged with some keen elixir which gave delight in sense of living. the subtle fragrance of the plains, born of no fruit or flower, but begotten of the sheer cleanliness of the thrice-pure air, came to their nostrils as they actually snuffed the day. so came the sun himself, with heralds of pink and royal purple, with banners of flaming red and gold. at this the coyotes saluted yet more shrilly and generally. the lone gray wolf, sentinel on some neighbouring ridge, looked down, contemptuous in his wisdom. perhaps a band of antelope tarried at some crest. afar upon the morning air came the melodious trumpeting of wild fowl, rising from some far-off unknown roosting place and setting forth upon errand of their own. all around lay a new world, a wild world, a virgin sphere not yet acquaint with man. phoenicians of the earthy seas, these travellers daily fared on into regions absolutely new. early upon the morning of the fourth day of their journey the travellers noted that the plain began to rise and sink in longer waves. presently they found themselves approaching a series of rude and wild-looking hills of sand, among which they wound deviously as they might, confronted often by forbidding buttes and lofty dunes whose only sign of vegetation was displayed in a ragged fringe of grass which waved like a scalp lock here and there upon the summits. for many miles they travelled through this difficult and cheerless region, the horses soon showing signs of distress and all the party feeling need of water, of which the supply had been exhausted. it was nearly noon while they were still involved in this perplexing region, and as none of the party had ever seen the country before, none could tell how long it might be before they would emerge from it. they pushed on in silence, intent upon what might be ahead, so that when there came an exclamation from the half-witted mexican, whose stolid silence under most circumstances had become a proverb among them, each face was at once turned toward him. "eh, what's that, juan?" said curly--"say, boys, he says we're about out of the sand hills. prairie pretty soon now, he says." "and will ye tell me, now," said battersleigh, "how the haythen knows a bit more of it than we oursilves? he's never been here before. i'm thinkin' it's pure guess he's givin' us, me boy." "no, sir," said curly, positively. "if juan says a thing like that, he knows. i don't know how he knows it, but he shore does, and i'll gamble on him every time. you see, he ain't hardly like folks, that feller. he's more like a critter. he knows a heap of things that you and me don't." "that's curious," said franklin. "how do you account for it?" "kin savvy," said curly. "i don't try to account for it, me. i only know it's so. you see if it ain't." and so it was. the wall of the sand hills was for a time apparently as endless and impervious as ever, and they still travelled on in silence, the mexican making no further sign of interest. yet presently the procession of the sand dunes began to show gaps and open places. the hills grew less tall and more regular of outline. finally they shrank and fell away, giving place again to the long roll of the prairie, across which, and near at hand to the edge of the sand hills, there cut the open and flat bed of a water way, now apparently quite dry. "we're all right for water now," said sam. "see that little pile of rocks, 'bout as high as your head, off to the right down the creek? that's water there, sure." "yep," said curly. "she's there, sure. or you could git it by diggin' anywheres in here in the creek bed, inside of four or five feet at most." franklin again felt constrained to ask somewhat of the means by which these two felt so confident of their knowledge. "well, now, curly," he said, "it isn't instinct this time, surely, for juan didn't say anything about it to you. i would like to know how you know there is water ahead." "why," said curly, "that's the sign for water on the plains. if you ever see one of them little piles of stones standin' up, you can depend you can git water there. sometimes it marks a place where you can git down through the breaks to the creek bed, and sometimes it means that if you dig in the bed there you can find water, 'lowin' the creek's dry." "but who built up the rock piles to make these signs?" asked franklin. "o lord! now you've got me," said curly. "i don't know no more about that than you do. injuns done it, maybe. some says the first wild-horse hunters put 'em up. they was always there, all over the dry country, far back as ever i heard. you ask juan if there ain't water not far off. see what he says.--_oye, juan! tengo agua, poco tiempo_?" the giant did not even lift his head, but answered listlessly, "_agua? si_," as though that were a matter of which all present must have equal knowledge. "that settles it," said curly. "i never did know juan to miss it on locatin' water yet, not onct. i kin fairly taste it now. but you see, juan, he don't seem to go by no rock-pile signs. he just seems to smell water, like a horse or a steer." they now rode on more rapidly, bearing off toward the cairn which made the water sign. all at once juan lifted his head, listened for a moment, and then said, with more show of animation than he had yet displayed and with positiveness in his voice: "_vacas_!" ("cows; cattle"). curly straightened up in his saddle as though electrified. "_vacas? onde, juan_?--where's any cows?" he knew well enough that no hoof of domestic cattle had ever trod this country. yet trust as he did the dictum of the giant's strange extra sense, he could not see, anywhere upon the wide country round about them, any signs of the buffalo to which he was sure the mexican meant to call his attention. "_vacas! muchas_," repeated juan carelessly. "lots of 'em, eh? well, i'd like to know where they are, my lily of the valley," said curly, for once almost incredulous. and then he stopped and listened.--"hold on, boys, listen," he said. "look out--look out! here they come!" every ear caught the faint distant pattering, which grew into a rapid and insistent rumble. "cavalry, b'gad!" cried battersleigh. franklin's eyes shone. he spurred forward fast as he could go, jerking loose the thong which held his rifle fast in the scabbard under his leg. the tumultuous roaring rumble came on steadily, the more apparent by a widening and climbing cloud of dust, which betokened that a body of large animals was coming up through the "breaks" from the bed of the stream to the prairie on which the wagons stood. presently there appeared at the brink, looming through the white dust cloud, a mingling mass of tangled, surging brown, a surface of tossing, hairy backs, spotted with darker fronts, over all and around all the pounding and clacking of many hoofs. it was the stampede of the buffalo which had been disturbed at their watering place below, and which had headed up to the level that they might the better make their escape in flight. head into the wind, as the buffalo alone of wild animals runs, the herd paid no heed to the danger which they sought to escape, but upon which they were now coming in full front. the horses of the hunters, terrified at this horrid apparition of waving horned heads and shaggy manes, plunged and snorted in terror, seeing which the first rank of the buffalo in turn fell smitten of panic, and braced back to avoid the evil at their front. overturned by the crush behind them, these none the less served to turn the course of the remainder of the herd, which now broke away to the right, paralleling the course of the stream and leaving the wagons of the hunters behind them and at their left. the herd carried now upon its flank three figures which clung alongside and poured sharp blue jets of smoke into the swirling cloud of ashy dust. it was neck and neck for the three. the cowboy, curly, had slightly the advance of the others, but needed to spur hard to keep even with battersleigh, the old cavalryman, who rode with weight back and hands low, as though it were cross country in old ireland. franklin challenged both in the run up, riding with the confidence of the man who learned the saddle young in life. they swerved slightly apart as they struck the flank of the herd and began to fire. at such range it was out of the question to miss. franklin and battersleigh killed two buffaloes each, losing other head by reason of delivering their fire too high up in the body, a common fault with the beginner on bison. curly ran alongside a good cow, and at the third shot was able to see the great creature stumble and fall. yet another he killed before his revolver was empty. the butchery was sudden and all too complete. as they turned back from the chase they saw that even sam, back at the wagon, where he had been unable to get saddle upon one of the wagon horses in time for the run, had been able to kill his share. seeing the horses plunging, juan calmly went to their heads and held them quiet by main strength, one in each hand, while sam sprang from the wagon and by a long shot from his heavy rifle knocked down a good fat cow. the hunters looked at the vast bodies lying prostrate along the ground before them, and felt remorse at their intemperance. "the hunt's over," said franklin, looking at the dead animals. "we've enough for us all." "yes, sir," said curly, "we shore got meat, and got it plenty sudden.--juan, _vamos, pronto_!" he made signs showing that he wished the mexican to skin and dress the buffalo, and the latter, as usual, proceeded to give immediate and unhesitating obedience. chapter xi the battle occupied for a few moments with the other at the wagon, franklin ceased to watch juan, as he went slowly but not unskilfully about the work of dressing the dead buffalo. suddenly he heard a cry, and looking up, saw the mexican running hurriedly toward the wagon and displaying an animation entirely foreign to his ordinary apathetic habit. he pointed out over the plain as he came on, and called out excitedly: "_indios! los indios_!" the little party cast one long, careful look out toward the horizon, upon which now appeared a thin, waving line of dust. a moment later the two wagons were rolled up side by side, the horses were fastened securely as possible, the saddles and blanket rolls were tossed into breastworks at the ends of the barricade, and all the feeble defences possible were completed. four rifles looked steadily out, and every face was set and anxious, except that of the mexican who had given the alarm. juan was restless, and made as though to go forth to meet the advancing line. "_vamos--me vamos_!" he said, struggling to get past curly, who pushed him back. "set down, d----n you--set down!" said curly, and with his strange, childlike obedience, the great creature sat down and remained for a moment submissively silent. the indefinite dust line turned from gray to dark, and soon began to show colours--black, red, roan, piebald--as the ponies came on with what seemed an effect of a tossing sea of waving manes and tails, blending and composing with the deep sweeping feather trails of the grand war bonnets. hands rose and fell with whips, and digging heels kept up the unison. above the rushing of the hoofs there came forward now and then a keen ululation. red-brown bodies, leaning, working up and down, rising and falling with the motion of the ponies, came into view, dozens of them--scores of them. their moccasined feet were turned back under the horses' bellies, the sinewy legs clamping the horse from thigh to ankle as the wild riders came on, with no bridle governing their steeds other than the jaw rope's single strand. "good cavalry, b'gad!" said battersleigh calmly, as he watched them in their perfect horsemanship. "see 'em come!" franklin's eyes drew their brows down in a narrowing frown, though he remained silent, as was his wont at any time of stress. the indians came on, close up to the barricade, where they saw the muzzles of four rifles following them steadily, a sight which to them carried a certain significance. the line broke and wheeled, scattering, circling, still rising and falling, streaming in hair and feathers, and now attended with a wild discord of high-keyed yells. "keep still, boys; don't shoot!" cried franklin instinctively. "wait!" it was good advice. the mingling, shifting line, obedient to some loud word of commando swept again up near to the front of the barricade, then came to a sudden halt with half the forefeet off the ground. the ponies shuffled and fidgeted, and the men still yelled and called out unintelligible sounds, but the line halted. it parted, and there rode forward an imposing figure. gigantic, savage, stern, clad in the barbaric finery of his race, his body nearly nude, his legs and his little feet covered with bead-laden buckskin, his head surmounted with a horned war bonnet whose eagle plumes trailed down the pony's side almost to the ground, this indian headman made a picture not easily to be forgotten nor immediately to be despised. he sat his piebald stallion with no heed to its restive prancing. erect, immobile as a statue, such was the dignity of his carriage, such the stroke of his untamed eye, that each man behind the barricade sank lower and gripped his gun more tightly. this was a personality not to be held in any hasty or ill-advised contempt. the indian walked his horse directly up to the barricade, his eye apparently scorning to take in its crude details. "me, white calf!" he exclaimed in english, like the croak of a parrot, striking his hand upon his breast with a gesture which should have been ludicrous or pompous, but was neither. "me, white calf!" said the chief again, and lifted the medal which lay upon his breast. "good. white man come. white man go. me hunt, now!" he swept his arm about in a gesture which included the horizon, and indicated plainly his conviction that all the land belonged to him and his own people. so he stood, silent, and waiting with no nervousness for the diplomacy of the others. franklin stepped boldly out from the barricade and extended his hand. "white calf, good friend," said he. the indian took his hand without a smile, and with a look which franklin felt go through him. at last the chief grunted out something, and, dismounting, seated himself down upon the ground, young men taking his horse and leading it away. others, apparently also of rank, came and sat down. franklin and his friends joined the rude circle of what they were glad to see was meant to be an impromptu council. white calf arose and faced the white men. "white men go!" he said, his voice rising. "injun heap shoot!" "b'gad, i believe the haythen thinks he can scare us," said battersleigh, calmly. franklin pointed to the carcasses of the buffalo, and made signs that after they had taken the meat of the buffalo they would go. apparently he was understood. loud words arose among the indians, and white calf answered, gesticulating excitedly: "heap good horse!" he said, pointing to the horses of the party. "white man go! injun heap get horse! injun heap shoot!" "this is d----d intimidation!" shouted battersleigh, starting up and shaking a fist in white calf's face. "give up our horses? not by a d----d sight!" said curly. "you can heap shoot if you want to turn loose, but you'll never set me afoot out here, not while i'm a-knowin' it!" the situation was tense, and franklin felt his heart thumping, soldier though he was. he began to step back toward the wagons with his friends. a confused and threatening uproar arose among the indians, who now began to crowd forward. it was an edged instant. any second might bring on the climax. and suddenly the climax came. from the barricade at the rear there rose a cry, half roar and half challenge. the giant mexican juan, for a time quieted by curly's commands, was now seized upon by some impulse which he could no longer control. he came leaping from behind the wagons, brandishing the long knife with which he had been engaged upon the fallen buffalo. "_indios_!" he cried, "_indios_!" and what followed of his speech was only incoherent savage babblings. he would have darted alone into the thick of the band had not franklin and curly caught him each by a leg as he passed. the chief, white calf, moved never a muscle in his face as he saw his formidable adversary coming on, nor did he join in the murmurs that arose among his people. rather there came a glint into his eye, a shade of exultation in his heavy face. "big chief!" he said, simply. "heap fight!" "you bet your blame life he'll heap fight!" said curly, from his position upon juan's brawny breast as he held him down. "he's good for any two of you, you screechin' cowards!" curly's words were perhaps not fully understood, yet the import of his tone was unmistakable. there was a stirring along the line, as though a snake rustled in the grass. the horse-holders were crowding up closer. there were bows drawn forward over the shoulders of many young men, and arrows began to shiver on the string under their itching fingers. once more franklin felt that the last moment had come, and he and battersleigh still pressed back to the wagons where the rifles lay. the indian chief raised his hand and came forward, upon his face some indescribable emotion which removed it from mere savagery, some half-chivalrous impulse born perhaps of a barbaric egotism and self-confidence, perhaps of that foolhardy and vain love of risk which had made white calf chief of his people and kept him so. he stood silent for a moment, his arms folded across his breast with that dramatic instinct never absent from the indian's mind. when he spoke, the scorn and bravado in his voice were apparent, and his words were understood though his speech was broken. "big chief!" he said, pointing toward juan. "white calf, me big chief," pointing to himself. "heap fight!" then he clinched his hands and thrust them forward, knuckles downward, the indian sign for death, for falling dead or being struck down. with his delivery this was unmistakable. "me," he said, "me dead; white man go. big chief" (meaning juan), "him dead; injun heap take horse," including in the sweep of his gesture all the outfit of the white men. "he wants to fight juan by himself," cried franklin. "yes, and b'gad he's doin' it for pure love of a fight, and hurray for him!" cried battersleigh. "hurray, boys! give him a cheer!" and, carried away for the moment by battersleigh's own dare-deviltry, as well as a man's admiration for pluck, they did rise and give him a cheer, even to sam, who had hitherto been in line, but very silent. they cheered old white calf, self-offered champion, knowing that he had death in a hundred blankets at his back. the meaning of the white men was also clear. the grim face of white calf relaxed for a moment into something like a half-smile of pride. "heap fight!" he repeated simply, his eyes fixed on the vast form of the babbling giant. he dropped his blanket fully back from his body and stood with his eyes boring forward at his foe, his arms crossed arrogantly over his naked, ridging trunk, proud, confident, superb, a dull-hued statue whose outlines none who witnessed ever again forgot. there was no time to parley or to decide. fate acted rapidly through the agency of a half-witted mind. juan the mexican was regarding the indian intently. perhaps he gathered but little of the real meaning of that which had transpired, but something in the act or look of the chieftain aroused and enraged him. he saw and understood the challenge, and he counted nothing further. with one swift upheaval of his giant body, he shook off restraining hands and sprang forward. he stripped off his own light upper garment, and stood as naked and more colossal than his foe. weapon of his own he had none, nor cared for any. more primitive even than his antagonist, he sought for nothing letter than the first weapon of primeval man, a club, which should extend the sweep of his own arm. from the hand of the nearest indian he snatched a war club, not dissimilar to that which hung at white calf's wrist, a stone-headed beetle, grooved and bound fast with rawhide to a long, slender, hard-wood handle, which in turn was sheathed in a heavy rawhide covering, shrunk into a steel-like re-enforcement. armed alike, naked alike, savage alike, and purely animal in the blind desire of battle, the two were at issue before a hand could stay them. all chance of delay or separation was gone. both white and red men fell back and made arena for a unique and awful combat. there was a moment of measuring, that grim advance balance struck when two strong men meet for a struggle which for either may end alone in death. the indian was magnificent in mien, superb in confidence. fear was not in him. his vast figure, nourished on sweet meat of the plains, fed by pure air and developed by continual exercise, showed like the torso of a minor hercules, powerful but not sluggish in its power. his broad and deep chest, here and there spotted with white scars, arched widely for the vital organs, but showed no clogging fat. his legs were corded and thin. his arms were also slender, but showing full of easy-playing muscles with power of rapid and unhampered strength. two or three inches above the six-feet mark he stood as he cast off his war bonnet and swept back a hand over the standing eagle plumes, whipped fast to his braided hair. white calf was himself a giant. yet huge and menacing as he stood, the figure opposed to him was still more formidable. juan, the _mozo_ overtopped him by nearly half a head, and was as broad or broader in the shoulder. his body, a dull brown in colour, showed smoother than that of his enemy, the muscles not having been brought out by unremitted exercise. yet under that bulk of flesh there lay no man might tell how much of awful vigour. the loop of the war club would not slip over his great hand. he caught it in his fingers and made the weapon hum about his head, as some forgotten ancestor of his, tall navajo, or forgotten cave dweller, may have done before the spaniard came. the weapon seemed to him like a toy, and he cast his eye about for another more commensurate with his strength, but, seeing none, forgot the want, and in the sheer ignorance of fear which made his bravery, began the fight as though altogether careless of its end. white calf was before his people, whose chief he was by reason of his personal prowess, and with all the vanity of his kind he exulted in this opportunity of displaying his fitness for his place. yet in him natural bravery had a qualifying caution, which was here obviously well justified. the mexican made direct assault, rushing on with battle axe poised as though to end it all with one immediate blow. with guard and parry he was more careless than the wild bull of the plains, which meets his foe in direct impetuous assault. white calf was not so rash. he stepped quickly back from the attack, and as the _mozo_ plunged forward from the impulse of his unchecked blow, the indian swept sternly at him with the full force of his extended arm. the caution of the chief, and the luck of a little thing, each in turn prevented the ending of the combat at its outset. half falling onward, the mexican slipped upon a tuft of the hard gray grass and went down headlong. a murmur arose from the indians, who thought at first that their leader's blow had proved fatal. a sharp call from curly seemed to bring the mexican to his feet at once. the indian lost the half moment which was his own. again the two engaged, white calf now seeking to disconcert the mexican, whom he discovered to be less agile than himself. darting in and out, jumping rapidly from side to side, and uttering the while the sharp staccato of his war call, he passed about the mexican, half circling and returning, his eye fixed straight upon the other's, and his war club again and again hurtling dangerously close to his opponents head. one shade more of courage, one touch more of the daring necessary to carry him a single foot closer in, and the victory had been with him, for no human skull could have withstood the impact of a pound of flint impelled by an arm so powerful. juan the _mozo_ stood almost motionless, his own club half raised, the great muscles of his arm now showing under the brown skin as he clinched hard the tiny stem of the weapon. he seemed not perturbed by the menaces of the chieftain, and though unaware that the latter must in time suffer from the violence of his own exertions, nevertheless remained the fuller master of his own forces by simply waiting in this one position. his readiness for offence was the one defence that he offered. his brute courage had no mental side. the whistling of this threatening weapon was unheeded, since it did not hurt him. he glared in fury at the indian, but always his arm remained half raised, his foot, but shifted, side stepping and turning only enough to keep him with front toward his antagonist. the desperate, eager waiting of his attitude was awful. the whisper of the wings of death was on the air about this place. the faces of the white men witnessing the spectacle were drawn and haggard. a gulp, a sigh, a half groan now and again came from their parted lips. white calf pursued his rapid tactics for some moments, and a dozen times sped a blow which still fell short. he gained confidence, and edged closer in. he feinted and sprang from side to side, but gained little ground. his people saw his purpose, and murmurs of approval urged him on. it seemed that in a moment he must land the fatal blow upon his apparently half-stupefied opponent. he sought finally to deliver this blow, but the effort was near to proving his ruin. just as he swung forward, the giant, with a sudden contraction of all his vast frame, sprang out and brought down his war axe in a sheer downward blow at half-arm's length. white calf with lightning speed changed his own attack into defence, sweeping up his weapon to defend his head. on the instant his arm was beaten down. it fell helpless at his side, the axe only hanging to his hand by means of the loop passed around the wrist. a spasm of pain crossed his face at the racking agony in the nerves of his arm, yet he retained energy enough to spring back, and still he stood erect. a cry of dismay burst from the followers of the red champion and a keen yell from the whites, unable to suppress their exultation, yet at the next moment the partisans of either had become silent; for, though the indian seemed disabled, the _mozo_ stood before him weaponless. the tough, slender rod which made the handle of his war axe had snapped like a pipestem under the force of his blow, and even the rawhide covering was torn loose from the head of stone, which lay, with a foot of the broken hard-wood staff still attached, upon the ground between the two antagonists. juan cast away the bit of rod still in his hand and rushed forward against his enemy, seeking to throttle him with his naked fingers. white calf, quicker-witted of the two, slung the thong of his war club free from his crippled right hand, and, grasping the weapon in his left, still made play with it about his head. the giant none the less rushed in, receiving upon his shoulder a blow from the left hand of the indian which cut the flesh clean to the collar bone, in a great bruised wound which was covered at once with a spurt of blood. the next instant the two fell together, the indian beneath his mighty foe, and the two writhing in a horrible embrace. the hands of the _mozo_ gripped the indian's throat, and he uttered a rasping, savage roar of triumph, more beastlike than human, as he settled hard upon the chest of the enemy whose life he was choking out. again rose the savage cries of the on-lookers. not even yet had the end come. there was a heaving struggle, a sharp cry, and juan sprang back, pressing his hand against his side, where blood came from between his fingers. the indian had worked his left hand to the sheath of his knife, and stabbed the giant who had so nearly overcome him. staggering, the two again stood erect, and yet again came the cries from the many red men and the little band of whites who were witnessing this barbarous and brutal struggle. bows were bending among the blankets, but the four rifles now pointed steadily out. one movement would have meant death to many, but that movement was fore-stalled in the still more rapid happenings of the unfinished combat. for one-half second the two fighting men stood apart, the one stunned at his unexpected wound, the other startled that the wound had not proved fatal. seeing his antagonist still on his feet. white calf for the first time lost courage. with the knife still held in his left hand, he hesitated whether to join again in the encounter, or himself to guard against the attack of a foe so proof to injury. he half turned and gave back for a pace. the man pursued by a foe looks about him quickly for that weapon nearest to his own hand. the dread of steel drove juan to bethink himself of a weapon. he saw it at his feet, and again he roared like an angry bull, his courage and his purpose alike unchanged. he stooped and clutched the broken war axe, grasping the stone head in the palm of his great hand, the jagged and ironlike shaft projecting from between his ringers like the blade of a dagger. with the leap of a wild beast he sprang again upon his foe. white calf half turned, but the left hand of the giant caught him and held him up against the fatal stroke. the sharp shaft of wood struck the indian in the side above the hip, quartering through till the stone head sunk against the flesh with a fearful sound. with a scream the victim straightened and fell forward. the horrid spectacle was over. chapter xii what the hand had to do in this wide, new world of the west there were but few artificial needs, and the differentiation of industries was alike impossible and undesired. each man was his own cook, his own tailor, his own mechanic in the simple ways demanded by the surroundings about him. each man was as good as his neighbour, for his neighbour as well as himself perforce practised a half-dozen crafts and suffered therefrom neither in his own esteem nor that of those about him. the specialists of trade, of artisanship, of art, were not yet demanded in this environment where each man in truth "took care of himself," and had small dependence upon others. in all the arts of making one's self comfortable in a womanless and hence a homeless land both franklin and battersleigh, experienced campaigners as they were, found themselves much aided by the counsel of curly, the self-reliant native of the soil who was franklin's first acquaintance in that land. it was curly who helped them with their houses and in their household supplies. it was he who told them now and then of a new region where the crop of bones was not yet fully gathered. it was he who showed them how to care for the little number of animals which they began to gather about them; and who, in short, gave to them full knowledge of the best ways of exacting a subsistence from the land which they had invaded. one morning franklin, thinking to have an additional buffalo robe for the coming winter, and knowing no manner in which he could get the hide tanned except through his own efforts, set about to do this work for himself, ignorant of the extent of his task, and relying upon curly for advice as to the procedure. curly sat on his horse and looked on with contempt as franklin flung down the raw skin upon the ground. "you've shore tackled a bigger job than you know anything about, cap," said he, "and, besides that, it ain't a job fittin' fer a man to do. you ought to git some squaw to do that for you." "but, you see, there aren't any squaws around," said franklin, smiling. "if you'll tell me just how the indians do it i'll try to see how good a job i can make of it." curly shifted his leg in his saddle and his cud in his mouth, and pushing his hat back on his forehead, assumed the position of superintendent. "well, it'll take you a long time," said he, "but i 'low it ain't no use tellin' you not to begin, fer you'll just spile a good hide anyhow. first thing you do, you stretch yer hide out on the ground, fur side down, and hold it there with about six hundred pegs stuck down around the edges. it'll take you a week to do that. then you take a knife and scrape all the meat off the hide. that sounds easy, but it'll take about another week. then you git you a little hoe, made out of a piece of steel, and you dig, and dig, and dig at that hide till you git some more meat off, and begin to shave it down, thin like. you got to git all the grease out of it, an' you got to make all the horny places soft. time you git it dug down right it'll take you about a year, i reckon, and then you ain't done. you got to git brains--buffalo brains is best--and smear all over it, and let 'em dry in. then you got to take your hide up and rub it till it's plum soft. that'll take you a couple of weeks, i reckon. then you kin smoke it, if you have got any place to smoke it, an' that'll take you a week, it you don't burn it up. sometimes you kin whiten a hide by rubbin' it with white clay, if you can git any clay. that might take you a few days longer. oh, yes, i reckon you kin git the hide tanned if you live long enough. you'd ought to put up a sign, 'captain franklin, attorney at law, an' hide tanner.'" franklin laughed heartily at curly's sarcasm. "there's one thing sure, curly," said he; "if i ever get this thing done i shall have to do the work myself, for no one ever knew you to do any work but ride a horse. now, i think i can tan this hide, and do it in less than a year, and in less than a week, too. i can peg it out, and i can make me the iron hoe, and i can soften the hide with brains, and i can rub it until it is finished. i have, or can get, about all the ingredients you mention except the clay. if i had some white pipe clay i believe i could really make me a beautiful robe for a counterpane for my bed next winter." "if it's only clay you want," said curly lazily, "i can git you plenty of that." "where?" said franklin. "over in a little holler, to the crick back o' town," said curly. "you go on an' tack out your hide, an' i'll ride over and git you some." "how'll you carry it," said franklin, "if you go on horseback?" "kerry it!" said curly contemptuously. "how'd you s'pose i'd kerry it? why, in my hat, o' course!" and he rode off without deigning further explanation. franklin remained curious regarding this episode until, an hour later, curly rode up to the house again, carrying his hat by the brim, with both hands before him, and guiding his pony with his knees. he had, indeed, a large lump of white, soft clay, which he carried by denting in the crown of his hat and crowding the clay into the hollow. after throwing down the clay and slapping the hat a few times on his knee, he seemed to think his headgear not injured by this transaction. "there's yer blamed clay," said he; "it'll be a good while before you need it, but there she is." the two were joined at this juncture by battersleigh, who had come over to pay a morning visit, and who now stood looking on with some interest at the preparations in progress. "it's makin' ye a robe is it, ned, me boy?" said he. "i'm bound it's a fine thing ye'll do. i'll give yer four dollars if ye'll do as much for me. ye wouldn't be leavin' old batty to sleep cold o' nights, now, wud ye, ned?" "oh, go tan your own robes," said franklin cheerfully. "i'm not in the wholesale line." "you might git juan to tan you all one or two," said curly. "he kin tan ez good ez ary injun ever was." "but, by the way, curly," said franklin, "how is juan this morning? we haven't heard from him for a day or two." "oh, him?" said curly. "why, he's all right. he's just been layin' 'round a little, like a dog that's been cut up some in a wolf fight, but he's all right now. shoulder's about well, an' as fer the knife-cut, it never did amount to nothin' much. you can't hurt a greaser much, not noways such a big one as juan. but didn't he git action in that little difficulty o' his'n? you could a-broke the whole cheyenne tribe, if you could a-got a-bettin' with 'em before that fight." "odds was a hundred to one against us, shure," said battersleigh, seating himself in the doorway of the shack. "ye may call the big boy loco, or whativer ye like, but it's grateful we may be to him. an' tell me, if ye can, why didn't the haythins pile in an' polish us all off, after their chief lost his number? no, they don't rush our works, but off they go trailin', as if 'twas themselves had the odds against 'em, och-honin' fit to set ye crazy, an' carryin' their dead, as if the loss o' one man ended the future o' the tribe. faith, they might have-- ned, ye're never stretchin' that hide right." "them cheyennes was plenty hot at us fer comin' in on their huntin' grounds," said curly, "an' they shore had it in fer us. i don't think it was what their chief said to them that kep' them back from jumpin' us, ater the fight was over. it's a blame sight more likely that they got a sort o' notion in their heads that juan was bad medicine. it they get it in their minds that a man is _loco_, an' pertected by spirits, an' that sort o' thing, they won't fight him, fer fear o' gettin' the worst of it. that's about why we got out of there, i reckon. they'd a-took our hosses an' our guns an' our meat, an' been blame apt not to a-fergot our hair, too, if they hadn't got the idee that juan was too much fer 'em. i'll bet they won't come down in there again in a hundred years'" "i felt sad for them," said franklin soberly. curly smiled slowly. "well, cap," said he, "they's a heap o' things out in this here country that seems right hard till you git used to 'em. but what's the ust carin' 'bout a dead injun here or there? they got to go, one at a time, or more in a bunch. but now, do you know what they just done with ole mr. white calf? why, they taken him out along with 'em a ways, till they thought we was fur enough away from 'em, an' then they probably got a lot of poles tied up, or else found a tree, an' they planted him on top of a scaffold, like jerked beef, an' left him there fer to dry a-plenty, with all his war clothes on and his gun along with him. else, if they couldn't git no good place like that, they likely taken him up on to a highish hill, er some rocky place, an' there they covered him up good an' deep with rocks, so'st the wolves wouldn't bother him any. they tell me them buryin' hills is great places fer their lookouts, an' sometimes their folks'll go up on top o' them hills and set there a few days, or maybe overnight, a-hopin' they'll dream something. they want to dream something that'll give 'em a better line on how to run off a whole cavvie-vard o' white men's hosses, next time they git a chanct." "ye're a d----d philistine, curly," said battersleigh calmly. "i'm sorry for them," repeated franklin, thoughtfully, as he sat idly fingering the lump of clay that lay between his feet. "just think, we are taking' away from these people everything in the world they had. they were happy as we are--happier, perhaps--and they had their little ambitions, the same as we have ours. we are driving them away from their old country, all over the west, until it is hard to see where they can get a foothold to call their own. we drive them and fight them and kill them, and then--well, then we forget them." curly had a certain sense of politeness, so he kept silence for a time. "well," said he at length, "a injun could tan hides better'n a white man kin--at least some white men." "i'm not so sure of that," said franklin, rousing and replying stoutly. "the white man wins by dodging the issue. now, look you, the indian squaw you tell me about would probably hack and hack away at this hide by main strength in getting the flesh off the inside. i am sure i shall do it better, because i shall study which way the muscles run, and so strip off the flesh along those lines, and not across them." "i didn't know that made any difference," said curly. "besides, how kin you tell?" "well, now, maybe there are some things you don't know, after all, curly," said franklin. "for instance, can you tell me how many boss ribs there are in the hump of a buffalo?" "well, no--o," admitted curly. "but what's the difference, so long ez i know they're all good to eat ?" "plainly, a d----d philistine," said battersleigh again, striking a match for his pipe. "but i'm not sure but he had you there, ned, me boy." "i'll show you," said franklin eagerly. "here it is on the hide. the hump came to here. here was the knee joint--you can see by the whirl in the muscles as plainly as you could by the curl in the hair there--you can see it under a wolf's leg, the same way; the hair follows the lines of the muscles, you know. wait, i could almost make you a dummy out of the clay. now, look here--" "you're a funny sort o' a feller, cap," said curly, "but if you're goin' to tan that hide you'd better finish peggin' it out, an' git to work on it." chapter xiii pie and ethics one morning battersleigh was at work at his little table, engaged, as he later explained, upon the composition of a letter to the london times, descriptive of the agrarian situation in the united states of america, when he was interrupted by a knock at his door. "come in, come in, ned, me boy," he exclaimed, as he threw open the door and recognised his visitor. "what's the news this mornin'?" "news?" said franklin gaily, holding his hands behind his back. "i've news that you can't guess--good news." "you don't mean to tell me they've moved the land office into ellisville, do you, ned?" "oh, no, better than that." "you've not discovered gold on your quarter section, perchance?" "guess again--it's better than that." "i'll give it up. but leave me a look at your hands." "yes," said franklin, "i'll give you a look, and one more guess." he held up a small bag before battersleigh's face. "it's not potatoes, ned?" said battersleigh in an awed tone of voice. franklin laughed. "no; better than that," he said. "ned," said battersleigh, "do ye mind if i have a bit smell of that bag?" "certainly," said franklin, "you may have a smell, if you'll promise to keep your hands off." battersleigh approached his face to the bag and snuffed at it once, twice, thrice, as though his senses needed confirmation. he straightened up and looked franklin in the face. "ned," said he, his voice sinking almost to a whisper, "it's--it's apples!" "right," said franklin. "and isn't that news?" "the best that could be, and the hardest to believe," said battersleigh. "where'd you get thim, and how?" "by diplomacy," said franklin. "morrison, one of the transit men of the engineers, was home in missouri for a visit, and yesterday he came back and brought a sack of apples with him. he was so careless that he let the secret out, and in less than half an hour he had lost two thirds of his sack of apples--the boys wheedled them out of him, or stole them. at last he put the bag, with what was left of the apples, in the safe at the hotel, and left orders that no one should have even a look at them. i went out and sent a man in to tell the clerk that he was wanted at the depot, and while he was away i looted the safe--it wasn't locked--and ran for it. it was legitimate, wasn't it? i gave sam one big red apple, for i knew he would rather have it, to give to his nora, the waiter girl, than the best horse and saddle on the range. the rest--behold them! tell me, do you know how to make a pie?" "ned," said battersleigh, looking at him with an injured air, "do you suppose i've campaigned all me life and not learned the simplest form of cookin'? pie? why, man, i'll lay you a half section of land to a saddle blanket i'll make ye the best pie that ever ye set eye upon in all your life. pie, indeed, is it?" "well," said franklin, "you take some risks, but we'll chance it. go ahead. we'll just save out two or three apples for immediate consumption, and not put all our eggs in one basket." "wisely spoken, me boy," said battersleigh. "ye're a thrue conservative. but now, just ye watch batty while he goes to work." battersleigh busied himself about the little box which made his cupboard, and soon had out what he called his "ingraydeyints." "of course, ye've to take a little flour," he said, "that's for the osseous structure, so to speak. ye've to add a little grease of some sort, lard or butter, an' we've nayther; the bacon fat'll do, methinks. of course, there's the bakin' powder. fer i've always noticed that when ye take flour ye take also bakin' powder. salt? no, i'm sure there's no salt goes in at all; that's against reason, an' ye'll notice that the principles of philosophy go into all the ways of life. and, lastly, makin', as i may say, the roundin' out of the muscular and adipose tissue of the crayture, as the sowl of the pie we must have the apples. it's a sin to waste 'em peelin'; but i think they used to peel 'em, too. and ye've to put in sugar, at laste a couple o' spoons full. now observe. i roll out this dough--it's odd-actin' stuff, but it's mere idiosyncrashy on its part--i roll this out with a bottle, flat and fine; and i put into this pan, here, ye'll see. then in goes the intayrior contints, cut in pieces, ye'll see. now, thin, over the top of the whole i sprid this thin blanket of dough, thus. and see me thrim off the edges about the tin with me knife. and now i dint in the shircumference with me thumb, the same as july trelawney did in the ould tinth. and there ye are, done, me pie, an' may god have mercy on your sowl!--ned, build up the fire." they sat at the side of the little stove somewhat anxiously waiting for the result of battersleigh's labours. every once in a while battersleigh opened the oven door and peered in. "she isn't brownin' just to suit me, ned," he said, "but that's the fault o' the chimney." franklin opined that this anxiety boded no certainty of genius, but kept silent. "i'm wonderin' if it's right about that bakin' powder?" said battersleigh. "is it too late now, do ye think?" "this isn't my pie, battersleigh," said franklin, "but if anything has gone wrong with those apples it'll take more than a little diplomacy to get you out of the trouble." as they sat for a moment silent there came the sound of approaching hoof-beats, and presently the cracking and popping of the feet of a galloping horse fell into a duller crunch on the hard ground before the door, and a loud voice called out, "whoa-hope, bronch! hello, in the house!" "come in, curly," cried battersleigh. "come in. we've business of importhance this mornin'." curly opened the door a moment later, peering in cautiously, the sunshine casting a rude outline upon the floor, and his figure to those within showing silhouetted against the background of light, beleggined, befringed, and begloved after the fashion of his craft. "how! fellers," he said, as he stooped to enter at the low door. "how is the world usin' you all this bright and happy mornin'?" "pretty well, me friend," said battersleigh, his eyes on the stove, importantly. "sit ye down." curly sat down on the edge of the bed, under whose blanket the newspapers still rattled to the touch, "seems like you all mighty busy this mornin'," said he. "yes," said franklin, "we've got business on hand now. you can't guess what we're cooking." "no; what?" "pie." "go 'long!" "yes, sir, pie," said franklin firmly. curly leaned back on the bed upon his elbow, respectful but very incredulous. "our cook made a pie, onct," said he, to show himself also a man of worldly experience. "that was down on the cimarron, 'bout four years ago. we et it. i have et worse pie 'n that, an' i have et better. but i never did git a chance to eat all the pie i wanted, not in my whole life. was you sayin' i'm in on this here pie?" "certainly you are. you wait. it'll be done now pretty soon," said franklin. "if ye can poke a straw into thim, they're done," said battersleigh oracularly. "curly, hand me the broom." curly passed over the broom, and the two, with anxiety not unmixed with cynicism, watched battersleigh as he made several ineffectual attempts to penetrate the armour of the pie. "stop lookin' at me like a brace o' evil-minded hyenies," protested battersleigh. "ye'd make the devil himself nervous, a-reghardin' one so like a object o' suspicion. mind ye, i'm goin' to take it out. there's nothin' at all whativver in that ijee of stickin' it with a straw. moreover, these straws is shameful." the others watched him eagerly as he removed the hot tin from the oven and set it upon the bare table. "i'm thinkin' it looks a bit dumpish midships, ned," said battersleigh dubiously. "but there's one thing shure, ye'll find all the apples in it, for i've watched the stove door meself, and there's been no possibility fer them to escape. and of course ye'll not forgit that the apples is the main thing in an apple pie. the crust is merely a secondary matter." battersleigh said this in an airy manner which disarmed criticism. curly drew his clasp knife from his pocket and cut into the portion assigned to him. franklin was reserved, but curly attained enthusiasm at the second bite. "rile irish," said he, "i'm not so sure you're such a h----l of a military man, but as a cook you're a burnin' success. you kin sign with our outfit tomorrer if you want to. man, if i could bake pie like that, i'd break the bar o outfit before the season was over! an' if i ever could git all the pie i wanted to eat, i wouldn't care how quick after that i fanned out. this here is the real thing. that pie that our cook made on the cimarron--why, it was made of dried apples. why didn't you tell me you had real apples?" the pie, startling as it was in some regards, did not long survive the determined assault made upon it. curly wiped his knife on the leg of his "chaps" and his mouth on the back of his hand. "but say, fellers," he said, "i plumb forgot what i come over here for. they's goin' to be a dance over to town, an' i come to tell you about it. o' course you'll come." "what sort of a dance can it be, man?" said battersleigh. "why, a plumb dandy dance; reg'lar high-steppin' outfit; _mucha baille_; best thing ever was in this settlement." "i'm curious to know where the ladies will come from," said franklin. "don't you never worry," rejoined curly. "they's plenty o' women-folks. why, there's the section boss, his wife--you know her--she does the washin' for most everybody. there's nora, sam's girl, the head waiter; an' mary, the red-headed girl; an' kitty, the littlest waiter girl; an' the new grocery man's wife; an' hank peterson's wife, from down to his ranch. oh, there'll be plenty o' ladies, don't you never doubt. why, say, sam, he told me, last time he went down to plum centre, he was goin' to ask major buford an' his wife, an' the gal that's stayin' with them--tall gal, fine looker--why, sam, he said he would ast them, an' maybe they'd come up to the dance--who knows? sam, he says that gal ain't no common sort--whole outfit's a puzzler to him, he says, sam does." "and when does this all happen, curly, boy?" asked battersleigh. "why, night after to-morrer night, to the big stone hotel. they're goin' to clean out the dinin'-room for us. three niggers, two fiddlers, an' a 'cordion--oh, we'll have music all right! you'll be over, of course?" "that we will, me boy," responded battersleigh. "it's mesilf will inthrojuce captain franklin to his first haythin ball. our life on the claim's elevatin', for it leaves time for thought, but it is a bit slow at times. an' will we come? man, we'll be the first." "well, then, so long, fellers," said curly. "i got to be movin' along a little. see you at the dance, sure." "now, as to a ball, battersleigh," said franklin, argumentatively, when they were alone, "how can i go? i've not the first decent thing to wear to such a place." "tut, tut!" said battersleigh. "there speaks the coxcombry of youth. i make no doubt ye'd be the best-dressed man there if ye'd go as ye stand now. but what about batty? on me honour, ned, i've never been so low in kit as i am this season here, not since i was lance sergeant in the tinth. you're able to pull out your blue uniform, i know, an' b'gad! the uniform of an officer is full dress the worrld over! look at batty, half mufti, and his allowance a bit late, me boy. but does batty despair? by no means. 'tis at times like this that gaynius rises to the occasion." franklin grinned amiably. "thank you for the suggestion about the uniform, at least," he said. "now, if we can fix you up as well." battersleigh came and stood before him, waving a long forefinger. "listen to me, ned," he began, "an' i'll lay down to ye a few of the fundamental rules of conduct and appar'l. "a gintleman never lies; a gintleman never uses unseemly haste; a gintleman is always ready for love and ready for war--for, ned, me boy, without love and war we'd miss the only two joys of life. thereto, a gintleman must shoot, fence, ride, dance, and do anny of 'em like a gintleman. for outwardly appar'l, seein' him clane within, me boy, a gintleman should make the best of what he finds about him. i have slept sweet in turban or burnous in me time. dress is nothing that we may always control. but if ye found yeself a bit low in kit, as batty is this day, what would ye say, ned, me boy, was the first salient--what is the first essintial in the dress of a gintleman, me boy?" "linen," said franklin, "or is it gloves?" "ned," said battersleigh solemnly, laying a hand upon his shoulder, "ye're the dearest boy in the world. ye're fit to be lance sergeant yersilf in the ould tinth rigiment. right ye are, quite right. white, white, me boy, is the first colour of a gintleman! white, to show the integrity of his honour and the claneness of his merit roll. shure, he must have his weapons, and his horse--for a gintleman always rides--and his hat and gloves are matter of course. but, first of all, essintial to him as the soap and crash, is white, sir--yes, white! a touch of white at neck and wrist anny gintleman must show who presints himself at a ball." "but, now, how?" battersleigh pointed a long finger at franklin, then turned it upon himself, tapping with import upon his forehead. "look at me, at batty," he said. "here is where gaynius comes in, me friend. i may be far from the home that bore me--god prosper them that knows it now!--and i may be a bit behind with me allowance; but never yet was batty without the arms and the appar'l of a gintleman. ned, come with me." grasping his companion by the arm, battersleigh stepped outside the house, and strode off with long steps across the prairie. "come," he said, as one who commanded alike secrecy and despatch. humouring him, franklin followed for a quarter of a mile. then, bending his gaze in the direction of the march, he saw afar, fluttering like a signal of distress in the engulfing sea about, a little whipping flag of white, which was upheld by the gaunt hand of a ragged sage bush. this, as he drew near, he discovered to be a portion of an old flour sack, washed clean and left bleaching in the sun and wind until it had assumed a colour a shade more pure than its original dinginess. battersleigh made dramatic approach. "there!" said he, pointing with triumphant dignity to the fluttering rag. "yes, i see," said franklin, "but what do you want of this piece of sack?" "sack!" cried battersleigh, offended. "'sack!' say you, but i say, 'white!' look ye, the history of a man is something sacred. 'sack!' say you, but i say, 'white!' a strip of this at me neck and at me wrist; me hat, an' me sabre and me ridin' whip--i r-ride up to the dure. i dismount. i throw me rein to the man. i inter the hall and place me hat and gloves in order as they should be. i appear--battersleigh, a gintleman, appears, standin' in the dure, the eyes of all upon him. i bow, salutin', standin' there, alone, short on allowance, but nate and with me own silf-respect. battersleigh, a bit low in kit and in allowance, with white at neck and wrist, bows, and he says, 'ladies and gintlemen, battersleigh is here!'" chapter xiv the first ball at ellisville the wife of the section boss sat in conscious dignity, as became a leader of society. she was gowned in purple, newly starched, and upon her bosom rose and fell the cross that jerry gave her long ago. below her in order of station came nora, the head waiter, and the red-headed waiter girl, and the littlest waiter girl, and the wife of the new grocery man. these sat silent and unhappy at one part of the long row of chairs that lined the side of the hall. opposite to them, equally silent and equally unhappy, sat a little row of men. jerry, the section boss, made no claim to social distinction. he was a simple, plain, hard-working man, whose main concern was in his work, and whose great pride was in the social triumphs of his wife. jerry was short and broad and sturdy, and his face was very, very red. near to jerry sat the new grocery man, and curly the cowboy, and del hickman, another cowboy, and several other cowboys, and sam, the stage-driver. they were all silent and very miserable. the lights of the big hanging kerosene lamps flickered and cast great shadows, showing the women all with heads very high and backs straight and stiff, the men in various attitudes of jellyfish, with heads hanging and feet screwed under their chairs in search of moral support. it was the beginning of the ball. these were the first arrivals. at the head of the hall, far off, sat three musicians, negroes alleged to play violins and an accordion, and by that merit raised to a bad eminence. gloomy, haughty, superior, these gazed sternly out before them, ready for the worst. now and then they leaned over the one toward another, and ventured some grim, ghastly remark. once the leader, an old and gray-haired man, was heard to utter, inadvertently above his breath, the ominous expression, "yass, indeed!" all in all, the situation was bodeful in the extreme. there was no speech other than that above noted. after a vast hiatus the door at the main entrance was pulled cautiously open, a little at a time. evidently some one was looking in. the consciousness of this caused two or three men to shuffle their feet a trifle upon the floor, as though they expected the death march soon to begin. the littlest waiter girl, unable to stand the nervous strain, tittered audibly, which caused nora, the head waiter, to glare at her through her glasses. at length the door opened, and two figures entered affrightedly, those of hank peterson, a neighbouring rancher, and his wife. hank was dressed in the costume of the time, and the high heels of his boots tapped uncertainly as he made his way over the wide hollow-sounding floor, his feet wabbling and crossing in his trepidation. none the less, having forthwith decoyed to the row of men sitting silent against the wall, he duly reached that harbour and sank down, wiping his face and passing his hand across his mouth uncertainly. his wife was a tall, angular woman, whose garb was like that of most of the other women--cotton print. yet her hair was combed to the point of fatality, and at her neck she had a collarette of what might have been lace, but was not. conscious of the inspection of all there assembled, mrs. peterson's conduct was different from that of her spouse. with head held very high and a glance of scorn, as of one hurling back some uttered word of obloquy, she marched down the hall to the side occupied by the ladies; nay, even passed the full line as in daring review, and seated herself at the farther end, with head upright, as ready for instant sally of offence. the door opened again and yet again. two or three engineers, a rodman, a leveller, and an axeman came in, near behind them more cattlemen. from among the guests of the hotel several came, and presently the clerk of the hotel himself. the line of men grew steadily, but the body upon the opposite side of the room remained constant, immobile, and unchanged. at these devoted beings there glared many eyes from across the room. more and more frequent came the scrape of a foot along the floor, or the brief cough of perturbation. one or two very daring young men leaned over and made some remark in privacy, behind the back of the hand, this followed by a nudge and a knowing look, perhaps even by a snicker, the latter quickly suppressed. little by little these bursts of courage had their effect. whispers became spasmodic, indeed even frequent. "say, curly," whispered del hickman hoarsely to his neighbour, "ef somethin' don't turn loose right soon i'm due to die right here. i'm thirstier'n if this here floor was the staked plains." "same here," said curly in a muttered undertone. "but i reckon we're here till the round-up's made. when she do set loose, you watch me rope that littlest waiter girl. she taken my eye, fer shore." "that's all right, friend," said del, apparently relieved. "i didn't know but you'd drew to the red-headed waiter girl. i sorter 'lowed i'd drift over in thataway, when she starts up." sam, the driver, was sitting rapt, staring mutely across the great gulf fixed between him and nora, the head waiter. nora, by reason of her authority in position, was entitled to wear a costume of white, whereas the waiters of lower rank were obliged by house rules to attire themselves in dark skirts. to sam's eyes, therefore, nora, arrayed in this distinguishing garb, appeared at once the more fair and the more unapproachable. as she sat, the light glinting upon her glasses, her chin well upheld, her whole attitude austere and commanding, sam felt his courage sink lower and lower, until he became abject and abased. fascinated none the less, he gazed, until curly poked him sharply and remarked: "which 'un you goin' to make a break fer, sam?" "i--i d-d-don't know," said sam, startled and disturbed. "reckon you'd like to mingle some with nory, hey?" "w-w-w-well--" began sam defensively. "but she don't see it that way. not in a hundred. why, she'll be dancin' with cap franklin, or batty, er some folks that's more in her line, you see. why in h----l don't you pick out somebody more in yer own bunch, like?" curly was meaning to be only judicial, but he was cruel. sam collapsed and sat speechless. he had long felt that his ambition was sheer presumption. the hours grew older. at the head of the hall the musicians manifested more signs of their inexorable purpose. a sad, protesting squeal came from the accordion. the violins moaned, but were held firm. the worst might be precipitated at any moment. but again there was a transfer of the general attention toward the upper end of the hall. the door once more opened, and there appeared a little group of three persons, on whom there was fixed a regard so steadfast and so silent that it might well have been seen that they were strangers to all present. indeed, there was but one sound audible in the sudden silence which fell as these three entered the room. sam, the driver, scraped one foot unwittingly upon the floor as he half leaned forward and looked eagerly at them as they advanced. of the three, one was a tall and slender man, who carried himself with that ease which, itself unconscious, causes self-consciousness in those still some generations back of it. upon the arm of this gentleman was a lady, also tall, thin, pale, with wide, dark eyes, which now opened with surprise that was more than half shock. lastly, with head up and eyes also wide, like those of a stag which sees some new thing, there came a young woman, whose presence was such as had never yet been seen in the hotel at ellisville. tall as the older lady by her side, erect, supple, noble, evidently startled but not afraid, there was that about this girl which was new to ellisville, which caused the eye of every man to fall upon her and the head of every woman to go up a degree the higher in scorn and disapprobation. this was a being of another world. there was some visitation here. mortal woman, woman of the plains, never yet grew like this. nor had gowns like these--soft, clinging, defining, draping--ever occurred in history. there was some mistake. this creature had fallen here by error, while floating in search of some other world. astonished, as they might have been by the spectacle before them of the two rows of separated sex, all of whom gazed steadfastly in their direction; greeted by no welcoming hand, ushered to no convenient seat, these three faced the long, half-lit room in the full sense of what might have been called an awkward situation. yet they did not shuffle or cough, or talk one with another, or smile in anguish, as had others who thus faced the same ordeal. perhaps the older lady pressed the closer to the gentleman's side, while the younger placed her hand upon his shoulder; yet the three walked slowly, calmly, deliberately down into what must have been one of the most singular scenes hitherto witnessed in their lives. the man did not forsake his companions to join the row of unfortunates. as they reached the head of the social rank, where sat mrs. mcdermott, the wife of the section boss and _arbiter elegantiarum_ for all ellisville, the gentleman bowed and spoke some few words, though obviously to a total stranger--a very stiff and suspicious stranger, who was too startled to reply. the ladies bowed to the wife of the section boss and to the others as they came in turn. then the three passed on a few seats apart from and beyond the other occupants of that side of the house, thus leaving a break in the ranks which caused mrs. mcdermott a distinct sniff and made the red-headed girl draw up in pride. the newcomers sat near to the second lamp from the musicians' stand, and in such fashion that they were half hid in the deep shadows cast by that erratic luminary. there was now much tension, and the unhappiness and suspense could have endured but little longer. again the accordion protested and the fiddle wept. the cornet uttered a faint note of woe. yet once more there was a pause in this time of joy. again the door was pushed open, not timidly, but flung boldly back. there stood two figures at the head of the hall and in the place of greatest light. of these, one was tall and very thin, but upright as a shaft of pine. over his shoulder hung a cloak, which he swept aside over his arm with a careless and free gesture of unconcern. he was clad in dark garments; thus much might be said. his face, clean shaven but for the long and pointed mustaches and goatee, was high and bold, his gaze confident and merry. his waistcoat sat high and close. at wrist and neck there showed a touch of white, and a bit of white appeared protruding at the bosom of his coat. his tread was supple and easy as that of a boy of twenty. "ned, me boy," he whispered to his companion as they entered, "i'm feelin' fine the night; and as for yerself, ye're fit for the court o' st. james at a diplomats' ball." franklin, indeed, deserved somewhat of the compliment. he was of that rare figure of man which looks well whether clad for the gymnasium or the ball, upon which clothing does not merely hang, but which fills out and dignifies the apparel that may be worn. in height the ex-captain was just below the six-foot mark which so often means stature but not strength, and he carried every inch of his size with proportions which indicated vigour and activity. he walked now with the long, easy hip-stride of the man whose sides and back are not weak, but strong and hardened. his head, well set upon the neck, was carried with the chin unconsciously correct, easily, not stiffly. his shoulders were broad enough to hang nicely over the hips, and they kept still the setting-up of the army drill. dressed in the full uniform of a captain, he looked the picture of the young army officer of the united states, though lacking any of the arrogance which might come from the purely military life. simply, easily, much as had the little group that immediately preceded himself and friend, franklin passed on up into the hall, between the batteries which lined the walls. any emergency brings forward its own remedy. the times produce the man, each war bringing forth its own generals, its heroes, its solvers of great problems. thus there came now to these persons assembled, deadlocked, unguided, unhappy, who might else have sat forever rooted to this spot, the man who was to save them, to lead them forth out of their wilderness of incertitude. none had chosen battersleigh to the leadership. he came as mere guest, invited as were the others. there had been no election for master of ceremonies, nor had battersleigh yet had time to fully realize how desperate was this strait in which these folk had fallen. it appeared to him merely that, himself having arrived, there was naught else to cause delay. at the centre of the room he stopped, near by the head of the stern column of womanhood which held the position on the right as one entered the hall. here battersleigh paused, making a deep and sweeping bow, and uttered the first open speech which had been heard that evening. "ladies and gintlemen," he said in tones easily distinguishable at all parts of the room, "i'm pleased to meet ye all this evenin'. perhaps ye all know battersleigh, and i hope ye'll all meet me friend captain franklin, at me side. we claim the inthroduction of this roof, me good friends, and we welcome everybody to the first dance at ellisville. ladies, yer very dutiful servant! it's well ye're lookin', mrs. mcdermott; and nora, gyurl, sure ye're charmin' the night. kittie, darlin', how do ye do? do ye remember captain franklin, all of ye? pipe up, ye naygurs--that's right. now, thin, all hands, choose yer partners fer the gr-rand march. mrs. mcdermott, darlin', we'll lead the march, sure, with jerry's permission--how'll he help himself, i wonder, if the lady says yis? thank ye, mrs. mcdermott, and me arm--so." the sheepish figures of the musicians now leaned together for a moment. the violins wailed in sad search for the accord, the assistant instrument less tentative. all at once the slack shoulders straightened up firmly, confidently, and then, their feet beating in unison upon the floor, their faces set, stern and relentless, the three musicians fell to the work and reeled off the opening bars. a sigh went up from the assembly. there was a general shuffling of shoes, a wide rustling of calico. feet were thrust forward, the body yet unable to follow them in the wish of the owner. then, slowly, sadly, as though going to his doom, curly arose from out the long line of the unhappy upon his side of the room. he crossed the intervening space, his limbs below the knees curiously affected, jerking his feet into half time with the tune. he bowed so low before the littlest waiter girl that his neck scarf fell forward from his chest and hung before him like a shield. "may i hev the honour, miss kitty?" he choked out; and as the littlest waiter girl rose and took his arm with a vast air of unconcern, curly drew a long breath. in his seat sam writhed, but could not rise. nora looked straight in front. it was hank peterson, who led her forth, and who, after the occasion was over, wished he had not done so, for his wife sat till the last upon the row. seeing this awful thing happen, seeing the hand of nora laid upon another's arm, sam sat up as one deeply smitten with a hurt. then, silently, unobserved in the confusion, he stole away from the fateful scene and betook himself to his stable, where he fell violently to currying one of the horses. "oh, kick!" he exclaimed, getting speech in these surroundings. "kick! i deserve it. of all the low-down, d----n cowards that ever was borned i sure am the worst! but the gall of that feller peterson! an' him a merried man!" when sam left the ballroom there remained no person who was able to claim acquaintance with the little group who now sat under the shadow of the swinging lamp at the lower end of the hall, and farthest from the door. sam himself might have been more courteous had not his mental perturbation been so great. as it was, the "grand march" was over, and battersleigh was again walking along the lines in company with his friend franklin, before either could have been said to have noticed fully these strangers, whom no one seemed to know, and who sat quite apart and unengaged. battersleigh, master of ceremonies by natural right, and comfortable gentleman at heart, spied out these three, and needed but a glance to satisfy himself of their identity. folk were few in that country, and sam had often been very explicit in his descriptions. "sir," said battersleigh, approaching and bowing as he addressed the stranger, "i shall make bold to introjuce meself--battersleigh of ellisville, sir, at your service. if i am not mistaken, you will be from below, toward the next town. i bid ye a very good welcome, and we shall all hope to see ye often, sir. we're none too many here yet, and a gintleman and his family are always welcome among gintlemen. allow me, sir, to presint me friend captain franklin, captain ned franklin of the--th' illinois in the late unplisantness.--ned, me boy, colonel--ye'll pardon me not knowin' the name?" "my name is buford, sir," said the other as he rose. "i am very glad to see you gentlemen. colonel battersleigh, captain franklin. i was so unlucky as to be of the kentucky troops, sir, in the same unpleasantness. i want to introduce my wife, gentlemen, and my niece, miss beauchamp." franklin really lost a part of what the speaker was saying. he was gazing at this form half hidden in the shadows, a figure with hands drooping, with face upturned, and just caught barely by one vagrant ray of light which left the massed shades piled strongly about the heavy hair. there came upon him at that moment, as with a flood-tide of memory, all the vague longing, the restlessness, the incertitude of life which had harried him before he had come to this far land, whose swift activity had helped him to forget. yet even here he had been unsettled, unhappy. he had missed, he had lacked--he knew not what. sometimes there had come vague dreams, recurrent, often of one figure, which he could not hold in his consciousness long enough to trace to any definite experience or association--a lady of dreams, against whom he strove and whom he sought to banish. whom he had banished! whom he had forgotten! whom he had never known! who had ever been in his life a vague, delicious mystery! the young woman rose, and stood out a pace or two from the shadows. her hand rested upon the arm of the elder lady. she turned her face toward franklin. he felt her gaze take in the uniform of blue, felt the stroke of mental dislike for the uniform--a dislike which he knew existed, but which he could not fathom. he saw the girl turn more fully toward him, saw upon her face a querying wonder, like that which he had known in his own dreams! with a strange, half-shivering gesture the girl advanced half a step and laid her head almost upon the shoulder of the elder woman, standing thus for one moment, the arms of the two unconsciously entwined, as is sometimes the way with women. franklin approached rudeness as he looked at this attitude of the two, still puzzling, still seeking to solve this troubling problem of the past. there came a shift in the music. the air swept from the merry tune into the minor from which the negro is never musically free. then in a flash franklin saw it all. he saw the picture. his heart stopped! this music, it was the wail of trumpets! these steps, ordered, measured, were those of marching men. these sounds, high, commingling, they were the voices of a day gone swiftly by. these two, this one--this picture--it was not here, but upon the field of wheat and flowers that he saw it now again--that picture of grief so infinitely sad. franklin saw, and as he gazed, eager, half advancing, indecision and irresolution dropped from him forever. resolved from out the shadows, wherein it had never in his most intimate self-searching taken any actual form, he saw the image of that unformulated dream which had haunted his sub-consciousness so long, and which was now to haunt him openly and forever. chapter xv another day the morning after the first official ball in ellisville dawned upon another world. the occupants of the wagons which trailed off across the prairies, the horsemen who followed them, the citizens who adjourned and went as usual to the cottage--all these departed with the more or less recognised feeling that there had happened a vague something which had given ellisville a new dignity, which had attached to her a new significance. really this was magna charta. all those who, tired and sleepy, yet cheerful with the vitality of beef and air, were going home upon the morning following the ball, knew in their souls that something had been done. each might have told you in his way that a new web of human interests and human antagonisms was now laid out upon the loom. rapid enough was to be the weaving, and ellisville was early enough to become acquainted with the joys and sorrows, the strivings and the failures, the happinesses and bitternesses of organized humanity. there are those who sneer at the communities of the west, and who classify all things rural as crude and unworthy, entitled only to tolerance, if they be spared contempt. they are but provincials themselves who are guilty of such attitude, and they proclaim only an ignorance which itself is not entitled to the dignity of being called intolerance. the city is no better than the town, the town is no better than the country, and indeed one is but little different from the other. everywhere the problems are the same. everywhere it is life which is to be seen, which is to be lived, which is to be endured, to be enjoyed. perhaps the men and women of ellisville did not phrase it thus, but surely they felt the strong current which warmed their veins, which gave them hope and belief and self-trust, worth full as much, let us say, as the planted and watered life of those who sometimes live on the earnings of those who have died before them, or on the labour of those who are enslaved to them. ellisville, after the first ball, was by all the rules of the plains admittedly a town. a sun had set, and a sun had arisen. it was another day. in the mind of edward franklin, when he was but a boy, there came often problems upon which he pondered with all the melancholy seriousness of youth, and as he grew to young manhood he found always more problems to engage his thoughts, to challenge his imagination. they told the boy that this earth was but a part of a grand scheme, a dot among the myriad stars. he was not satisfied, but asked always where was the edge. no recurrent quotient would do for him; he demanded that the figures be conclusive. they told him of the positive and negative poles, and he wished to see the adjoining lines of the two hemispheres of force. carrying his questionings into youth and manhood, they told him--men and women told him, the birds told him, the flowers told him--that there were marrying and giving in marriage, that there was love. he studied upon this and looked about him, discovering a world indeed divided into two hemispheres, always about to be joined since ever time began. but it seemed to him that this union must never be that of mere chance. there could be but one way right and fit for the meeting of the two halves of life. he looked about him in the little village where he was brought up, and found that the men had married the women who were there for them to marry. they had never sailed across seas, had never searched the stars, had never questioned their own souls, asking, "is this, then, the other of me?" seeing that this was the way of human beings, he was ashamed. it aroused him to hear of this man or that who, having attained a certain number of cattle or a given amount of household goods, conceived himself now ready to marry, and who therefore made court to the neighbour's daughter, and who forthwith did marry her. to his dreamer's heart it seemed that there should be search, that there should be a sign, so that it should be sure that the moment had come, that the other had been found. with some men this delusion lasts very late. with some women it endures forever. for these there may be, after all, another world somewhere in the recurrent quotient which runs indefinitely out into the stars. with these vague philosophizings, these morbid self-queryings, there came into conflict the sterner and more practical side of franklin's nature, itself imperious and positive in its demands. thus he found himself, in his rude surroundings on the plains, a man still unsettled and restless, ambitious for success, but most of all ambitious with that deadly inner ambition to stand for his own equation, to be himself, to reach his own standards; that ambition which sends so many broken hearts into graves whose headstones tell no history. franklin wondered deliberately what it must be to succeed, what it must be to achieve. and he wondered deliberately what it must mean to love, to find by good fortune or by just deserts, voyaging somewhere in the weltering sea of life, in the weltering seas of all these unmoved stars, that other being which was to mean that he had found himself. to the searcher who seeks thus starkly, to the dreamer who has not yielded; but who has deserved his dream, there can be no mistaking when the image comes. therefore to edward franklin the tawdry hotel parlour on the morning after the ball at ellisville was no mere four-square habitation, but a chamber of the stars. the dingy chairs and sofas were to him articles of joy and beauty. the curtains at the windows, cracked and seamed, made to him but a map of the many devious happinesses which life should thenceforth show. the noises of the street were but music, the voices from the rooms below were speech of another happy world. before him, radiant, was that which he had vaguely sought. not for him to marry merely the neighbour's daughter! this other half of himself, with feet running far to find the missing friend, had sought him out through all the years, through all the miles, through all the spheres! this was fate, and at this thought his heart glowed, his eyes shone, his very stature seemed to increase. he wist not of nature and her ways of attraction. he only knew that here was that other whose hand, pathetically sought, he had hitherto missed in the darkness of the foregone days. now, thought he, it was all happily concluded. the quotient was no indefinite one; it had an end. it ended here, upon the edge of the infinite which he had sought; upon the pinnacle of that universe of which he had learned; here, in this brilliant chamber of delight, this irradiant abode, this noble hall bedecked with gems and silks and stars and all the warp and woof of his many, many days of dreams! mr. and mrs. buford had for the time excused themselves by reason of mrs. buford's weariness, and after the easy ways of that time and place the young people found themselves alone. thus it was that mary ellen, with a temporary feeling of helplessness, found herself face to face with the very man whom she at that time cared least to see. chapter xvi another hour "but it seems as though i had always known you," said franklin, turning again toward the tall figure at the window. there was no reply to this, neither was there wavering in the attitude of the head whose glossy back was turned to him at that moment. "it was like some forgotten strain of music!" he blundered on, feeling how hopeless, how distinctly absurd was all his speech. "i surely must always have known you, somewhere!" his voice took on a plaintive assertiveness which in another he would have derided and have recognised as an admission of defeat. mary ellen still gazed out of the window. in her mind there was a scene strangely different from this which she beheld. she recalled the green forests and the yellow farms of louisburg, the droning bees, the broken flowers and all the details of that sodden, stricken field. with a shudder there came over her a swift resentment at meeting here, near at hand, one who had had a share in that scene of desolation. franklin felt keenly enough that he was at disadvantage, but no man may know what there is in the heart of a girl. to mary ellen there seemed to be three ways open. she might address this man bitterly, or haughtily, or humorously. the latter course might have been most deadly of all, had it not been tempered with a certain chivalrousness which abode in mary ellen's heart. after all, thought she, here was a man who was one of their few acquaintances in this strange, wild country. it might be that he was not an ill sort of man at heart, and by all means he was less impossible of manner than any other she had seen here. she had heard that the men of a womanless country were sometimes suddenly disconcerted by the appearance of womankind upon their horizon. there was a certain quality about this man which, after all, left him distinctly within the classification of gentleman. moreover, it would be an ill thing for her to leave a sore heart on the first day of her acquaintance in this town, with which her fortunes were now apparently to be so intimately connected. mary ellen turned at length and seated herself near the window. the light of which many women are afraid, the cross-light of double windows on the morning after a night of dancing, had no terrors for her. her eye was clear, her skin fresh, her shoulders undrooping. franklin from his seat opposite gazed eagerly at this glorious young being. from his standpoint there were but few preliminaries to be carried on. this was the design, the scheme. this was what life had had in store for him, and why should he hesitate to enter into possession? why should he delay to speak that which was foremost in his soul, which assuredly at that very moment must be the foremost concern in all the interlocking universe of worlds? after his fashion he had gone straight. he could not understand the sickening thought that he did not arrive, that his assertion did not convince, that his desire did not impinge. mary ellen turned toward him slowly at length, and so far from seeming serious, her features bore the traces of a smile. "do you know," said she, "i think i heard of a stage-driver--wasn't it somewhere out west--who was taking a school-teacher from the railroad to the schoolhouse--and he--well, that is to say--" "he said things--" "yes, that is it. he said things, you know. now, he had never seen the school-teacher before." "yes, i have heard of that story," said franklin, smiling as he recalled the somewhat different story of sam and the waiter girl. "i don't just recollect all about it." "it seems to me that the stage-driver said something--er, like--maybe he said it was 'like forgotten music' to him." franklin coloured. "the story was an absurdity, like many others about the west," he said. "but," he brightened, "the stage-driver had never seen the school-teacher before." "i don't quite understand," said mary ellen coldly. "in my country it was not customary for gentlemen to tell ladies when they met for the first time that it was 'like a strain of forgotten music'--not the first time." and in spite of herself she now laughed freely, feeling her feminine advantage and somewhat exulting in spite of herself to see that even here upon the frontier there was opportunity for the employment of woman's ancient craft. "music never forgotten, then!" said franklin impetuously. "this is at least not the first time we have met." in any ordinary duel of small talk this had not been so bad an attack, yet now the results were something which neither could have foreseen. to the mind of the girl the words were shocking, rude, brutal. they brought up again the whole scene of the battlefield. they recalled a music which was indeed not forgotten--the music of that procession which walked across the heart of louisburg on that far-off fatal day. she shuddered, and upon her face there fell the shadow of an habitual sadness. "you have spoken of this before, captain franklin," said she, "and if what you say is true, and if indeed you did see me--there--at that place--i can see no significance in that, except the lesson that the world is a very small one. i have no recollection of meeting you. but, captain franklin, had we ever really met, and if you really cared to bring up some pleasant thought about the meeting, you surely would never recall the fact that you met me upon that day!" franklin felt his heart stop. he looked aside, his face paling as the even tones went on: "that was the day of all my life the saddest, the most terrible. i have been trying ever since then to forget it. i dare not think of it. it was the day when--when my life ended--when i lost everything, everything on earth i had." franklin turned in mute protest, but she continued: "because of that day," said she bitterly, "to which you referred as though it were a curious or pleasant thought, since you say you were there at that time--because of that very day i was left adrift in the world, every hope and every comfort gone. because of louisburg--why, this--ellisville! this is the result of that day! and you refer to it with eagerness." poor franklin groaned at this, but thought of no right words to say until ten hours afterward, which is mostly the human way. "i know--i could have known," he blundered--"i should not be so rude as to suppose that--ah, it was only _you_ that i remembered! the war is past and gone, the world, as you say, is very small. it was only that i was glad--" "ah, sir," said mary ellen, and her voice now held a plaintiveness which was the stronger from the droop of the tenderly curving lips--"ah, sir, but you must remember! to lose your relatives, even in a war for right and principle--and the south was right!" (this with a flash of the eye late pensive)--"that is hard enough. but for me it was not one thing or another; it was the sum of a thousand misfortunes. i wonder that i am alive. it seems to me as though i had been in a dream for a long, long time. it is no wonder that those of us left alive went away, anywhere, as far as we could, that we gave up our country--that we came even here!" she waved a hand at the brown monotony visible through the window. "you blame me as though it were personal!" broke in franklin; but she ignored him. "we, our family," she went on, "had lived there for a dozen generations. you say the world is small. it is indeed too small for a family again to take root which has been torn up as ours has been. my father, my mother, my two brothers, nearly every relative i had, killed in the war or by the war--our home destroyed--our property taken by first one army and then the other--you should not wonder if i am bitter! it was the field of louisburg which cost me everything. i lost all--all--on that day which you wish me to remember. you wish me to remember that you saw me then, that i perhaps saw you. why, sir, if you wished me to hate you, you could do no better--and i do not wish to hate any one. i wish to have as many friends as we may, here in this new country; but for remembering--why, i can remember nothing else, day or night, but louisburg!" "you stood so," said franklin, doggedly and fatuously, "just as you did last night. you were leaning on the arm of your mother--" mary ellen's eyes dilated. "it was not my mother," said she. "a friend?" said franklin, feelingly as he might. "the mother of a friend," said mary ellen, straightening up and speaking with effort. and all the meaning of her words struck franklin fully as though a dart had sunk home in his bosom. "we were seeking for my friend, her son," said mary ellen. "i--captain franklin, i know of no reason why we should speak of such things at all, but it was my--i was to have been married to the man for whom we were seeking, and whom we found! that is what louisburg means to me. it means this frontier town, a new, rude life for us. it means meeting you all here--as we are glad and proud to do, sir--but first of all it means--that!" franklin bowed his head between his hands and half groaned over the pain which he had cost. then slowly and crushingly his own hurt came home to him. every fibre of his being, which had been exultingly crying out in triumph at the finding of this missing friend--every fibre so keenly strung--now snapped and sprang back at rag ends. in his brain he could feel the parting one by one of the strings which but now sang in unison. discord, darkness, dismay, sat on all the world. the leisurely foot of buford sounded on the stair, and he knocked gaily on the door jam as he entered. "well, niece," said he, "mrs. buford thinks we ought to be starting back for home right soon now." mary ellen rose and bowed to franklin as she passed to leave the room; but perhaps neither she nor franklin was fully conscious of the leave-taking. buford saw nothing out of the way, but turned and held out his hand. "by the way, captain franklin," said he, "i'm mighty glad to meet you, sir--mighty glad. we shall want you to come down and see us often. it isn't very far--only about twenty-five miles south. they call our place the halfway ranch, and it's not a bad name, for it's only about halfway as good a place as you and i have always been used to; but it's ours, and you will be welcome there. we'll be up here sometimes, and you must come down. we shall depend on seeing you now and then." "i trust we shall be friends," mumbled franklin. "friends?" said butord cheerily, the smiling wrinkles of his own thin face signifying his sincerity; "why, man, here is a place where one needs friends, and where he can have friends. there is time enough and room enough, and--well, you'll come, won't you?" and franklin, dazed and missing all the light which had recently made glad the earth, was vaguely conscious that he had promised to visit the home of the girl who had certainly given him no invitation to come further into her life, but for whose word of welcome he knew that he should always long. book iii the day of the cattle chapter xvii ellisville the red gourdlike, ellisville grew up in a night. it was not, and lo! it was. many smokes arose, not moving from crest to crest of the hills as in the past, when savage bands of men signalled the one to the other, but rising steadily, in combined volume, a beacon of civilization set far out in the plains, assuring, beckoning. silently, steadily, the people came to this rallying place, dropping in from every corner of the stars. the long street spun out still longer its string of toylike wooden houses. it broke and doubled back upon itself, giving ellisville title to unique distinction among all the cities of the plains, which rarely boasted more than a single street. the big hotel at the depot sheltered a colony of restless and ambitious life. from the east there came a minister with his wife, both fresh from college. they remained a week. the cottage hotel had long since lost its key, and day and night there went on vast revelry among the men of the wild, wide west, then seeing for the first time what seemed to them the joy and glory of life. little parties of men continually came up from the south, in search of opportunity to sell their cattle. little parties of men came from the east, seeking to buy cattle and land. they met at the cottage, and made merry in large fashion, seeing that this was a large land, and new, and unrestrained. land and cattle, cattle and land. these themes were upon the lips of all, and in those days were topics of peace and harmony. the cattleman still stood for the nomadic and untrammelled west, the west of wild and glorious tradition. the man who sought for land was not yet recognised as the homesteader, the man of anchored craft, of settled convictions, of adventures ended. for one brief, glorious season the nomad and the home dweller shook hands in amity, not pausing to consider wherein their interests might differ. for both, this was the west, the free, unbounded, illimitable, exhaustless west--homeric, titanic, scornful to metes and bounds, having no scale of little things. here and there small, low houses, built of the soil and clinging grimly to the soil, made indistinct dots upon the wide gray plains. small corrals raised their ragged arms. each man claimed his herd of kine. slowly, swinging up from the far southwest, whose settlement, slower and still more crude, had gone on scores of years ago when the spaniards and the horse indians of the lower plains were finally beaten back from the _rancherias_, there came on the great herds of the gaunt, broad-horned cattle, footsore and slow and weary with their march of more than a thousand miles. these vast herds deployed in turn about the town of ellisville, the mecca for which they had made this unprecedented pilgrimage. they trampled down every incipient field, and spread abroad over all the grazing lands, until every township held its thousands, crowded by the new thousands continually coming on. long train loads of these cattle, wild and fierce, fresh from the chutes into which they were driven after their march across the untracked empire of the range, rolled eastward day after day. herd after herd pressed still farther north, past ellisville, going on wearily another thousand miles, to found the ellisvilles of the upper range, to take the place of the buffalo driven from the ancient feeding grounds. scattered into hundreds and scores and tens, the local market of the ellisville settlers took its share also of the cheap cattle from the south, and sent them out over the cheap lands. it was indeed the beginning of things. fortune was there for any man. the town became a loadstone for the restless population ever crowding out upon the uttermost frontier. the men from the farther east dropped their waistcoats and their narrow hats at ellisville. all the world went under wide felt and bore a jingling spur. every man was armed. the pitch of life was high. it was worth death to live a year in such a land! the pettinesses fell away from mankind. the horizon of life was wide. there was no time for small exactness. a newspaper, so called, cost a quarter of a dollar. the postmaster gave no change when one bought a postage stamp. a shave was worth a quarter of a dollar, or a half, or a dollar, as that might be. the price of a single drink was never established, since that was something never called for. for a cowman to spend one hundred dollars at the cottage bar, and to lose ten thousand dollars at cards later in the same evening, was a feat not phenomenal. there were more cattle, south in texas. the range-men, acquainted with danger and risk, loving excitement, balked at no hazard. knowing no settled way of life, ignorant of a roof, careless of the ways of other lands, this town was a toy to them, a jest, just as all life, homeless, womanless, had been a jest. by day and by night, ceaseless, crude, barbaric, there went on a continuous carousal, which would have been joyless backed by a vitality less superb, an experience less young. money and life--these two things we guard most sacredly in the older societies, the first most jealously, the latter with a lesser care. in ellisville these were the commodities in least esteem. the philosophy of that land was either more ignorant or more profound than ours. over all the world, unaided by a sensational press, and as yet without even that non-resident literature which was later to discover the ellisvilles after the ellisvilles were gone, there spread the tame of ellisville the red, the lustful, the unspeakable. here was a riot of animal intensity of life, a mutiny of physical man, the last outbreak of the innate savagery of primitive man against the day of shackles and subjugation. the men of that rude day lived vehemently. they died, and they escaped. the earth is trampled over their bold hearts, and they have gone back into the earth, the air, the sky, and the wild flowers. over their graves tread now those who bow the neck and bear the burden and feed the wheels, and know the despair of that civilization which grinds hope from out the heart. the one and the other came, departed, and will depart. the one and the other, the bond and the free, the untamed and the broken, were pawns in the iron game of destiny. the transient population of ellisville, the cattle sellers and cattle buyers and land seekers, outnumbered three to one the resident or permanent population, which catered to this floating trade, and which supplied its commercial or professional wants. the resident one third was the nucleus of the real ellisville that was to be. the social compact was still in embryo. life was very simple. it was the day of the individual, the day before the law. with this rude setting there was to be enacted a rapid drama of material progress such as the world has never elsewhere seen; but first there must be played the wild prologue of the west, never at any time to have a more lurid scene than here at the halfway house of a continent, at the intersection of the grand transcontinental trails, the bloody angle of the plains. eight men in a day, a score in a week, met death by violence. the street in the cemetery doubled before that of the town. there were more graves than houses. this superbly wasteful day, how could it presage that which was to come? in this riotous army of invasion, who could have foreseen the population which was to follow, adventurous yet tenacious, resolved first upon independence, and next upon knowledge, and then upon the fruits of knowledge? nay, perhaps, after all, the prescience of this coming time lay over ellisville the red, so that it roared the more tempestuously on through its brief, brazen day. chapter xviii still a rebel in the swift current of humanity then streaming up and down the cattle range, the reputation of the halfway house was carried far and near; and for fifty miles east and west, for five hundred miles north and south, the beauty of the girl at the halfway house was matter of general story. this was a new sort of being, this stranger from another land, and when applied to her, all the standards of the time fell short or wide. about her there grew a saga of the cow range, and she was spoken of with awe from the brazos to the blue. many a rude cowman made long pilgrimage to verify rumours he had heard of the personal beauty, the personal sweetness of nature, the personal kindness of heart, and yet the personal reserve and dignity of this new goddess, whose like was not to be found in all the wide realms of the range. such sceptics came in doubt, but they remained silent and departed reverent. wider and wider grew her circle of devoted friends--wild and desperate men who rarely knew a roof and whose hands stayed at no deed, but who knew with unerring accuracy the value of a real woman. for each of these rude, silent, awkward range riders, who stammered in all speech except to men or horses, and who stumbled in all locomotion but that of the saddle, mary ellen had a kind spot in her soul, never ceasing to wonder as she did at the customs and traditions of their life. pinky smith, laid up at the halfway house with a broken leg (with which he had come in the saddle for over fifty miles), was blither in bed than he had ever been at table. ike wallace, down with a fever at the same place, got reeling into saddle at dawn of a cheerless day, and rode himself and a horse to death that day in stopping a stampede. pain they knew not, fear they had not, and duty was their only god. they told her, simply as children, of deeds which now caused a shudder, now set tingling the full blood of enthusiasm, and opened up unconsciously to her view a rude field of knight-errantry, whose principles sat strangely close with the best traditions of her own earlier land and time. they were knights-errant, and for all on the ellisville trail there was but one lady. so hopeless was the case of each that they forbore to argue among themselves. "no broadhorn there," said pinky smith, after he got well, and assumed the envied position of oracle on matters at the halfway house. "that ain't no range stock, i want to tell you all. what in h----l she doin' out yer i give it up, but you can mark it down she ain't no common sort." "oh, she like enough got some beau back in the states," said another, grumblingly. "yes, er up to ellis," said pinky, sagely. "thet lawyer feller up there, he come down to the ranch twict when i was there, and i 'low he's shinin' round some." "well, i dunno," said the other, argumentatively, as though to classify lawyers and cow-punchers in much the same category. "but, pshaw!" continued pinky. "he don't seem to hold no edge neither, fur's i could see. it was him that was a-doin' all the guessin'. she just a-standin' pat all the time, same fer him as fer everybody else. reckon she ain't got no beau, an' don't want none." "beau be d----d!" said his friend. "who said anything about beau? first thing, feller's got to be fitten. who's fitten?" "that's right," said pinky. "yet i shore hope she's located yer fer keeps. feller says, 'they's no place like home,' and it's several mile to another ranch like that'n', er to another gal like her." "d----n the lawyer!" said the other, after a time of silence, as they rode on together; and pinky made understanding reply. "that's what!" said he. "d----n him, anyhow!" as for edward franklin himself, he could not in his moments of wildest egotism assign himself to a place any better than that accorded each member of the clans who rallied about this southern lady transplanted to the western plains. repulsed in his first unskilled, impetuous advance; hurt, stung, cut to the quick as much at his own clumsiness and failure to make himself understood as at the actual rebuff received. franklin none the less in time recovered sufficient equanimity to seek to avail himself of such advantages as still remained; and he resolved grimly that he would persist until at least he had been accepted as something better than a blundering boor. under major buford's invitation he called now and again at the halfway ranch, and the major was gladder each time to see him, for he valued the society of one whose experiences ran somewhat parallel with his own, and whose preferences were kindred to those of his natural class; and, moreover, there was always a strange comradery among those whose problems were the same, the "neighbours" of the sparsely settled west. mrs. buford also received franklin with pleasure, and mary ellen certainly always with politeness. yet, fatal sign, mary ellen never ran for her mirror when she knew that franklin was coming. he was but one of the many who came to the halfway house; and franklin, after more than one quiet repulse, began to know that this was an indifference grounded deeper than the strange haughtiness which came to be assumed by so many women of the almost womanless west, who found themselves in a land where the irreverent law of supply and demand assigned to them a sudden value. of lovers mary ellen would hear of none, and this was franklin's sole consolation. yet all day as he laboured there was present in his subconsciousness the personality of this proud and sweet-faced girl. her name was spelled large upon the sky, was voiced by all the birds. it was indeed her face that looked up from the printed page. he dared not hope, and yet shrunk from the thought that he must not, knowing what lethargy must else ingulf his soul. by day a sweet, compelling image followed him, until he sought relief in sleep. at night she was again the shadowy image of his dreams. reason as well as instinct framed excuses for him, and he caught himself again arguing with the world that here was destiny, here was fate! wandering blindly over all the weary intervening miles, weak and in need of strength to shelter her, tender and noble and gentle, worthy of love and needing love and care in these rude conditions for which she was so unfit--surely the stars had straightened out his life for him and told him what to do! he heard so clearly the sweet, imperious summons which is the second command put upon animate nature: first, to prevail, to live; second, to love, to survive! life and love, the first worthless without the latter, barren, flowerless, shorn of fruitage, branded with the mark of the unattained. as tree whispers unto tree, as flower yearns to flower, so came the mandate to his being in that undying speech that knows no change from the beginning to the end of time. against this overwhelming desire of an impetuous love there was raised but one barrier--the enduring resistance of a woman's will, silent, not strenuous, unprotesting, but unchanged. to all his renewed pleadings the girl said simply that she had no heart to give, that her hope of happiness lay buried on the field of louisburg, in the far-off land that she had known in younger and less troubled days. leaving that land, orphaned, penniless, her life crushed down at the very portal of womanhood, her friends scattered, her family broken and destroyed, her whole world overturned, she had left also all hope of a later happiness. there remained to her only the memory of a past, the honour that she prized, the traditions which she must maintain. she was "unreconstructed," as she admitted bitterly. moreover, so she said, even could it lie in her heart ever to prove unfaithful to her lover who had died upon the field of duty, never could it happen that she would care for one of those who had murdered him, who had murdered her happiness, who had ruined her home, destroyed her people, and banished her in this far wandering from the land that bore her. "providence did not bring me here to marry you," she said to franklin keenly, "but to tell you that i would never marry you--never, not even though i loved you, as i do not. i am still a southerner, am still a 'rebel.' moreover, i have learned my lesson. i shall never love again." chapter xix that which he would poor medicine as it is, work was ever the best salve known for a hurting heart. franklin betook him to his daily work, and he saw success attend his labours. already against the frank barbarity of the cattle days there began to push the hand of the "law-and-order" element, steadily increasing in power. although all the primitive savage in him answered to the summons of those white-hot days to every virile, daring nature, franklin none the less felt growing in his heart the stubbornness of the man of property, the landholding man, the man who even unconsciously plans a home, resolved to cling to that which he has taken of the earth's surface for his own. heredity, civilization, that which we call common sense, won the victory. though he saw his own face in the primeval mirror here held up to him, franklin turned away. it was sure to him that he must set his influence against this unorganized day of waste and riotousness. he knew that this perfervid time could not endure, knew that the sweep of american civilization must occupy all this land as it had all the lands from the alleghenies to the plains. he foresaw in this crude new region the scene of a great material activity, a vast industrial development. the swift action of the early days was to the liking of his robust nature, and the sweep of the cattle trade, sudden and unexpected as it had been, in no wise altered his original intention of remaining as an integer of this community. it needed no great foresight to realize that all this land, now so wild and cheap, could not long remain wild and cheap, but must follow the history of values as it had been written up to the edge of that time and place. of law business of an actual sort there was next to none at ellisville, all the transactions being in wild lands and wild cattle, but, as did all attorneys of the time, franklin became broker before he grew to be professional man. fortunate in securing the handling of the railroad lands, he sold block after block of wild land to the pushing men who came out to the "front" in search of farms and cattle ranches. his own profits he invested again in land. thus he early found himself making much more than a livelihood, and laying the foundation of later fortune. long since he had "proved up" his claim and moved into town permanently, having office and residence in the great depot hotel which was the citadel of the forces of law and order, of progress and civilization in that land. the railroad company which founded ellisville had within its board of directors a so-called "land and improvement company," which latter company naturally had the first knowledge of the proposed locations of the different towns along the advancing line. when the sale of town lots was thrown open to the public, it was always discovered that the land and improvement company had already secured the best of the property in what was to be the business portion of the town. in the case of ellisville, this inner corporation knew that there was to be located here a railroad-division point, where ultimately there would be car shops and a long pay roll of employees. such a town was sure to prosper much more than one depending solely upon agriculture for its support, as was to be the later history of many or most of these far western towns. franklin, given a hint by a friendly official, invested as he was able in town property in the village of ellisville, in which truly it required the eye of faith to see any prospect of great enhancement. betimes he became owner of a quarter-section of land here and there, in course of commissions on sales. he was careful to take only such land as he had personally seen and thought fit for farming, and always he secured land as near to the railroad as was possible. thus he was in the ranks of those foreseeing men who quietly and rapidly were making plans which were later to place them among those high in the control of affairs. all around were others, less shrewd, who were content to meet matters as they should turn up, forgetting that "the hypocritic days bring diadems and fagots in their hands; to each they offer gifts after his will." everywhere was shown the anglo-saxon love of land. each man had his quarter-section or more. even nora, the waitress at the hotel, had "filed on a quarter," and once in perhaps a month or so would "reside" there overnight, a few faint furrows in the soil (done by her devoted admirer, sam) passing as those legal "improvements" which should later give her title to a portion of the earth. the land was passing into severalty, coming into the hands of the people who had subdued it, who had driven out those who once had been its occupants. the indians were now cleared away, not only about ellisville but far to the north and west. the skin-hunters had wiped out the last of the great herds of the buffalo. the face of nature was changing. the tremendous drama of the west was going on in all its giant action. this torrent of rude life, against which the hands of the law were still so weak and unavailing, had set for it in the ways of things a limit for its flood and a time for its receding. the west was a noble country, and it asked of each man what nobility there was in his soul. franklin began to grow. freed from the dwarfing influences of army life, as well as from the repressing monotony of an old and limited community, he found in the broad horizon of his new surroundings a demand that he also should expand. as he looked beyond the day of cattle and foresaw the time of the plough, so also he gazed far forward into the avenues of his own life, now opening more clearly before him. he rapidly forecast the possibilities of the profession which he had chosen, and with grim self-confidence felt them well within his power. beyond that, then, he asked himself, in his curious self-questioning manner, what was there to be? what was to be the time of his life when he could fold his hands and say that, no matter whether it was success or failure that he had gained, he had done that which was in his destiny to do? wherein was he to gain that calmness and that satisfaction which ought to attend each human soul, and entitle it to the words "well done"? odd enough were some of these self-searchings which went on betimes in the little office of this plainsman lawyer; and strangest of all to franklin's mind was the feeling that, as his heart had not yet gained that which was its right, neither had his hand yet fallen upon that which it was to do. franklin rebelled from the technical side of the law, not so much by reason of its dry difficulty as through scorn of its admitted weakness, its inability to do more than compromise; through contempt of its pretended beneficences and its frequent inefficiency and harmfulness. in the law he saw plainly the lash of the taskmaster, driving all those yoked together in the horrid compact of society, a master inexorable, stone-faced, cruel. in it he found no comprehension, seeing that it regarded humanity either as a herd of slaves or a pack of wolves, and not as brethren labouring, suffering, performing a common destiny, yielding to a common fate. he saw in the law no actual recognition of the individual, but only the acknowledgment of the social body. thus, set down in a day miraculously clear, placed among strong characters who had never yet yielded up their souls, witnessing that time which knew the last blaze of the spirit of men absolutely free. franklin felt his own soul leap into a prayer for the continuance of that day. seeing then that this might not be, he fell sometimes to the dreaming of how he might some day, if blessed by the pitying and understanding spirit of things, bring out these types, perpetuate these times, and so at last set them lovingly before a world which might at least wonder, though it did not understand. such were his vague dreams, unformulated; but, happily, meantime he was not content merely to dream. chapter xx the halfway house "miss ma'y ellen," cried aunt lucy, thrusting her head in at the door, "oh, miss ma'y ellen, i wish't you'd come out yer right quick. they's two o' them prai' dogs out yer a-chasin' ouah hens agin--nasty, dirty things!" "very well, lucy," called out a voice in answer. mary ellen arose from her seat near the window, whence she had been gazing out over the wide, flat prairie lands and at the blue, unwinking sky. her step was free and strong, but had no hurry of anxiety. it was no new thing for these "prairie dogs," as aunt lucy persisted in calling the coyotes, to chase the chickens boldly up to the very door. these marauding wolves had at first terrified her, but in her life on the prairies she had learned to know them better. gathering each a bit of stick, she and aunt lucy drove away the two grinning daylight thieves, as they had done dozens of times before their kin, all eager for a taste of this new feathered game that had come in upon the range. with plenteous words of admonition, the two corralled the excited but terror-stricken speckled hen, which had been the occasion of the trouble, driving her back within the gates of the inclosure they had found a necessity for the preservation of the fowls of their "hen ranch." once inside the protecting walls, the erring one raised her feathers in great anger and stalked away in high dudgeon, clucking out anathemas against a country where a law-abiding hen could not venture a quarter of a mile from home, even at the season when bugs were juiciest. "it's that same domineck, isn't it, lucy?" said mary ellen, leaning over the fence and gazing at the fowls. "yess'm, that same ole hen, blame her fool soul! she's mo' bother'n she's wuf. i 'clare, ever' time i takes them er' chickens out fer a walk that ole sar' ann hen, she boun' fer to go off by herse'f somewheres, she's that briggotty; an' first thing i knows, dar she is in trouble again--low down, no 'count thing, i say!" "poor old sarah!" said mary ellen. "why, aunt lucy, she's raised more chickens than any hen we've got." "thass all right, miss ma'y ellen, thass all right, so she have, but she made twict as much trouble as any hen we got, too. we kin git two dollahs fer her cooked, an' seems like long's she's erlive she boun' fer ter keep me chasin' 'roun' after her. i 'clare, she jest keep the whole lot o' ouah chickens wore down to a frazzle, she traipsin 'roun' all the time, an' them a-follerin' her. jess like some womenfolks. they gad 'roun' so much they kain't git no flesh ontoe 'em. an', of co'se," she added argumentatively, "we all got to keep up the reppytation o' ouah cookin'. i kain't ask these yer men a dollah a meal--not fer no lean ole hen wif no meat ontoe her bones--no, ma'am." aunt lucy spoke with professional pride and with a certain right to authority. the reputation of the halfway house ran from the double forks of the brazos north to abilene, and much of the virtue of the table was dependent upon the resources of this "hen ranch," whose fame was spread abroad throughout the land. saved by the surpassing grace of pie and "chicken fixings," the halting place chosen for so slight reason by buford and his family had become a permanent abode, known gratefully to many travellers and productive of more than a living for those who had established it. it was, after all, the financial genius of aunt lucy, accustomed all her life to culinary problems, that had foreseen profit in eggs and chickens when she noted the exalted joy with which the hungry cow-punchers fell upon a meal of this sort after a season of salt pork, tough beef, and dutch-oven bread. at first major buford rebelled at the thought of innkeeping. his family had kept open house before the war, and he came from a land where the thoughts of hospitality and of price were not to be mentioned in the same day. yet all about him lay the crude conditions of a raw, new country. at best he could get no product from the land for many months, and then but a problematical one. he was in a region where each man did many things, and first that thing which seemed nearest at hand to be done. it was the common sense of old aunt lucy which discovered the truth of the commercial proposition that what a man will pay for a given benefit is what he ought to pay. had aunt lucy asked the cow-punchers even twice her tariff for a pie they would have paid it gladly. had mary ellen asked them for their spurs and saddles, the latter would have been laid down. from the halfway house south to the red river there was nothing edible. and over this red river there came now swarming uncounted thousands of broad-horned cattle, driven by many bodies of hardy, sunburned, beweaponed, hungry men. at ellisville, now rapidly becoming an important cattle market, the hotel accommodations were more pretentious than comfortable, and many a cowman who had sat at the board of the halfway house going up the trail, would mount his horse and ride back daily twenty-five miles for dinner. such are the attractions of corn bread and chicken when prepared by the hands of a real genius gone astray on this much-miscooked world. many other guests were among those "locators," who came out to ellisville and drove to the south in search of "claims." these usually travelled over the route of sam, the stage-driver, who carried the mail to plum centre during its life, and who never failed to sound the praises of the halfway house. thus the little southern family quickly found itself possessed of a definite, profitable, and growing business. buford was soon able to employ aid in making his improvements. he constructed a large dugout, after the fashion of the dwelling most common in the country at that time, this manner of dwelling, practically a roofed-over cellar, its side-walls showing but a few feet above the level of the earth, had been discovered to be a very practical and comfortable form of living place by those settlers who found a region practically barren of timber, and as yet unsupplied with brick or boards. in addition to the main dugout there was a rude barn built of sods, and towering high above the squat buildings rose the frame of the first windmill on the cattle trail, a landmark for many miles. seeing these things growing up about him, at the suggestion and partly through the aid of his widely scattered but kind-hearted neighbours, major buford began to take on heart of grace. he foresaw for his people an independence, rude and far below their former plane of life, it was true, yet infinitely better than a proud despair. it was perhaps the women who suffered most in the transition from older lands to this new, wild region. the barren and monotonous prospect, the high-keyed air and the perpetual winds, thinned and wore out the fragile form of mrs. buford. this impetuous, nerve-wearing air was much different from the soft, warm winds of the flower-laden south. at night as she lay down to sleep she did not hear the tinkle of music nor the voice of night-singing birds, which in the scenes of her girlhood had been familiar sounds. the moan of the wind in the short, hard grass was different from its whisper in the peach trees, and the shrilling of the coyotes made but rude substitute for the trill of the love-bursting mocking bird that sang its myriad song far back in old virginia. aunt lucy's soliloquizing songs, when she ceased the hymns of her fervid methodism, turned always to that far-off, gentle land where life had been so free from anxiety or care. of dixie, of the potomac, of old kentucky, of the "mississip'," of the land of tennessee--a score of songs of exile would flow unconscious from her lips, until at last, bethinking to herself, she would fall to weeping, covering her face with her apron and refusing to be comforted by any hand but that of mary ellen, the "young miss beecham," whose fortunes she had followed to the end of the world. sometimes at night mrs. buford and her niece sang together the songs of the old south, mary ellen furnishing accompaniment with her guitar. they sang together, here beneath the surface of this sweeping sea of land, out over which the red eye of their home looked wonderingly. and sometimes mary ellen sang to her guitar alone, too often songs which carried her back to a morbid, mental state, from which not even the high voice of this glad, new land could challenge her. very far away to her seemed even the graves of louisburg. father, mother, brothers, lover, every kin of earth nearest to her, had not death claimed them all? what was there left, what was there to be hoped here, cast away on this sea of land, this country that could never be a land of homes? sad doctrine, this, for a young woman in her early twenties, five feet five, with the peach on her cheek in spite of the burning wind, and hands that reached out for every little ailing chicken, for every kitten, or puppy that wanted comforting. but when the morning came and the sun rose, and the blue sky smiled, and all the earth seemed to be vibrant with some high-keyed summoning note--how difficult then it was to be sad! how far away indeed seemed the once-familiar scenes! how hard it was not to hope, here in this land of self-reliance and belief! it was the horror of mary ellen's soul that when this sun shone she could not be sad. this land, this crude, forbidding, fascinating land--what was there about it that swept her along against her will? chapter xxi the advice of aunt lucy one day aunt lucy, missing quarterly meeting, and eke bethinking herself of some of those aches and pains of body and forebodings of mind with which the negro is never unprovided, became mournful in her melody, and went to bed sighing and disconsolate. mary ellen heard her voice uplifted long and urgently, and suspecting the cause, at length went to her door. "what is it, aunt lucy?" she asked kindly. "nothin', mam; i jess rasslin' wit ther throne o' grace er l'il bit. i don't wan' to 'sturb you-all." "we don't want to disturb you, either, aunt lucy," said mary ellen gently. "thass hit, miss ma'y ellen, thass _hit_! it ain't fitten fer a ole nigger 'ooman to be prayin' erroun' whah white folks is. you kain't seem to let out good an' free; 'n ef i kain't let out good an' free, 'pears like i don't git no hol' on salvation. we all po' weak sinners, miss ma'y ellen." "yes, i know, lucy." "an' does you know, miss ma'y ellen, i sorter gits skeered sometimes, out yer, fer fear mer supplercashuns ain't goin' take holt o' heaven jess right. white folks has one way er prayin', but er nigger kain't pray erlone--no, mam, jess kain't pray erlone." "i thought you were doing pretty well, lucy." "yass'm, pretty well, but not nothin' like hit useter be back in ole vehginny, when 'bout er hunderd niggers git to prayin' all to onct. thass whut goin' to fotch the powah on er suffrin' human soul--yes, ma'm!" "now, aunt lucy," said mary ellen sagely, "there isn't anything wrong with your soul at all. you're as good an old thing as ever breathed, i'm sure of that, and the lord will reward you if he ever does any one, white or black." "does you think that, honey?" "indeed i do." "well, sometimes i thinks the lord ain' goin' to fergive me fer all ther devilment i done when i was l'il. you know, miss ma'y ellen, hit take a life er prayer to wipe out ouah transgresshuns. now, how kin i pray, not to say _pray_, out yer, in this yer lan'? they ain't a chu'ch in a hunderd mile o' yer, so fer's i kin tell, an' they shoh'ly ain't no chu'ch fer cullud folks. law me, miss ma'y ellen, they ain't ary nother nigger out yer nowheres, an' you don' know how lonesome i does git! seems to me like, ef i c'd jess know er sengle nigger, so'st we c'd meet onct in er while, an' so'st we c'd jess kneel down togetheh an' pray comfer'ble like, same's ef 'twus back in ole vehginny--why, miss ma'y ellen, i'd be the happiest ole 'ooman ever you did see. mighty bad sort o' feelin', when a pusson ain't right shore 'bout they soul. an' when i has to pray erlone, i kain't never be right shore!" mary ellen rose and went to her room, returning with her guitar. she seated herself upon the side of the bed near aunt lucy--an act which would have been impossible of belief back in old virginia--and touched a few low chords. "listen, aunt lucy," she said; "i will play and you may sing. that will make you feel better, i think." it was only from a perfect understanding of the negro character that this proposal could come, and only a perfect dignity could carry it out with grace; yet there, beneath the floor of the wide prairie sea, these strange exercises were carried on, the low throbbing of the strings according with the quavering minors of the old-time hymns, until aunt lucy wiped her eyes and smiled. "thank yer. miss ma'y' ellen," she said; "thank yer a thousand times. you shoh'ly does know how toe comfort folks mighty well, even a pore ole nigger. law bless yer, honey, whut c'd i do without yer, me out yer all erlone? seems like the lord done gone 'way fur off, 'n i kain't fotch him noways; but when white folks like miss ma'y ellen beecham come set down right side o' me an' sing wif me, den i know ther lord, he standin' by listenin'. yas'm, he shoh'ly goin' to incline his eah!" women are women. there is no synonym. women, white and white, black and black, or, if need be, white and black, have sympathies and understandings and revealings which they never carry to the opposite sex. it is likely that no man ever explored the last intricacy of that sweet and wondrous maze, a woman's heart; yet the woman who marries, and who has with her a husband, sets herself for the time outside the circle of all other husbandless women who may be about her. thus it was that--without any loss of self-respect upon the one side, or any forgetfulness upon the other of that immovable line between black and white which had been part of the immemorial creed of both--mary ellen and aunt lucy, being companionless, sometimes drifted together in the way of things. on the morning following aunt lucy's devotional exercises that good soul seemed to be altogether happy and contented, and without any doubts as to her future welfare. she busied herself with the preparation of the food for the chickens, meantime half unconsciously humming a song in reminiscent minor. "custard pie--custard pie," she sang, softly, yet unctuously, as she stirred and mingled the materials before her; "custard pie--_custard_ pie. hope ter eat hit twell i die--twell i die." mary ellen was out in the open air, bonnetless and all a-blow. it was a glorious, sunny day, the air charged with some essence of vital stimulus. tall and shapely, radiant, not yet twenty-three years of age, and mistress of earth's best blessing, perfect health--how could mary ellen be sad? all the earth and sky, and the little twittering ground birds, and the bustling fowls, forbade it. the very stir of life was everywhere. she walked, but trod as steps the wild deer, lightly, with confidence, high-headed. "chick-chick-chick-chickee!" called mary ellen, bending over the fence of the chicken yard, and noting with pleasure the hurrying, clacking throng of fowls that answered and swarmed about her. "chick, chick, chick!" "i'll be thah t'reckly wif ther feed, miss ma'y ellen," called out aunt lucy from the kitchen. and presently she emerged and joined her mistress at the corral. "aunt lucy," said mary ellen, "do you suppose we could ever raise a garden?" "whut's dat, chile--raise er gyarden? kain't raise no gyarden out yer, noways." "i was just thinking may be we could have a garden, just a little one, next year." "hit don' never rain ernuf, chile, in this yer country." "i know, but couldn't we use the water from the well? the windmill is always pumping it up, and it only runs to waste. i was thinking, if we had a few peas, or beans, or things like that, you know--" "uh-huh!" "and do you suppose a rose bush would grow--a real rose bush, over by the side of the house?" "law, no, chile, whut you talkin' 'bout? nothin' hain't goin' to grow yer, 'less'n hit's a little broom cohn, er some o' that alfalafew, er that soht er things. few beans might, ef we wortered 'em. my lan!" with a sudden interest, as she grasped the thought, "whut could i git fer right fraish beans, real string beans, i does wondeh! sakes, ef i c'd hev string beans an' apple pies, i shoh'ly c'd make er foh'tune, right quick. why, they tellin' me, some folks over ontoe that ther smoky river, las' fall, they gethered 'bout hate er peck o' sour green crabapples, an' they trade hate o' them ornery things off fer a beef critter--'deed they did. string beans--why, law, chile!" "we'll have to think about this garden question some day," said mary ellen. she leaned against the corral post, looking out over the wide expanse of the prairie round about. "are those our antelope out there, lucy?" she asked, pointing out with care the few tiny objects, thin and knifelike, crowned with short black forking tips, which showed up against the sky line on a distant ridge. "i think they must be. i haven't noticed them for quite a while." "yass'm," said aunt lucy, after a judicial look. "them blame l'il goats. thass um. i wish't they all wuzn't so mighty peart an' knowin' all ther time, so'st majah buford he c'd git one o' them now an' then fer to eat. antelope tennerline is shoh'ly mighty fine, briled. now, ef we jess had a few sweet 'taters. but, law! whut am i sayin'?" "yes," said mary ellen practically. "we haven't the antelope yet." "i 'member mighty well how cap'n franklin sent us down er quarter o' an'lope," said aunt lucy. "mighty fine meat, hit wuz. an' to think, me a brilin' a piece o' hit fer a low-down white trash cow-driver whut come yer to eat! him a-sayin' he'd ruther hev chicken, cause he wuz raised on an'lope! whut kin' o' talk wuz thet? he talk like an'lope mighty common. takes cap'n franklin toe git ole mr. an'lope, though. "er--miss ma'y ellen," began aunt lucy presently, and apparently with a certain reservation. "yes?" aunt lucy came over and sat down upon a sod heap, resting her chin upon her hand and looking fixedly at the girl, who still stood leaning against the post. "er--miss ma'y ellen--" she began again. "yes. what is it, lucy?" "does you know--?" "do i know what?" "does you know who's jess erbout ther fines' and likelies' man whut lives in all these yer pahts erroun' yer?" mary ellen stopped tossing bits of bread to the chickens. "no, aunt lucy," she said. "i hadn't thought about that." "yes, you has!" cried aunt lucy, rising and shaking a bodeful forefinger. "yes you _has_, an' yes you _does_! an' you don' 'preshuate him, thass whut. him a wushshippin' you!" mary ellen began tossing bread again. "how do you know that?" she asked. "how does i know?--law me, jes listen to thet chile! how does i know? ain' he done tole me, an' yo' an' lizzie, an' majah buford--an' _you_? ain' he done tole you a dozen times? don' everybody know hit? him ez fine er man you goin' toe see right soon, i tell you. tall ez yo' fatheh wuz, an' strong ez er li'ne. he kin git ole mr. an'lope. he kin ride ary beastis in this yer onery country. an' him a-wukkin' for ther railroad, an' a lawyeh, an' all that. he's shoh' boun' toe be rich, one o' these yer days. an' he's a gemman, too, mo'oveh; he's a gemman! reckon i knows quality! yas, sir, cap'n franklin, she shoh'ly am the bestes' man fer a real lady to choosen--bestes' in all this yer lan'. uh-huh!" "i never thought of him--not in that way," said mary ellen, not quite able to put an end to this conversation. "miss ma'y ellen," said aunt lucy solemnly, "i'se wukked fer you an' yo' fam'ly all my life, an' i hates to say ary woh'd what ain't fitten. but i gotto to tell you, you ain' tellin' the _trufe_ to me, toe yo' old black mammy, right now. i tells you, an' i knows it, tha' hain't nary gal on earth ever done look at _no_ man, i don't care who he wuz, 'thout thinkin' 'bout him, an' 'cidin' in her min', one way er otheh whetheh she like fer to mah'y that ther man er not! if er 'ooman say she do different f'om thet, she shoh'ly fergettin' o' the trufe, thass all! ain' thought o' him! go 'long!" aunt lucy wiped her hand upon her apron violently in the vehemence of her incredulity. mary ellen's face sobered with a trace of the old melancholy. "aunt lucy," she said, "you mean kindly, i am sure, but you must not talk to me of these things. don't you remember the old days back home? can you forget master henry, aunt lucy--can you forget the days--those days--?" aunt lucy rose and went over to mary ellen and took her hand between her own great black ones. "no, i doesn't fergit nothin', miss ma'y ellen," she said, wiping the girl's eyes as though she were still a baby. "i doesn't fergit mas' henry, gord bless him! i doesn't fergit him any mo'n you does. how kin i, when i done loved him much ez i did you? wuzn't i goin' to come 'long an' live wif you two, an' take keer o' you, same's i did to the old place? i was a-lookin' to ther time when you an' mas' henry wuz a-goin' ter be mah'ied. but now listen toe yo' ole black mammy, whut knows a heap mo'n you does, an' who is a-talkin' toe you because you ain't got no real mammy o' yer own no mo'. you listen toe me. now, i done had fo' husban's, me. two o' them done died, an' one distapeart in the wah, an' one he turn out no 'count. now, you s'pose i kain't love no otheh man?" mary ellen could not restrain a smile, but it did not impinge upon the earnestness of the other. "yas'm, miss ma'y ellen," she continued, again taking the girl's face between her hands. "gord, he say, it hain't good fer man toe be erlone. an' gord knows, speshul in er lan' like this yer, hit's a heap mo' fitten fer a man toe be erlone then fer a 'ooman. some wimmen-folks, they's made fer grievin', all ther time, fer frettin', an' worr'in', an' er-mopin' 'roun'. then, agin, some is made fer _lovin_'--i don' say fer lovin' mo'n one man to er time; fer ther ain't no good 'ooman ever did thet. but some is made fer _lovin_'. they sech er heap o' no 'count folks in ther worl', hit do seem like a shame when one o' them sort don' love nobody, an' won't let nobody love them!" mary ellen was silent. she could not quite say the word to stop the old servant's garrulity, and the latter went on. "whut i does say, miss ma'y ellen," she resumed, earnestly looking into the girl's face as though to carry conviction with her speech--"whut i does say, an' i says hit fer yo' own good, is this; mas' henry, he's daid! he's daid an' buh'ied, an' flowehs growin' oveh his grave, yeahs 'n yeahs. an' you never wuz mahied toe him. an' you _wan't_ nothin' but a gal. chile, you don't know nothin' '_bout_ lovin' yit. now, i says toe you, whut's ther use? thass hit, miss ma'y ellen, whut's ther use?" chapter xxii en voyage "i wish, sam," said franklin one morning as he stopped at the door of the livery barn--"i wish that you would get me up a good team. i'm thinking of driving over south a little way to-day." "all right, cap," said sam. "i reckon we can fix you up. how far you goin'?" "well, about twenty-five or thirty miles, perhaps." "which will bring you," said sam meditatively, "just about to the halfway house. seein' it's about there you'll be stopping i reckon i better give you my new buggy. i sort of keep it, you know, for special 'casions." franklin was too much absorbed to really comprehend this delicate attention, even when sam rolled out the carriage of state, lovingly dusting off the spokes and with ostentation spreading out the new lap robe. but finally he became conscious of sam, standing with one foot on the hub of a wheel, chewing a straw, and with a certain mental perturbation manifest in his countenance. "cap," said he, "i know just how you feel." "what's that?" said franklin. "well, i mean, i allow me and you is pretty much in the same boat." "eh?" said franklin, puzzled. "why, both us fellers is fixed about the same." "i'm afraid i don't quite understand you." "well, now, er--that is, you know, we both got a girl, you know--i mean, we each has a girl--" franklin's face was not inviting, which fact sam noticed, hastening with his apology. "oh, no offence, cap," said he hurriedly, "but i was just a-thinkin'. you know that nory girl over to the hotel. well, now, i'm gone on that girl, the worst sort o' way. honest, cap, i ain't happy. i used ter eat an' sleep 'thout no sort of trouble, but now i'm all used up. i ain't right. an' it's nory." "why don't you marry her?" asked franklin calmly. sam gasped. "i--i--that's it, that's just it! i--can't ast her!" he said, with despair and conviction in his voice. "i've tried, and i can't say a word to her about it, nothin' more than mebbe to ast her to pass me the butter. she don't seem to understand." "well, what do you expect? do you think she is going to ask you about it herself?" "my god, cap, i don't know! i ever she did, i know mighty well what i'd say. but she won't, and i can't. and there we are. i lose my nerve every time i try to speak to her. now, i say this to you, man to man, you know, and no one the wiser; i can talk to anybody else about this, to anybody but just nory. now, you've been goin' down to this here halfway house a-plenty for a long time, and i don't know as you seem much furder along 'an i am. so i allowed maybe you was hooked up a good deal the way i be. you go down there, an' set down and eat, an' you set around like, but can't seem to make no break--you don't dast to say what you want to say. is that so?" franklin flushed, his first impulse being of distinct displeasure; yet he recognised the perfect good faith of the other's remarks and turned away without reply. "an' what i was goin' to say," continued sam, following after him, "is like this. now, you ain't afraid of nory, an' i ain't afraid of miss beecham. turn about's fair play. i'll speak to miss beecham for you, if you'll just sort o' lay this here before nory for me. you needn't say much, understand! if i ever onct get started, you know, i'll be all right. i could tell her all about it then, easy enough. now, say, cap, six of one and half a dozen of the other. is it a go?" franklin could not keep back a smile. "well, in regard to my half of it," he said, "i can neither affirm nor deny it. but if what you say were true, don't you think you might find it pretty hard to talk to miss beauchamp on this matter?" "not in a hundred!" said sam eagerly. "i'd just as soon talk to miss beecham as not. i'd ruther. they ain't no feller around here that i think's any whiter than you be. an' lord knows, that girl down there is handsome as ever looked through a bridle, and kind as she is handsome. i've seen her now, reg'lar, in my trips down there for quite a while, an' i promise you, she's a thoroughbred, an' high strung, but as even gaited as ever stepped. yes, sir!" "she is all that, i think, sam," said franklin soberly. "then it's a go, cap?" "well, i'll tell you, sam," said franklin kindly, "maybe we'd better let it run along a little while as it is. you know, girls have odd notions of their own. perhaps a girl would rather have a man speak for himself about that sort of thing. and then, the asking sometimes is the easiest part of it." "then you'll ast nory for me?" "well, if i could say a word, just a hint, you know--" "you won't!" exclaimed sam bitterly, and in tones; of conviction. "you won't! there ain't nobody won't! i've tried, an' there won't nobody! there'll be some d----d cow-puncher blow in there some day and marry that nory girl, an' i never will git to tell her the way i feel." "oh, yes, you will," said franklin. "it'll come to you some time; and when it does, friend," he added gravely, laying a hand upon sam's shoulder, "i hope she'll not say no to you forever." "forever, cap?" "yes, it sometimes happens that way." "forever? well, if nory ever said no to me onct, that shore would settle it. i know what i'd do: i'd sell out my barn an' i'd hit the trail mighty quick. do they ever do that way, cap?" "yes," said franklin, "they tell me that they sometimes do. they're strange creatures, sam." "an' that's no lie!" said sam. "but here, i'm forgettin' of your span." he disappeared within the barn, whence presently arose sounds of tumult. the "span" emerged with one half of its constituent parts walking on its hind legs and lashing out viciously in front. "well, i don't know about that black," said franklin critically. "he's a bit bronco, isn't he?" "what, him?" said sam. "naw, he's all right. you don't suppose i'd run in any wild stock on you, do you? he's been hitched up sever'l times, an' he's plumb gentle. may rare up a little at first, but he's all right. of course, you want to have a little style about you, goin' down there." franklin got into the buggy, while sam held the head of the "plumb gentle" horse. when cast loose the latter reared again and came down with his fore feet over the neck yoke. nimbly recovering, he made a gallant attempt to kick in the dashboard. this stirred up his mate to a thought of former days, and the two went away pawing and plunging. "so long!" cried sam, waving his hand. "good luck!" franklin was for a time busy in keeping his team upon the trail, but soon they settled down into a steady, shuffling trot, to which they held for mile after mile over the hard prairie road. the day was bright and clear, the air sweet and bracing. an hour's drive from the town, and the traveller seemed in a virgin world. a curious coyote sat on a hill, regarding intently the spectacle of a man travelling with wheels beneath him, instead of the legs of a horse. a band of antelope lined up on the crest of a ridge and stood staring steadfastly. a gray-winged hawk swept wide and easily along the surface of the earth on its morning hunting trip. near by the trail hundreds of cheerful prairie dogs barked and jerked their ceaseless salutation. an ancient and untroubled scheme of life lay all around him, appealing in its freshness and its charm. why should a man, a tall and strong man, with health upon his cheek, sit here with brooding and downcast eye, heedless of the miles slipping behind him like a ribbon spun beneath the wheels? franklin was learning how fast bound are all the ways of life to the one old changeless way. this new land, which he and his fellow-men coveted, why was it so desired? only that over it, as over all the world behind it, there might be builded homes. for, as he reflected, the adventurers of the earth had always been also the home-builders; and there followed for him the bitter personal corollary that all his adventure was come to naught if there could be no home as its ultimate reward. his vague eye swam over the wide, gray sea about him, and to himself he seemed adrift, unanchored and with no chart of life. chapter xxiii mary ellen lifting and shimmering mysteriously in the midday sun, as though tantalizing any chance traveller of that wide land with a prospect alluring, yet impossible, the buildings of the halfway station now loomed large and dark, now sank until they seemed a few broken dots and dashes just visible upon the wide gray plain. yet soon the tall frame of the windmill showed high above the earth, most notable landmark for many a mile, and finally the ragged arms of the corral posts appeared definitely, and then the low peak of the roof of the main building. for miles these seemed to grow no closer, but the steady trot of the little horses ate up the distance, and franklin found himself again at the spot with which he was already so well acquainted that every detail, every low building and gnarled bit of wood, was tabulated surely in his mind. the creak of the windmill presently came to his ears as a familiar sound, but rasping and irritating on his strong nerves as the croak of the elder fate. franklin drove up to the great dugout which made the main building, in front of which the soil had been worn bare and dusty by many hoofs. the halfway house was now a business enterprise of assured success. many signs of prosperity appeared to the eye accustomed to the crude simplicity of the frontier. these immigrants from the far-off south, incongruous and unfitted as they had seemed in this harsh new country, had apparently blundered into a material success far beyond that of their average neighbour. the first years, the hardest ones of their struggle, were past, and the problem of existence was solved. in those days one did not always concern himself about problems more intricate and more distant. buford met him in the yard, and the two together busied themselves in taking care of the team, the former apologizing that he still had no servant for such work, "i did have a nigger here for a while," he said, "but he turned out no account, and the first i knew he went off for a cow-puncher down the trail. i'm mighty glad to see you again, captain, for it looked as though you had forsaken us. it certainly is a comfort to see a gentleman like yourself once in a while. we meet plenty of cowmen and movers, decent folk enough, but they have a lack, sir, they have a lack. i maintain, sir, that no gentleman can flourish without that intelligent social intercourse with his kind which is as much a part of his livin', sir, as the eatin' of his daily bread. now, as i was sayin' about general lee, sir--but perhaps we would better go in and join the ladies. they will be glad to see you, and later on we can resume our discussion of the war. i am willing to admit, sir, that the war is over, but i never did admit, and, sir, i contend yet, that lee was the greatest general that the world ever saw--far greater than grant, who was in command of resources infinitely superior. now, then--" "oh, uncle, uncle!" cried a voice behind him. "have you begun the war over again so soon? you might at least let mr. franklin get into the house." mary ellen stood at the door of the dugout, just clear of the front, and upon the second step of the stair, and her hand half shading her eyes. the sun fell upon her brown hair, changing its chestnut to a ruddy bronze, vital and warm, with a look as though it breathed a fragrance of its own. a little vagrant lock blew down at the temple, and franklin yearned, as he always did when he saw this small truant, to stroke it back into its place. the sun and the open air had kissed pink into the cheek underneath the healthy brown. the curve of the girl's chin was full and firm. her tall figure had all the grace of a normal being. her face, sweet and serious, showed the symmetry of perfect and well-balanced faculties. she stood, as natural and as beautiful, as fit and seemly as the antelope upon the hill, as well poised and sure, her head as high and free, her hold upon life apparently as confident. the vision of her standing there caused franklin to thrill and flush. unconsciously he drew near to her, too absorbed to notice the one visible token of a possible success; for, as he approached, hat in hand, the girl drew back as though she feared. there was something not easily to be denied in this tall man, his figure still military in its self-respect of carriage, with the broad shoulders, the compact trunk, the hard jaw, and the straight blue eye of the man of deeds. the loose western dress, which so illy became any but a manly figure, sat carelessly but well upon him. he looked so fit and manly, so clean of heart, and so direct of purpose as he came on now in this forlorn hope that mary ellen felt a shiver of self-distrust. she stepped back, calling on all the familiar spirits of the past. her heart stopped, resuming at double speed. it seemed as though a thrill of tingling warmth came from somewhere in the air--this time, this day, this hour, this man, so imperative, this new land, this new world into which she had come from that of her earlier years! she was yet so young! could there be something unknown, some sweetness yet unsounded? could there be that rest and content which, strive as she might, were still missing from her life? could there be this--and honour? mary ellen fled, and in her room sat down, staring in a sudden panic. she needed to search out a certain faded picture. it was almost with a sob that she noted the thin shoulders, the unformed jaw, the eye betokening pride rather than vigour, the brow indicative of petulance as much as sternness. mary ellen laid the picture to her cheek, saying again and again that she loved it still. poor girl, she did not yet know that this was but the maternal love of a woman's heart, pitying, tender and remembering, to be sure, but not that love over which the morning stars sang together at the beginning of the world. chapter xxiv the way of a maid the halfway house was an oasis in the desert. to-day it was an oasis and a battle ground. franklin watched mary ellen as she passed quietly about the long, low room, engaged in household duties which she performed deftly as any servant. he compared these rude necessities with the associations amid which he knew this girl had been nurtured, and the thought gave him nothing but dissatisfaction and rebellion. he longed to give her all the aid of his own strength, and to place her again, as he felt he some day might, in something of the old ease and comfort, if not in the same surroundings. yet, as he bethought himself of the apparent hopelessness of all this, he set his teeth in a mental protest near akin to anger. he shifted in his seat and choked in his throat a sound that was half a groan. presently he rose, and excusing himself, went out to join buford at the corral. "come," said the latter, "and i'll show you around over our improvements while we are waitin' for a bite to eat. we are goin' to have a great place here some day. besides our own land, miss beauchamp and our servant have a quarter-section each adjoinin' us on the west. if ever this land comes to be worth anything at all, we ought to grow into something worth while." "yes," said franklin, "it will make you rich," and as they walked about he pointed out with western enthusiasm the merits of the country round-about. the "bite to eat" was in time duly announced by a loud, sonorous note that arose swelling upon the air. aunt lucy appeared at the kitchen door, her fat cheeks distended, blowing a conch as though this were tidewater over again. the long table was spread in the large room of general assembly, this room being, as has been mentioned, excavated from the earth, so that, as they sat at table, their heads were perhaps nearly level with the surface of the ground. the short side walls, topped with a heavy earthen roof made of this sort of abode a domicile rude and clumsy enough, but one not lacking in a certain comfort. in the winter it was naturally warm, and in the summer it was cool, the air, caught at either end by the gable of the roof, passing through and affording freshness to the somewhat cellar-like interior. cut off from the main room were three smaller rooms, including the kitchen, from which aunt lucy passed back and forth with massive tread. the table was no polished mahogany, but was built of rough pine boards, and along it stood long benches instead of chairs. for her "white folks" aunt lucy spread a cloth at one end of this long table, placing also in order the few pieces of china and silver that had survived a life of vicissitudes. "i may be poor," said buford, commenting grimly on the rude appearance of the board, "and i reckon we always will be poor, but when the time comes that i can't have a silver spoon in my coffee, then i want to die." "major!" said mrs. buford reprovingly from the head of the table, where she sat in state, "i do not like to hear you speak in that way. we are in the hands of the lord." "quite right," said buford, "and i beg pardon. but, really, this country does bring some changes, and we ourselves surely change with it. no one seems to think of the past out here." "don' you b'lieve i don' never think o' the past!" broke in a deep and uninvited voice, much to mrs. buford's disquietude. "this yer sho'hly is a lan' o' sodom an' tomorrow. dey ain't a sengle fiahplace in the hull country roun' yer. when i sells mer lan' fer a hundred dollahs, fust thing i'm a-goin' do is to build me a fiahplace an' git me er nice big settle to putt in front o' hit, so'st i kin set mer bread to raise befo' the fiah, like all bread orter be sot. how kin a pusson cook out yet--not to say, _cook_?" "that will do, lucy," said mrs. buford. "we are demoralized," said mary ellen hopelessly, "and i resent it. i resent your knowing us or knowing anything about our lives. if you had never heard anything at all about us it mightn't have been so bad. we came out here to get away from every one." franklin bit his lip. "mary ellen, my child!" cried mrs. buford. "that's hardly fair," said franklin. "we are all beginners in this land." yet there was an awkward break in the conversation. "providence guides all our ways," said mrs. buford, somewhat irrelevantly, and with her customary sigh. "amen!" cried a hearty voice from the kitchen. "'scuse meh!" "you will oblige me, captain," said buford as they finally rose from the table, "if you will be so good as to drive miss beauchamp over to the claim shanty after a while. i'll just ride along over on horseback. i don't like to put a guest to work, but really i need a little help about that roof. it has fallen in at one corner, and i presume it ought to be repaired, for the sake of miss beauchamp's conscience when she goes to the land office to prove up." franklin assented to this proposition with such eagerness that he blushed as he saw how evident had been his pleasure at this opportunity for a moment's speech alone with the girl who sat so near but yet so unapproachable. "i'll be delighted," said he. mary ellen said nothing. the pink spot in her cheek was plainly deeper. it did not lessen as she stood watching the struggle the two men had in again hitching to the buggy the wild black horse. seizing the tug with one hand and the singletree with the other, franklin fairly swept the obdurate beast off its balance as he forced it to its place at the pole. his strength was apparent. "are you afraid to ride behind that horse?" asked he. "i don't think so," she replied simply, and her uncle helped her in, while franklin steadied the team. yet how franklin hated the wild black horse now! all the way across the prairie during the short drive to the shanty the beast gave him plenty to do to keep it inside the harness, and he had no time for a single word. the girl sat silent at his side, looking straight ahead. franklin felt her arm brush his at the jolting of the vehicle now and then. her hand, brown and shapely, lay in her lap. as franklin gathered the slack of the reins, his own hand approaching hers, it seemed to him that an actual emanation, a subtle warmth, stole from her hand to his, an unspoken appeal from some vital source. a vague, delicious sense of happiness came over him. he too fell quite silent. he guided the horses as though he saw neither them nor aught else between him and some far-off horizon. at the shanty he helped her down. ignorant, he saw not the tale of a bosom heaving, nor read correctly the story of the pink in the cheek. he believed rather the import of a face turned away, and of features set in a mask of repose. there had as yet been no word. the claim shanty was indeed in some need of repair. one corner of the roof had fallen in, carrying with it a portion of the sod wall that made the inclosure, and spilling a quantity of earth in the bed customarily occupied by aunt lucy when she "resided" here in company with her mistress in their innocent process of acquiring one hundred and sixty acres of land apiece by means of a double dwelling place. upon the opposite side, protected by a screen, franklin caught sight of a corner of the other bed. there were also upon that side of the shack a little table, a chair, and a dainty looking-glass, with a few other such feminine appurtenances. two wash-stands, with basins, went far toward completing the remaining furniture. it must be admitted that there was dust upon the table and in the basins. the housekeeper in mary ellen apologized as she began to clean them. "we don't sleep here very often," she said. "and aren't you afraid?" said franklin. "not now. we used to be afraid of the coyotes, though, of course, they can't hurt us. once uncle killed a rattlesnake in the shanty. it had crawled in at the door. i don't think, though, that you could get lucy to sleep here alone overnight for all the land out of doors." in order to make the needed repairs to the roof, it was necessary to lay up again a part of the broken wall, then to hoist the fallen rafters into place prior to covering the whole again with a deep layer of earth. franklin, standing upon a chair, put his shoulders under the sagging beams and lifted them and their load of disarranged earth up to the proper level on the top of the wall, while buford built under them with sods. it was no small weight that he upheld. as he stood he caught an upturned telltale glance, a look of sheer feminine admiration for strength, but of this he could not be sure, for it passed fleetly as it came. he saw only the look of unconcern and heard only the conventional word of thanks. "now, then, captain," said buford, "i reckon we can call this shack as good as new again. it ought to last out what little time it will be needed. we might go back to the house now. mightily obliged to you, sir, for the help." as mary ellen stepped into the buggy for the return home her face had lost its pink. one of the mysterious revulsions of femininity had set in. suddenly, it seemed to her, she had caught herself upon the brink of disaster. it seemed to her that all her will was going, that in spite of herself she was tottering on toward some fascinating thing which meant her harm. this tall and manly man, she must not yield to this impulse to listen to him! she must not succumb to this wild temptation to put her head upon a broad shoulder and to let it lie there while she wept and rested. to her the temptation meant a personal shame. she resisted it with all her strength. the struggle left her pale and very calm. at last the way of duty was clear. this day should settle it once for all. there must be no renewal of this man's suit. he must go. it was mary ellen's wish to be driven quickly to the house, but she reckoned without the man. with a sudden crunching of the wheels the buggy turned and spun swiftly on, headed directly away from home. "i'll just take you a turn around the hill," said franklin, "and then we'll go in." the "hill" was merely a swell of land, broken on its farther side by a series of _coulees_ that headed up to the edge of the eminence. these deep wash-cuts dropped off toward the level of the little depression known as the sinks of the white woman river, offering a sharp drop, cut up by alternate knifelike ridges and deep gullies. "it isn't the way home," said mary ellen. "i can't help it," said franklin. "you are my prisoner. i am going to take you--to the end of the world." "it's very noble of you to take me this way!" said the girl with scorn. "what will my people think?" "let them think!" exclaimed franklin desperately. "it's my only chance. let them think i am offering you myself once more--my love--all of me, and that i mean it now a thousand times more than i ever did before. i can't do without you! it's right for us both. you deserve a better life than this. you, a beauchamp, of the old virginia beauchamps--good god! it breaks my heart!" "you have answered yourself, sir," said mary ellen, her voice not steady as she wished. "you mean--" "i am a beauchamp, of the old virginia beauchamps. i live out here on the prairies, far from home, but i am a beauchamp of old virginia." "and then?" "and the beauchamps kept their promises, women and men--they always kept them. they always will. while there is one of them left alive, man or woman, that one will keep the beauchamp promise, whatever that has been." "i know," said franklin gently, "i would rely on your word forever. i would risk my life and my honour in your hands. i would believe in you all my life. can't you do as much for me? there is no stain on my name. i will love you till the end of the world. child--you don't know--" "i know this, and you have heard me say it before, mr. franklin; my promise was given long ago. you tell me that you can never love any one else." "how could i, having seen you? i will never degrade your memory by loving any one else. you may at least rely on that." "would you expect me ever to love any one else if i had promised to love you?" "you would not. you would keep your promise. i should trust you with my life." "ah, then, you have your answer! you expect me to keep my promises to you, but to no one else. is that the honourable thing? now, listen to me, mr. franklin. i shall keep my promise as a beauchamp should--as a beauchamp shall. i have told you long ago what that promise was. i promised to love, to marry him--mr. henry fairfax--years ago. i promised never to love any one else so long as i lived. he--he's keeping his promise now--back there--in old virginia, now. how would i be keeping mine--how am i keeping mine, now, even listening to you so long? take me back; take me home. i'm going to--going to keep my promise, sir! i'm going to keep it!" franklin's heart stood cold. "you're going to keep your promise," he said slowly and coldly. "you're going to keep a girl's promise, from which death released you years ago--released you honourably. you were too young then to know what you were doing---you didn't know what love could mean--yet you are released from that promise. and now, for the sake of a mere sentiment, you are going to ruin my life for me, and you're going to ruin your own life, throw it away, all alone out here, with nothing about you such as you ought to have. and you call that honour?" "well, then, call it choice!" said mary ellen, with what she took to be a noble lie upon her lips. "it is ended!" franklin sat cold and dumb at this, all the world seeming to him to have gone quite blank. he could not at first grasp this sentence in its full effect, it meant so much to him. he shivered, and a sigh broke from him as from one hurt deep and knowing that his hurt is fatal. yet, after his fashion, he fought mute, struggling for some time before he dared trust his voice or his emotions. "very well," he said. "i'll not crawl--not for any woman on earth! it's over. i'm sorry. dear little woman, i wanted to be your friend. i wanted to take care of you. i wanted to love you and to see if i couldn't make a future for us both." "my future is done. leave me. find some one else to love." "thank you. you do indeed value me very high!" he replied, setting his jaws hard together. "they tell me men love the nearest woman always. i was the only one--" "yes, you were the only one," said franklin slowly, "and you always will be the only one. good-bye." it seemed to him he heard a breath, a whisper, a soft word that said "good-bye." it had a tenderness that set a lump in his throat, but it was followed almost at once with a calmer commonplace. "we must go back," said mary ellen. "it is growing dark." franklin wheeled the team sharply about toward the house, which was indeed becoming indistinct in the falling twilight. as the vehicle turned about, the crunching of the wheels started a great gray prairie owl, which rose almost beneath the horses' noses and flapped slowly off. the apparition set the wild black horse into a sudden simulation of terror, as though he had never before seen an owl upon the prairies. rearing and plunging, he tore loose the hook of one of the single-trees, and in a flash stood half free, at right angles now to the vehicle instead of at its front, and struggling to break loose from the neck-yoke. at the moment they were crossing just along the head of one of the _coulees_, and the struggles of the horse, which was upon the side next to the gully, rapidly dragged his mate down also. in a flash franklin saw that he could not get the team back upon the rim, and knew that he was confronted with an ugly accident. he chose the only possible course, but handled the situation in the best possible way. with a sharp cut of the whip he drove the attached horse down upon the one that was half free, and started the two off at a wild race down the steep _coulee_, into what seemed sheer blackness and immediate disaster. the light vehicle bounded up and down and from side to side as the wheels caught the successive inequalities of the rude descent, and at every instant it seemed it must surely be overthrown. yet the weight of the buggy thrust the pole so strongly forward that it straightened out the free horse by the neck and forced him onward. in some way, stumbling and bounding and lurching, both horses and vehicle kept upright all the way down the steep descent, a thing which to franklin later seemed fairly miraculous. at the very foot of the pitch the black horse fell, the buggy running full upon him as he lay lashing out. from this confusion, in some way never quite plain to himself, franklin caught the girl out in his arms, and the next moment was at the head of the struggling horses. and so good had been his training at such matters that it was not without method that he proceeded to quiet the team and to set again in partial order the wreck that had been created in the gear. the end of the damaged singletree he re-enforced with his handkerchief. in time he had the team again in harness, and at the bottom of the _coulee_, where the ground sloped easily down into the open valley, whence they might emerge at the lower level of the prairie round about. he led the team for a distance down this floor of the _coulee_, until he could see the better going in the improving light which greeted them as they came out from the gully-like defile. cursing his ill fortune, and wretched at the thought of the danger and discomfort he had brought upon the very one whom he would most gladly have shielded, franklin said not a word from the beginning of the mad dash down the _coulee_ until he got the horses again into harness. he did not like to admit to his companion how great had been the actual danger just incurred, though fortunately escaped. the girl was as silent as himself. she had not uttered a cry during the time of greatest risk, though once she laid a hand upon his arm. franklin was humiliated and ashamed, as a man always is over an accident. "oh, it's no good saying i'm sorry," he broke out at last. "it was my fault, letting you ride behind that brute. thank god, you're not hurt! and i'm only too glad it wasn't worse. i'm always doing some unfortunate, ignoble thing. i want to take care of you and make you happy, and i would begin by putting your very life in danger." "it wasn't ignoble," said the girl, and again he felt her hand upon his arm. "it was grand. you went straight, and you brought us through. i'm not hurt. i was frightened, but i am not hurt." "you've pluck," said franklin. then, scorning to urge anything further of his suit at this time of her disadvantage, though feeling a strange new sense of nearness to her, now that they had seen this distress in common, he drove home rapidly as he might through the gathering dusk, anxious now only for her comfort. at the house he lifted her from the buggy, and as he did so kissed her cheek. "dear little woman," he whispered, "good-bye." again he doubted whether he had heard or not the soft whisper of a faint "good-bye!" "but you must come in," she said. "no, i must go. make my excuses," he said. "good-bye!" the horses sprang sharply forward. he was gone. the roll of the wheels and the rhythmic hoof-beats rapidly lessened to the ear as franklin drove on into the blackening night. in her own little room mary ellen sat, her face where it might have been seen in profile had there been a light or had the distant driver looked round to see. mary ellen listened--listened until she could hear hoof and wheel no more. then she cast herself upon the bed, face downward, and lay motionless and silent. upon the little dresser lay a faded photograph, fallen forward also upon its face, lying unnoticed and apparently forgot. chapter xxv bill watson the sheriff of ellisville sat in his office oiling the machinery of the law; which is to say, cleaning his revolver. there was not yet any courthouse. the sheriff was the law. twelve new mounds on the hillside back of the cottage hotel showed how faithfully he had executed his duties as judge and jury since he had taken up his office at the beginning of the "cow boom" of ellisville. his right hand had found somewhat to do, and he had done it with his might. ellisville was near the zenith of its bad eminence. the entire country had gone broad-horn. money being free, whisky was not less so. the bar of the cottage was lined perpetually. wild men from the range rode their horses up the steps and into the bar-room, demanding to be served as they sat in the saddle, as gentlemen should. glass was too tempting to the six-shooters of these enthusiasts, and the barkeeper begged the question by stowing away the fragments of his mirror and keeping most of his bottles out of sight. more than once he was asked to hold up a bottle of whisky so that some cow-puncher might prove his skill by shooting the neck off from the flask. the bartender was taciturn and at times glum, but his face was the only one at the bar that showed any irritation or sadness. this railroad town was a bright, new thing for the horsemen of the trail--a very joyous thing. no funeral could check their hilarity; no whisky could daunt their throats, long seared with alkali. it was notorious that after the civil war human life was held very cheap all over america, it having been seen how small a thing is a man, how little missed may be a million men taken bodily from the population. nowhere was life cheaper than on the frontier, and at no place on that frontier of less value than at this wicked little city. theft was unknown, nor was murder recognised by that name, always being referred to as a "killing." of these "killings" there were very many. the sheriff of ellisville looked thoughtful as he tested the machinery of the law. he had a warrant for a new bad man who had come up from the indian nations, and who had celebrated his first day in town by shooting two men who declined to get off the sidewalk, so that he could ride his horse more comfortably there. the sheriff left the warrant on the table, as was his custom, this paper being usually submitted with the corpse at the inquest. the sheriff hummed a tune as he cleaned his revolver. he was the law. bill watson, the sheriff of ellisville, was a heavily built man, sandy-haired, red-mustached, and solid. his legs were bowed and his carriage awkward. he had thick, clumsy-looking fingers, whose appearance belied their deftness. bill watson had gone through the quantrell raid in his time. it was nothing to him when he was to be killed. such a man is careful in his shooting, because he is careless of being shot, having therefore a vast advantage over the desperado of two or three victims, who does not yet accept the fact that his own days are numbered. the only trouble in regard to this new bad man from below was that his mental attitude on this point was much the same as that of sheriff bill watson. therefore the sheriff was extremely careful about the oiling of the cylinder. the great cattle drive was at its height. buyers from the territorial ranges of the north and northwest, now just beginning to open up, bid in market against the men from the markets of the east. prices advanced rapidly. men carried thousands of dollars in the pockets of their greasy "chaps." silver was no longer counted. there were hardware stores which sold guns and harness-shops which sold saddles. there were twoscore saloons which held overflow meetings, accommodating those whom the cottage bar would not hold. there were three barber-shops, to which went only the very weary. the corral of the cottage, where the drovers stopped, was large enough to hold two hundred horses, with comfortable space for roping, and the snubbing post was grooved with the wear of many ropes. the central street needed no paving, for it was worn hard as flint. long rows of cattle chutes lined the railroad yards, whence came continuous din of bellowing, crowding, maddened cattle, handled with ease and a certain exultation by men who had studied nothing but this thing. horsemen clattered up and down the street day and night--riding, whether drunk or sober, with the incomparable confidence of the greatest horse country the world has ever known. everywhere was the bustle of a unique commerce, mingled with a colossal joy of life. the smokes from the dugouts and shacks now began to grow still more numerous in the region round about, but there were not many homes, because there were not many women. for this reason men always kill each other very much more gladly and regularly than they do in countries where there are many women, it appearing to them, perhaps, that in a womanless country life is not worth the living. a few "hay ranches," a few fields even of "sod corn," now began to show here and there, index of a time to come, but for the most part this was yet a land of one sex and one occupation. the cattle trade monopolized the scene. the heaps of buffalo bones were now neglected. the long-horned cattle of the white men were coming in to take the place of the curved-horned cattle of the indians. the curtain of the cattle drama of the west was now rung up full. the sheriff finished the cleaning of his six-shooter and tossed the oiled rag into the drawer of the table where he kept the warrants. he slipped the heavy weapon into the scabbard at his right leg and saw that the string held the scabbard firmly to his trouser-leg, so that he might draw the gun smoothly and without hindrance from its sheath. he knew that the new bad man wore two guns, each adjusted in a similar manner; but it was always bill watson's contention (while he was alive) that a man with one gun was as good as a man with two. sheriff watson made no claim to being a two-handed shot. he was a simple, unpretentious man; not a heroic figure as he stood, his weight resting on the sides of his feet, looking out of the window down the long and wind-swept street of ellisville. gradually the gaze of the sheriff focused, becoming occupied with the figure of a horseman whose steady riding seemed to have a purpose other than that of merely showing his joy in living and riding. this rider passed other riders without pausing. he came up the street at a gallop until opposite the office door, where he jerked up his horse sharply and sprang from the saddle. as he came into the room he pulled off his hat and mopped his face as far as he could reach with the corner of his neckerchief. "mornin', bill," he said. "mornin', curly," said the sheriff pleasantly. "lookin' for a doctor? you're ridin' perty fast." "nope," said curly. "reckon it's a shade too late fer a doctor." the sheriff was gravely silent. after a while he said, quietly:" "any trouble?" "yep. plenty." "who?" "why, it's cal greathouse. you know cal. this is his second drive. his cows is down on the rattlesnake bottoms now. he was camped there two weeks, not fur from my place. last week he goes off west a ways, a-lookin' fer some winter range that won't be so crowded. he goes alone. now, to-day his horse comes back, draggin' his lariat. we 'lowed we better come tell you. o' course, they ain't no horse gettin' away f'm cal greathouse, not if he's alive." the sheriff was silent for some time, looking at his visitor straight with his oxlike eyes. "did cal have much money with him?" he asked, finally. "not so awful much, near's the boys can tell. mebbe a few hundred, fer spendin' money, like." "had he had any furse with ary feller down in there lately?" "nope, not that any one knows of. he just done went off over the range, an' fanned out, seems like, without no special reason." the sheriff again fell into thought, slowly chewing at a splinter. "i'll tell you," he said at length, slowly, "i kain't very well git away right now. you go over an' git cap franklin. he's a good man. pick up somebody else you want to go along with you, an' then you start out on cal's trail, near as you can git at it. you better take along that d----d greaser o' yourn, that big juan, fer he kin run trail like a houn'. you stop at all the outfits you come to, fer say fifty miles. don't do nothin' more'n ask, an' then go on. if you come to a outfit that hain't seen him, an' then another outfit furder on that has seen him, you remember the one that hain't. if you don't git no track in fifty mile, swing around to the southeast, an' cut the main drive trail an' see if you hear of anything that-away. if you don't git no trace by that, you better come on back in an' tell me, an' then we'll see what to do about it furder." "all right, bill," said curly, rising and taking a chew of tobacco, in which the sheriff joined him. "all right. you got any papers fer us to take along?" "papers?" said the sheriff contemptuously. "papers? hell!" chapter xxvi ike anderson ike anderson was drunk--calmly, magnificently, satisfactorily drunk. it had taken time, but it was a fact accomplished. the actual state of affairs was best known to ike anderson himself, and not obvious to the passer-by. ike andersen's gaze might have been hard, but it was direct. his walk was perfectly decorous and straight, his brain perfectly clear, his hand perfectly steady. only, somewhere deep down in his mind there burned some little, still, blue flame of devilishness, which left ike anderson not a human being, but a skilful, logical, and murderous animal. "this," said ike anderson to himself all the time, "this is little ike anderson, a little boy, playing. i can see the green fields, the pleasant meadows, the little brook that crossed them. i remember my mother gave me bread and milk for my supper, always. my sister washed my bare feet, when i was a little, little boy." he paused and leaned one hand against a porch post, thinking. "a little, little boy," he repeated to himself. "no, it isn't," he thought. "it's ike anderson, growing up. he's playing tag. the boy tripped him and laughed at him, and ike anderson got out his knife." he cast a red eye about him. "no, it isn't," he thought. "it's ike anderson, with the people chasing him. and the shotgun. ike's growing up faster, growing right along. they all want him, but they don't get him. one, two, three, five, nine, eight, seven--i could count them all once. ike anderson. no mother. no sweetheart. no home. moving, moving. but they never scared him yet--ike anderson. . . . i never took any cattle!" an impulse to walk seized him, and he did so, quietly, steadily, until he met a stranger, a man whose clothing bespoke his residence in another region. "good morning, gentle sir," said ike. "good morning, friend," said the other, smiling. "gentle sir," said ike, "just lemme look at your watch a minute, won't you, please?" laughingly the stranger complied, suspecting only that his odd accoster might have tarried too long over his cups. ike took the watch in his hand, looked at it gravely for a moment, then gave it a jerk that broke the chain, and dropped it into his own pocket. "i like it," said he simply, and passed on. the stranger followed, about to use violence, but caught sight of a white-faced man, who through a window vehemently beckoned him to pause. ike anderson stepped into a saloon and took a straw from a glass standing on the bar, exercising an exact and critical taste in its selection. "i'm very thirsty," he remarked plaintively. saying which, he shot a hole in a barrel of whisky, inserted the straw, and drank lingeringly. "thank you," he said softly, and shot the glass of straws off the counter. "thank you. not after me." the whisky ran out over the floor, out of the door, over the path and into the road, but no one raised a voice in rebuke. the blue flame burned a trifle higher in ike anderson's brain. he was growing very much intoxicated, and therefore very quiet and very sober-looking. he did not yell and flourish his revolvers, but walked along decently, engaged in thought. he was a sandy-complexioned man, not over five feet six inches in height. his long front teeth projected very much, giving him a strange look. his chin was not heavy and square, but pointed, and his jaws were narrow. his eye was said by some to have been hazel when he was sober, though others said it was blue, or gray. no one had ever looked into it carefully enough to tell its colour when ike anderson was drunk, as he was to-day. ike anderson passed by the front of the cottage hotel. a negro boy, who worked about the place, was sweeping idly at the porch door, shuffling lazily about at his employment. ike paused and looked amiably at him for some moments. "good morning, coloured scion," he said pleasantly. "mawnin', boss," said the negro, grinning widely. "coloured scion," said ike, "hereafter--to oblige me--would you mind whoopin' it up with yore broom a leetle faster?" the negro scowled and muttered, and the next moment sprang sprawling forward with a scream. ike had shot off the heel of his shoe, in the process not sparing all of the foot. the negro went ashy pale, and believed himself mortally hurt, but was restored by the icy tones of his visitor, who said, evenly and calmly: "coloured scion, please go over into that far corner and begin to sweep there, and then come on over the rest of the flo'. now, sweep!" the negro swept as he had never swept before. twice a bullet cut the floor at his feet; and at last the stick of the broom was shattered in his hand. "coloured scion," said ike anderson, as though in surprise, "yore broom is damaged. kneel down and pray for another." the negro knelt and surely prayed. on all sides swept the wide and empty streets. it was ike anderson's town. a red film seemed to his gaze to come over the face of things. he slipped his revolver back into the scabbard and paused again to think. a quiet footstep sounded on the walk behind him, and he wheeled, still puzzled with the red film and the mental problem. the sheriff stood quietly facing him, with his thumbs resting lightly in his belt. he had not drawn his own revolver. he was chewing a splinter. "ike," said he, "throw up your hands!" the nerves of some men act more quickly than those of others, and such men make the most dangerous pistol shots, when they have good digestion and long practice at the rapid drawing of the revolver, an art at that time much cultivated. ike anderson's mind and nerves and muscles were always lightning-like in the instantaneous rapidity of their action. the eye could scarce have followed the movement by which the revolver leaped to a level from his right-hand scabbard. he had forgotten, in his moment of study, that with this six-shooter he had fired once at the whisky barrel, once at the glass of straws, once at the negro's heel, twice at the floor, and once at the broomstick. the click on the empty shell was heard clearly at the hotel bar, distinctly ahead of the double report that followed. for, such was the sharpness of this man's mental and muscular action, he had dropped the empty revolver from his right hand and drawn the other with his left hand in time to meet the fire of the sheriff. the left arm of the sheriff dropped. the whole body of ike anderson, shot low through the trunk, as was the sheriff's invariable custom, melted down and sank into a sitting posture, leaning against the edge of the stoop. the sheriff with a leap sprang behind the fallen man, not firing again. ike anderson, with a black film now come upon his eyes, raised his revolver and fired once, twice, three times, four times, five times, tapping the space in front of him regularly and carefully with his fire. then he sank back wearily into the sheriff's arms. "all right, mammy!" remarked ike anderson, somewhat irrelevantly. chapter xxvii the body of the crime hour after hour, in the heat of the day or the cool of the evening, the giant mexican strode on by the side of the two horsemen, sometimes trotting like a dog, more often walking with a shambling, wide-reaching step, tireless as any wild animal. his feet, seamed and parched into the semblance rather of horn than of flesh and bone, were quite bare, though now it was a time of year when the nights at least were very cool and when freezing weather might come at any time. he was clad lightly as ever, in torn cotton garb, and carried no bedding save a narrow strip of native woollen fabric, woven of undyed wool and so loose of texture that one might thrust a finger through at any point of its scant extent. he bore no weapon save the huge knife swinging at his belt. fastened to the same girdle was a hide bag or pouch, half full of parched corn, rudely pounded. expressionless, mute, untiring, the colossal figure strode along, like some primordial creature in whom a human soul had not yet found home. yet, with an intelligence and confidence which was more than human, he ran without hesitation the trail of the unshod horse across this wide, hard plain, where even the eye of the cowboy could rarely discern it. now and then the print of the hoof might show in the soft earth of some prairie-dog burrow; then perhaps for an hour juan would walk on, his eye fixed apparently upon some far-off point of the horizon as upon the ground, until finally they would note the same hoof-print again and know again that the instinct of the wild guide had not failed. the mexican was running the back trail of the horse of cal greathouse, the missing ranchman, and it was very early seen that the horse had not returned over the route taken by greathouse when he started out. he had gone along the valley of the smoky river, whereas the course of the loose animal had been along the chord of a wide arc made by the valley of that stream, a course much shorter and easier to traverse, as it evaded a part of that rough country known as the breaks of the smoky, a series of gullies and "draws" running from the table-land down to the deep little river bed. all along the stream, at ragged intervals, grew scattered clumps of cottonwoods and other trees, so that at a long distance the winding course of the little river could be traced with ease. the afternoon of the first day brought the travellers well within, view of this timber line, but the rough country along the stream was not yet reached when they were forced to quit the trail and make their rough bivouac for the night. there was a curious feeling of certainty in franklin's mind, as they again took saddle for the journey, that the end of the quest was not far distant, and that its nature was predetermined. neither he nor curly expected to find the ranchman alive, though neither could have given letter and line for this belief. as for juan, his face was expressionless as ever. on the morning of this second day they began to cross the great ribbon-like pathways of the northern cattle trail, these now and then blending with the paths of the vanished buffalo. the interweaving paths of the cattle trail were flat and dusty, whereas the buffalo trails were cut deep into the hard earth. already the dust was swept and washed out of these old and unused ways, leaving them as they were to stand for many years afterward, deep furrows marking the accustomed journeyings of a now annihilated race. all the wild animals of the plains know how to find their way to water, and the deep buffalo paths all met and headed for the water that lay ahead, and which was to be approached by the easiest possible descent from the table-land through the breaks. along one of these old trails the horse had come up from the valley, and hence it was down this same trail that juan eventually led the two searchers for the horse's owner. the ponies plunged down the rude path which wound among the ridges and cut banks, and at last emerged upon the flat, narrow valley traversed by the turbid stream, in that land dignified by the name of river. down to the water the thirsty horses broke eagerly, juan following, and lying at full length along the bank, where he lapped at the water like a hound. "_que camina--onde, amigo_?" asked curly in cowboy _patois_. "which way?" the mexican pointed up the stream with carelessness, and they turned thither as soon as the thirst of all had been appeased. as they resumed the march, now along the level floor of the winding little valley. franklin was revolving a certain impression in his mind. in the mud at the bank where they had stopped he had seen the imprint of a naked foot--a foot very large and with an upturned toe, widely spreading apart from its fellows, and it seemed to him that this track was not so fresh as the ones he had just seen made before his eyes. troubled, he said nothing, but gave a start as curly, without introduction, remarked, as though reading his thoughts: "cap, i seen it, too." "his footprint at the bank?" "yep. he's shore been here afore." neither man said more, but both grew grave, and both looked unconsciously to their weapons. their way now led among ragged plum thickets, and occasional tangles of wild grapevines, or such smaller growths as clung close to the water among the larger, ragged cottonwoods that dotted the floor of the valley. the mexican plunged ahead as confidently as before, and in this tangled going his speed was greater than that of the horses. "_cuidado_!" (careful) "juan," cried curly warningly, and the latter turned back a face inscrutable as ever. the party moved up the valley a mile above the old buffalo ford, and now at last there appeared a change in the deportment of the guide. his step quickened. he prattled vaguely to himself. it seemed that something was near. there was a solemnity in the air. overhead an excited crow crossed and recrossed the thin strip of high blue sky. above the crow a buzzard swung in slow, repeated circles, though not joined by any of its sombre brotherhood. mystery, expectation, dread, sat upon this scene. the two men rode with hands upon their pistols and leaning forward to see that which they felt must now be near. they turned an angle of the valley, and came out upon a little flat among the trees. toward this open space the mexican sprang with hoarse, excited cries. the horses plunged back, snorting. yet in the little glade all was silence, solitude. swiftly franklin and curly dismounted and made fast their horses, and then followed up the mexican, their weapons now both drawn. this glade, now empty, had once held a man, or men. here was a trodden place where a horse had been tied to a tree. here was the broken end of a lariat. here had been a little bivouac, a bed scraped up of the scanty fallen leaves and bunches of taller grass. here were broken bushes--broken, how? there was the fire, now sunken into a heap of ashes, a long, large, white heap, very large for a cowman's camp fire. and there-- and there was it! there was some thing. there was the reason of this unspoken warning in the air. there lay the object of their search. in a flash the revolvers covered the cowering figure of the giant, who, prone upon his knees, was now raving, gibbering, praying, calling upon long-forgotten saints to save him from this sight, "_o santa maria! o purissima! o madre de dios!_" he moaned, wringing his hands and shivering as though stricken with an ague. he writhed among the leaves, his eyes fixed only upon that ghastly shape which lay before him. there, in the ashes of the dead fire, as though embalmed, as though alive, as though lingering to accuse and to convict, lay the body of greathouse, the missing man. not merely a charred, incinerated mass, the figure lay in the full appearance of life, a cast of the actual man, moulded with fineness from the white ashes of the fire! not a feature, not a limb, not a fragment of clothing was left undestroyed; yet none the less here, stretched across the bed of the burned-out fire, with face upturned, with one arm doubled beneath the head and the other with clinched hand outflung, lay the image, the counterpart, nay, the identity of the man they sought! it was a death mask, wrought by the pity of the destroying flames. these winds, this sky, the air, the rain, all had spared and left it here in accusation most terrible, in evidence unparalleled, incredibly yet irresistibly true! franklin felt his heart stop as he looked upon this sight, and curly's face grew pale beneath its tan. they gazed for a moment quietly, then curly sighed and stepped back. "keep him covered, cap," he said, and, going to his horse, he loosened the long lariat. "_arriba_, juan," he said quietly. "get up." he kicked at the mexican with his foot as he lay, and stirred him into action. "get up, juan," he repeated, and the giant obeyed meekly as a child. curly tied his hands behind his back, took away his knife, and bound him fast to a tree. juan offered no resistance whatever, but looked at curly with wondering dumb protest in his eyes, as of an animal unjustly punished. curly turned again to the fire. "it's him, all right," said he; "that's cal." franklin nodded. curly picked up a bit of stick and began to stir among the ashes, but as he did so both he and franklin uttered an exclamation of surprise. by accident he had touched one of the limbs. the stick passed through it, leaving behind but a crumbled, formless heap of ashes. curly essayed investigation upon the other side of the fire. a touch, and the whole ghastly figure was gone! there remained no trace of what had lain there. the shallow, incrusting shell of the fickle ash broke in and fell, all the thin exterior covering dropping into the cavern which it had inclosed! before them lay not charred and dismembered remains, but simply a flat table of ashes, midway along it a slightly higher ridge, at which the wind, hitherto not conspiring, now toyed, flicking away items here and there, carrying them, spreading them, returning them unto the dust. cal greathouse had made his charge, and left it with the frontier to cast the reckoning. chapter xxviii the trial "your honour," said franklin to the court, "i appear to defend this man." the opening sentence of the young advocate might have been uttered in burlesque. to call this a court of justice might have seemed sheer libel. there was not the first suggestion of the dignity and solemnity of the law. ellisville had no hall of justice, and the court sat at one place or another, as convenience dictated. this being an important case, and one in which all the populace was interested, judge bristol had selected the largest available assembly room, which happened to be the central hall of sam poston's livery barn. the judge sat behind a large upturned box, which supported a few battered books. at his right the red-nosed prosecuting attorney shuffled his papers. along the sides of the open hall-way, through whose open doors at each end the wind passed freely, sat jury and audience, indiscriminately mingled. the prisoner himself, ignorant of the meaning of all this, sat on an upturned tub, unshackled and unguarded. back of these figures appeared the heads of a double row of horses. the stamp of an uneasy hoof, the steady crunch of jaws upon the hay, with now and then a moist blowing cough from a stall, made up a minor train of intermittent sound. back of the seated men others were massed, standing in the doorways. outside the building stood crowds, now and then increased or lessened by those who passed in or out of the room where the court was in session. these interested spectators were for the most part dark, sunburned men, wearing wide hats and narrow boots with spurs. they all were armed. leaning against the sides of the mangers, or resting a hand upon the shoulders of another, they gazed calmly at the bar of justice. the attitude of ellisville was one of sardonic calm. as a function, as a show, this trial might go on. the trial did go on, rapidly, without quibbling, indeed without much regard for the formalities of the law. the jury had been selected before franklin made his appearance, and he was given to understand that this jury was good enough for him, and was the one before which this prisoner should be tried. a formal motion for the discharge of the prisoner was overruled. without much delay the prosecuting attorney arose to present his charge. "yo' honah," said the attorney for the state, arising and striking an attitude learned in earlier forensic days--"yo honah, an' gentlemen, i rise to present to you, an' to push to the ultimate penalty of the law, a case of the most serious, the most heinyus crime, committed by the most desperate and dangerous criminal, that has thus far ever disturbed the peaceful course of ouah quiet little community. there he sets befo' you," he cried, suddenly raising his voice and pointing a forefinger at the prisoner, who sat smiling amiably. "there he sets, the hardened and self-confessed criminal, guilty of the foulest crime upon the calendar of ouah law. a murderer, gentlemen, a murderer with red hands an' with the brand of cain upon his brow! this man, this fiend, killed ouah fellow-citizen calvin greathouse--he brutally murdered him. not content with murder, he attempted to destroy his body with fiah, seekin' thus to wipe out the record of his crime. but the fiah itself would not destroy the remains of that prince of men, ouah missin' friend an' brother! his corpse cried out, accusin' this guilty man, an' then an' there this hardened wretch fell abjeckly onto his knees an' called on all his heathen saints to save him, to smite him blind, that he might no mo' see, _sleepin_' or wakin', the image of that murdered man--that murdered man, ouah friend an' brother, ouah _citizen_ an' friend." the orator knew his audience. he knew the real jury. the shuffling and whispers were his confirmation. "yo' honah," began the accusing voice again, "i see him now. i see this prisoner, this murderer, the central figger of that wild an' awful scene. he falls upon his knees, he wrings his hands, he supplicates high heaven--that infinite powah which gave life to each of us as the one most precious gift--he beseeches providence to breathe back again into that cold clay the divine spark of which his red hand had robbed it. useless, useless! the dead can not arise. the murdered man can remain to accuse, but he can not arise again in life, he can not again hear the songs of birds. he can not again hear the prattle of his babes. he can not again take a friend by the hand. he can not come to life. the heavens do not open fo' that benef'cent end! "_but_, yo' honah, the heavens will open! they will send down a bolt o' justice. nay, they would send down upon ouah heads a forked messenger o' wrath it we should fail to administer justice, fail to do that juty intrusted into ouah hands! there sets the man! there he is befo' you! his guilt has been admitted. answer me, gentlemen, what is ouah juty in this case? shall we set this incarnate fiend free in the lan' again--shall we let him come clear o' this charge--shall we turn him loose again in ouah midst to murder some other of ouah citizens? shall we set this man free?" his voice had sunk into a whisper as he spoke the last words, leaning forward and looking into the faces of the jury. suddenly he straightened up, his clinched hand shaken high above his head. "no!" he cried. "no! i say to you, ten thousand times no! we are a people quiet an' law-abidin'. we have set ouah hands to the conquest o' this lan'. we have driven out the savages, an' we have erected heah the vine an' fig tree of a new community. we have brought hither ouah flocks an' herds. we shall not allow crime, _red_-handed an' _on_-rebuked, to stalk through the quiet streets of ouah law-abidin', moral town! this man shall not go free! justice, yo' honah, justice, gentlemen, is what this community asks. an' justice is what it is a-goin' to have. yo' honah, an' gentlemen, i yiel' to the statement o' the defence." franklin rose and looked calmly about him while the buzzing of comment and the outspoken exclamations of applause yet greeted the speech of the prosecutor. he knew that curly's thoughtless earlier description of the scene of the arrest would in advance be held as much evidence in the trial as any sworn testimony given in the court. still, the sentiment of pity was strong in his heart. he resolved to use all he knew of the cunning of the law to save this half-witted savage. he determined to defeat, if possible, the ends of a technical justice, in order to secure a higher and a broader justice, the charity of a divine mercy. as the lawyer, the agent of organized society, he purposed to invoke the law in order to defeat the law in this, the first trial, for this, the first hostage ever given to civilization on the old cattle range. he prayed to see triumph an actual justice and not the old blind spirit of revenge. he realized fully how much was there to overcome as he gazed upon the set faces of the real jury, the crowd of grim spectators. yet in his soul there sprang so clear a conviction of his duty that he felt all fogs clear away, leaving his intelligence calm, clear, dispassionate, with full understanding of the best means to obtain his end. he knew that argument is the best answer to oratory. "your honour, and gentlemen of the jury," he began, "in defending this man i stand for the law. the representative of the state invokes the law. "what is that law? is it violence for violence, hatred for unreasoning hate? is that the law? or is the love of justice, the love of fair play, at the heart of the law? what do you say? is it not right for any man to have a fair chance? "i yield to no man in my desire to see a better day of law and order in this town. we are two years old in time, but a century old in violence. is it merely your wish that we add one more grave to the long rows on our hillsides? is that your wish? do you want a trial, or do you wish merely an execution? gentlemen, i tell you this is the most important day in the history of this town. let us here make our stand for the law. the old ways will no longer serve. we are at the turning of the road. let us follow the law. "now, under the law you must, in order to prove the crime of murder, be able to show the body of the victim; you must show that murder has really been done. you must show a motive, a reason. you must show, or be prepared to show, when required, a mental responsibility on the part of the accused. all these things you must show by the best possible testimony, not by what you think, or what you have heard, but by direct testimony, produced here in this court. you can't ask the accused man to testify against himself. you can't ask me, his counsel, to testify against him. hence there is left but one witness who can testify directly in this case. there is not one item of remains, not one bone, one rag, one shred of clothing, not one iota of evidence introduced before this honourable court to show that the body of calvin greathouse was ever identified or found. there is no corpus delicti. how shall you say that this missing man has been murdered? think this thing over. remember, if you hang this man, you can never bring him back to life. "there must be some motive shown for the supposition of such an act as murder. what motive can be shown here? certainly not that of robbery. the horse of the missing man came back alone, its lariat dragging, as we shall prove. it had not been ridden since the lariat was broken. you all know, as we shall prove, that this man juan was never known to ride a horse. we shall prove that he walked sixty miles, to the very spot where the horse had been tied, and that he scorned to touch a horse on his whole journey. he wanted no horse. he stole no horse. that was no motive. there has been no motive shown. would a criminal lead the officers of the law to the very spot where he had committed his crime? had this been theft, or murder, would this man have taken any one directly and unhesitatingly to that spot? i ask you this. "to be subject to the law, as you very well know, a man must be morally responsible. he must know right and wrong. even the savage indians admit this principle of justice. they say that the man of unsound mind is touched by the hand of the great spirit. shall we be less merciful than they? look at this smiling giant before you. he has been touched by the hand of the almighty. god has punished him enough. "i shall show to you that when this man was a child he was struck a severe blow upon the head, and that since that time he has never been of sound mind, his brain never recovering from that shock, a blow which actually broke in a portion of his skull. since that time he has had recurrent times of violent insanity, with alternating spells of what seems a semi-idiocy. this man's mind never grew. in some ways his animal senses are keen to a remarkable degree, but of reason he has little or none. he can not tell you why he does a thing, or what will happen provided that he does thus or so. this i shall prove to you. "i therefore submit to you, your honour, and to you, gentlemen of the jury, two distinct lines of defence which do not conflict, and which are therefore valid under the law. we deny that any murder has been committed, that any motive for murder has been shown, that any body of the crime has been produced. and alternatively we submit that the prisoner at the bar is a man of unsound mind and known to be such, not responsible for his acts, and not in any wise amenable to the capital features of the law. i ask you, gentlemen of the jury, you who hold this man's life in your hands, are you going to hang a man for murder when it is not shown a murder has been done? and would you hang a man who is more ignorant than a child of right and wrong? is that fair play? gentlemen, we are all here together, and one of us is as good as another. our ambitions are the same. we stand here together for the best interests of this growing country--this country whose first word has always been fair play. now, is it your already formed wish to punish this man? i say, no. i say, first give him his chance." as franklin ceased and seated himself the silence was again broken by a rising buzz of conversation. this was proving really a very interesting show, this trial. it must go on yet a little further. "by jinks," said one cow-puncher, "that's right. that fellow juan is _loco_, an' you all done knowed that, always." "he ain't so d----n _loco_ but what he could kill a man, all right," said another, "sure. cal greathouse was worth sever'l o' this greaser," remarked another. "i don't see how you c'n hang him legal," said a judicial voice. "to h----l with this new-fangled law," growled a rough answer from near the door. "are we dependin' on this here new way o' takin' care of fellers that kills too many folks? if the greaser done it, he's guilty, an' that settles it. hangin's too good for a feller that'll kill a man in camp, an' then try to burn him up." "that's right!" "sure!" "that's the talk!" were the many replies greeting this comment. "order, order, gentlemen!" called the judge from the bench, pounding on the box before him. "call william haskins," said the prosecuting attorney, standing up, with his hands in his pockets. "william haskins, william haskins, william haskins! come into court!" cried out the clerk from his corner of the store box. no immediate response was made. some one nudged curly, who started up. "who--me?" he said. "is your name william haskins?" asked the judge. "reckon _so_," said curly. "my folks used to call me that. i usually go under the road brand o' curly, though." he took his seat on a stool near the store box, was sworn, with his hat on, and the prosecuting attorney began the examination. "what is your name?" "why, curly." "what is your occupation?" "what?" "how do you make your living?" "punchin' cows. not that i 'low it's any o' yore d----d business." "where do you reside?" "where do i live?" "yes." "well, now, i don't know. my folks lives on the brazos, an' i've been drivin' two years. now i taken up a claim on the smoky, out here. i 'low i'll go north right soon, to wyoming maybe." "how old are you?" "oh, i don't know; but i 'low about twenty-four or twenty-five, along in there." "where were you last wednesday?" "what?" "were you one of the _posse_ sent out to search for cal greathouse?" "yep; me and cap franklin, there." "who else?" "why, juan, there, him. he was trailin' the hoss for us." "where did you go?" "about sixty miles southwest, into the breaks of the smoky." "what did you find?" "we found a old camp. hoss had been tied there, and broke its lariat. bushes was broke some, but we didn't see no blood, as i know of." "never mind what you didn't see." "well, now--" "answer my question." "now, say, friend, you don't want to get too gay." "answer the question, mr. haskins," said the court. "well, all right, judge; i'll do it to oblige you. the most we saw was where a fire had been. looked like a right smart fire. they was plenty o' ashes layin' there." "did you see anything in the ashes?" "what business is it o' yourn?" "now, now," said the court, "you must answer the questions, mr. haskins." "all right, judge," said curly. "well, i dunno hardly what we did see any mor'n what i tole all the boys when we first brought juan in. i tole you all." "correct the witness, your honour," said franklin. "answer only the questions, mr. haskins," said the judge. "very well," said the prosecutor; "what did you see? anything like a man's figure?" "we object!" said franklin, but curly answered: "well, yes, it did look like a feller a-layin' there. but when we touched it--" "never mind. did the prisoner see this figure?" "shore." "what did he do?" "well, he acted plumb _loco_. he gets down an' hollers. '_madre de dios_!' he hollers. i 'low he wuz plenty scared." "did he look scared?" "i object," cried franklin. "s'tained," said the judge. "'ception," said the prosecuting attorney. "well, what did the prisoner say or do?" "why, he crawls aroun' an' hollers. so we roped him, then. but say--" "never mind." "well, i was--" "never mind. did you--" "shore! i foun' the end o' the lariat tied to a tree." "but did you--" "yes, i tole you! i foun' it tied. end just fits the broke end o' the lariat onto the saddle, when the hoss come back. them hide ropes ain't no good." "never mind--" "if ever they onct got rotten--" "never mind. was that greathouse's rope?" "maybe so. now, them hide ropes--" "never mind about the hide ropes. i want to know what the prisoner did." "well, when we roped him he didn't make no kick." "never mind. he saw the figure in the ashes?" "what do you know about it?--you wasn't there." "no, but i'm going to make you tell what was there." "you are, huh? well, you crack yer whip. i like to see any feller make me tell anything i don't want to tell." "that's right, curly," said some one back in the crowd. "no bluff goes." "not in a hundred!" said curly. "now, now, now!" began the judge drowsily. the prosecuting attorney counselled of craftiness, at this juncture, foreseeing trouble if he insisted. "take the witness," he said abruptly. "cross-'xamine, d'fence," said the judge, settling back. "now, curly," said franklin, as he took up the questioning again, "please tell us what juan did after he saw this supposed figure in the ashes." "why, now, cap, you know that just as well as i do." "yes, but i want you to tell these other folks about it." "well, of course, juan acted plenty _loco_--you know that." "very well. now what, if anything, did you do to this alleged body in the ashes?" "'bject! not cross-examination," cried the state's attorney. "m' answer," said the judge. "what did i do to it?" said curly. "why, i poked it with a stick." "what happened?" "why, it fell plumb to pieces." "did it disappear?" "shore it did. wasn't a thing left." "did it look like a man's body, then?" "no, it just looked like a pile o' ashes." "bore no trace or resemblance to a man, then?" "none whatever." "you wouldn't have taken it for a body, then?" "nope. course not." "was any part of a body left?" "nary thing." "any boot, hat, or bit of clothing?" "not a single thing, fur's i c'd see." "that's all," said franklin. "re-direct, mr. prosecutor?" said the court. this was greek to the audience, but they were enjoying the entertainment. "pass the re-direct," said the state's attorney confidently. "do you wish to recall this witness, mr. franklin?" asked the court. "yes, if your honour please. i want to take up some facts in the earlier life of the prisoner, as bearing upon his present mental condition." "very well," said the judge, yawning. "you may wait a while, mr. haskins." "well, then, curly," said franklin, again addressing himself to his witness, "please tell us how long you have known this prisoner." "ever since we was kids together. he used to be a _mozo_ on my pap's ranch, over in san saba county." "did you ever know him to receive any injury, any blow about the head?" "well, onct ole hank swartzman swatted him over the head with a swingletree. sort o' laid him out, some." "'bject!" cried the state's attorney, but the judge yawned "m' go on." "did he act strangely after receiving that blow?" "why, yes; i reckon you would yerself. he hit him a good lick. it was fer ridin' hank's favourite mare, an' from that time to now juan ain't never been on horseback since. that shows he's _loco_. any man what walks is _loco_. part o' the time, juan, he's _bronco_, but all the time he's _loco_." "he has spells of violence?" "shore. you know that. you seen how he fit that injun--" "oh, keep him to the line," protested the prosecutor. "we won't take up that just now, curly," said franklin. "well, this here shorely is the funniest layout i ever did see," said curly, somewhat injured. "a feller can't say a d----d thing but only jest what you all want him to say. now, say--" "yes, but--" began franklin, fearing that he might meet trouble with this witness even as the prosecutor had, and seeing the latter smiling behind his hand in recognition of this fact. "now, say," insisted curly, "if you want something they ain't none o' you said a word about yet, i'll tell you something. you see, juan, he had a sister, and this here cal greathouse, he--" "i object, yo' honah! i object!" cried the state's attorney, springing to his feet. "this is bringin' the dignity o' the law into ridicule, sah! into ridicule! i object!" "er, ah-h-h!" yawned the judge, suddenly sitting up, "'journ court, mr. clerk! we will set to-morrow mornin' at the same place, at nine o'clock.--mr. sheriff, take charge of the prisoner.--where is the sheriff, mr. clerk?" "please the court," said the prosecuting attorney, "sheriff watson is not here to-day. he is lyin' sick out to his ranch. he was injured, yo' honah, in arrestin' ike anderson, and he has not yet recovered." "well, who is in charge of this prisoner?" said the court. "there ought to be some one to take care of him." "i reckon i am, judge," said curly. "he is sort o' stayin' with me while bill's under the weather." "well, take him in charge, some one, and have him here in the morning." "all right, judge," said curly quietly, "i'll take care of him." he beckoned to juan, and the giant rose and followed after him, still smiling and pleased at what to him also was a novel show. it was three o'clock of the afternoon. the thirst of a district judge had adjourned the district court. franklin's heart sank. he dreaded the night. the real court, as he admitted to himself, would continue its session that night at the cottage bar, and perhaps it might not adjourn until a verdict had been rendered. chapter xxix the verdict there came over the town of ellisville that night an ominous quiet. but few men appeared on the streets. nobody talked, or if any one did there was one subject to which no reference was made. a hush had fallen upon all. the sky, dotted with a million blazing stars, looked icy and apart. a glory of moonlight flooded the streets, yet never was moon more cold. franklin finished his dinner and sat down alone for a time in the great barren office of the depot hotel where he made his home. the excitement of the trial, suspended at its height, was now followed by reaction, a despondency which it was hard to shake off. was this, then, the land of his choice? he thought. and what, then, was this human nature of which men sung and wrote? he shook himself together with difficulty. he went to his room and buckled on his revolver, smiling grimly as he did so at the thought of how intimately all law is related to violence, and how relative to its environment is all law. he went to battersleigh's room and knocked, entering at the loud invitation of that friend. "shure, ned, me boy," said battersleigh, "ye've yer side arms on this evenin'. ye give up the profission of arms with reluctance. tell me, ned, what's the campaign fer the evenin'?" "well," said franklin, "i thought i'd step over and sit awhile with curly this evening. he may be feeling a little lonesome." "quite right ye are, me boy," said battersleigh cheerfully. "quite right. an' if ye don't mind i'll just jine ye. it's lonesome i am meself the night." battersleigh busied himself about his room, and soon appeared arrayed, as was franklin himself, with a revolver at his belt. "shure, ned, me boy," he said, "an officer an' a gintleman should nivver appear abroad without his side arms. at laste, methinks, not on a night like this." he looked at franklin calmly, and the latter rose and grasped the hand of the fearless old soldier without a word. the two strolled out together down the street in the direction of the shanty where curly was keeping his "prisoner." at this place they saw a few men sitting outside the door, calmly smoking--among these sam, the liveryman, a merchant by name of chapman, and a homesteader who was known as one-eyed pennyman. inside the house, playing cards with curly, were four other men. franklin noticed that they all were armed. they all appeared, from their story, to have just dropped in to pass a little time with curly. from time to time others dropped in, most of them remaining outside in the moonlight, sitting on their heels along the porch, talking but little, and then mentioning anything but the one subject which was uppermost in every one's mind. yet, though nothing was said, it might well be seen that this little body of men were of those who had taken the stand for law and order, and who were resolved upon a new day in the history of the town. it was a battle of the two hotels and what they represented. over at the great barroom of the cottage there was at the same time assembled a much larger gathering, composed chiefly of those transient elements which at that time really made up the larger portion of the population of the place--wide-hatted men, with narrow boots and broad belts at which swung heavy, blued revolvers with broad wooden butts--a wild-looking, wild-living body of men, savage in some ways, gentle in others, but for the most part just, according to their creed. the long bar was crowded, and outside the door many men were standing along the wide gallery. they, too, were reticent. all drank whisky, and drank it regularly. up to ten o'clock the whisky had produced no effect. the assembly was still engaged in deliberation, drinking and thinking, calmly, solemnly. at ten o'clock a big texan raised his glass high above his head and smashed it upon the bar. "law an' order be damned!" said he. "what kind o' law an' order is it to let a murderin' greaser like that come clear? which of us'll be the next he'd kill?" there was no answer. a sigh, a shiver, a little rustling sound passed over the crowd. "we always used ter run our business good enough," resumed the texan. "what need we got o' lawyers now? didn't this greaser kill cal? crazy? he's just crazy enough to be mean. he's crazy so'st he ain't safe, that's what." the stir was louder. a cowman motioned, and the barkeeper lined the whole bar with glasses, setting out six bottles of conviction. "curly means all right," said one voice. "i know that boy, an' he's all right." "shore he's all right!" said the first voice, "an' so's bill watson all right. but what's the use?" "_loco_, of course the greaser's _loco_," broke in another speaker. "so's a mad dog _loco_. but about the best thing's to kill it, so'st it's safer to be roun'." silence fell upon the crowd. the texan continued. "we always did," he said. "yes," said another voice. "that's right. we always did." "curly'll never let him go," said one irrelevantly. "seems to me we better sen' this greaser off to the states, put him in a 'sylum, er somethin'." "yes," said the tall texan; "and i like to know ef that ain't a blame sight worse'n hangin' a man?" "that's so," assented several voices. and indeed to these men, born and bred in the free life of the range, the thought of captivity was more repugnant than the thought of death. "the lawyer feller, he ain't to blame," said one apologetically. "he made things look right plain. he ain't no fool." "well, i don't know as he helt no aidge over ole claib benson," said another argumentatively. "claib puts it mighty powerful." "yes, but," said the other eagerly, "claib means fer hangin' by the co'te." "shore," said a voice. "now, i'm one o' the jury, but i says in my own min', ef we convict this yer man, we got to hang him right away anyway, 'cause we ain't got no jail, an' we kain't afford no guard to watch him all the time. now, he'd have to be hung right away, anyhow." this half apologetically. "what do most o' you fellers on the jury think? does this here crazy business go with you all?" "well, kin savvy," replied the juror judicially. "some o' the boys think it a leetle tough to hang a feller fer a thing he kain't remember and that he didn't never think was no harm. it don't look like the greaser'd take any one right to where he would shore be convicted, ef he had of made this here killin'." "well," said a conservative soothingly, "let's wait till to-morrer. let's let the co'te set another day, anyhow." "yes, i reckon that's right; yes, that's so," said others; "we'd better wait till to-morrer." a brief silence fell upon the gathering, a silence broken only by tinklings or shufflings along the bar. then, all at once, the sound of an excited voice rose and fell, the cry of some one out upon the gallery in the open air. the silence deepened for one moment, and then there was a surge toward the door. far off, over the prairie, there came a little flat, recurrent sound, or series of sounds, as of one patting his fingers softly together. it fell and rose and grew, coming rapidly nearer, until at length there could be distinguished the cracking and popping of the hoofs of running horses. the sound broke into a rattling rumble. there came across the still, keen night a wild, thin, high, shrilling yell, product of many voices. "it's the bar o outfit, from the brazos, coming in," said some one. the crowd pressed out into the air. it opened and melted slightly. the crowd at curly's shanty increased slightly, silently. inside, curly and his friend still played cards. the giant prisoner lay asleep upon the floor, stretched out on his thin native wool mattress, his huge bulk filling half the floor. the rattle of many hoofs swept up to the door of the cottage, where the restive, nervous horses were left standing while the men went in, their leader, a stocky, red-mustached man, bearing with him the rope which he had loosened from his saddle. having drunk, the leader smote upon the bar with a heavy hand. "come along, men," he called out, "the quicker we hang that d----d greaser the better it will be. we done heard there was some sort o' trial goin' on here in town over this. we cowmen ain't goin' to stand no such foolishness. this greaser killed cal greathouse, an' he's got to hang." he moved toward the door, followed by many silently, by others with steps that lagged. "well, you see--" began one man. "to h----l with all that!" said the newcomer, turning upon him fiercely. "we don't need no cowards!" "no, that ain't it," resumed the first man, "but we got to respeck the co'te--fust co'te ever did set here, you see. the fellers, some of 'em, thinks--some o' the _jury_ thinks--that the feller's too crazy fer to hang." "crazy be d----d! we're goin' to hang him, an' that settles it. law an' order kin take care of it afterward." all the time they were shifting toward the door. outside the band of cattlemen who had just ridden in, fresh from the trail, and with but a partial knowledge of the arguments that had been advanced in this court, for which they had but small respect at best, settled the immediate question in an instant. as though by concert they swung into saddle and swept off up the street in a body, above the noise of their riding now breaking a careless laugh, now a shrill yell of sheer joyous excitement. they carried with them many waverers. more than a hundred men drew up in front of the frail shelter over which was spread the doubtful aegis of the law. fifty men met them. the lights went out in the house in an instant, and in front of the door there swept a dark and silent cordon. the leader of the invaders paused, but went straight forward. "we want that man!" he said. there was no answer. the line in front of the door darkened and thickened. finally the figure of the young lawyer appeared, and he said calmly, sternly: "you know very well you can't have him." "we don't know nothin' o' the sort. we want him, an' we're goin' to have him. we don't want no one else, an' we won't make no trouble, but we're goin' to take the mexican. git out the road!" a second figure stood by the side of franklin, and this man was recognised by the leader. "aw, now, curly, what d----d foolishness is this here? bring him out." "you know i won't, jim," said curly, simply. "we're tryin' him on the square. you ain't the co'te. i kain't give him to no one but the co'te." "we _are_ the co'te!" came the hot reply. "the co'te that runs this range fer hoss-thieves an' murderers. now, see here, curly, we're all your friends, an' you know it, but that feller has got to hang, an' hang to-night. git out the way. what's the matter with you?" "they ain't nothin' the matter with me," said curly slowly, "'ceptin' i done said i wouldn't give this man up to no man but the co'te. a lot o' us fellers, here in the settlement, we 'lowed that the law goes here now." silence fell for an instant, then from the rear of the party there came pushing and crowding and cries of "burn the house--drive him out!" there was a rush, but it was met by a silent thickening of the line at the point assailed. men scuffled with men, swearing and grunting, panting hard. here and there weapons flashed dully, though as yet no shot was fired. time and again franklin raised his voice. "men, listen to me!" he cried. "we promise you a fair trial--we promise--" "shut up!" cried the leader, and cries of "no talking!" came from the crowd. "give him up, or we'll clean you all out!" cried another voice, angrily. the rushers toward the house grew closer, so that assailants and besiegers were now mingled in a fighting, swearing mass. "you're no cowman, curly," cried one voice, bitterly, out of the black shifting sea in front of the house. "you're a d----d liar!" cried curly in reply, "whoever says that to me! i'm only a-keepin' of my word. you kain't clean us out. i'll shoot the livin' soul out o' any man that touches that door! this here is the jail, an' i'm the deppity, and, by ----! you'll not have my prisoner!" "quite right, me man," said a cool voice at curly's side, and a hand fell on his shoulder as a tall form loomed up in the crowd. "there's good matayrial in you, me bully. hould yer position, an' be sure that batty's with you, at the laste. fair play's a jule, an' it's fair play we're goin' to have here." backed by a crowd of men whose resolution was as firm as their own, these three fell back in front of the door. franklin felt his heart going fast, and knew that more was asked of him here than had ever been upon the field of battle; yet he was exultant at the discovery that he had no thought of wavering. he knew then that he had been proved. with equal joy he looked upon the face of curly, frowning underneath the pushed-back hat, and upon that of battersleigh, keen-looking, eager, as though about to witness some pleasurable, exciting thing. yet he knew the men in front were as brave as they, and as desperately resolved. in a moment, he reflected, the firing would begin. he saw curly's hands lying lightly upon the butts of his revolvers. he saw battersleigh draw his revolver and push with the side of the barrel against the nearest men as though to thrust them back. he himself crowded to the fore, eager, expectant, prepared. one shot, and a score of lives were done, and dark indeed would be this night in ellisville. suddenly the climax came. the door was thrust irresistibly open, not from without, but from within. stooping, so that his head might clear its top, the enormous figure of juan, the mexican, appeared in the opening. he looked out, ignorant of the real reason of this tumult, yet snuffing conflict as does the bear not yet assailed. his face, dull and impassive, was just beginning to light up with suspicion and slow rage. a roar of anger and excitement rose as the prisoner was seen standing there before them, though outlined only by the dim light of the sky. every man in the assailing party sprang toward the building. the cries became savage, beastlike. it was no longer human beings who contended over this poor, half-witted being, but brutes, less reasonable than he. juan left the door. he swept franklin and curly and battersleigh aside as though they were but babes. it was his purpose to rush out, to strike, to kill. it was the moment of opportunity for the leader of the assailants. the whistle of a rope cut the air, and the noose tightened about the giant's neck with instant grip. there was a surge back upon the rope, a movement which would have been fatal for any other man, which would have been fatal to him, had the men got the rope to a horse as they wished, so that they might drag the victim by violence through the crowd. but with juan this act was not final. the noose enraged him, but did not frighten or disable him. as the great bear of the foothills, when roped by the horseman, scorns to attempt escape, but pulls man and horse toward him by main force, so the giant savage who was now thus assailed put forth his strength, and by sheer power of arm drew his would-be captors to him, hand over hand. the noose about his own neck he loosened with one hand. then he raised his hand and let it fall. the caster of the rope, his collar bone broken and his shoulder blade cracked across, fell in a heap at his feet as the swaying crowd made way. once again there was silence, one moment of confusion, hesitation. then came the end. there came, boring into the silence with horrible distinctness, the sound of one merciful, mysterious shot. the giant straightened up once, a vast black body towering above the black mass about him, and then sank gently, slowly down, as though to curl himself in sleep. there was a groan, a roar, a swift surging of men, thick, black, like swarming bees. some bent above the two prone figures. others caught at the rope, grovelling, snarling. they were saved the last stage of their disgrace. into the crowd there pressed the figure of a new-comer, a hatless man, whose face was pale, whose feet were unshod, and who bore one arm helpless in a dirty sling which hung about his neck. haggard and unkempt, barefooted, half-clad as he had stumbled out of bed at his ranch six miles away, bill watson, the sheriff, appeared a figure unheroic enough. with his broken arm hanging useless and jostled by the crowd, he raised his right hand above his head and called out, in a voice weak and halting, but determined: "men, go--go home! i command you--in the name--of the law!" book iv the day of the plough chapter xxx the end of the trail the cottage hotel of ellisville was, singularly enough, in its palmy days conducted by a woman, and a very good woman she was. it was perhaps an error in judgment which led the husband of this woman to undertake the establishment of a hotel at such a place and such a time, but he hastened to repair his fault by amiably dying. the widow, a large woman, of great kindness of heart and a certain skill in the care of gunshot wounds, fell heiress to the business, carried it on and made a success of it. all these wild range men who came roistering up the trail loved this large and kind old lady, and she called them all her "boys," watching over the wild brood as a hen does over her chickens. she fed them and comforted them, nursed them and buried them, always new ones coming to take the places of those who were gone. chief mourner at over threescore funerals, nevertheless was mother daly's voice always for peace and decorum; and what good she did may one day be discovered when the spurred and booted dead shall rise. the family of mother daly flourished and helped build the north-bound cattle trail, along which all the hoof marks ran to ellisville. there was talk of other cow towns, east of ellisville, west of it, but the clannish conservatism of the drovers held to the town they had chosen and baptized. thus the family of mother daly kept up its numbers, and the cottage knew no night, even at the time when the wars of the cowmen with the railroad men and the gamblers had somewhat worn away by reason of the advancing of the head of the rails still farther into the great american desert. there was yet no key to the cottage bar when there came the unbelievable word that there was no longer a buffalo to be found anywhere on the range, and that the indians were gone, beaten, herded up forever. far to the north, it was declared, there were men coming in on the cow range who had silver-mounted guns, who wore gold and jewels, and who brought with them saddles without horns! it was said, however, that these new men wanted to buy cows, so cows were taken to them. many young men of mother daly's family went on up the trail, never to come back to ellisville, and it was said that they were paid much gold, and that they stole many cows from the men who had silver-mounted guns, and who wore strange, long knives, with which it was difficult to open a tin can. mother daly looked upon this, and it was well. she understood her old boys and loved them. she was glad the world was full of them. it was a busy, happy, active world, full of bold deeds, full of wide plans, full of men. she looked out over the wide wind-swept plains, along the big chutes full of bellowing beeves, at the wide corral with its scores of saddled nemeses, and she was calm and happy. it was a goodly world. it was upon one day that mother daly looked out upon her world; upon the next day she looked again, and all the world was changed. far as the eye could reach, the long and dusty roadway of the cows lay silent, with its dust unstirred. far, very far off, there was approaching a little band of strange, small, bleating, woolly creatures, to whose driver mother daly refused bed and board. the cattle chutes were silent, the corral was empty. at the cottage bar the keeper had at last found a key to the door. up and down the trail, east and west of the trail, all was quiet, bare, and desolate. at some signal--some signal written on the sky--all the old life of ellisville had taken up its journey into a farther land, into another day. the cowman, the railroad man, and the gambling man had gone, leaving behind them the wide and well-perforated cottage, the graveyard with its double street, the cattle chutes with well-worn, hairy walls. now there came upon the face of the country faint scars where wheels had cut into the hard soil, these vagrant indices of travel not pointing all one way, and not cut deep, as was the royal highway of the cattle, but crossing, tangling, sometimes blending into main-travelled roads, though more often straying aimlessly off over the prairie to end at the homestead of some farmer. the smokes arose more numerously over the country, and the low houses of the settlers were seen here and there on either hand by those who drove out over the winding wagon ways in search of land. these new houses were dark and low and brown, with the exception that each few miles the traveller might see a small frame house painted white. sometimes, in the early morning, there might be seen wandering toward these small white houses, no man knew whence, small groups of little beings never before seen upon the range. at nightfall they wandered back again. sometimes, though rarely, they needed to turn aside from the straight line to go about the corner of a fence. sometimes within such fences there might be seen others of these dirty, bleating creatures which mother daly hated. here and there over the country were broken rows of little yellow, faded trees struggling up out of the hard earth. the untiring wheels of windmills could be seen everywhere at their work. here and there at the trodden, water holes of the broken creeks there lay carcasses of perished cattle, the skin dried and drawn tight over the bones; but on the hillsides near by grazed living cattle, fatter and more content to feed than the wild creatures that yesterday clacked and crowded up the trail. now, it is known of all men that cattle have wide horns, broad as the span of a man's arms; yet there were men here who said they had seen cattle whose horns were no longer than those of the buffalo, and later this thing was proved to be true. mother daly knew, as all persons in the past knew, that by right the face of the plains was of one colour, unbroken; gray-brown in summer, white in winter, green in the spring. yet now, as though giants would play here some game of draughts, there came a change upon the country, so that in squares it was gray, in squares green. this thing had never been before. in the town of ellisville the great heap of buffalo bones was gone from the side of the railroad track. there were many wagons now, but none brought in bones to pile up by the railway; for even the bones of the buffalo were now gone forever. mother daly looked out upon the cottage corral one day, and saw it sound and strong. again she looked, and the bars were gone. yet another day she looked, and there was no corral! along the street, at the edge of the sidewalks of boards, there stood a long line of hitching rails. back of these board sidewalks were merchants who lived in houses with green blinds, and they pronounced that word "korrawl!" the livery barn of samuel poston grew a story in stature, and there was such a thing as hay--hay not imported in wired bales. in the little city there were three buildings with bells above them. there was a courthouse of many rooms; for ellisville had stolen the county records from strong city, and had held them through armageddon. there were large chutes now at the railway, not for cattle, but for coal. strange things appeared. there was a wide, low, round, red house, full of car tracks, and smoke, and hammer blows, and dirt, and confusion; and from these shops came and went men who did an unheard-of thing. they worked eight hours a day, no more, no less! now, in the time of man, men worked twenty-four hours a day, or not at all; and they did no man's bidding. the streets of ellisville were many. they doubled and crossed. there was a public square hedged about with trees artificially large. for each vanishing saloon there had come a store with its hitching rack for teams. the land office was yet at ellisville, and the rush of settlers was continuous. the men who came out from the east wore wide hats and carried little guns; but when they found the men of ellisville wearing small, dark hats and carrying no guns at all, they saw that which was not to be believed, and which was, therefore, not so written in the literary centres which told the world about the ellisvilles. strangers asked ellisville about the days of the cattle drive, and ellisville raised its eminently respectable eyebrows. there was a faint memory of such a time, but it was long, long ago. two years ago! all the world had changed since then. there had perhaps been a cottage hotel. there was perhaps a mrs. daly, who conducted a boarding-house, on a back street. our best people, however, lived at the stone hotel. there were twelve lawyers who resided at this hotel, likewise two ministers and their wives. six of the lawyers would bring out their wives the following spring. ministers, of course, usually took their wives with them. ellisville had thirty business houses and two thousand inhabitants. it had large railway shops and the division offices of the road. it had two schoolhouses (always the schoolhouse grew quickly on the western soil), six buildings of two stories, two buildings of three stories and built of brick. business lots were worth $ , to $ , each. the first national bank paid $ , for its corner. the kansas city and new england loan, trust, and investment company had expended $ , in cash on its lot, building, and office fixtures. it had loaned three quarters of a million of dollars in and about ellisville. always the land offered something to the settler. the buffalo being gone, and their bones being also gone, some farmers fell to trapping and poisoning the great gray wolves, bringing in large bales of the hides. one farmer bought half a section of land with wolf skins. he had money enough left to buy a few head of cattle and to build a line of fence. this fence cut at right angles a strange, wide, dusty pathway. the farmer did not know what he had done. he had put restraint on that which in its day knew no pause and brooked no hindrance. he had set metes and bounds across the track where once rolled the wheels of destiny. he had set the first fence across the trail! the stranger who asked for the old, wild days of ellisville the red was told that no such days had ever been. yet stay: perhaps there were half a dozen men who had lived at ellisville from the first who could, perhaps, take one to the boarding-house of mrs. daly; who could, perhaps, tell something of the forgotten days of the past, the days of two years ago, before the present population of ellisville came west. there was, perhaps, a graveyard, but the headstones had been so few that one could tell but little of it now. much of this, no doubt, was exaggeration, this talk of a graveyard, of a doubled street, of murders, of the legal killings which served as arrests, of the lynchings which once passed as justice. there was a crude story of the first court ever held in ellisville, but of course it was mere libel to say that it was held in the livery barn. rumour said that the trial was over the case of a negro, or mexican, or indian, who had been charged with murder, and who was himself killed in an attempt at lynching, by whose hand it was never known. these things were remembered or talked about by but very few, these the old-timers, the settlers of two years ago. somewhere to the north of the town, and in the centre of what was declared by some persons to be the old cattle trail, there was reputed to be visible a granite boulder, or perhaps it was a granite shaft, supposed to have been erected with money contributed by cattlemen at the request of mrs. daly, who kept the boarding-house on a back street. some one had seen this monument, and brought back word that it had cut upon its face a singular inscription, namely: juan the loco, the end of the trail. chapter xxxi the success of battersleigh one morning when franklin entered his office he found his friend battersleigh there before him, in full possession, and apparently at peace with all the world. his tall figure was reclining in an office chair, and his feet were supported by the corner of the table, in an attitude which is called american, but which is really only masculine, and quite rational though unbeautiful. battersleigh's cloak had a swagger in its very back, and his hat sat at a cocky angle not to be denied. he did not hear franklin as he approached the door, and the latter stood looking in for a moment, amused at battersleigh and his attitude and his song. when quite happy battersleigh always sang, and very often his song was the one he was singing now, done in a low nasal, each verse ending, after the vocal fashion of his race, with a sudden uplift of a sheer octave, as thus: "i-i-i-'d dance li-i-i-ke a fa-a-a-iree-ee-ee, for to see ould dunlear-e-e-_e-e-e_! i-i-i-'d think twi-i-i-ice e-e-e-r-r i-i-i-'d lave it, for to be-e-e-e-e a drag-_o-o-n_." franklin chuckled at the reminiscent music as he stepped in and said good morning. "you seem in fine fettle this morning, friend," said he. "very fine, for an old man." battersleigh squared around and looked at him soberly. "ned," said he, "ye're a dethractor of innycince. batty ould! listen to me, boy! it's fifty years younger i am to-day than when i saw ye last. i'm younger than ye ivver saw me in all your life before." "and what and where was the fountain?" said franklin, as he seated himself at his desk. "the one fountain of all on earth, me boy--succiss--succiss! the two dearest things of life are succiss and revinge. i've found thim both. shure, pfwhat is that gives one man the lofty air an' the overlookin' eye, where another full his ekil in inches fears to draw the same breath o' life with him? succiss, succiss, me boy! some calls it luck, though most lays it to their own shupayrior merit. for batty, he lays it to nothin' whativver, but takes it like a philosopher an' a gintleman." "well, i suppose you don't mind my congratulating you on your success, whatever it may be," said franklin, as he began to busy himself about his work at the desk. "you're just a trifle mysterious, you know." "there's none i'd liever have shake me by the hand than yoursilf, ned," said battersleigh, "the more especially by this rayson, that ye've nivver believed in ould batty at all, but thought him a visionary schamer, an' no more. didn't ye, now, ned; on your honour?" "no," said franklin stoutly. "i've always known you to be the best fellow in the world." "tut, tut!" said battersleigh. "ye're dodgin' the issue, boy. but pfwhat wud ye say now, ned, if i should till ye i'd made over tin thousand pounds of good english money since i came to this little town?" "i should say," said franklin calmly, as he opened an envelope, "that you had been dreaming again." "that's it! that's it!" cried battersleigh. "shure ye wud, an' i knew it! but come with me to bank this mornin' an' i'll prove it all to ye." something in his voice made franklin wheel around and look at him. "oh, do be serious, battersleigh," said he. "it's sayrious i am, ned, i till ye. luk at me, boy. do ye not see the years droppin' from me? succiss! revinge! cash! earth holds no more for batty. i've thim all, an' i'm contint. this night i retire dhrunk, as a gintleman should be. to-morrow i begin on me wardrobe. i'm goin' a longish journey, lad, back to ould england. i'm a long-lost son, an' thank god! i've not been discovered yit, an' hope i'll not be fer a time. "i'll till ye a secret, which heretofore i've always neglicted to mintion to anybody. here i'm henry battersleigh, agent of the british-american colonization society. on t'other side i might be cuthbert allen wingate-galt. an' etcetera, man; etcetera, to god knows what. don't mintion it, ned, till i've gone away, fer i've loved the life here so--i've so enjoyed bein' just batty, agent, and so forth! belave me, ned, it's much comfortabler to be merely a' and-so-forth thin it is to be an' etcetera. an' i've loved ye so, ned! ye're the noblest nobleman i ivver knew or ivver expict to know." franklin sat gazing at him without speech, and presently battersleigh went on. "it's a bit of a story, lad," said he kindly. "ye see, i've been a poor man all me life, ye may say, though the nephew of one of the richest women in the united kingdom--an' the stingiest. instid of doin' her obvayus juty an' supportin' her nephew in becomin' station, she marries a poor little lordlet boy, an' forsakes me entirely. wasn't it hijjus of her? there may have been raysons satisfyin' to her own mind, but she nivver convinced me that it was christian conduct on her part. so i wint with the rile irish, and fought fer the widdy. so what with likin' the stir an' at the same time the safety an' comfort o' the wars, an' what with now an' thin a flirtashun in wan colour or another o' the human rainbow, with a bit of sport an' ridin' enough to kape me waist, i've been in the rile irish ivver since--whin not somewhere ilse; though mostly, ned, me boy, stone broke, an' ownin' no more than me bed an' me arms. ye know this, ned." "yes," said franklin, "i know, battersleigh. you've been a proud one," "tut, tut, me boy; nivver mind. ye'll know i came out here to make me fortune, there bein' no more fightin' daycint enough to engage the attention of a gintleman annywhere upon the globe. i came to make me fortune. an' i've made it. an' i confiss to ye with contrition, ned, me dear boy, i'm cubberd allen wiggit-galt, etcetera !" after his fashion franklin sat silent, waiting for the other's speech. "ned," said battersleigh at length, "till me, who's the people of the intire worrld that has the most serane belief in their own shupayriority?" "new-yorkers," said franklin calmly. "wrong. ye mustn't joke, me boy. no. it's the english. shure, they're the consatedest people in the whole worrld. an' now, thin, who's the wisest people in the worrld?" "the americans," said franklin promptly again. "wrong agin. it's thim same d----d domineerin' idjits, the yally-headed subjecks o' the widdy. an' pfwhy are they wise?" "you'll have to tell," said franklin. "then i'll till ye. it's because they have a _sacra fames_ fer all the land on earth." "they're no worse than we," said franklin. "look at our land-office records here for the past year." "yis, the yankee is a land-lover, but he wants land so that he may live on it, an' he wants to see it before he gives his money for it. now, ye go to an englishman, an' till him ye've a bit of land in the cintre of a lost island in the middle of the pacific say, an' pfwhat does he do? he'll first thry to stale ut, thin thry to bully ye out of ut; but he'll ind by buyin' ut, at anny price ye've conscience to ask, an' he'll thrust to providence to be able to find the island some day. that's wisdom. i've seen the worrld, me boy, from injy to the great american desert. the rooshan an' the frinchman want land, as much land as ye'll cover with a kerchief, but once they get it they're contint. the haybrew cares for nothin' beyond the edge of his counter. now, me angly-saxon, he's the prettiest fightin' man on earth, an' he's fightin' fer land, er buyin' land, er stalin' land, the livin' day an' cintury on ind. he'll own the earth!" "no foreign anglo-saxon will ever own america," said franklin grimly. "well, i'm tellin' ye he'll be ownin' some o' this land around here." "i infer, battersleigh," said franklin, "that you have made a sale." "well, yis. a small matter." "a quarter-section or so?" "a quarter-township or so wud be much nearer," said battersleigh dryly. "you don't mean it?" "shure i do. it's a fool for luck; allowin' batty's a fool, as ye've always thought, though i've denied it. now ye know the railroad's crazy for poppylation, an' it can't wait. it fairly offers land free to thim that'll come live on it. it asks the suffrin' pore o' yurrup to come an' honour us with their prisince. the railroad offers batty the fool fifteen hundred acres o' land at three dollars the acre, if batty the fool'll bring settlers to it. so i sinds over to me ould aunt's country--not, ye may suppose, over the signayture o' cubberd allen wiggit-galt, but as henry battersleigh, agent o' the british american colonization society--an' i says to the proper party there, says i, 'i've fifteen hundred acres o' the loveliest land that ivver lay out of dures, an' ye may have it for the trifle o' fifty dollars the acre. offer it to the leddy wiggit,' says i to him; 'she's a philanthropist, an' is fer bettherin' the pore' ('savin' pore nephews,' says i to mesilf). 'the lady wiggit,' says i, ''ll be sendin' a ship load o' pore tinnints over here,' says i, 'an' she'll buy this land. offer it to her,' says i. so he did. so she did. she tuk it. i'll be away before thim pisints o' hers comes over to settle here, glory be! now, wasn't it aisy? there's no fools like the english over land, me boy. an' 'twas a simple judgment on me revered aunt, the leddy wiggit." "but, battersleigh, look here," said franklin, "you talk of fifty dollars an acre. that's all nonsense--why, that's robbery. land is dear here at five dollars an acre." "shure it is, ned," said battersleigh calmly. "but it's chape in england at fifty dollars." "well, but--" "an' that's not all. i wrote to thim to send me a mere matter of tin dollars an acre, as ivvidence a' good faith. they did so, an' it was most convaynient for settlin' the little bill o' three dollars an acre which the railroad had against me, batty the fool." "it's robbery!" reiterated franklin. "it wud 'av' been robbery," said battersleigh, "had they sint no more than that, for i'd 'av' been defrauded of me just jues. but whut do you think? the murdherin' ould fool, me revered aunt, the leddy wiggit, she grows 'feard there is some intint to rob her of her bargain, so what does she do but sind the entire amount at wance--not knowin', bless me heart an' soul, that she's thus doin' a distinguished kindness to the missin' relative she's long ago forgot! man, would ye call that robbery? it's divine providince, no less! it's justice. i know of no one more deservin' o' such fortune than battersleigh, late of the rile irish, an' now a citizen o' the world. gad, but i've a'most a mind to buy a bit of land me own silf, an' marry the maid o' the mill, fer the sake o' roundin' out the play. man, man, it's happy i am to-day!" "it looks a good deal like taking advantage of another's ignorance," said franklin argumentatively. "sir," said battersleigh, "it's takin' advantage o' their wisdom. the land's worth it, as you'll see yoursilf in time. the price is naught. the great fact is that they who own the land own the earth and its people. 'tis out of the land an' the sea an' the air that all the wilth must come. thus saith batty the fool. annyhow, the money's in the bank, an' it's proper dhrunk'll be batty the fool this night, an' likewise the hon. cubberd allen wiggit-galt, etcetera. there's two of me now, an' it's twice the amount i must be dhrinkin'. i swear, i feel a thirst risin' that minds me o' ingy in the hills, an' the mess o' the rile irish wance again." "you'll be going away," said franklin, sadly, as he rose and took battersleigh by the hand. "you'll be going away and leaving me here alone--awfully alone." "ned," said the tall irishman, rising and laying, a hand upon his shoulder, "don't ye belave i'll be lavin' ye. i've seen the worrld, an' i must see it again, but wance in a while i'll be comin' around here to see the best man's country on the globe, an' to meet agin the best man i ivver knew. i'll not till why i belave it, for that i can not do, but shure i do belave it, this is the land for you. there'll be workin' an' thinkin' here afther you an' batty are gone, an' maybe they'll work out the joy an' sorrow of ut here. don't be restless, but abide, an' take ye root here. for batty, it's no odds. he's seen the worrld." battersleigh's words caused franklin's face to grow still more grave, and his friend saw and suspected the real cause. "tut, tut! me boy," he said, "i well know how your wishes lie. it's a noble gyurl ye've chosen, as a noble man should do. she may change her thought to-morrow. it's change is the wan thing shure about a woman." franklin shook his head mutely, but battersleigh showed only impatience with him. "go on with your plans, man," said he, "an' pay no attintion to the gyurl! make ready the house and prepare the bridal gyarments. talk with her raysonable, an' thin thry unraysonable, and if she won't love ye peaceful, thin thry force; an' she'll folly ye thin, to the ind of the earth, an' love ye like a lamb. it's batty has studied the sex. now, wance there was a gyurl--but no; i'll not yet thrust mesilf to spake o' that. god rist her asy ivermore!" "yes," said franklin sadly, "that is it. that is what my own answer has been. she tells me that there was once another, who no longer lives--that no one else--" battersleigh's face grew grave in turn. "there's no style of assault more difficult than that same," said he. "yet she's young; she must have been very young. with all respect, it's the nature o' the race o' women to yield to the livin', breathin' man above the dead an' honoured." "i had my hopes," said franklin, "but they're gone. they've been doing well at the halfway house, and i've been doing well here. i've made more money than i ever thought i should, and i presume i may make still more. i presume that's all there is--just to make money, and then more, if you can. let it go that way. i'll not wear my heart on my sleeve--not for any woman in the world." franklin's jaws set in fashion still more stern than their usual cast, yet there had come, as battersleigh did not fail to notice, an older droop to the corners of his mouth, and a loss of the old brilliance of the eye. "spoken like a man," said battersleigh, "an' if ye'll stick to that ye're the more like to win. nivver chance follyin' too close in a campaign ag'inst a woman. parallel an' mine, but don't uncover your forces. if ye advance, do so by rushes, an' not feelin' o' the way. but tin to wan, if ye lie still under cover, she'll be sendin' out skirmishers to see where ye are an' what ye are doin'. now, ye love the gyurl, i know, an' so do i, an' so does ivery man that ivver saw her, for she's the sort min can't help adorin'. but, mind me, kape away. don't write to her. don't make poetry about her--god forbid! don't do the act o' serrynadin' in anny way whativver. make no complaint--if ye do she'll hate ye, like as not; for when a gyurl has wronged a man she hates him for it. merely kape still. ye've met your first reverse, an' ye've had your outposts cut up a bit, an' ye think the ind o' the worrld has come. now, mind me, ould batty, who's seen the lands; only do ye attind to dhrill an' sinthry-go an' commissariat, till in time ye find your forces in thrim again. by thin luk out fer heads stickin' up over the hills on the side o' the inimy, who'll be wonderin' what's goin' on. 'go 'way,' she says to you, an' you go. 'come back,' she whispers to herself, an' you don't hear it. yet all the time she's wonderin' pfwhy you don't!" franklin smiled in spite of himself. "battersleigh's tactics and manual of strategy," he murmured. "all right, old man. i thank you just the same. i presume i'll live, at the worst. and there's a bit in life besides what we want for ourselves, you know." "there's naught in life but what we're ready to take for oursilves!" cried battersleigh. "i'll talk no fable of other fishes in the say for ye. take what ye want, if ye'll have it. an' hearken; there's more to ned franklin than bein' a land agent and a petty lawyer. it's not for ye yersilf to sit an' mope, neyther to spind your life diggin' in a musty desk. ye're to grow, man; ye're to grow! do ye not feel the day an' hour? man, did ye nivver think o' destiny?" "i've never been able not to believe in it," said franklin. "to some men all things come easily, while others get on only by the hardest knocks; and some go always close to success, but die just short of the parapet. i haven't myself classified, just yet." "ye have your dreams, boy?" "yes; i have my dreams." "all colours are alike," said battersleigh. "now, whut is my young injun savage doin', when he goes out alone, on top of some high hill, an' builds him a little fire, an' talks with his familiar spirits, which he calls here his 'drame'? isn't he searchin' an' feelin' o' himsilf, same as the haythin in far-away ingy? git your nose up, ned, or you'll be unwittin' classifyin' yersilf with the great slave class which we lift behind not long ago, but which is follyin' us hard and far. git your nose up, fer it's batty has been thinkin' ye've destiny inside your skin. listen to batty the fool, and search your sowl. i'll tell ye this: i've the feelin' that i'll be hearin' of ye, in all the marrches o' the worrld. don't disappoint me, ned, for the ould man has belaved in ye--more than ye've belaved in yersilf. as to the gyurl--bah!--go marry her some day, av ye've nothin' more importhant on yer hands. "but, me dear boy, spakin' o' importhant things, i ralely must be goin' now. i've certain importhant preparations that are essintial before i get dhrunk this avenin'--" "o battersleigh, do be sensible," said franklin, "and do give up this talk of getting drunk. come over here this evening and talk with me. it's much better than getting drunk." battersleigh's hand was on the door knob. "the consate o' you!" he said. "thrue, ye're a fine boy, ned, an' i know of no conversayshun more entertainin' than yer own, but i tale that if i didn't get dhrunk like a gintleman this avenin', i'd be violatin' me juty to me own conscience, as well as settin' at naught the thraditions o' the rile irish. an' so, if ye'll just excuse me, i'll say good-bye till, say, to-morrow noon." chapter xxxii the calling and now there still fared on the swift, sane empire of the west. the rapid changes, the strivings, the accomplishments, the pretensions and the failures of the new town blended in the product of human progress. each man fell into his place in the community as though appointed thereto, and the eyes of all were set forward. there was no retrospection, there were no imaginings, no fears, no disbeliefs. the people were as ants, busy building their hill, underletting it with galleries, furnishing it with chambers, storing it with riches, providing it with defences; yet no individual ant looked beyond his own antennae, or dreamed that there might be significance in the tiny footprints which he left. there were no philosophers to tell these busy actors that they were puppets in a great game, ants in a giant hill. they lived, loved, and multiplied; which, after all, is life. to franklin the days and months and years went by unpunctuated, his life settling gradually into the routine of an unhappy calm. he neglected too much the social side of life, and rather held to his old friends than busied himself with the search for new. battersleigh was gone, swiftly and mysteriously gone, though with the promise to return and with the reiteration of his advice and his well wishes. curly was gone--gone up the trail into a far and mysterious country, though he, too, promised to remember ellisville, and had given hostage for his promise. his friends of the halfway house were gone, for though he heard of them and knew them to be prosperous, he felt himself, by reason of mary ellen's decision, in propriety practically withdrawn from their personal acquaintance. of the kaleidoscope of the oncoming civilization his eye caught but little. there had again fallen upon his life a season of blight, or self-distrust, of dull dissatisfaction with the world and with living. as in earlier years he had felt unrest and known the lack of settled purpose, so now, after having seen all things apparently set in order before him for progressive accomplishment, he had fallen back once more into that state of disbelief, of that hopeless and desperate awakening properly reserved only for old age, when the individual realizes that what he does is of itself of no consequence, and that what he is or is not stops no single star an atom in its flight, no blade of grass an iota in its growing. paralysis of the energies too often follows upon such self-revelations; and indeed it seemed to franklin that he had suffered some deep and deadly benumbing of his faculties. he could not welcome the new days. his memory was set rather on the old days, so recent and in some way so dear. he loved the forgotten thunder of the buffalo, but in his heart there rose no exultation at the rumble of the wheels. still conscientious, he plodded, nor did he cease to aspire even in his own restricted avocations. because of his level common sense, which is the main ingredient in the success-portion, he went easily into the first councils of the community. joylessly painstaking and exact, he still prospered in what simple practice of the law there offered, acting as counsel for the railway, defending a rare criminal case, collecting accounts, carrying on title contests and "adverse" suits in the many cases before the register of the land office, and performing all the simple humdrum of the busy country lawyer. he made more and more money, since at that time one of his position and opportunities could hardly avoid doing so. his place in the business world was assured. he had no occasion for concern. for most men this would have been prosperity sufficient; yet never did edward franklin lie down with the long breath of the man content; and ever in his dreams there came the vague beckoning of a hand still half unseen. once this disturbing summons to his life was merely disquieting and unformulated, but gradually now it assumed a shape more urgent and more definite. haunting him with the sense of the unfulfilled, the face of mary ellen was ever in the shadow; of mary ellen, who had sent him away forever; of mary ellen, who was wasting her life on a prairie ranch, with naught to inspire and none to witness the flowering of her soul. that this rare plant should thus fail and wither seemed to him a crime quite outside his own personal concern. this unreal mary ellen, this daily phantom, which hung faces on bare walls and put words between the lines of law books, seemed to have some message for him. yet had he not had his final message from the actual mary ellen? and, after all, did anything really matter any more? so much for the half-morbid frame of mind due for the most part to the reflex of a body made sick by an irregular and irrational life. this much, too, franklin could have established of his own philosophy. yet this was not all, nor was the total so easily to be explained away. steadily, and with an insistence somewhat horrible, there came to franklin's mind a feeling that this career which he saw before him would not always serve to satisfy him. losing no touch of the democratic loyalty to his fellow-men, he none the less clearly saw himself in certain ways becoming inexorably separated from his average fellow-man. the executive instinct was still as strong within him, but he felt it more creative, and he longed for finer material than the seamy side of man's petty strifes with man, made possible under those artificial laws which marked man's compromise with nature. he found no solace and no science in the study of the great or the small crimes of an artificial system which did not touch individual humanity, and which was careless of humanity's joys or sorrowings. longing for the satisfying, for the noble things, he found himself irresistibly facing toward the past, and irresistibly convinced that in that past, as in the swiftly marching present, there might be some lesson, not ignoble and not uncomforting. horrified that he could not rest in the way that he had chosen, distracted at these intangible desires, he doubted at times his perfect sanity; for though it seemed there was within him the impulse to teach and to create, he could not say to himself what or how was to be the form, whether mental or material, of the thing created, the thing typified, the thing which he would teach. of such travail, of such mould, have come great architects, great engineers, great writers, musicians, painters, indeed great men of affairs, beings who stand by the head and shoulders above other men as leaders. the nature of such men is not always at the first assured, the imprimitive seal not always surely set on, so that of one thus tormented of his inner self it may be mere accident which shall determine whether it is to be great artist or great artisan that is to be born again. to franklin, dreaming as he woke or slept, there sometimes waved a hand, there sometimes sounded a voice, as that which of old summoned the prophet in the watches of the night. neither in his waking nor his sleeping hours could he call this spirit into materialization, however much he longed to wrestle with it finally. it remained only to haunt him vaguely, to join with the shade of mary ellen the cruel to set misery on a life which he had thought happily assured. chapter xxxiii the great cold the land lay trusting and defenceless under a cynical sky, which was unthreatening but mocking. dotting a stretch of country thirty miles on either side of the railway, and extending as far to the east and west along its line, there were scattered hundreds of homes, though often these were separated one from the other by many miles of open prairie. fences and fields appeared, and low stacks of hay and straw here and there stood up above the vast gray surface of the old buffalo and cattle range. some of these houses were board "shacks," while others were of sods, and yet others, these among the earliest established on the plains, the useful dugout, half above and half beneath the ground. yet each building, squat or tall, small or less small, was none the less a home. most of them contained families. men had brought hither their wives and children--little children, sometimes babes, tender, needful of warmth and care. for these stood guardian the gaunt coal chutes of the town, with the demands of a population of twenty-five hundred, to say nothing of the settlers round about, a hundred tons for a thousand families, scattered, dwelling out along breaks and _coulees_, and on worn hillsides, and at the ends of long, faint, wandering trails, which the first whirl of snow would softly and cruelly wipe away. yet there was no snow. there had been none the winter before. the trappers and skin-hunters said that the winter was rarely severe. the railroad men had ranged west all the winter, throats exposed and coats left at the wagons. it was a mild country, a gentle, tender country. in this laughing sky who could see any cynicism? the wind was cold, and the wild fowl flew clamouring south from the sheeted pools, but the great hares did not change their colour, and the grouse stayed brown, and the prairie dogs barked joyously. no harm could come to any one. the women and children were safe. besides, was there not coal at the town? quite outside of this, might not one burn coarse grass if necessary, or stalks of corn, or even ears of corn? no tree showed in scores of miles, and often from smoke to tiny smoke it was farther than one could see, even in the clear blue mocking morn; yet the little houses were low and warm, and each had its makeshift for fuel, and in each the husband ate, and the wife sewed, and the babes wept and prattled as they have in generations past; and none looked on the sky to call it treacherous. one morning the sun rose with a swift bound into a cloudless field. the air was mild, dead, absolutely silent and motionless. the wires along the railway alone sang loudly, as though in warning--a warning unfounded and without apparent cause. yet the sighing in the short grass was gone. in the still air the smokes of the town rose directly upright; and answering to them faint, thin spires rose here and there far out over the prairies, all straight, unswerving, ominous, terrible. there was a great hush, a calm, a pause upon all things. the sky was blue and cloudless, but at last it could not conceal the mockery it bore upon its face, so that when men looked at it and listened to the singing of the wires they stopped, and without conscious plan hurried on, silent, to the nearest company. somewhere, high up in the air, unheralded, invisible, there were passing some thin inarticulate sounds, far above the tops of the tallest smoke spires, as though some titan blew a far jest across the continent to another near the sea, who answered with a gusty laugh, sardonic, grim, foreknowing. every horse free on the range came into the _coulees_ that morning, and those which were fenced in ran up and down excitedly. men ate and smoked, and women darned, and babes played. in a thousand homes there was content with this new land, so wild at one time, but now so quickly tamed, so calm, so gentle, so thoroughly subdued. the sun came on, valiantly stripped bare, knowing what was to be. still louder rose the requiem of the wire. the sky smiled on. there was no token to strike with alarm these human beings, their faculties dulled by a thousand years of differentiation. "peace and goodwill," said men; for now it was coming on to christmastide. but the wire was seeking to betray the secret of the sky, which was resolved to carry war, to sweep these beings from the old range that once was tenantless! to the north there appeared a long, black cloud, hanging low as the trail of some far-off locomotive, new upon the land. even the old hunters might have called it but the loom of the line of the distant sand hills upon the stream. but all at once the cloud sprang up, unfurling tattered battle flags, and hurrying to meet the sun upon the zenith battle ground. then the old hunters and trappers saw what was betokened. a man came running, laughing, showing his breath white on the air. the agent at the depot called sharply to the cub to shut the door. then he arose and looked out, and hurried to his sender to wire east along the road for coal, train loads of coal, all the coal that could be hurried on! this man knew the freight of the country, in and out, and he had once trapped for a living along these same hills and plains. he knew what was the meaning of the cloud, and the tall pointed spires of smoke, and the hurrying naked sun. the cloud swept up and onward, and all persons closed their doors, and said that christmas would be cold. in a quarter of an hour they saw their chronology late by a day. in half an hour they noted a gray mist drive across the sky. there was a faint wavering and spreading and deflection at the top of the tallest spire of smoke. somewhere, high above, there passed a swarm of vast humming bees. out in the country, miles away from town, a baby played in the clear air, resting its plump knees in the shallow layer of chips where once a pile of wood had been. it turned its face up toward the sky, and something soft and white and cool dropped down upon its cheek. in mid-sky met the sun and the cloud, and the sun was vanquished, and all the world went gray. then, with a shriek and a whirl of a raw and icy air which dropped, dropped down, colder and colder and still more cold, all the world went white. this snow came not down from the sky, but slantwise across the land, parallel with the earth, coming from the open side of the coldest nether hell hidden in the mysterious north. over it sang the air spirits. above, somewhere, there was perhaps a sky grieving at its perfidy. across the world the titans laughed and howled. all the elements were over-ridden by a voice which said, "i shall have back my own!" for presently the old plains were back again, and over them rushed the wild winds in their favourite ancient game. once the winds pelted the slant snow through the interstices of the grasses upon the furry back of the cowering coyote. now they found a new sport in driving the icy powder through the cracks of the loose board shanty, upon the stripped back of the mother huddling her sobbing children against the empty, impotent stove, perhaps wrapping her young in the worn and whitened robe of the buffalo taken years ago. for it was only the buffalo, though now departed, which held the frontier for america in this unprepared season, the christmas of the great cold. the robes saved many of the children, and now and then a mother also. the men who had no fuel did as their natures bid, some dying at the ice-bound stove, and others in the open on their way for fuel; for this great storm, known sometimes as the double norther, had this deadly aspect, that at the end of the first day it cleared, the sky offering treacherous flag of truce, afterward to slay those who came forth and were entrapped. in that vast, seething sea of slantwise icy nodules not the oldest plainsman could hold notion of the compass. many men died far away from home, some with their horses, and others far apart from where the horses stood, the latter also in many cases frozen stiff. mishap passed by but few of the remoter homes found unprepared with fuel, and christmas day, deceitfully fair, dawned on many homes that were to be fatherless, motherless, or robbed of a first-born. thus it was that from this, the hardiest and most self-reliant population ever known on earth, there rose the heartbroken cry for comfort and for help, the frontier for the first time begging aid to hold the skirmish line. indeed, back from this skirmish line there came many broken groups, men who had no families, or families that had no longer any men. it was because of this new game the winds had found upon the plains, and because of the deceitful double storm. men came into ellisville white with the ice driven into their buffalo coats and hair and beards, their mouths mumbling, their feet stumbling and heavy. they begged for coal, and the agent gave to each, while he could, what one might carry in a cloth, men standing over the supply with rifles to see that fairness was enforced. after obtaining such pitiful store, men started back home again, often besought or ordered not to leave the town, but eager to die so much the closer to their families. after the storm had broken, little relief parties started out, provided with section maps and lists of names from the land office. these sometimes were but counting parties. the wolves had new feed that winter, and for years remembered it, coming closer about the settlements, sometimes following the children as they went to school. the babe that touched with laughter the cool, soft thing that fell upon its cheek lay finally white and silent beneath a coverlid of white, and upon the floor lay others also shrouded; and up to the flapping door led tracks which the rescuing parties saw. sam poston, the driver of the regular mail stage to the south, knew more of the condition of the settlers in that part of the country than any other man in ellisville, and he gave an estimate which was alarming. there was no regular supply of fuel, he stated, and it was certain that the storm had found scores of families utterly unprepared. of what that signifies, those who have lived only in the routine of old communities can have no idea whatever. for the most of us, when we experience cold, the remedy is to turn a valve, to press a knob, to ask forthwith for fuel. but if fuel be twenty miles away, in a sea of shifting ice and bitter cold, if it be somewhere where no man may reach it alive--what then? first, we burn the fence, if we can find it. then we burn all loose things. we burn the chairs, the table, the bed, the doors-- then we rebel; and then we dream. sam poston came into the office where franklin sat on christmas eve, listening to the clinking rattle of the hard snow on the pane. sam was white from head to foot. his face was anxious, his habitual uncertainty and diffidence were gone. "cap," said he, with no prelude, "the whole country below'll be froze out. this blizzard's awful." "i know it," said franklin. "we must get out with help soon as we can. how far down do you think the danger line begins?" "well, up to three or four miles out it's thicker settled, an' most o' the folks could git into town. as fur out as thirty mile to the south, they might git a little timber yet, over on the smoky. the worst strip is fifteen to twenty-five mile below. folks in there is sort o' betwixt an' between, an' if they're short o' fuel to-day they'll have to burn anything they can, that's all, fer a feller wouldn't last out in this storm very long if he got lost. it's the worst i ever see in the west." franklin felt a tightening at his heart. "about fifteen to twenty-five miles?" he said. sam nodded. both were silent. "look here, cap," said the driver presently, "you've allus told me not to say nothin' 'bout the folks down to the halfway house, an' i hain't said a thing. i 'low you got jarred down there some. i know how that is. all the same, i reckon maybe you sorter have a leanin' that way still. you may be worried some--" "i am!" cried franklin. "tell me, how were they prepared--would they have enough to last them through?" "none too much," said sam. "the old man was tellin' me not long back that he'd have to come in 'fore long to lay him in his coal for the winter. o' course, they had the corrals, an' some boards, an' stuff like that layin' 'round. they had the steps to the dugout, an' some little wood about the win'mill, though they couldn't hardly git at the tank--" franklin groaned as he listened to this calm inventory of resources in a case so desperate. he sank into a chair, his face between his hands. then he sprang up. "we must go!" he cried. "i know it," said sam simply. "get ready," exclaimed franklin, reaching for his coat. "what do you mean, cap--now?" "yes, to-night--at once." "you d----d fool!" said sam. "you coward!" cried franklin. "what! are you afraid to go out when people are freezing--when--" sam rose to his feet, his slow features working. "that ain't right, cap," said he. "i know i'm scared to do some things, but i--i don't believe i'm no coward. i ain't afraid to go down there, but i won't go to-night, ner let you go, fer it's the same as death to start now. we couldn't maybe make it in the daytime, but i'm willin' to try it then. don't you call no coward to me. it ain't right." franklin again cast himself into his chair, his hand and arm smiting on the table. "i beg your pardon, sam," said he presently. "i know you're not a coward. we'll start together in the morning. but it's killing me to wait. good god! they may be freezing now, while we're here, warm and safe!" "that's so," said sam sententiously. "we can't help it. we all got to go some day." his words drove franklin again to his feet, and he walked up and down, his face gone pinched and old. "i 'low we won't sleep much to-night, cap," said sam quietly. "come on; let's go git some coffee, an' see if anybody here in town is needin' help. we'll pull out soon as we kin see in the mornin'." they went out into the cold, staggering as the icy sheet drove full against them. ellisville was blotted out. there was no street, but only a howling lane of white. not half a dozen lights were visible. the tank at the railway, the big hotel, the station-house, were gone--wiped quite away. the plains were back again! "don't git off the main street," gasped sam as they turned their faces down wind to catch their breath. "touch the houses all along. lord! ain't it cold!" ellisville was safe, or all of it that they could stumblingly discover. the town did not sleep. people sat up, greeting joyously any who came to them, eating, drinking, shivering in a cold whose edge could not be turned. it was an age till morning--until that morning of deceit. at dawn the wind lulled. the clouds swept by and the sun shone for an hour over a vast landscape buried under white. sam was ready to start, having worked half the night making runners for a sled at which his wild team snorted in the terror of unacquaintedness. the sled box was piled full of robes and coal and food and liquor--all things that seemed needful and which could hurriedly be secured. the breath of the horses was white steam, and ice hung on the faces of the men before they had cleared the town and swung out into the reaches of the open prairies which lay cold and empty all about them. they counted the smokes--peterson, johnson, clark, mcgill, townsend, one after another; and where they saw smoke they rejoiced, and where they saw none they stopped. often it was but to nail fast the door. with perfect horsemanship sam drove his team rapidly on to the south, five miles, ten miles, fifteen, the horses now warming up, but still restless and nervous, even on the way so familiar to them from their frequent journeyings. the steam of their breath enveloped the travellers in a wide, white cloud. the rude runners crushed into and over the packed drifts, or along the sandy grime where the wind had swept the earth bare of snow. in less than an hour they would see the halfway house. they would know whether or not there was smoke. but in less than two hours on that morning of deceit the sun was lost again. the winds piped up, the cold continued, and again there came the blinding snow, wrapping all things in its dancing, dizzy mist. in spite of the falling of the storm, franklin and his companion pushed on, trusting to the instinct of the plains horses, which should lead them over a trail that they had travelled so often before. soon the robes and coats were driven full of snow; the horses were anxious, restless, and excited. but always the runners creaked on, and always the two felt sure they were nearing the place they sought. exposed so long in this bitter air, they were cut through with the chill, in spite of all the clothing they could wear, for the norther of the plains has quality of its own to make its victims helpless. the presence of the storm was awful, colossal, terrifying. sometimes they were confused, seeing dark, looming bulks in the vague air, though a moment later they noted it to be but the packing of the drift in the atmosphere. sometimes they were gloomy, not hoping for escape, though still the horses went gallantly on, driven for the most part down a wind which they never would have faced. "the wind's just on my right cheek," said sam, putting up a mitten. "but where's it gone?" "you're frozen, man!" cried franklin. "pull up, and let me rub your face." "no, no, we can't stop," said sam, catching up some snow and rubbing his white cheek as he drove. "keep the wind on your right cheek--we're over the sand run now, i think, and on the long ridge, back of the white woman. it can't be over two mile more.--git along, boys. whoa! what's the matter there?" the horses had stopped, plunging at something which they could not pass. "good god!" cried franklin, "whose fence is that? are we at buford's?" "no," said sam, "this must be at old man hancock's. he fenced across the old road, and we had to make a jog around his d----d broom-corn field. it's only a couple o' miles now to buford's." "shall i tear down the fence?" asked franklin. "no, it's no use; it'd only let us in his field, an' maybe we couldn't hit the trail on the fur side. we got to follow the fence a way. may god everlastingly damn any man that'll fence up the free range!--whoa, jack! whoa, bill! git out o' here! git up!" they tried to parallel the fence, but the horses edged away from the wind continually, so that it was difficult to keep eye upon the infrequent posts of the meagre, straggling fence that this man had put upon the "public lands." "hold on, sam!" cried franklin. "let me out." "that's right, cap," said sam. "git out an' go on ahead a way, then holler to me, so'st i kin come up to you. when we git around the corner we'll be all right." but when they got around the corner they were not all right. at such times the mind of man is thrown off its balance, so that it does strange and irregular things. both these men had agreed a moment ago that the wind should be on the right; now they disagreed, one thinking that hancock's house was to the left, the other to the right, their ideas as to the direction of the buford ranch being equally at variance. the horses decided it, breaking once again down wind, and striking a low-headed, sullen trot, as though they would out-march the storm. and so the two argued, and so they rode, until at last there was a lurch and a crash, and they found themselves in rough going, the sled half overturned, with no fence, no house, no landmark of any sort visible, and the snow drifting thicker than before. they sprang out and righted the sled, but the horses doggedly pulled on, plunging down and down; and they followed, clinging to reins and sled as best they might. either accident or the instinct of the animals had in some way taken them into rough, broken country, where they would find some shelter from the bitter level blast. they were soon at the bottom of a flat and narrow valley, and above them the wind roared and drove ever on a white blanket that sought to cover them in and under. "we've lost the trail, but we done the best we could," said sam doggedly, going to the heads of the horses, which looked questioningly back at him, their heads drooping, their breath freezing upon their coats in spiculae of white. "wait!" cried franklin. "i know this hole! i've been here before. the team's come here for shelter--" "oh, it's the white woman breaks--why, sure!" cried sam in return. "yes, that's where it is. we're less than half a mile from the house. wait, now, and let me think. i've got to figure this out a while." "it's off there," said sam, pointing across the _coulee_; "but we can't get there." "yes, we can, old man; yes, we can!" insisted franklin. "i'll tell you. let me think. good god! why can't i think? yes--see here, you go down the bottom of this gully to the mouth of the _coulee_, and then we turn to the left--no, it's to the right--and you bear up along the side of the draw till you get to the ridge, and then the house is right in front of you. listen, now! the wind's north-west, and the house is west of the head of the _coulee_; so the mouth is east of us, and that brings the wind on the left cheek at the mouth of the _coulee_, and it comes more and more on the right cheek as we turn up the ridge; and it's on the front half of the right cheek when we face the house, i'm sure that's right--wait, i'll mark it out here in the snow. god! how cold it is! it must be right. come on; come! we must try it, anyway." "we may hit the house, cap," said sam calmly, "but if we miss it we'll go god knows where! anyhow, i'm with you, an' if we don't turn up, we can't help it, an' we done our best." "come," cried franklin once more. "let's get to the mouth of the _coulee_. i know this place perfectly." and so, advancing and calling, and waiting while sam fought the stubborn horses with lash and rein out of the shelter which they coveted. franklin led out of the flat coulee, into the wider draw, and edged up and up to the right, agonizedly repeating to himself, over and over again, the instructions he had laid down, and which the dizzy whirl of the snow mingled ever confusedly in his mind. at last they had the full gale again in their faces as they reached the level of the prairies, and cast loose for what they thought was west, fearfully, tremblingly, the voyage a quarter of a mile, the danger infinitely great; for beyond lay only the cruel plains and the bitter storm--this double norther of a woeful christmastide. once again providence aided them, by agency of brute instinct. one of the horses threw up its head and neighed, and then both pressed forward eagerly. the low moan of penned cattle came down the wind. they crashed into a fence of lath. they passed its end--a broken, rattling end, that trailed and swept back and forth in the wind. "it's the chicken corral," cried sam, "an' it's down! they've been burnin'--" "go on! go on--hurry!" shouted franklin, bending down his head so that the gale might not quite rob him of his breath, and sam urged on the now willing horses. they came to the sod barn, and here they left the team that had saved them, not pausing to take them from the harness. they crept to the low and white-banked wall in which showed two windows, glazed with frost. they could not see the chimney plainly, but it carried no smell of smoke. the stairway leading down to the door of the dugout was missing, the excavation which held it was drifted full of snow, and the snow bore no track of human foot. all was white and silent. it might have been a vault far in the frozen northern sea. franklin burst open the door, and they both went in, half pausing. there was that which might well give them pause. the icy breath of the outer air was also here. heaps and tongues of snow lay across the floor. white ashes lay at the doors of both the stoves. the table was gone, the chairs were gone. the interior was nearly denuded, so that the abode lay like an abandoned house, drifted half full of dry, fine powdered snow. and even this snow upon the floors had no tracks upon its surface. there was no sign of life. awed, appalled, the two men stood, white and huge, in the middle of the abandoned room, listening for that which they scarce expected to hear. yet from one of the side rooms they caught a moan, a call, a supplication. then from a door came a tall and white-faced figure with staring eyes, which held out its arms to the taller of the snow-shrouded forms and said: "uncle, is it you? have you come back? we were so afraid!" from the room behind this figure came a voice sobbing, shouting, blessing the name of the lord. so they knew that two were saved, and one was missing. they pushed into the remaining room. "auntie went away," said the tall and white-faced figure, shuddering and shivering. "she went away into her room. we could not find the fence any more. uncle, is it you? come!" so they came to the bedside and saw mrs. buford lying covered with all her own clothing and much of that of mary ellen and aunt lucy, but with no robe; for the buffalo robes had all gone with the wagon, as was right, though unavailing. under this covering, heaped up, though insufficient, lay mrs. buford, her face white and still and marble-cold. they found her with the picture of her husband clasped upon her breast. "she went away!" sobbed mary ellen, leaning her head upon franklin's shoulder and still under the hallucination of the fright and strain and suffering. she seemed scarce to understand that which lay before them, but continued to wander, babbling, shivering, as her arms lay on franklin's shoulder. "we could not keep her warm," she said. "it has been very, very cold!" chapter xxxiv the artfulness of sam in the early days of ellisville society was alike in costume and custom, and as unsuspicious as it would have been intolerant of any idea of rank or class. a "beef" was a beef, and worth eight dollars. a man was a man, worth as much as his neighbour, and no more. each man mended his own saddle. thus society remained until there ensued that natural division which has been earlier mentioned, by which there became established two groups or classes--the dwellers in the cottage and the dwellers in the stone hotel. this was at first a matter of choice, and carried no idea of rank or class distinction, for a brief time there might have been found support for that ideally inaccurate statement of our constitution which holds that all men are born free and equal, entitled to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. with all our might we belie this clause, though in the time of ellisville it might have had some footing. that day has long since passed. the men of the cottage hotel continued big, brown, bespurred and behatted, yet it might have been observed that the tenantry of the stone hotel became gradually less sunburned and more immaculate. mustaches swept not so sunburned, blonde and wide, but became in the average darker and more trim. at the door of the dining-room there were hat racks, and in time they held "hard hats." the stamping of the social die had begun its work. indeed, after a time there came to be in the great dining-room of the stone hotel little groups bounded by unseen but impassable lines. the bankers and the loan agents sat at the head of the hall, and to them drifted naturally the ministers, ever in search of pillars. lawyers and doctors sat adjacent thereunto, and merchants not far away. there was yet no shrug at the artisan, yet the invisible hand gradually swept him apart. across the great gulfs, on whose shores sat the dining-room tables, men and women looked and talked, but trod not as they came in to meat, each person knowing well his place. the day of the commercial traveller was not yet, and for these there was no special table, they being for the most part assigned to the red belt; there being a certain portion of the hall where the tablecloths were checkered red and white. it was not good to be in the red belt. sam, the owner of the livery barn, had one table in the corner, where he invariably sat. his mode of entering the dining-room varied not with the passing of the years. appearing at the door, he cast a frightened look at the occupants who had preceded him, and in whose faces he could imagine nothing but critical censure of his own person. becoming aware of his hat, he made a dive and hung it up. then he trod timidly through the door, with a certain side-draught in his step, yet withal an acceleration of speed which presently brought him almost at a run to his corner of refuge, where he dropped, red and with a gulp. often he mopped his brow with the unwonted napkin, but discovery in this act by the stern eye of nora, the head waitress, caused him much agony and a sudden search for a handkerchief. when nora stood at his chair, and repeated to him frostily the menu of the day, all the world went round to sam, and he gained no idea of what was offered him. with much effort at nonchalance, he would again wipe his face, take up his fork for twiddling, and say always the same thing. "oh, i ain't very hungry; jes' bring me a little pie an' beef an' coffee." and nora, scornfully ignoring all this, then departed and brought him many things, setting them in array about his plate, and enabling him to eat as really he wished. whether sam knew that nora would do this is a question which must remain unanswered, but it is certain that he never changed the form of his own "order." sam was a citizen. he had grown up with the town. he was, so to speak, one of the charter members of ellisville, and thereby entitled to consideration. moreover, his business was one of the most lucrative in the community, and he was beyond the clutching shallows and upon the easy flood of prosperity. no man could say that sam owed him a dollar, nor could any man charge against him any act of perfidy, except such as might now and then be connected with the letting of a "right gentle" horse. there was no reason why sam might not look any man in the face, or any woman. but this latter sam had never done. his admiration for nora bade fair to remain a secret known of all but the one most interested. daily sam sat at the table and listened to nora's icy tones. he caught his breath if the glitter of her glasses faced him, and went in a fever as he saw her sail across the floor. daily he arose with the stern resolve that before the sun had set he would have told this woman of that which so oppressed him; yet each day, after he had dined, he stole furtively away to the hat rack and slouched across the street to his barn, gazing down at his feet with abasement on his soul. "i ain't afeard o' any hoss that ever stood up," said he to himself, "but i can't say a word to that nory girl, no matter how i try!" it was one of sam's theories that some day he would go in late to dinner, when there was no one else left in the great hall. he would ask nora to come to serve him. then he would grasp her hand, there as she stood by him, and he would pour forth to her the story of his long unuttered love. and then--but beyond this sam could not think. and never yet had he dared go into the dining hall and sit alone, though it was openly rumoured that such had been the ruse of curly with the "littlest waiter girl," before curly had gone north on the wyoming trail. accident sometimes accomplishes that which design fails to compass. one day sam was detained with a customer much later than his usual dinner hour. indeed, sam had not been to dinner at the hotel for many days, a fact which the district physician at the railway might have explained. "of course," said sam, "i done the drivin', an' maybe that was why i got froze some more than cap franklin did, when we went down south that day." frozen he had been, so that two of his fingers were now gone at the second joint, a part of his right ear was trimmed of unnecessary tissue, and his right cheek remained red and seared with the blister of the cold endured on that drive over the desolated land. it was a crippled and still more timid sam who, unwittingly very late, halted that day at the door of the dining-room and gazed within. at the door there came over him a wave of recollection. it seemed to him all at once that he was, by reason of his afflictions, set still further without the pale of any possible regard. he dodged to his table and sat down without a look at any of his neighbours. to him it seemed that nora regarded him with yet more visible scornfulness. could he have sunk beneath the board he would have done so. naught but hunger made him bold, for he had lived long at his barn on sardines, cheese, and crackers. one by one the guests at the tables rose and left the room, and one by one the waiter girls followed them. the dining hour was nearly over. the girls would go upstairs for a brief season of rest before changing their checked gingham mid-day uniform for the black gown and white apron which constituted the regalia for the evening meal, known, of course, as "supper." sam, absorbed in his own misery and his own hunger, awoke with a start to find the great hall apparently quite deserted. it is the curious faculty of some men (whereby scientists refer us to the ape) that they are able at will to work back and forth the scalp upon the skull. yet other and perhaps fewer men retain the ability to work either or both ears, moving them back and forth voluntarily. it was sam's solitary accomplishment that he could thus move his ears. only by this was he set apart and superior to other beings. you shall find of very many men but few able to do this thing. moreover, if you be curious in philosophy, it shall come to be fixed in your memory that woman is disposed to love not one who is like to many, but to choose rather one who is distinct, superior, or more fit than his fellow-men; it being ever the intent of nature that the most excellent shall attract, and thus survive. as sam sat alone at the table, his spoon rattling loud upon his plate in evidence of his mental disturbance, he absent-mindedly began to work back and forth his ears, perhaps solicitous to learn if his accomplishment had been impaired by the mishap which had caused him other loss. as he did this, he was intensely startled to hear behind him a burst of laughter, albeit laughter quickly smothered. he turned to see nora, his idol, his adored, standing back of him, where she had slipped in with professional quiet and stood with professional etiquette, waiting for his departure, so that she might hale forth the dishes he had used. at this apparition, at this awful thought--for never in the history of man had nora, the head waitress, been known to smile--the heart of sam stopped forthwith in his bosom. "i-i-i-i b-b-beg your--i-i d-didn't know you was there," he stammered in abject perturbation. nora sniffed. "i should think you might of knowed it," said she. "i d-d-don't b-b-blame you fer laughin', m-m-miss m-m-m-markley," said sam miserably. "what at?" demanded nora fiercely. "at m-m-my air. i know it's funny, cut off, that way. but i c-c-can't help it. it's gone." "i didn't," exclaimed nora hotly, her face flushing. "your ears is all right. i was laughin' at seein' you move 'em. i beg your pardon. i didn't know anybody could, that way, you know. i'm--i'm sorry." a great light broke over sam. a vast dam crashed free. his soul rushed forth in one mad wave. "m-m-miss m-m-markley--miss--nory!" he exclaimed, whirling about and facing her, "d-d-d-do y-y-you l-l-like to s-s-see me work my airs?" "yes, it's funny," admitted nora, on the point of another outbreak in spite of herself. this amiability was an undreamed thing, yet sam saw his advantage. he squared himself about, and, looking solemnly and earnestly in nora's face, he pulled first his right and then his left ear forward until the members stood nearly at right angles to his head. after all, the ludicrous is but the unexpected. many laugh who see an old woman fall upon the slippery pavement. this new spectacle was the absolutely undreamed-of to nora, who was no scientist. her laughter was irrepressible. in a trice the precedents of years were gone. nora felt the empire of her dignity slipping away, but none the less could not repress her mirth. and more than this; as she gazed into the honest, blue-eyed face before her she felt a lessening of her desire to retain her icy pedestal, and she struggled the less against her laughter. indeed, with a sudden fright, she found her laughter growing nervous. she, the head waitress, was perturbed, alarmed! sam followed up his advantage royally. "i can work 'em both to onct!" he exclaimed triumphantly. and did so. "there! they was a boy in our school onct that could work his airs one at a time, but i never did see no one else but me that could work 'em both to onct. look a-here!" he waggled his ears ecstatically. the reserve of nora oozed, waned, vanished. even, the sternest fibre must at length succumb under prolonged herculean endeavour. no man may long continuously wag his ears, even alternately; therefore sam perforce paused in time. yet by that time--in what manner it occurred no one may know--nora was seated on the chair next to him at the table. they were alone. silence fell. nora's hand moved nervously among the spoons. upon it dropped the mutilated one of sam. "nory," said he, "i'd--i'd work 'em all my life--fer you!" and to nora, who turned away her head now, not for the purpose of hiding a smile, this seemed always a perfectly fit and proper declaration of this man's regard. "i know i'm no good," murmured sam. "i'm a awful coward. i-i-i've l-l-loved you ever sence the fust time that i seen you, but i was such a coward, i--i couldn't--couldn't--" "you're not!" cried nora imperiously. "oh, yes, i am," said sam. "look at them," said nora, almost touching his crippled fingers. "don't i know?" "oh, that," said sam, hiding the hand under the droop of the tablecloth. "why, that? i got froze some, a-drivin'." "yes, and," said nora accusingly, "how did you get froze? a-drivin' 'way down there, in the storm, after folks. no one else'd go." "why, yes. cap franklin, he went," said sam. "that wasn't nothin'. why, o' _course_ we'd go." "no one else wouldn't, though." sam wondered. "i was always too much a coward to say a word to you," he began. and then an awful doubt sat on his soul. "nory," he resumed solemnly, "did ever any feller say anything to you about my--i-i-i--well, my lovin' you?" "i should say not!" said nora. "i'd a' slapped his face, mighty quick! what business--" "not never a single one?" said sam, his face brightening. "no, 'ndeed. why, i'd like to know? did you ever ask any one to!" "i should say not!" said sam, with the only lie he ever told, and one most admirable. "i should say not!" he repeated with emphasis, and in tones which carried conviction even to himself. "you'd better not!" said nora. "i wouldn't of had you if they had!" sam started. "what's that, nory?" he said. "say that ag'in! did you say you wouldn't of _had_ me--you wouldn't _of_?" his hand found hers again. "yes," faltered nora, seeing herself entrapped by her own speech. "then, nory," said sam firmly, casting a big arm about her waist, "if you wouldn't _of_ had me then, i reckon now you _do_." and neither from this subtlety nor from the sturdy arm did nora seek evasion, though she tugged faintly at the fingers which held fast her waist. "i don't care," she murmured vaguely. "there ain't no coward would of done it!" whereat sam, seeing himself a hero, wisely accepted fate and ceased to argue. the big arm tightened manfully, and into his blue eyes came the look of triumph. "nory," whispered he loyally, "i'll never work my airs ag'in for any woman in the world but you!" chapter xxxv the hill of dreams franklin found himself swept along with a tide of affairs other than of his own choosing. his grasp on the possibilities of the earliest days of this new civilization had been so full and shrewd that he needed now but to let others build the house whose foundation he had laid. this in effect has been the history of most men who have become wealthy, the sum of one man's efforts being in no great disparity actually superior to those of his fellow-man. yet franklin cared little for mere riches, his ambition ceasing at that point where he might have independence, where he might be himself, and where he might work out unfettered the problems of his own individuality. pursued by a prosperity which would not be denied, his properties growing up about him, his lands trebling in value within a year and his town property rising steadily in value, he sometimes smiled in very grimness as he thought of what this had once and so recently been, and how far beyond his own care the progress of his fortunes had run. at times he reflected upon this almost with regret, realizing strongly the temptation to plunge irrevocably into the battle of material things. this, he knew, meant a loosing, a letting go, a surrender of his inner and honourable dreams, an evasion of that beckoning hand and a forgetting of that summoning voice which bade him to labour agonizingly yet awhile toward other aims. the inner man, still exigent, now exhorted, now demanded, and always rebelled. franklin's face grew older. not all who looked upon him understood, for to be _hors concours_ is to be accursed. something was left to be desired in the vigour and energy of franklin's daily life, once a daily joy in virile effort and exertion. still too much a man to pity himself, none the less he brooded. his hopes and dreams, he reflected, had once flowered so beautifully, had shown so fair for one brief summer day, and lay now so dead and shrivelled and undone! there was no comfort in these later days. and then he thought yearningly of the forceful drama of the wild life which had shrunk so rapidly into the humdrum of the uneventful. at times he felt a wild yearning to follow this frontier--to follow till the west sunk into the sea, and even then to follow, until he came to some fortunate islands where such glorious days should die no more. he recalled the wild animals and the wild men he had known, and saw again the mocking face of the old wide plains, shifting and evading, even as the spirit of his own life evaded him, answering no questions directly, always beckoning, yet always with finger upon lip, forbidding speech. almost with exultation he joined in the savage resentment of this land laid under tribute, he joined in the pitiless scorn of the savage winter, he almost justified in his own soul the frosted pane and the hearth made cold, and the settlers' homes forever desolated. yet ever a chill struck franklin's soul as he thought of the lost battle at the halfway house. there was now grass grown upon the dusty trail that once led up to the low-eaved house. the green and gray of nature were shrouding busily the two lonely graves of those who had fought the, frontier and been vanquished in that night of terror, when the old west claimed its own. the halfway house of old was but a memory. it had served its purpose, had fulfilled its mission, and those who once ruled it now were gone. the wild herds and the wild men came there no longer, and there were neither hosts nor those needing hospitality. and mary ellen, the stately visitant of his sleeping or his waking dreams, no longer might be seen in person at the halfway house. recreant, defeated, but still refusing aid, she had gone back to her land of flowers. it was franklin's one comfort that she had never known into whose hands had passed--at a price far beyond their actual worth--the lands of the halfway house, which had so rapidly built up for her a competency, which had cleared her of poverty, only to re-enforce her in her pride. under all the fantastic grimness, all the mysticism, all the discredited and riotous vagaries of his insubordinate soul, franklin possessed a saving common sense; yet it was mere freakishness which led him to accept a vagrant impulse as the controlling motive at the crucial moment of his life. his nature was not more imaginative than comprehensive. to a very few men edward franklin has admitted that he once dreamed of a hill topped by a little fire, whose smoke dipped and waved and caught him in its fold. in brief, he got into saddle, and journeyed to the hill of dreams. the hill of dreams dominated the wide and level landscape over which it had looked out through hundreds of slow, unnoted years. from it once rose the signal smokes of the red men, and here it was that many a sentinel had stood in times long before a white face was ever seen upon the plains. here often was erected the praying lodge of the young aspirant for wisdom, who stood there and lifted up his hands, saying: "o sun! o air! o earth! o spirits, hear me pray! give me aid, give me wisdom, so that i may know!" here on the hill of dreams, whence the eye might sweep to the fringed sand hills on the south, east to the river many miles away, and north and west almost to the swell of the cold steppes that lead up to the rocky range, the red men had sometimes come to lay their leaders when their day of hunting and of war was over. thus the place came to have extraordinary and mysterious qualities ascribed to it, on which account, in times gone by, men who were restless, troubled, disturbed, dissatisfied, came thither to fast and pray. here they builded their little fires, and here, night and day, they besought the sky, the sun, the firmament to send to them each his "dream," his unseen counsellor, which should speak to him out of its more than earthly wisdom. when the young man was troubled and knew not which course he should pursue, he went up to this hill alone, and so laid hold upon fate that it fain communed with him. he held up his hands at night to the stars, very far above him, and asked that they should witness him and be merciful, for that he was small and weak, and knew not why things should be as they were. he called upon the spirits of the great dead about him to witness the sincerity of his prayer. he placed offerings to the dream people. he prayed to the sun as it rose, and besought it of its strength to strengthen him. sometimes when a young man had gone up alone from the village to this hill to pray, there were seen at night more forms than one walking upon the summit of the hill, and sometimes voices were heard. then it was known that the young man had seen his "dream," and that they had held a council. very many men had thus prayed upon the summit of the hill of dreams in the days gone by. its top was strewn with offerings. it was a sacred place. sometimes the stone cairns did not withstand the wolves, but none the less the place was consecrate. hither they bore the great dead. it was upon the hill of dreams that his people buried white calf, the last great leader of the plains tribes, who fell in the combat with the not less savage giant who came with the white men to hunt in the country near the hill of dreams. since that time the power of the plains tribes had waned, and they had scattered and passed away. the swarming white men--visigoths, vandals--had found out this spot for centuries held mysteriously dear to the first peoples of that country. they tore open the graves, scattered the childlike emblems, picked to pieces the little packages of furs and claws, jibing at the "medicine" which in its time had meant so much to the man who had left it there. the visigoths and vandals laughed and smote upon their thighs as they thus destroyed the feeble records of a faith gone by. yet with what more enduring and with how dissimilar a faith did they replace that at which they mocked? white but parallels red. our ways depart not widely from the ways of those whom we supplanted, our religion is little more than theirs, our tokens of faith but little different from theirs. we still wonder, we still beseech, we still grope, and continually we implore. on the eminences of our lives the solitary still keep vigil. in the air about us there still are voices as of old, there still are visions wistfully besought. now, as then, dwarfed, blighted, wandering humanity prays, lifting up its hands to something above its narrow, circumscribing world. now, as then, the answer is sometimes given to a few for all. now, as then, the solemn front of the hill of dreams still rises, dominating calmly the wide land, keeping watch always out over the plains for those who are to come, for that which is to be. warden of destiny, it well might smile at any temples we may build, at any fetiches that we may offer up! toward the hill of dreams franklin journeyed, because it had been written. as he travelled over the long miles he scarcely noted the fields, the fences, the flocks and herds now clinging along the path of the iron rails. he crossed the trails of the departed buffalo and of the vanishing cattle, but his mind looked only forward, and he saw these records of the past but dimly. there, on the hill of dreams, he knew, there was answer for him if he sufficiently besought; that answer not yet learned in all the varying days. it seemed sure to him that he should have a sign.[*] franklin looked out over a deserted and solitary land as he rode up to the foot of the hill. there were no longer banners of dust where the wild game swept by, nor did the eye catch any line of distant horsemen. it was another day. yet, as did the candidate of old, he left his horse at the foot of the hill and went up quite alone. it was afternoon as he sat down. the silence and solitude folded him about, and the sun sank so fitly slow that he hardly knew, and the solemn night swept softly on. . . . then he built a little fire. . . . in the night, after many hours, he arose and lifted up his hands. . . . at the foot of the hill the pony stopped cropping grass, tossed his head, and looked up intently at the summit. it was morning. the sun rose calm and strong. the solitary figure upon the hill sat motionless, looking out. there might have passed before him a perspective of the past, the plains peopled with their former life; the oncoming of the white men from below; the remnant of the passing latin race, typified in the unguided giant who, savage with savage, fought here near by, one brutal force meeting another and both passing before one higher and yet more strong. to this watcher it seemed that he looked out from the halfway point of the nation, from the halfway house of a nation's irresistible development. franklin had taken with him a small canteen of water, but bethinking himself that as of old the young man beseeching his dream neither ate nor drank until he had his desire, he poured out the water at his side as he sat in the dark. the place was covered with small objects, bits of strewn shells and beads and torn "medicine bundles"--pieces of things once held dear in earlier minds. he felt his hand fall by accident upon some small object which had been wetted by the wasted water. later, in the crude light of the tiny flame which he had kindled, this lump of earth assumed, to his exalted fancy, the grim features of an indian chieftain, wide-jawed, be-tufted, with low brow, great mouth, and lock of life's price hanging down the neck. all the fearlessness, the mournfulness, the mysticism of the indian face was there. franklin always said that he had worked at this unconsciously, kneading the lump between his fingers, and giving it no thought other than that it felt cooling to his hand and restful to his mind. yet here, born ultimately of the travail of a higher mind, was a man from another time, in whose gaze sat the prescience of a coming day. the past and the future thus were bridged, as may be done only by art, the enduring, the uncalendared, the imperishable. shall we say that this could not have been? shall we say that art may not be born in a land so young? shall we say that art may not deal with things uncatalogued, and dare not treat of unaccepted things? nay, rather let us say that art, being thought, has this divine right of elective birth. for out of tortures art had here won the deep _imprimatur_. edward franklin, a light-hearted man, rode homeward happily. the past lay correlated, and for the future there were no longer any wonderings. his dream, devoutly sought, had given peace. [*]before his twenty-ninth year edward franklin's hair had always been a dark reddish brown. when he returned from a certain journey it was noticed that upon his temple there was a lock of snowy whiteness. shon-to, a cheyenne indian, once noticed this and said to franklin: "you have slept upon the dreaming hill, and a finger has touched you! among my people there was a man who had a spot of white in his hair, and his father had this spot, and his son after him. these men were thought to have been touched by the finger of a dream many years ago. these men could see in the dark." the indian said this confidently. chapter xxxvi at the gateway in a certain old southern city there stands, as there has stood for many generations, and will no doubt endure for many more, a lofty mansion whose architecture dates back to a distant day. wide and spacious, with lofty stories, with deep wings and many narrow windows, it rests far back among the ancient oaks, a stately memorial of a day when gentlemen demanded privacy and could afford it. from the iron pillars of the great gateway the white front of the house may barely be seen through avenues made by the trunks of the primeval grove. the tall white columns, reaching from gallery floor to roof without pause for the second lofty floor, give dignity to this old-time abode, which comports well with the untrimmed patriarchal oaks. under these trees there lies, even today, a deep blue-grass turf which never, from the time of boone till now, has known the touch of ploughshare or the tool of any cultivation. it was the boast of this old family that it could afford to own a portion of the earth and own it as it came from the hand of nature. uncaught by the whirl of things, undisturbed essentially even by the tide of the civil war, this branch of an old southern family had lived on in station unaffected, though with fortune perhaps impaired as had been those of many southern families, including all the beauchamp line. to this strong haven of refuge had come mary ellen beauchamp from the far-off western plains, after the death of her other relatives in that venture so ill-starred. the white-haired old widow who now represented the head of the clayton family--her kin somewhat removed, but none the less her "cousins," after the comprehensive southern fashion--had taken mary ellen to her bosom, upbraiding her for ever dreaming of going into the barbarian west, and listening but little to the plea of the girl that poverty had driven her to the company of those who, like herself, were poor. now, such had been the turn of the wheel, the girl was nearly as rich in money as her older relative, and able to assume what little of social position there remained in her ambition. mary ellen was now well past twenty-seven, a tall, matured, and somewhat sad-faced woman, upon her brow written something of the sorrows and uncertainties of the homeless woman, as well as the record of a growing self-reliance. if mary ellen were happy or not none might say, yet surely she was dutiful and kind; and gradually, with something of the leadership she had learned in her recent life, she slipped into practical domestic command of this quiet but punctilious _menage_. by reason of an equal executive fitness aunt lucy rose in the kitchen also into full command. the widow clayton found her cousin mary ellen a stay and comfort, useful and practical to a degree unknown in the education of the southern young lady of the time. of her life in the west mary ellen spoke but little, though never with harshness, and at times almost with wistfulness. her history had seemed too full of change to be reality. for the future she made no plans. it seemed to her to be her fate ever to be an alien, a looker-on. the roses drooped across her lattice, and the blue grass stood cool and soft and deep beyond her window, and the kind air carried the croon of the wooing mocking bird; yet there persisted in her brain the picture of a wide, gray land, with the sound of an urgent wind singing in the short, tufted grasses, and the breath of a summons ever on the air. out there upon the plains it had been ever morning. here life seemed ever sinking toward its evening-tide. this old family and the family house were accepted unquestioningly by the quiet southern community now, as they had ever been, as a part of the aristocracy of the land, and as appurtenances there-to. the way of life had little change. the same grooms led out the horses from the stables, the same slow figures cut the grass upon the lawn. yet no longer were the doors thrown open upon a sea of light and colour. the horses were groomed and broken, but they brought no great carriage of state sweeping up the drive between the lion-headed pillars of the gateway. when mrs. clayton feebly sought to propose brighter ways of life for the young woman, the latter told her gently that for her, too, life was planned and done, the struggle over, and that she asked only that she might rest, and not take up again any questions for readjustment. "you will change after a while, honey," said her protectress; but mary ellen only smiled. it was enough to rest here in this haven, safe from the surging seas of doubt and hope and fear, of love and self-distrust. let it be settled. let it be ended. let these tall white columns mark the grave of her heart. let this wide sea of green mirror that which should one day lie above her bosom in this land of finished things. let the great lion gates guard off all intrusion, all curiosity, even all well-intended courtesy. for her no cavalier should ever come riding up the gravelled way, nor should lights ever set dancing again the shadows in the great dining hall over the heads of guests assembled in her honour. it was done--finished. and mary ellen was not yet twenty-eight. one morning the little street car stood, as was its wont, at the terminus of the track, near the front of the wide grounds of the old mansion house. this was far out upon the edge of the little city, and few were the patrons that might be expected; but it was held but mere courtesy to offer the services of the street-car line to this family, so long recognised as one of the unimpeachably best of this southern city. this modern innovation of the street car was not readily taken up by the conservative community, and though it had been established for some years, it might be questioned whether its shares had ever paid much interest upon their face value. now and then a negress with a laundry bundle, a schoolgirl with her books, a clerk hurrying to his counter, might stop the lazy mules and confer the benefit of an infrequent coin. at this terminus of the line at the outskirts of the town there was each morning enacted the same little scene. the driver slowly unhitched his mules and turned them about to the other end of the car, in readiness for the return journey. matters having progressed this far, the mules fell at once into a deep state of dejection and somnolence, their ears lopping down, their bodies drooping and motionless, save as now and then a faint swish of tail or wag of a weary ear bespoke the knowledge of some bold, marauding fly. the driver, perched upon his seat, his feet upon the rail, his knees pushed toward his chin, sat with his broad hat drawn down upon his forehead, his hands clasped between his legs, and all his attitude indicative of rest. slow clouds of dust passed along the road near by, and the glare of the sun grew warm; but no motion came to either team or driver, undisturbed by any care and bound by no inconvenient schedule. from the big oaks came now and then the jangle of a jay, or there might be seen flitting the scarlet flame of the cardinal. these things were unnoted, and the hour droned on. presently from a side street, faced by a large brick dwelling, there came with regular and unhurried tread a tall and dignified figure, crowned with a soft panama, and tapping with official cane. as it approached the car the driver straightened a trifle on the seat. "good mawnin', judge wilson," he said. "uh-ah, good mawnin', james," replied the judge. "uh-ah, doctah gregg li'l late this mawnin', eh?" "yessah, seems like," said the driver, his head again falling. in perhaps five or ten minutes, perhaps half an hour, there would be heard the tapping of another cane, and dr. gregg, also tall, not quite so portly, and wearing a white beaver instead of a soft panama, would appear from the opening of yet another side street tributary to the car. "good mawnin', james," said the doctor as he passed; and the driver answered respectfully. "good mornin', doctah. you li'l late this mornin', seems like." "well, yessah, i may be a leetle late, just a leetle.--good mawnin', judge; how are you this mawnin', sah?" "very well, doctah, sah, thank you, sah. step in an' seddown. right wahm, this mawnin'. uh-ah!" so the judge and the doctor sat down in the car, and conversed, easily and in no haste, perhaps for five or ten minutes, perhaps for half an hour. now and then the driver cast a glance out of the side of his eye over toward the lion-headed gates, but no one was uneasy or anxious. the mules were to apparent view very sad and still, yet really very happy within their souls. "young lady li'l late this mawnin', seems like," remarked the judge. "oh, yes, but she'll be 'long direckly, i reckon," replied the doctor. "you know how 'bout these young folks. they don't always realize the impohtance o' pressin' business mattehs. but we must fo'give heh. judge, we must fo'give heh, foh she suhtinly is well wo'th waitin' foh; yes indeed." "uh-ah! quite right, doctah, quite right! fine young lady, fine young lady. old stock, yes indeed! beechams o' fehginny. too bad cousin sarann clayton keeps heh so close like. she fitten to be received, sah, to be received!" "yes, indeed," assented the doctor. "yes, sah. now, ain't that the young lady a-comin' down the walk?" judge and doctor and driver now turned their gaze beyond the lion-headed gateway to the winding walk that passed among the trees up to the old mansion house. far off, through the great columns of the trees, there might indeed this morning now be seen the flutter of a gown of white. the faint sound of voices might be heard. mary ellen, conscientious marketer, was discussing joints and salads with her aunt. and then mary ellen, deliberately tying the strings of her bonnet under her chin, turned, answering her aunt's summons for replevin of a forgotten fan. then, slowly, calmly, the gown of white became more distinct as she came nearer, her tall figure composing well with the setting of this scene. for her patiently waited the judge and the doctor and the driver. "good mawnin', miss beecham," said the driver as she passed, touching his hat and infusing more stiffness to his spine. "good morning, sir," she replied pleasantly. "uh-ah, good mawnin', miss beecham, good mawnin'," said judge wilson; and "good mawnin'," said dr. gregg. "good morning, judge wilson," replied mary ellen, as she entered the car.--"good morning, dr. gregg." the gentlemen made way for her upon the shady side of the car, and lifted their hats ceremoniously. "l'il late this mawnin', miss beecham, seems like," said the judge, with no trace of resentment in his tones. dr. gregg upon this morning began his customary reproach also, but it halted upon his tongue. "miss beecham," he said, "pardon me, allow me--are you ill?" for mary ellen, settling herself for her regular morning ride with her regular companions, all at once went pale as she gazed out the window. she scarcely heard the kind remark. she was looking at a man--a tall man with a brown face, with broad shoulders, with a long, swinging, steady stride. this man was coming up the side of the street, along the path between the fence and the burdocks that lined the ditch. his shoes were white with the limestone dust, but he seemed to care nothing for his way of locomotion, but reached on, his head up, his eye searching eagerly. not with equipage, not mounted as a southern cavalier, not announced, but in the most direct and swiftest way in his power had edward franklin come. strong, eager, masterful, scorning the blazing sun, his reckless waste of energy marked him as a stranger in that place. he stopped at the gateway for one moment, looking up the path, and then turned swiftly toward the car as though called audibly. as with a flash his face lighted, and he strode straight on toward a woman whose heart was throbbing in a sudden tumultuous terror. she saw him stoop at the car door, even as once before she had seen him enter at another lowly door, in another and far-off land. she felt again the fear which then she half admitted. but in a moment mary ellen knew that all fear and all resistance were too late. the eyes of franklin, direct, assured, almost sad, asked her no question, but only said, "here am i!" and mary ellen knew that she could no longer make denial or delay. her thoughts came rapid and confused; her eyes swam; her heart beat fast. afar she heard the singing of a mocker in the oaks, throbbing, thrilling high and sweet as though his heart would break, with what he had to say. judge wilson and dr. gregg politely removed their hats as franklin entered the car and addressed mary ellen. confused by the abruptness of it all, it was a moment before she recognised local requirements, and presented franklin to the gentlemen. for an instant she planned flight, escape. she would have begged franklin to return with her. fate in the form of the driver had its way. "git ep, mewel!" sounded from the front of the car. there was a double groan. a little bell tinkled lazily. the rusty wheels began slowly to revolve. "it's an awful hour to call," admitted franklin under the rumble of the wheels. "i couldn't get a carriage, and i hadn't any horse. there wasn't any car. forgive me." part of this was open conversation, and franklin made still further polite concessions to the company. yes, he himself was a member of the bar--a very unworthy one. he had a relative who was a physician. a lovely city, this, which they had. beautiful old places, these along the way. a rare and beautiful life, that of these old southern families. delightful, the south. he had always loved it in so far as he had ever known it, and he felt the better acquainted, having known miss beauchamp so well in her former home in the west. and the judge said, "uh-ah!" and the doctor bowed, looking the while with professional admiration at the chest and flank of this brown, powerful man, whose eye smote like a ray from some motor full of compressed energy. beyond this it is only to be said that both judge and doctor were gentlemen, and loyal to beauty in distress. they both earned mary ellen's love, for they got off eight blocks sooner than they should have done, and walked more than half a mile in the sun before they found a place of rest. "oh, well, yessah, judge," said dr. gregg, half sighing, "we were young once, eh, judge?--young once ouhselves." "lucky dog!" said the judge; "lucky dog! but he seems a gentleman, and if he has propah fam'ly an' propah resources, it may be, yessah, it may be she's lucky, too. oh, northehn, yessah, i admit it. but what would you expeck, sah, in these times? i'm told theh are some vehy fine people in the no'th." "deep through," said the doctor, communing with himself. "carries his trunk gran'ly. splendid creatuah--splendid! have him? o' co'se she'll have him! what woman wouldn't? what a cadaver! what a subjeck--" "good god! my dear sir!" said the judge. "really!" meantime the dingy little car was trundling down the wide, sleepy street, both driver and mules now fallen half asleep again. here and there a negro sat propped up in the sun, motionless and content. a clerk stretched an awning over some perishable goods. a child or two wandered along the walk. the town clock pointed to half past eleven. the warm spring sun blazed down. a big fly buzzed upon the window pane. no more passengers came to the car, and it trundled slowly and contentedly on its course toward the other end of its route. franklin and mary ellen sat looking out before them, silent. at last he turned and placed his hand over the two that lay knit loosely in her lap. mary ellen stirred, her throat moved, but she could not speak. franklin leaned forward and looked into her face. "i knew it must be so," he whispered quietly. "what--what must you think ?" broke out mary ellen, angry that she could not resist. "there, there, dearest!" he said, "don't trouble. i knew it was to be. i came straight to you." he tightened his grip upon her hands. mary ellen straightened and looked him in the face. "i'll admit it," she said. "i knew that you were coming. i must have dreamed it." there in the street car, upon the public highway, franklin cast his arm about her waist and drew her strongly to him. "dear girl," he said, "it was to be! we must work out our lives together. will you be happy--out there--with me?" again mary ellen turned and looked at him with a new frankness and unreserve. "that's the oddest of it," said she. "out on the prairies i called the south 'back home.' now it's the other way." they fell again into silence, but already, lover-like, began to read each the other's thoughts and to find less need of speech. "you and i, dearest," said franklin finally, "you and i together, forever and ever. we'll live at the halfway house. don't shiver, child; i've built a fine new house there--" "you've built a house?" "yes, yes. well, i'll confess it--i bought the place myself." "then it was your money?" "and it is your money." "i've a notion," began mary ellen, edging away, biting her lip. "and so have i," said franklin, stooping and kissing her fingers with scandalous publicity. "i've a notion that you shall not speak of that. it is ours. we've more than a thousand acres of land there, and plenty of cattle. curly shall be foreman--he's married the little waiter girl, and has come back to ellisville; they live next door to sam and nora. aunt lucy shall be our cook. we shall have roses, and green grass, and flowers. and you and i--you and i--shall live and shall do that which has been sent to us to do. mary ellen--dear mary ellen--" again the girl threw up her head, but her pride was going fast. "then--then you think--you think it is no sin? is there no lapse in this for me? you think i shall not be--" franklin drew her closer to him. "that which is before us now is life," he said. "dearest, how sweet--how very sweet!" a caged mocking bird at a little near-by house burst out into a shrill paean, fellow to that of the wild bird of the oaks. mary ellen felt her senses melting into a mysterious, bewildering joy. unconsciously she swayed slightly against the shoulder of her lover. in her heart the music of the bird thrilled on, even when the tinkle of the little bell ceased, even when franklin, stepping from the car, held up his hands to her and whispered, "come." images generously made available by the kentuckiana digital library (http://kdl.kyvl.org/) note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h.zip) images of the original pages are available through the kentuckiana digital library. see http://kdl.kyvl.org/cgi/t/text/text-idx?c=kyetexts;cc=kyetexts;xc= &idno=b - - &view=toc transcriber's note: variations in spelling and hyphenation have been made consistent. the victim a romance of the real jefferson davis by thomas dixon illustrated by j. n. marchand books by thomas dixon the victim the southerner the sins of the father the leopard's spots the clansman the traitor the one woman comrades the root of evil the life worth living [illustration: "the man in front gave a short laugh and advanced on the girl" [page ]] the victim "_a majestic soul has passed_"--charles a. dana [illustration: colophon] new york and london d. appleton and company copyright, , by thomas dixon all rights reserved, including that of translation into all foreign languages, including the scandinavian printed in the united states of america to the brave who died for what they believed to be right _fold up the banners! smelt the guns! love rules. her gentle purpose runs. a mighty mother turns in tears the pages of her battle years lamenting all her fallen sons!_ thompson to the reader _in the historical romance which i have woven of the dramatic events of the life of jefferson davis i have drawn his real character unobscured by passion or prejudice. forced by his people to lead their cause, his genius created an engine of war so terrible in its power that through it five million southerners, without money, without a market, without credit, withstood for four years the shock of twenty million men of their own blood and of equal daring, backed by boundless resources._ _the achievement is without a parallel in history, and adds new glory to the records of our race._ _the scenes have all been drawn from authentic records in my possession. i have not at any point taken a liberty with an essential detail of history._ thomas dixon. contents prologue i the curtain rises ii the parting iii a midnight session iv a friendly warning v boy and girl vi god's will vii the best man wins viii the storm center ix the old régime x the gauge of battle xi jennie's vision xii a little cloud xiii the closing of the ranks xiv richmond in gala dress xv the house on church hill xvi the flower-decked tent xvii the fatal victory xviii the aftermath xix socola's problem xx the anaconda xxi gathering clouds xxii jennie's recruit xxiii the fatal blunder xxiv the sleeping lioness xxv the bombardment xxvi the irreparable loss xxvii the light that failed xxviii the snare of the fowler xxix the panic in richmond xxx the deliverance xxxi love and war xxxii the path of glory xxxiii the accusation xxxiv the turn of the tide xxxv suspicion xxxvi the fatal deed xxxvii the raiders xxxviii the discovery xxxix the conspirators xl in sight of victory xli the fall of richmond xlii the capture xliii the victor xliv prison bars xlv the master mind xlvi the torture xlvii vindication list of illustrations "the man in front gave a short laugh and advanced on the girl" "'you have given me new eyes--'" "'we have won, sir!' was the short curt answer" "dick saluted and sprang into the saddle--'i understand, sir'" "jennie thrust her trembling little figure between the two men and confronted dick" "'do your duty--put them on him!'" leading characters of the story _the prologue_ - lt. jefferson davis, of the u. s. army. joseph e. davis, his big brother. colonel zachary taylor, "old rough and ready." sarah knox taylor, his daughter. james pemberton, a faithful slave. _the story_ - hon. roger barton, an original secessionist. jennie, his daughter. dick welford, a confederate soldier. joseph holt, a renegade southerner. henrico socola, a soldier of fortune. the president, of the confederacy. mrs. davis, his wife. burton harrison, his secretary. joseph e. johnston, a master of retreat. p. g. t. beauregard, the first hero. stonewall jackson, of the "foot cavalry." robert e. lee, the southern commander. u. s. grant, the bull dog fighter. nelson a. miles, a jailer. john c. underwood, a reconstruction judge. the victim the prologue the victim prologue i kidnapped the hot sun of the south was sinking in red glow through the giant tree-tops of a mississippi forest beyond the village of woodville. a slender girl stood in the pathway watching a boy of seven trudge manfully away beside his stalwart brother. her lips trembled and eyes filled with tears. "wait--wait!" she cried. with a sudden bound she snatched him to her heart. "don't, polly--you hurt!" the little fellow faltered, looking at her with a feeling of sudden fear. "why did you squeeze me so hard?" "you shouldn't have done that, honey," the big brother frowned. "i know," the sister pleaded, "but i couldn't help it." "what are you crying about?" the boy questioned. again the girl's arm stole around his neck. "what's the matter with her, big brother?" he asked with a brave attempt at scorn. the man slowly loosened the sister's arms. "i'm just going home with you, ain't i?" the child went on, with a quiver in his voice. the older brother led him to a fallen log, sat down, and held his hands. "no, boy," he said quietly. "i'd as well tell you the truth now. i'm going to send you to kentucky to a wonderful school, taught by learned men from the old world--wise monks who know everything. you want to go to a real school, don't you?" "but my mamma don't know--" "that's just it, boy. we can't tell her. she wouldn't let you go." "why?" "well, she's a good baptist, and it's a long, long way to the st. thomas monastery." "how far?" "a thousand miles, through these big woods--" the blue eyes dimmed. "i want to see my mamma before i go--" his voice broke. the man shook his head. "no, boy; it won't do. you're her baby--" the dark head sank with a cry. "i want to see her!" "come, come, jeff davis, you're going to be a soldier. remember you're the son of a soldier who fought under general washington and won our freedom. you're named after thomas jefferson, the great president. your three brothers have just come home from new orleans. under old hickory we drove the british back into their ships and sent 'em flying home to england. the son of a soldier--the brother of soldiers--can't cry--" "i will if i want to!" "all right!" the man laughed--"i'll hold my hat and you can cry it full--" he removed his hat and held it smilingly under the boy's firm little chin. the childish lips tightened and the cheeks flushed with anger. his bare toes began to dig holes in the soft rich earth. the appeal to his soldier blood had struck into the pride of his heart and the insult of a hat full of tears had hurt. at last, he found his tongue: "does pa know i'm goin'?" "yes. he thinks you're a very small boy to go so far, but knows it's for the best." "that's why he kissed me when i left?" "yes." "i thought it was funny," he murmured with a half sob; "he never kissed me before--" "he's quiet and reserved, boy, but he's wise and good and loves you. he's had a hard time out here in the wilderness fighting his way with a wife and ten children. he never had a chance to get an education and the children didn't either. some of us are too old now. there's time for you. we're going to stand aside and let you pass. you're our baby brother, and we love you." the child's hand slowly stole into the rough one of the man. "and i love you, big brother--" the little voice faltered, "and all the others, too, and that's-why-i'm-not-goin'!" "i'm so glad!" the girl clapped her hands and laughed. "polly!--" "well, i am, and i don't care what you say. he's too little to go so far and you know he is--" the man grasped her hand and whispered: "hush!" the brother slipped his arm around the boy and drew him on his knee. he waited a moment until the hard lines at the corners of the firm mouth had relaxed under the pressure of his caress, pushed the tangled hair back from his forehead and looked into the fine blue-gray eyes. his voice was tender and his speech slow. "you must make up your mind to go, boy. i don't want to force you. i like to see your eyes flash when you say you _won't_ go. you've got the stuff in you that real men are made of. that's why it's worth while to send you. i've seen that since you could toddle about the house and stamp your feet when things didn't suit you. now, listen to me. i've made a vow to god that you shall have as good a chance as any man to make your way to the top. we're going to be the greatest nation in the world. i saw it in the red flash of guns that day at new orleans as i lay there in the trench and watched the long lines of red coats go down before us. just a lot of raw recruits with old flintlocks! the men who charged us, the picked veterans of england's grand army. but we cut 'em to pieces, boy! i fired a cannon loaded with grape shot that mowed a lane straight through 'em. it must have killed two hundred men. they burned our capitol at washington and the federalist traitors at hartford were firin' on us in the rear, but old hickory showed the world that we could lick england with one hand tied behind our back. and we did it. we drove 'em like sheep--drove 'em into the sea. "there's but one name on every lip in this country now, boy, and that's old hickory. he'd be president next time--but for one thing,--just one thing--he didn't have a chance to learn when he was a boy. he's not educated." the brother paused, and a dreamy look came into his eyes. "we may make him president anyhow. but if he'd been educated--there wouldn't be any if or and about it. washington and jefferson and madison belong to the rich and powerful class. jackson is a yeoman like your father. but he'd be president. boy, if he'd been educated! nothing could stop him. don't you see this is your country? this is a poor man's world. all you have to do is to train your mind. you've got to do this--you understand--you've got to do it--" the man paused suddenly and looked into the boy's wondering eyes. he had forgotten the child's rebellion. the young pioneer of the wilderness was talking to himself. again he had seen a vision. he seized the boy's arms: "don't you see, boy, don't you?" the child's mouth hardened again: "no, i don't. i'm just a little boy. i love my mamma. she's good and sweet to me and i'm not going to leave her--" again polly laughed. a smile slowly played about the brother's lips and eyes. he must show his trump card. "but you don't know what i've got for you--" "what?" "something you've always wanted to have for your own--" "a pony?" the man slowly rose: "come out to the big road--" the boy seized his sister's hand: "polly, let's see!" the girl's eyes grew dim: "oh, jeff, i know you're goin'!" "no--we'll just see what it is--come on!" in five minutes they emerged from the deep woods into the clearing around a cabin. beside the roadway stood a horse and pony, both bridled and saddled. the swift feet of the boy flew across the opening, the sister wide-eyed and trembling, close on his heels. he threw his arms around the pony's neck and stroked his head with gentle touch. the pony pressed his mouth against the boy's cheek in friendly response. "did you see him kiss me, polly?" he cried tremblingly. "yes, i saw him," was the solemn response. "isn't he a beauty? look, polly--he's got a white spot on every foot and one in his forehead and black as a coal all over--and oh--what a saddle--a red belt and red martingales!" he touched the saddle lovingly and circled the pony's neck with his arms. the brother smiled again: "well, what do you think of that?" the boy was trembling now from head to foot, his heart in his throat as he slowly asked: "you mean that--you'll--give--him--to me--for--all my own?" "if you'll be a good boy, go to school and work hard--yes." "all right, big brother," was the quick answer, "i'll go. help me on him quick, and let me try him!" the boy lifted his bare foot into the strong hand, sprang into the saddle, bounded down the road, wheeled, flew back and leaped to the ground. "he's a dandy!" polly dropped her head and started home, making a brave fight to keep back the tears. half way across the clearing she gave up in a long pitiful wail. the boy, busy with his pony, had not missed her. in a moment he was by her side, his arms about her neck. "don't cry, polly honey, i'll be back before long," he pleaded. the only answer was a sob: "good-by, jeff--" her hands slowly slipped through his. "good-by, polly--" he watched her go with quivering lips, and as the little figure slowly faded into the shadows of the woods he called in broken accents: "kiss mamma for me--and tell her i wanted to go back and say good-by--but joe wouldn't let me!" "yes, honey!" "and you--watch out for that old drunk man we saw once in the woods, polly!" "yes!" "don't let him get you--" "no--i won't--good--good-by!" "good-by--" the last good-by stuck in the boy's throat, but he lifted his blue eyes, saw his pony and smiled through the tears. ii the wilderness a journey of a thousand miles through the unbroken wilderness--the home of the choctaw and chickasaw indian nations and all on his own beautiful pony! it was no time for tears. the boy's soul leaped for joy. the party was a delightful one. major hinds, a veteran of general jackson's campaign, the commander of the famous mississippi dragoons at the battle of new orleans, was the leader, accompanied by his wife, her sister and niece, and best of all a boy his own age, the major's little son howell. howell also was riding a pony. he was a nice enough pony, of course, as ponies went, but couldn't compare with his own. he made up his mind to race the first chance they got, and show those pretty white heels to his rival. he was just dying to tell him how fast they could beat the ground--but he'd wait and surprise the party. a negro maid accompanied the ladies and a stalwart black man rode a pack-mule laden with tents, blankets and a cooking outfit. they stopped at houses when one could be reached at nightfall. if not, they camped in the woods beneath the towering trees. there was no need of the tents unless it rained. so dense was the foliage that only here and there a bright star peeped through, or a moonbeam shot its silvery thread to the ground. the indians were all friendly. it was the boast of the choctaws that no man of their breed had ever shed the blood of a white man. for days they followed the course of the majestic river rolling its yellow flood to the sea and watched the lazy flat and keel boats drift slowly down to new orleans bearing the wealth of the new western world. the men who had manned these rude craft were slowly tramping on foot back to their homes in the north. their boats could not stem the tide for the return trip. every day they passed these weary walkers. the boy was sorry they couldn't ride. his pony's step was so firm and quick and strong. he raced with howell the first day and beat him so far there was no fun in it. he never challenged his rival again. he was the guest of major hinds on this trip. it would be rude. but he slipped out in the dark that night, and hugged his pony: "you're the finest horse that ever was!" he whispered. "of course i am!" the pony laughed. "i love you--" "and i love you," was the quick response as the warm nose touched his cheek. in the second week, they reached the first stand, "folsoms'," on the border of the choctaw nation. these stands were log cabins occupied by squaw men--whites who had married indian women. they must pass three more of these stands the major said--the "leflores," known as the first and second french camps, and the one at the crossing of the tennessee river, which had the unusual distinction of being kept by a half-breed chickasaw indian. here, weary, footsore travelers stopped to rest and refresh themselves--and many dropped and died miles from those they loved. the little graveyard with its rude, wooden-marked mounds the boy saw with a dull ache in his heart. and then the first bitter pang of homesickness came. he wondered if his sweet mother were well. he wondered what she said when they told her he had gone. he knew she had cried. what if she were dead and he could never see her again? he sat down on a log, buried his face in his hands and tried to cry the ache out of his heart. he felt that he must turn back or die. but it wouldn't do. he had promised his big brother. he rose, brushed the tears away, fed and watered his pony and tenderly rubbed down every inch of his beautiful black skin. he forgot the ache in his new-found love and the strength which had come into his boy's soul from the sense of kinship with nature which this beautiful dumb four-footed friend had brought him. no man could be friendless or forsaken who possessed the love of a horse. his horse knew and loved him. he said it in a hundred ways. his wide, deep, lustrous eyes, shining with intelligence, had told him! so had the touch of his big warm mouth in many a friendly pony kiss. his pony could laugh, too. he had seen the smiles flicker about his mouth and eyes as he pretended to bite his bare legs. how could any human being be cruel or mean to a horse! his pony had given him new courage and conscious power. he was the master of nature now when they flew along the trail through the deep woods. his horse had given him wings. he looked up into the star-sown sky, and promised god to be kind and gentle to all the dumb world for the love of the beautiful friend he had given. iii the hermitage at the last stand on the banks of the winding tennessee, the major sat up late in eager discussion about old hickory with an enthusiastic tennesseean. the ladies had retired, and the boy listened with quiet eagerness to the talk. "waal, we're goin' ter make andrew jackson president anyhow, major!" the tennesseean drawled. "i'm afraid they'll beat us," the major answered, with a shake of his head. "how'll they beat us when we git ready ter make the fight?" "old hickory says himself, he ain't fit--" "i reckon we know more about that than he does," persisted the man from tennessee. "the aristocrats don't think so--" "what t'ell they got agin him? ain't he the biggest man in this country to-day? didn't he lick spain and england both at pensacola and didn't he finish the red coats at new orleans--" "they say his education's poor--" "he knowed enough to make this country cock o' the walk--what more do they want--damn 'em!" "they say he swears--" the tennesseean roared: "waal, if all the cussin' men vote fur him--he'll sho be elected!" "the real trouble--" the major said thoughtfully, "is what the scandal-mongers keep saying about his wife--" "he's killed one son-of-a-gun about that already, an' they better let him alone--" "that's just it, my friend: he killed that skunk in a duel and it's not the only one he has fought either. old hickory's got the temper of the devil." "waal, thar ain't nothin' in them lies about his wife--" the major lifted his hand and moved closer: "there's just enough truth at the bottom of it all to give the liars the chance they need to talk forever--" "i never knowed thar wuz ary grain er truth in hit, at all--" "there is, though," the major interrupted, "and that's where we're going to have a big fight on our hands when it comes to the rub. this lewis robards, her first husband, was a quarrelsome cuss. every man that looked at his wife, he swore was after her, and if she lifted her eyes, he was sure she was guilty. there was no divorce law in virginia and robards petitioned the legislature to pass an act of divorce in his favor. the dog swore in this petition that his wife had deserted him and was living with andrew jackson. he _was_ boarding with her mother, the widow donelson. the legislature passed the act, but it only authorized the courts of the territory of kentucky to try the case, and grant the divorce if the facts were proven. "robards never went to court with it for over two years, and jackson, under the impression that the legislature had given the divorce, married rachel robards at natchez in august, . "two years later, the skunk slips into court and gets his divorce! "as quick as old hickory heard this, he married her over again. there was a mighty hullabaloo kicked up about it by the politicians. they tried to run jackson out of the country--the little pups who were afraid of him. he challenged the leader of this pack of hounds, and shot him dead--" "served him right, too," broke in the tennesseean, removing his pipe, with a nod of his shaggy head. "but it don't help him on the way to washington!" the major grunted, suddenly rising and dismissing the subject for the night. the boy's curiosity was kindled to see the great man whose name had filled the world. the distance to nashville was quickly covered. the major pressed straight through the town without pause and drew rein at the general's gate. the welcome they received from their distinguished host was so simple, so genuine, so real, the boy's heart went out in loyal admiration. the house was a big rambling structure of logs, in front of which stood a stately grove of magnificent forest trees. behind it stretched the grain and cotton fields. nothing could surpass the unaffected and perfect courtesy with which the general welcomed his guests. the tall, stately figure, moving with the unconscious grace of perfect manhood, needed no rules of a dancing master for his guidance. he had sprung from the common people, but he was a born leader and ruler of men. the boy listened with keen ears to hear him rip out one of those terrible oaths of which so much had been said. his speech was gentle and kind, and he asked a blessing at every meal exactly as his own quiet, dignified father at home. in all the three weeks they remained his guests not an oath or an ugly word fell from his lips. the boy wondered how people could tell such lies. the general liked boys, too. it was easy to see that. he gave hours of his time to the games and sports of his adopted son, andrew jackson, jr., and his two little guests. he got up contests of all sorts. they raced their ponies. they ran and jumped. they played marbles. they followed the hounds. and always with them as friend and counselor, the general, gentle, kind, considerate. the only thing he prohibited was wrestling. "no, boys," he said with a frown. "that's not a good sport for high spirited youth. to feel the hand of a rival on your body may lead to a fight." the deep set eyes flashed with the memory of his own hot blooded boyhood and young manhood. the general's wife won the boy's whole heart from the moment he saw her. "how could they tell such lies!" he kept repeating with boyish indignation. pure and sweet as the face of his own mother was hers. loving, unselfish, tender and thoughtful, she moved through her house with the gentle step of a ministering angel. the knightly deference with which the general attended her slightest wish, stirred the boy's imagination. he could see him standing erect, pistol in hand, in the gray dawn of the morning on which he faced the enemy who had slandered her. he could see the big firm hand grip the pistol's handle in a clasp of steel as he waited the signal of death. he wondered what sort of wound dickenson's bullet had made in the general's breast. anyhow, it had not been fatal. his enemy lived but a few hours. he set his lips firmly, and repeated the tennesseean's verdict: "served him right, too." the boy left the hermitage under the spell of old hickory's personality for life. he had seen a great man. iv the monastery bells the journey from nashville to springfield, kentucky, was quick and uneventful. long before the spire of st. thomas' church loomed on the horizon, they passed through the wide, fertile fields of the dominican monks. the grim figure of a black friar was directing the harvest of a sea of golden-yellow wheat. his workmen were sleek negro slaves. herds of fat cattle grazed on the hills. a flock of a thousand sheep were nipping the fresh sweet grass in the valley. they passed a big flour mill, whose lazy wheel swung in rhythmic unison with the laughing waters of the creek that watered the rich valley. the monks were vowed to poverty and self-denial. but their order was rich in slaves and land, in mills and herds and flocks and generous harvests. as the sun sank in a smother of purple and red behind the hills, they saw the church and monastery. the bells were chanting their call to evening prayer. the boy held his breath in silent ecstasy. he had never heard anything like it before. it was wonderful--those sweet notes echoing over hill and valley in the solemn hush of the gathering twilight. they waited for the priests to emerge from the chapel before making their presence known. through the open windows the deep solemn throb of the organ pealed. the soul of the boy rose enchanted on new wings whose power he had never dreamed. hidden depths were sounded of whose existence he could not know. there was no organ in the little bare log church the baptists had built near his father's farm in mississippi. his father and mother were baptists and of course he was going to be a baptist some day. but why didn't they have stained glass windows like those through which he saw the light now streaming--wonderful flashing lights, whose colors seemed to pour from the soul of the organ. and why didn't they have a great organ? he was going to like these roman catholics. he wondered what his mother would say to that? it all seemed so familiar, too. where had he heard those bells? where had he heard the peal of that organ and seen the flash of those gorgeous lights? in the sky at sunset perhaps, and in the rumble of the storm. maybe in dreams--and now they had come true. in a few months, he found himself the only protestant boy in school and the smallest of all the scholars. the monks were kind. they seemed somehow to love him better than the others. father wallace reminded him of his big brother. he was so gentle. the boy made up his mind to join the catholic church and went straight to father wilson, the venerable head of the college. the old man smiled pleasantly: "and why do you wish this, my son?" "oh, it's so much more beautiful than the baptist church. besides it's so much easier--" "indeed?" "yes, sir. the baptists have such a hard time getting religion. they seek and mourn so long--" "really?" "indeed they do--yes, sir--i've seen stubborn sinners mourn all summer in three protracted meetings and then not come through!" "and you don't like that sort of penance?" "no, sir. i've always dreaded it. and the worst thing is the new converts have to stand right up in church before all the crowd and tell their experience out loud. i'd hate that--" "and you like our ways better?" "a great deal better. the catholics manage things so nicely. all you have to do is to go to church, learn the catechism and the good priests do all the rest--" "oh--i see!" "yes, sir." father wilson laid his wrinkled hand tenderly on the boy's head: "you are very, very young, my son, and you are growing rapidly. what you really need is good catholic food. sit down and have a piece of bread and cheese with me." the boy sat down and ate the offered bread and cheese in silence. "i can't join, father wilson?" he asked at last. the priest smiled again: "no, my son." "you don't like me, father?" the boy asked wistfully. "we like you very much, sir. but we are responsible for the trust your father and mother have put in us. in god's own time when you are older and know the full meaning of your act, i should be glad--but not this way." the boy was so small, in fact, that a fine old priest in pity for his tender years had a little bed put in his own room for him to watch the light and shadows in eager young eyes when homesickness threatened. and then he talked of the wonders and glory of rome on her seven hills by the tiber, of the coliseum, the death of christian martyrs in the arena--of the splendors of st. peter's, beside whose glory all other churches pale into insignificance. he lifted the curtain of history and gave the child's mind flashes of the old world whose pageants stretch down the ages into the mists of eternity. of books, the boy learned little--but the monks kindled a light in his soul the years could not dim. to the other students the old man was not so gentle. they were tougher and he set their tasks accordingly. they rebelled at last and decided on revenge. the plot was hatched and all in readiness for its execution. the only problem was how to put the light out in his room. the boy held the key to the citadel. he was on the inside. he could blow the candle out and the thing was done. he refused at first, but the rebels crowded around him and appealed to his sense of loyalty. "they can force you to sleep in his room," pleaded the ringleader, "but, by gimminy, that don't make you a monk, does it?" "no, of course not--" "you're one of _us_--stand by us. you didn't ask to sleep in his old room, did you?" "no." "well, you're there--the right man in the right place, in the nick of time. _will_ you stand by us?" "what do you want me to do?" "just blow out the candle--that's all--we'll do the rest. will you do it?" the boy hesitated, smiled and said: "yes--when everything's quiet." the old man had gone to bed and began to snore. the boy rose noiselessly and blew the candle out. instantly from the darkness without, poured a volley of cabbage heads, squashes, potatoes and biscuits. not a word was spoken, but the charge of the light brigade was swift and terrible. the boy pulled the cover over his head and waited for the storm to pass. when the light was lit and search made, not a culprit could be found. they were all in bed sound asleep. the only one awake was the boy in the little bed on which lay scattered potatoes, biscuits and cabbage. the priest drew him from under the cover. his face was stern--the firm mouth rigid with anger. "did you know they were going to do that, sir?" he asked. the boy trembled but held his tongue. "answer me, sir!" "i didn't know just what they were going to do--" "you knew they were up to something?" "yes!" "and you didn't tell me?" "no." "why?" "i couldn't be a traitor, sir." "to those young rascals--no--but you could betray me--" "i'm not a monk, father--" "tell me what you know at once, sir, before i thrash you." "i don't know much," the boy slowly answered, "and i can't tell you that." there was a final ring in the tones with which he ended the sentence. the culprit must be punished. it was out of the question that he should whip him--this quiet, gentle, bright little fellow he had grown to love. he was turned over to another--an old monk of fine face and voice full of persuasive music. he took the boy by the hand and led him up the last flight of stairs to the top of the house and into a tiny bare room. the only piece of furniture was an ominous looking cot in the middle of the floor. the boy had not read the history of the spanish inquisition, but it required no great learning in history or philosophy to guess the use of that machine. there was no terror in the blue eyes. their light grew hard with resolution. the monk to whom he had been delivered for punishment was the one of all the monastery who had the kindliest, gentlest face. the boy had always thought him one of his best friends. yet, without a word, he laid the culprit face downward on the strange leather couch and drew the straps around his slim body. he had dreamed of mercy, but all hope vanished now. he held his breath and set his lips to receive the blow--the first he had ever felt. the monk took the switch in his hand and hesitated. he loved the bright, handsome lad. the task was harder than he thought. he knelt beside the cot and put his hand on the dark little head: "i hate to strike you, my son--" "don't then, father," was the eager answer. "i've always had a very tender spot in my heart for you. tell me what you know and it'll be all right." "i can't--" "no matter how little, and i'll let you off." "will you?" "i promise." "i know one thing," the boy said with a smile. "yes?" "i know who blew out the light." "good!" "if i tell you that much, you'll let me off?" "yes, my son." the little head wagged doubtfully: "honest, now, father?" "i give you my solemn word." "i blew it out!" the fine old face twitched with suppressed laughter as he loosed the straps, sat down on the cot and drew the youngster in his lap. "you're a bright chap, my son. you'll go far in this world some day. a great diplomat perhaps, but the road you've started on to-night can only lead you at last into a blind alley. you know now that i love you, don't you?" "yes, father." "come now, my boy, there's too much strength and character in those fine eyes and that splendid square chin and jaw for you to let roistering fools lead you by the nose. you wouldn't have gotten into that devilment if they hadn't persuaded you--now would you?" "no." "all right. use the brain and heart god has given you. don't let fools use it for their own ends. do your own thinking. be your own man. stand on your own bottom." and then, in low tones, the fine old face glowing with enthusiasm, the monk talked to his little friend of truth and right, of character and principle, of love and god, until the tears began to slowly steal down the rosy cheeks. a new resolution fixed itself in the boy's soul. he _would_ live his own life. no other human being should do it for him. v home the mother's heart rebelled at last. she would not be put off longer. her baby had been gone two years. she refused point blank to listen to any further argument. charles green, the young mississippian, studying law in kentucky, and acting as the boy's guardian, was notified to bring him at the end of the spring term. on a glorious day in june they left bardstown for louisville, to take the new steamboat line for home. these wonderful boats were the marvels of their day. their names conveyed but a hint of the awe they inspired. the fleet of three vessels bore the titles, _volcano_, _vesuvius_ and _Ætna_. and the sparks that flew heavenward from their black chimneys were far more impressive to the people who crowded the shores than the smoke and lava of old vesuvius to the lazy loungers of naples. the boy saw his pony safely housed on board the _Ætna_, and amid the clang of bells and the scream of whistles, the floating wonder swung out from her wharf into the yellow tide of the ohio. scores of people crowded her decks for the pleasure of a ride ten miles down the river to return in their carriages. the captain of the _Ætna_, robinson dehart, held the boy in a spell by his lofty manners. he had been a sailor on board an ocean-going brig. to him the landing of his vessel was an event, no matter how often the stop was made, whether to put off a single passenger, or take on a regiment. in fact, he never landed the _Ætna_, even to take on a cord of wood, without the use of his enormous speaking trumpet and his big brass spy-glass. a beautiful, slow, uneventful voyage on the father of waters landed the boy in safety at the woodville stopping-place. he leaped down the gang-plank with a shout and clasped his big brother's hand. "my, my, but you've grown, boy!" "haven't i?" "won't little mother be surprised and glad?" "let's fool her," the boy cried. "let me go up by myself and she won't know me!" "all right--we'll try." the brother stopped at the village and the young stranger walked alone to his father's house. how beautiful it all seemed--the big log house with the cabins clustering around it! a horse neighed at the barn and a colt answered from the field. he walked boldly up to the porch and just inside the door sat his lovely mother. she had been one of the most beautiful girls in all south carolina in her day, his father had often said. she was beautiful still. she had known what happiness was. she was the mother of ten strong children--five boys and five girls--and her heart was young with their joys and hopes. a smile was playing about her fine mouth. she was dreaming perhaps of his coming. the boy cleared his throat with a deep manly note and spoke in studied careless tones: "seen any stray horses around here, ma'am?" the mother's eyes flashed as she sprang through the doorway and snatched him to her heart with a cry of joy: "no--but i see a stray boy! oh, my darling, my baby, my heart!" and then words failed. she loosed her hold and held him at arm's length, tried to say something, but only clasped him again and cried for joy. "please, ma, let me have him!" polly pleaded. and then he clasped his sister in a long, voiceless hug--loosed her and caught her again: "i missed you, polly, dear!" he sighed. when all the others had been greeted, he turned to his mother: "where's pa?" "down in the field with the colts." "i'll go find him!" with a bound he was off. he wondered what his silent, undemonstrative father would do. he had always felt that he was a man of deep emotion for all his self-control. he saw him in the field, walked along the edge of the woods, and suddenly came before him without warning. the father's lips trembled. he stooped without a word, clasped the boy in his arms and kissed him again and again. the youngster couldn't help wondering why a strong man should kiss so big a boy. the mother--yes--but his father, a man--no. it was sweet, this home-coming to those who loved deepest. somehow the monastery, its bells, its organ, its jeweled windows, and its kindly black-robed priests seemed far away and unreal now--only a dream that had passed. vi rebellion the mother's breakdown was not allowed to stop the boy's education. both father and older brother were determined on this. they would use the schools at home now. he was sent to the county academy in the fall. the boy didn't like it. after the easy life with the kindly old monks at st. thomas, this academy was not only cheap and coarse and uninteresting, but the teacher had no sense. he gave lessons so long and hard it was impossible to memorize them. the boy complained to the teacher. a lesson of the same length was promptly given again. the rebel showed the teacher he was wrong by failing to know it. "i'll thrash you, sir!" was the stern answer. the boy would not take that from such a fool. he rose in his wrath, went home and poured out the indignant story of his wrongs. the father was a man of few words, but the long silence which followed gave a feeling of vague uneasiness. he was never dictatorial to his children, but meant what he said. his voice was quiet and persuasive when he finally spoke. "of course, my son, you will have to choose for yourself whether you will work with your hands only, or with your head and hands. you can't be an idler, i need more cotton pickers. you don't like school, try the cotton, i'll give you work." the boy flushed and looked at his father keenly. it was no joke. he meant exactly what he had said, and a boy with any sand in his gizzard couldn't back down. "all right, sir," was the firm answer. "i'll begin in the morning." he went forth to his task with grim determination. the sun of early september had just risen and it was already hot as he bent to work. cotton picking looked easy from a distance. when you got at it, things somehow were different. a task of everlasting monotony, this bending from boll to boll along the endless rows! he never realized before how long the cotton rows were. there was a little stop at the end before turning and selecting the next, but these rows seemed to stretch away into eternity. three hours at it, and he was mortally tired. his back ached in a dull hopeless pain. he lifted his head and gazed longingly toward the school he had scorned. "what a fool!" he sighed. "but i'll stick to it. i can do what any nigger can." he looked curiously at the slaves who worked without apparent effort. not one of them seemed the least bit tired. he could get used to it, too. after all, this breath of the open world was better than being cooped up in a stuffy old schoolhouse with a fool to set impossible tasks. "pooh! i'll show my father!" he exclaimed. the negroes broke into a plantation song. jim pemberton, the leader, sang each stanza in a clear fine tenor that rang over the field and echoed through the deep woods. the others joined in the chorus and after the last verse repeated in low sweet notes that died away so softly it was impossible to tell the moment the song had ceased. the music was beautiful, but it was impossible for him to join in their singing. he couldn't lower himself to an equality with black slaves. this cotton picking seemed part of their scheme of life. their strong black bodies swayed in a sort of rhythmic movement even when they were not singing. somehow his body didn't fit into the scheme. his back ached and ached. no matter. he had chosen, and he would show them he had a man's spirit inside a boy's breast. at noon the ache had worn away and he felt a sense of joy in conquering the pain. he ate his dinner in silence and wondered what polly was thinking about at school. girl-like, she had cried and begged him to go back. with a cheerful wave of his hand to his mother, he returned to the field before the negroes, strapped the bag on his shoulder and bent again to his task. the afternoon was long. it seemed at three o'clock there could be no end to it and still those long, long rows of white fleece stretched on and on into eternity--all alike in dull, tiresome monotony. he whistled to keep up his courage. the negroes whispered to one another and smiled as they looked his way. he paid no attention. by four o'clock, the weariness had become a habit and at sundown he felt stronger than at dawn. he swung the bag over his back and started to the weighing place. "pooh--it's easy!" he said with scorn. the negroes crowded around his pile of cotton. "dat boy is sho one cotton-picker!" cried jim pemberton, regarding him with grinning admiration. "of course, i can pick cotton if i want to--" "but ye raly don't wanter?" jim grinned. "sure i do. i'm sick of school." jim laughed aloud and, coming close, whispered insinuatingly: "i'se sho sick er pickin' cotton, an' when yer quits de job--" "i'm not going to quit--" "yassah, yassah?--i understan' dat--but de pint is, _when_ yer _do_ quit, don't fergit jim, marse jeff. i likes you. you got de spunk. i wants ter be yo' man." the appeal touched the boy's pride. he answered with quiet dignity: "all right, james--" jim lifted his head and walled his eyes: "des listen at him call me jeemes! i knows a real marster when i sees him!" that night, the father asked no questions and made no comment on the fact that he had picked a hundred and ten pounds of cotton--as much as any man in the field. his deciding to work with his hands had apparently been accepted as final. this thing of deciding life for himself was a serious business. it would be very silly to jump into a career with slaves, coarse and degrading, just because a fool happened to be teaching at the county academy. he must think this thing over. tired as he was, he lay awake until eleven o'clock, thinking, thinking for himself. it was lonesome work, too, this thinking for himself. if his father had only done the thinking for him, it would have been so much easier to accept his decision and then rebel if he didn't like it. he returned to the field next morning with renewed determination. through the long, hot, interminable day he bent and fought the battle in silence. his back ached worse than the first day. every muscle in his finely strung little body was bruised and sore and on fire. he began to ask if his father were right. wasn't a man a double fool who had brains and refused to use them? an idiot could pick cotton when the bag was fastened on his back. all he needed was one hand. all he had to do was to bend, hour after hour, day after day, until it became the habit of life and the ache stopped. he could see this now, for himself. he smiled at the quiet wisdom of his father. he certainly knew how to manage boys. he must acknowledge that. he was quiet and considerate about it, too. he didn't dictate. he only suggested things for consideration and choice. it was easy to meet the views of that kind of a father. he treated a boy with the dignity of a man. when the cotton was weighed, the boy faced his father: "i've thought it all over, sir, and i'd like to go back to school." "all right, my son, you can return in the morning." he made no comment. he indulged in no smile at the boy's expense. he received his decision with the serious dignity of a judge of the supreme court of life. the rebellion ended for all time. teachers and schools took on a new meaning. a lesson was no longer a hard task set by a heartless fool who had been accidentally placed in a position of power. school meant the training of his mind for a higher and more useful life. progress now was steady. the next year a new teacher came, a real teacher, the rev. john shaw from boston, massachusetts--a man of even temper, just, gentle, a profound scholar with a mind whose contagious enthusiasm drew the spirits of the young as a magnet. the boy learned more under his guidance within a year than in all his life before, and next full was ready to enter transylvania university at lexington, kentucky. the polite, handsome boy from mississippi who had served an apprenticeship with his father's negroes in a cotton field, gave the professors no trouble. good-natured, prudent, joyous, kind, manly, he attended to his lessons and his own business. he neither gambled nor drank, nor mingled with the rowdy set. he had come there for something else. he had just passed his examinations for the senior class in july, , when the first great sorrow came. the wise father whom he had grown to love and reverence died in his sixty-eighth year. his thoughtful big brother came in person to tell him and break the blow with new ambitions and new hopes. he had secured an appointment from president monroe as a cadet to west point from the state of mississippi. and then began the four years of stern discipline that makes a soldier and fits him to command men. but once in those busy years did the gay spirit within rise in rebellion, to learn wisdom in the bitterness of experience. with emile laserre, his jolly creole friend from louisiana, he slipped down to bennie haven's on a frolic--taking french leave, of course. the alarm was given of the approach of an instructor, and the two culprits bolted for the barracks at breakneck speed through pitch darkness. scrambling madly through the woods, there was a sudden cry, a crash and silence. he had fallen sixty feet over a precipice to the banks of the hudson. young laserre crawled carefully to the edge of the rock, peered over and called through the darkness: "are you dead, jeff?" he was suffering too much to laugh, though he determined to give an irishman's reply to that question, if it killed him. he managed to wheeze back the answer: "not dead--but spachless!" many were the temptations of rebellion from the friends he loved in the years that followed, but never again did he yield. somehow the thing didn't work in his case. there was one professor who put his decision of obedience to the supreme test. for some reason this particular instructor took a violent dislike to the tall, dignified young southerner. perhaps because he was more anxious to have the love of his cadet friends than the approval of his teachers. perhaps from some hidden spring of character within the teacher which antagonized the firm will and strong personality of the student who dared to do his own thinking. from whatever cause, it was plain to all that the professor sought opportunities to insult and browbeat the cadet he could not provoke into open rebellion. the professor was lecturing the class on presence of mind as the supreme requisite of a successful soldier. he paused, and looked directly at his young enemy: "of course, there are some who will always be confused and wanting in an emergency--not from cowardice, but from the mediocre nature of their minds." the insult was direct and intended. he hoped to provoke an outburst which would bring punishment, if not disgrace. the cadet's lips merely tightened and the steel from the depths of his blue eyes flashed into his enemy's for a moment. he would bide his time. three days later, in a building crowded with students, the professor was teaching the class the process of making fire-balls. the room was a storehouse of explosives and the ball suddenly burst into flames. cadet davis saw it first and calmly turned to his tormentor: "the fire-ball has ignited, sir,--what shall i do?" the professor dashed for the door: "run! run for your lives!" the cadet snatched the fire-ball from the floor, dashed it through the window and calmly walked out. he had saved many lives and the building from destruction. his revenge was complete and sweet. but deeper and sweeter than his triumph over an enemy was the consciousness that he was master of himself. he had learned life's profoundest lesson. vii life on his graduation, the second lieutenant of infantry, from the state of mississippi, barely twenty years old, reported for duty to the jefferson barracks at st. louis. he was ordered to the frontier to extend the boundaries of the growing republic--now accompanied by his faithful body servant, james pemberton. the fort, situated on the wisconsin river, was the northern limit of the illinois tribe of indians, and the starting point of all raids against the iroquois who still held the rich lands around the village of chicago. the boy lieutenant was the first lumberman to put axe into the virgin forests of wisconsin. he was sent into the wilderness with a detachment for cutting timber to enlarge the fort. under the direction of two voyageurs he embarked in a little open boat and began the perilous journey. the first day out his courage and presence of mind were put to quick test. the indians suddenly appeared on the shore and demanded a trade for tobacco. the little party rowed to the bank and began to parley. a guide's keen eyes saw through their smooth palaver the hostile purpose of a bloody surprise and warned the commander. the order to push into the river and pull for their lives was instantly given. with savage yells the indians sprang into their canoes and gave chase. it was ten to one and they were sure of their prey. the chance of escape from such strong, swift rowers in light bark canoes was slight. the low fierce cries of victory and the joyous shout of coming torture rang over the waters. the indians gained rapidly. the young lieutenant's eye measured the distance between them and saw the race was hopeless. with quick command he ordered a huge blanket stretched in the bow for a sail. the wind was blowing a furious gale and might swamp their tiny craft. it was drowning or death by torture. the commander's choice was instantaneous. the frail boat plunged suddenly forward, swayed and surged from side to side through the angry, swirling waters, settled at last, and drew steadily away from the maddened savages. with a curious smile, the boyish commander stood in the stern and watched the black swarm of yelling devils fade in the distance. he was thinking of his old professor at west point. his insult had been the one thing in life to which he owed most. he could see that clearly now. his heart went out in a wave of gratitude to his enemy. our enemies are always our best friends when we have eyes to see. the winter following he was ordered down to winnebago. the village of chicago was the nearest center of civilization. the only way of reaching it was by wagon, and the journey consumed three months. there was much gambling in the long still nights, and some drinking. in lieu of the excitement of the gaming table, he took his fun in breaking and riding wild horses, and hairbreadth escapes were the order of his daily exercise. it was gambling, perhaps, but it developed the muscles of mind and body. his success with horses was remarkable. no animal that man has broken to his use is keener to recognize a master and flout a coward than the horse. no coward has ever been able to do anything with a spirited horse. he was wrestling one day with a particularly vicious specimen, to the terror and anguish of jim pemberton. "for de lawd's sake, marse jeff, let dat debbil go!" "no, james, not yet--" "he ain't no count, no how--" "all the more reason why i should be his master, not he be mine." the horse was possessed of seven devils. he jumped and plunged and bucked, wheeled and reared and walked on his hind legs in mad effort to throw his cool rider. the moment he reared, the lieutenant dropped his feet from the stirrups and leaned close to the brute's trembling, angry head. at last in one supreme effort the beast threw himself straight into the air and fell backwards, with the savage purpose of crushing his tormentor beneath his body. with a quiet laugh, the young officer slipped from the saddle and allowed him to thump himself a crashing blow. as the horse sprang to his feet to run, the lieutenant leaped lightly into the saddle and the fight was over. "well, for de lawd, did ye ebber see de beat er dat!" jim pemberton cried with laughing admiration. scarcely a week passed without its dangerous excursions against the pawnees, comanches and other hostile tribes of indians. the friendly tribes, too, were everlastingly changing to hostiles in a night. death rode in the saddle with every man who left a fortified post in these early days of our national life. the lieutenant was ordered on a peculiarly long and daring raid into hostile territory, and twice barely escaped a massacre. their errand accomplished, and leisurely returning to the fort, they suddenly met a large party of indians. the lieutenant shot a swift glance at their leader and saluted him with friendly uplifted hand: "can you tell us the way to the fort, chief?" the tall brave placed himself squarely in the path and pointed in the wrong direction. instantly the lieutenant spurred his horse squarely on the savage, grasped him by the hair, dragged him a hundred yards and flung him into the bushes. the assault was so sudden, so unexpected, so daring, the whole band was completely cowed, and the soldiers rode by without attack. nor was the indian the only enemy to test the youngster's mettle. the pioneer soldiers of the rank and file in these turbulent days had minds of their own which they sometimes dared to use. the lieutenant had no beard. his smooth, handsome face, clear blue eyes, fresh color and gay laughter, gave the impression of a boy of nineteen, when by the calendar he could boast of twenty-one. a big strapping, bearded soldier, employed in building the fort, had proven himself the terror of his fellow workmen. he was a man of enormous strength and gave full rein to an ugly, quarrelsome disposition. his eyes rested with decided disapproval on the graceful young master of horses. "i'll whip that baby-faced lieutenant," he coolly announced to his satellites, "if ever he opens his jaw to me--watch me if i don't. what does he know about work?" the men reported the threat to the lieutenant. the next day without a moment's hesitation, in quiet tones, he gave his first order to the giant: "put that piece of dressed scantling beside the window--" the man deliberately lifted a rough board and placed it. "the rough board won't do," said the even voice. "it must he a dressed scantling." the soldier threw him an insolent laugh, and stooped to take up a board exactly like the one he had laid down. the baby-faced lieutenant suddenly seized a club, knocked him down, and beat him until he yelled for quarter. the soldiers had watched the clash at first with grins and winks and nudges, betting on their giant. his strength was invincible. when the unexpected happened, and they saw the slender, plucky youngster standing over the form of the fallen brave, they raised a lusty shout for him. when the giant scrambled to his feet, the victor said with a smile: "this has been a fight, man to man, and i'm satisfied. i'll not report it officially." the big one grinned sheepishly and respectfully offered his hand: "you're all right, lieutenant. i made a mistake. i beg your pardon. you're the kind of a commander i've always liked." again the soldiers gave a shout. no man under him ever again presumed on his beardless face. he had only to make his orders known to have them instantly obeyed. jim pemberton had watched the little drama of officer and man with an ugly light gleaming in his eyes. the young master had not seen him. that night in his quarters jim quietly said: "i'd a killed him ef he'd a laid his big claws on you, marse jeff." "would you, james?" "dat i would, sah." nothing more was said. but a new bond was sealed between master and man. while at fort crawford, the lieutenant had been ordered up the yellow river to build a saw mill. he had handled the neighboring indians with such friendly skill and won their good will so completely, he was adopted by their chief as a brother of the tribe. an old indian woman bent with age traveled a hundred miles to the fort to warn the "little chief" of a coming attack of hostile bands. her warning was unheeded by the new commander and a massacre followed. the success of this attack raised the war spirit of the entire frontier and gave the soldiers a winter of exceptional danger and hardship. the country in every direction swarmed with red warriors on the warpath. the weather was intensely cold, and his southern blood suffered agonies unknown to his companions. often wet to the skin and compelled to remain in the saddle, the exposure at last brought on pneumonia. for months he lay in his bed, directing, as best he could, the work of his men. james pemberton lifted his weak, emaciated form in his arms as if he were a child. the black man carried his money, his sword and pistols. at any moment, day or night, he could have stepped from the door into the wilderness and been free. he was free. he loved the man he served. with tireless patience and tenderness, he nursed him back from the shadows of death into life again. on recovering from this illness, the lieutenant faced a new commander at the head of his regiment--a man destined to set in motion the greatest event of his life. colonel zachary taylor had been promoted to the command of the first infantry on the death of colonel morgan. already he had earned the title that would become the slogan of his followers in the campaign which made him president. "old rough and ready" at this time was in the prime of his vigorous manhood. colonel taylor sent the lieutenant on an ugly, important mission. four hundred pioneers had taken possession of the lead mines at dubuque against the protest of the indians whose rights had been ignored. the lieutenant and fifty men were commissioned to eject the miners. to a man, they were heavily armed. they believed they were being cheated of their rights of discovery by the red tape of governmental interference. they had sworn to resist any effort to drive them out of these mines. most of them were men of the higher types of western adventurer. the lieutenant liked these hardy sons of his own race, and determined not to use force against them if it could he avoided. he crossed the river to announce his official instructions, and was met by a squad of daring, resolute fellows, armed and ready for a fight. their leader, a tall, red-headed, serious-looking man, opened the conference with scant ceremony. looking the youthful officer squarely in the eye, he slowly drawled: "young man, we have defied the gov'ment once befo' when they sent their boys up here to steal our mines. now, ef yer know when yer well off, you'll let honest white men alone and quit sidin' with injuns--" there was no mistaking his accent. he meant war. the lieutenant's answer came in quick, even, tones: "the united states government has ordered your removal, gentlemen. my business as a soldier is to obey. i shall be sorry to use force. but i'll do it, if it's necessary. i suggest a private interview with your leader--" he nodded to the red-headed man. "sure!" "talk it over!" "all right." the men from all sides gave their approval. the leader hesitated a moment, and measured the tall, straight young officer. he didn't like this wrestle at close quarters with those penetrating eyes and the trained mind behind them. but with a toss of his red locks he muttered: "all right, fire away--you can talk your head off, for all the good it'll do ye." they walked off together a few yards and sat down. with the friendliest smile the lieutenant extended his hand: "before we begin our chat, let's shake hands?" "certain--shore--" the brawny hand clasped his. "i want you to know," the young officer continued earnestly, "my real feelings toward you and your men. i've been out here four years with you fellows, pushing the flag into the wilderness, and the more i see of you the better i like you. i know real men when i see them. you're strong, generous, brave, and you do things. you're building a great republic on this frontier of the world. i've known your hospitality. you've had little education in the schools, but you're trained for this big work in the only school that counts out here--the school of danger and struggle and experience--" the brawny hand was lifted in a helpless sort of protest: "look a here, boy, you're goin' ter bamboozle me, i kin jist feel it in my bones--" "on the other hand," the lieutenant continued eagerly, "i assure you i am going to treat you and your friends with the profoundest respect. it's due you. let's reason this thing out. you've taken up these mines under the old right of first discovery--" "yes, and they're ours, too,"--the lean jaws came together with a snap. "so i say. but it will take a little time and a little patience to establish your claims. the indian, you know, holds the first rights to this land--" "t'ell with injuns!" "even so, isn't it better to first settle their claims and avoid war?" "mebbe so." "and you know we can't settle with the indians while you hold by force the mines they claim as the owners of the soil--" the leader scratched his head and rose with sudden resolution: "come on, and tell this to the boys." the leader escorted the lieutenant to the crowd, and commanded them to hear him. his speech was interrupted at first by angry exclamations, but at its close there was respectful silence. the fight was won without a blow. the new colonel was much pleased at the successful ending of the dangerous job. he had received the orders to eject these miners with a wry face. that the work had been done without bloodshed had lifted a load from his mind. the lieutenant was honored on the night of his return by an invitation to dine with colonel taylor's family. they had been settled in the crowded quarters of the fort during his absence--the wife, three daughters and a little son. the lieutenant's curiosity was but mildly roused at the thought of meeting the girls. in the lofty ways of youth, he had put marriage out of his mind. a soldier should not marry. he had given his whole soul to his country, its flag and its service. he would be agreeable to the ladies, of course, in deference to his commander and the honor he was receiving at his hands. the dinner was a success. the mother was charming and gracious in her welcome. something in her ways recalled his own mother. she extended her hand with a genial smile, and took his breath with her first remark: "i've quite fallen in love with you, sir, because of a story i heard of your west point career--" "not in pity for my fall over the cliff, i hope," he answered gravely. the mother's voice dropped to a whisper: "no,--your friend albert sydney johnston told me that you saved a large part of your allowance and sent it home to your mother--" the young officer's lips trembled, and he looked away for a moment: "but she sent it back to me, madam." "yes, until you wrote that she hurt you by not keeping it--" to relieve his evident embarrassment, the mother introduced him in rapid succession to her daughters, the eldest anne, the second sarah knox, the youngest elizabeth. richard, the handsome little boy, had introduced himself. he had liked the lieutenant from the first. he had been so surprised by the mother's possession of one of the sweetest secrets of his schoolboy life, and had blushed so furiously over it, he had scarcely noticed the girls, merely bowing in his confusion. it was not until they were seated at the table and the dinner had fairly begun, that he became conscious of the charm of the second daughter, who sat directly opposite. her beauty was not dazzling, but in fifteen minutes she had completely absorbed his attention. it was impossible, of course, not to look at her. she sat squarely before him. there was no embarrassment in the frank, honest curiosity with which she returned his gaze. the thing that first impressed him was the frankness of a winsome personality. he listened with keen attention to her voice. there was no simper, no affectation, no posing. she was just herself. he found himself analyzing her character. refined--yes. intelligent--beyond a doubt. she talked with her father in a quiet, authoritative way which left no doubt on that score. graceful, tender, sincere, too--her tones to her impulsive brother and her younger sister proved that. and a will of her own she had. the firmly set, full lips were eloquent of character. he liked that above all things in a woman. he couldn't stand a simpering doll. "sing for us, sarah!" her brother said impulsively, as they rose from the table. "certainly, dick, if you wish it." there was no holding back for urging. no mock modesty. no foolishness in her answer. it was straight, affectionate, responsive, open hearted, generous--just like his own sweet little sister polly when he had asked of her a favor. and then, he blushed to find himself staring at her in a sort of dreamy reverie. he hoped her music would not spoil the impression her personality had made. this had happened once in his life. he could never talk to the girl again, after he had heard her sing. the memory of it was a nightmare. he watched her tune the guitar with a sense of silly dread. the tuning finished, she turned to her brother and asked with a smile: "and what shall i sing, sir richard?" "the one i love best--'fairy bells.'" when the first line with its sweet accompaniment floated out from the porch on the balmy air of the june evening, the lieutenant's fears had vanished. never had he heard a song whose trembling melody so found his inmost soul. it set the fairy bells ringing in the deep woods of his far-away mississippi home. he could see the fairy ringing them--her beautiful hair streaming in the moonlight, a smile on her lips, the joy and beauty of eternal youth in every movement of her exquisite form. when the last note had died softly away, he leaned close and before he knew what he was doing, whispered: "glorious, miss sarah!" "you like it very much?" she asked. "it's divine." "my favorite, too." all night the "fairy bells" rang in his heart. for the first time in life, he failed to sleep. he listened entranced until dawn. viii love in the swift weeks which followed, life blossomed with new and wonderful meaning. in the stern years on the plains, the young officer had known but one motive of action--duty. he was an exile from home and its comforts, friends and the haunts of civilized man for his country's sake. he had come to plant her flag on the farthest frontier and push it farther against all corners. in the struggle against the snows of winter and the pestilence of the summer wilderness, he had fought nature with the dogged determination of the soldier. snow meant winter quarters, the spring marching and fighting. the hills were breastworks. the night brought dreams of strategy and surprise. the grass and flowers were symbols of a nation's wealth and the prophecy of war. by a strange magic, the coming of a girl had transformed the world. he had seen the strategic value of these hills and valleys often before. he had not dreamed of their beauty. the mists that hung over the ragged lines of the western horizon were no longer fogs that might conceal an army. they were the folds of a huge veil which nature was softly drawing over the face of a beautiful bride. why had he not seen this before? the awful silence of the plains from which he had fled to books had suddenly become god's great whispering gallery. he listened with joyous awe and reverence. the stars had been his guides by night to find the trail. he had merely lifted his eyes to make the reckoning. he had never seen before the crystal flash from their jeweled depths. he looked into the eyes of the graceful young rider by his side and longed to tell her of this miracle wrought in his soul. but he hesitated. she was too dignified and self-possessed. it would be silly when put into words. but the world to-day was too beautiful to hurry through it. he just couldn't. "let's stop on this hill and watch the sunset, miss sarah?" he suggested. "i'd love to," was the simple answer. with a light laugh, she sprang from the saddle. they touched the ground at the same moment. he looked at her with undisguised admiration. "you're a wonderful rider," he said. "a soldier's daughter must be--it's part of her life." he tied their horses to the low hanging limbs of a cluster of scrub trees, and found a seat on the bowlders which the indians had set for a landmark on the lonely hilltop. westward the plains stretched, a silent ocean of green, luscious grass. "what's that dark spot in the valley?" the girl eagerly asked. "watch it a moment--" they sat in silence for five minutes. "why, it's moving!" she cried. "yes." "how curious--" "an illusion?" he suggested. "nonsense, i'm not dreaming." "i've been dreaming a lot lately--" a smile played about the corners of her fine mouth. but she ignored the hint. "tell me," she cried; "you studied the sciences at west point, what does it mean?" "look closely. any fifteen-year-old boy of the plains could explain it." "am i so ignorant?" she laughed. "no," he answered soberly, "our eyes just refuse to see things at which we are looking until the voice within reveals. the eyes of a hunter could make no mistake about such a spot--particularly if it moved." "it might be a passing cloud--" "there's none in the sky." "tell me!" she pleaded. "a herd of buffalo." "that big black field! it must be ten acres--" the man laughed at her ignorance with a sudden longing in his heart to help and protect her. "ten acres! look again. they are twenty miles away. the herd is packed so densely, the ground is invisible. they cover a thousand acres." "impossible--" "i assure you, it's true. they were once even more plentiful. but we're pushing them back with the indians into the sunset. and they, too, will fade away into the twilight at last--" he stopped suddenly. he had almost spoken a sentence that would have committed him beyond retreat. it was just on his lips to say: "i didn't take such tender views of indians and buffaloes until i met you!" for the life of him he couldn't make the girl out. her voice was music. her laughter contagious. and yet she was reserved. about her personality hung a spell which forbade familiarity. flirting was a pastime in the army. but it had never appealed to him. he was not so sure about her when she laughed. and then her father worried him. the fiery old southerner had the temper of the devil when roused. he could see that this second daughter was his favorite. he had caught a look of unreasonable anger and jealousy in his eye only that afternoon when they rode away together. still he must risk it. he had really suggested this sunset scene for that purpose. the field was his own choosing. only a coward could run now. he managed at last to get his lips to work. "since you came, miss sarah--i've been seeing life at a new angle--" he paused awkwardly. the red blood mounted to her cheeks. "you have given me new eyes--" [illustration: "'you have given me new eyes'"] she turned her head away. there was no mistaking the tremor of his tones. she was too honest to simper and pretend. her heart was pounding so loudly she wondered if he could hear. he fumbled nervously with his glove, glanced at her from the corner of his eye, and his voice sank to a whisper: "i--i love you, sarah!" she turned slowly and looked at him through dimmed eyes: "and i love you--" she paused, brushed a tear from her cheek, and with sweet reproach quietly added: "why didn't you tell me sooner? we've lost so many beautiful days that might have been perfect--" he suddenly stooped and kissed her full lips. "we'll not lose any more--" "the world _is_ beautiful, isn't it, dear!" she said, nestling closer. "since i see with your eyes--yes. it was only a place to fight in, before. now it's a fairy world, and these wild flowers that cover the plains only grow to make a carpet for the feet of the girl i love--" "a fairy world--yes--" she whispered, "it's been just that to me since i first sang the 'fairy bells' for you--" "i'll never love another song as that," he said reverently. "nor i," was the low response. "my heart will beat to its music forever--it just means you, now--" for a long time they sat without words, holding each other's hand. the sun hung a glowing ball of fire on the rim of the far-away hills, and the shadows of the valley deepened into twilight. "how wonderful the silence of the plains!" the lover sighed. "it used to oppress me." the man nodded. "and now, i hear the beat of angels' wings and know that god is near--" "because we love--" and she laughed for joy. again they sat in sweet, brooding silence. a horseman rode over the hilltop in the glow of the fading sun. from its summit, he lifted his hand and waved a salute. they looked below, and in the doorway of a cabin, a young mother stood, a babe in her arms answering with hand uplifted high above her child. "what does it matter, dear," she whispered, "a cabin or a palace!" ix war side by side through the still white light of the full moon they rode home, in each heart the glow of the wonder and joy of love's first revelation. words were an intrusion. the eyes of the soul were seeing now the hidden things of life. the gleam of the lights at the fort brought them sharply out of dreamland into the world of fact. "you must see my father to-night, dear," she said eagerly. "must i, to-night?" "it's best." "i'd rather face a hundred red men in war paint." a merry laugh was her answer as she leaned close: "don't be silly, he likes you." "but he _loves_ you." "of course, and for that reason my happiness will be his." "god knows, i hope so," was the doleful response. "but if i must, i must. i'll see him." a quick kiss in the friendly shadows and she was gone. he walked alone an hour after supper, screwing up his courage to the point of bearding the colonel in his den. he fumbled the door-bell at last, his heart in his throat. old rough and ready was not inclined to help him in his embarrassment. never had he seen the lines of his strong jaw harder or more set than when he grunted: "sit down, sir. don't stand there staring. i'm not on inspection." the perspiration started on his forehead and he moistened his dry lips. "i beg your pardon, colonel. i was a little flustered. i've--a--something--on--my mind--" "out with it!" "i--i--i'm in love with miss sarah." "you don't say?" "y-yes, sir." "well, it's no news to me. the whole family have been enjoying the affair for some time. i suppose you're asking--or think you're asking--for my daughter's hand in marriage?" "that's it--yes, sir--exactly." "i guessed as much. i'm glad to tell you, young man, that i've always had the kindliest feelings for you personally--" "thank you, sir--" "and the warmest admiration for your talents as an officer. you're a good soldier. you have brains. you have executive ability. you're a leader of men. you'll go far in your profession--" "thank you, sir--" "and that's why i don't like you as a son-in-law." "w--wha--" "i love my daughter, and i want her to be happy in a real home with a real husband and children by her side. a soldier's life is a dog's life. i've pitied the poor girl who gave up her home for me. many a bitter tear has she shed over my absence, in torturing dread of the next letter from the frontier--" he paused and sprang to his feet: "a hundred times i've sworn no daughter of mine should ever marry a soldier! the better the soldier, the more reason she should not marry him--" "but, sir--" "there's no 'but' about it!" the colonel thundered. "you're asking me to let you murder my girl, that's all--but it's life. i'll have to give my consent and wish you good luck, long life, and all the happiness you can get out of a soldier's lot." the colonel extended his hand and the lieutenant grasped it with grateful eagerness. the days that followed were red lettered in the calendar of life. and then it came--a crash of thunder out of the clear sky--the thing he had somehow felt and dreaded. a petty court-martial was called to adjust a question of army discipline. the court was composed of z. taylor, colonel commanding, major thomas f. smith, a fiery-tempered gay officer of the old army, lieutenant jefferson davis, and the new second lieutenant who had just arrived from the jefferson barracks at st. louis. the army regulations required that each officer sitting in court-martial should be in full uniform. the new arrival from st. louis had come without his uniform. his trunk had miscarried and was returned to the jefferson barracks. he rose with embarrassment: "i must beg the pardon of the court, colonel," he began cautiously, "for not appearing in my uniform. as it is in st. louis i respectfully ask to be excused to-day from wearing it." the old colonel scowled. it was just like a young fool to wish to sit in solemn judgment on a fellow officer--in his shirt sleeves. if he had asked to be excused from serving on the court--yes--he could accept his excuse and let him go. but this insolence was unbearable. the colonel glanced over the court before putting the question to a vote. smith was his enemy. whichever way he voted as president, the major could be depended on to go against his decision. there was a feud between those two hot-tempered fire-eaters which had lasted for years. he glanced at his future son-in-law with a smile of assured victory. tom smith would vote against him, but the trembling youngster who had quailed before him that night asking for his daughter's hand was practically in the family. he smiled at the certainty of downing smith once more. in a voice, whose tones left nothing to the imagination of the presumptuous second lieutenant, the colonel growled: "gentlemen, we are asked to allow an officer to sit in the formal judgment of a court-martial without uniform--i put the question to a vote and cast mine. no!" "i vote yes!" shouted the major. the colonel did not condescend to look his way. he knew what that vote was before he heard it. he bent his piercing eyes on his future son-in-law: "lieutenant davis?" there was just a moment's hesitation. the lieutenant smiled at his embarrassed young fellow officer and mildly answered: "i think, colonel, in view of the distance to st. louis, we may excuse the young man for the first offense--i vote--yes." the old colonel stared at him in speechless amazement. smith grinned. the colonel's face grew purple with rage. he was just able to gasp his words during the progress of the trial. it was brief, and when it ended and the rest had gone, he faced the lieutenant with blazing eyes: "how dare you, sir, vote with that damned fool against me?" "why, i never thought to hurt you, colonel--" "no? and what _did_ you think?" "i only thought of relieving the evident embarrassment of a young officer--" "you did, eh?--no thought of me or my feelings, of my wishes. you're a hell of a son-in-law, you are--" he paused for breath and choked with rage no words could express. when at last his tongue found speech, he swore in oaths more expressive and profound than modern man has ever dreamed. he damned the court. he damned tom smith. he damned the second lieutenant. he damned the regiment. he damned the government that created it. he damned the indians that called it to the plains. he damned the world and all in it, and all things under it. but, particularly and specifically, he damned the young ass who dared to flaunt his feelings and opinions after smiling in his face at his house, for days and weeks and months. finally, facing the blushing lieutenant, his eyes flashing indignant scorn, he shouted: "no man who votes with a damned fool like tom smith, can marry my daughter!" "colonel, i protest," pleaded the heartsick lover. "i forbid you to ever put your foot inside my quarters again!" "colonel--" "silence, sir! i forbid you to ever speak to my daughter again!" "but, colonel--" "i repudiate you and all yours. i wipe you from the map. you don't exist. i don't know you. i never knew you. get out of my sight!" the tall, slender form slowly straightened and a look of cold pride shot from the depths of his blue eyes. without a word he turned and left. x romance black hawk was leading his red warriors in a great uprising. a wave of fierce excitement swept the frontier. there was stern work now for men to do and women must wait alone. the regiment marched to the front. the colonel as a man was freezingly formal with the lieutenant. as an officer, he knew his worth and relied on it in every emergency. the state of illinois had raised two companies of raw recruits to join in subduing the indians. the colonel sent his most efficient subordinate to swear in the new soldiers. on the morning of the muster, there appeared before the tall lieutenant, a man full three inches taller, and famous in his county as the gawkiest, slab-sidest, homeliest, best-natured fellow in the state. he was dressed in a suit of blue jeans. in slow, pleasing drawl, he announced: "i am the captain, of this company--" and he waved his long arm toward the crowd of his countrymen on the right. lieutenant jefferson davis promptly administered to abraham lincoln his first oath to support the constitution and laws of the united states. two men destined to immortal fame had met and passed with scarcely a glance at each other. the young army officer was too much of a gentleman to mark the ill-fitting blue jeans of the awkward captain of militia. great events, after all, make men great. only the eye of god could foresee the coming tragedy in which these two would play their mighty rôles. at the end of the brief struggle on the frontier, black hawk's people were scattered to the four winds and the brave old warrior, with a handful of his men, sought colonel taylor's command to surrender. again, the colonel sent his most accomplished officer, the lieutenant whom he had forbidden to enter his house,--to treat with the fallen chief. the lieutenant received with kindly words the broken-hearted warrior, his two sons and sixty braves, and conducted them at once as prisoners of war to the barracks at st. louis. the cholera was raging at rock island, and on the boat two of the indian prisoners were seized with the fatal disease. the lieutenant, at the risk of his life, personally ministered to their needs. the two stricken men made known to the commander in broken words and signs that they had sworn an oath of eternal friendship. in pleading tones the stronger said: "we beg the good chief to put us ashore that hand in hand we may go to the happy hunting grounds together." near the first little settlement their prayer was granted. the young officer turned to his boat with a sigh as he saw the red warriors slip their arms about each other and slowly sink to the ground to die alone and unattended. old black hawk sat in silent, stolid indifference to his fate until the curious settlers began to crowd on the boat and stare at his misery. the lieutenant interfered with sharp decision. "push those men back, corporal!" he ordered angrily. the crowd was roughly pushed back and the lieutenant took black hawk kindly by the arm and led him into a reserved apartment where he was free from vulgar eyes. the old man's lips tightened. he gazed at the officer steadily and spoke in measured tones: "the young war chief treats me with much kindness. he is good and brave. he puts himself in my place and sees all that i suffer. with him i am much pleased." the lieutenant bowed and left him under the protection of the guard. courtesy to a fallen foe in the old days was the first obligation of an officer and a gentleman. in the autumn, colonel taylor again sent his lieutenant on a distant duty--this time one of peculiar danger. he was ordered to louisville and lexington on recruiting service. and the cholera was known to be epidemic but a few miles from lexington. the good-by scene that night at the lovers' trysting place, the little tent reception-room of the mccreas', was long and tender and solemn. "oh, i feel dreadful about this trip, dear," his sweetheart kept repeating with pitiful despair that refused to be comforted. "you must be brave, my own," he answered with a frown. "a soldier's business is to die. i am a soldier. i go where duty calls--" "to battle--yes--but this black pestilence that comes in the night--i'm afraid--i just can't help it--i'm afraid. i've always had a horror of such things. i've a presentiment that you'll die that way--" "presentiments and dreams go by opposites. i'll live to a ripe old age--" she looked up into his face with a tender smile: "you think so?" "yes, why not?" "well--i've something to tell you--" she paused and the man bent low. "what?" "i've made a vow to god--" the voice stopped with a sob--"that if he will only send you safely back to me this time--i'll wait no longer on my father's whim--i am yours--" the lover clasped her trembling form to his heart. "good-by, dearest," he said at last. "i wish to go with that promise ringing in my soul." ten days after he reached lexington, the cholera broke out, and hundreds fled. he stood by his men, watched their diet, nursed the sick, and buried the dead. he helped the carpenter make the coffins and reverently bore the victims to their graves. no fear was in his soul. love was chanting the anthem of life. a strange new light was burning in the eyes of the woman he loved on the day he returned in safety. she seized his hand and spoke with decision: "come with me." her father was standing at the gate. she faced him, holding defiantly the hand of her lover. the old man saw and understood. his jaw was set with sullen determination and his face hardened. "we have waited two long years," she began softly. "we have been patient and hopeful, but you have given no sign. my lover's character is beyond reproach, and i am proud of him. i am sorry to cross you, father, but i've made up my mind, i am going to marry him now." the colonel turned in silence and slowly walked into the house. captain mccrea engaged a stateroom for her on the boat for louisville. the lovers planned to meet at her aunt's, the colonel's oldest sister. the tearful good-bys had been said to mother and sisters and brother. the colonel had not spoken, but he had business on the boat before she cast her lines from the shore. the daughter drew him into her stateroom and slipped her arms around his neck. few words were spoken and they were broken. "please, father--please?--i love you--please--" "no." "i'm no longer a child. i'm a woman. you're a real man and you know i could have no respect for myself if i should yield my life's happiness to a whim--" the old colonel stroked her shoulder: "i understand. you're a chip off the old block. you're just as stubborn as i am. and--i--won't--eat--my--words." with firm hand, he drew away and hurried from the boat. the taylor clan of kentucky gathered for the wedding in force. the romance appealed to their fancy. they loved their high-spirited, self-poised little kinswoman and they liked the tall, modest, young officer she had chosen for her husband. the stern old colonel was not there, but his brother and his three sisters and all their tribe made merry at the wedding feast. on the deck of the lazy river steamer, the bride and groom slowly drifted down the moonlit shimmering way to the fields of mississippi. the bride nestled close to her lover's side in the long sweet silences too deep for words. he took her hand in his at last, and said tenderly: "i've something very important to tell you now, my dear--" "i'm not afraid--" "you trust me implicitly?" "perfectly--" "you have given up all for me," he went on evenly, "i'll show your father what i can do for you--" "you love me--it's enough." "no. i have resigned my commission in the army. i have given up my career. we'll live only for each other now and build our nest in the far sunny south beyond the frost line." a little smothered cry was her answer. and then her head slowly sank with a sob on his breast. xi the fairy bells they built their home on the banks of the great river where the tide sweeps in graceful curve, all but completing the circle of an enchanted isle. from the little flower-veiled porch through festoons of lacing boughs gleamed the waters of the huge curved mirror held by nature's hand. the music from the decks of the steamers floated up on the soft air until music and perfume of flowers seemed one. in the cool of the morning, on swift, high-bred horses, they rode side by side along the river's towering bluff and laughed in sheer joy at their foolish happiness. in the waning afternoon, hand in hand, they walked the sunlit fields and paused at dusk to hear the songs of slaves. the happiness of lovers is contagious. it sets the hearts of slaves to singing. in the white solemn splendor of the southern moon they strolled through enchanted paths of scented roses. on the rustic seat beneath a magnolia in full second bloom they listened to the song of a mocking-bird whose mate had built her nest in the rose trellis beside their door. they could count the beat of his bird heart night after night as he sang the glory of his love and the beauty of his coming brood of young. "you are happy, dearest?" the lover sighed. "in heaven,--i am with you." "and it shall be forever." "forever!" "the old life of blood and strife--it seems an ugly dream." "except for the sweet days when you were near." "this only is life, my own, to hold your hand, and walk the way together, to build, not to destroy, to make flowers bloom, birds and slaves sing, to create, not kill--production is communion with god. we live now in his peace that passeth understanding!" a long silence followed. an owl in a distant tree top gave a shrill plaintive cry. the bride nestled closer and he felt her shiver. "you are chill, dearest?" he murmured. "just a little." "we're forgetting the late august night winds--" "no--no--it's nothing--i'm just a wee bit afraid of an owl, that's all." a dark figure slowly approached and stood with uncovered head. "what is it, james?" the master asked. "it's too late, sir, for you and the mistis to be out in dis air--it's chill an' fever time--" "thank you, james--we'll go in at once." when the faithful footfall had died away, the lover lifted his bride in his arms and carried her in, while she softly laughed and clung to his strong young shoulders. it came with swift, sure tread, the silent white figure of the pestilence that walks in tropic splendor. the lover laughed the doctor's fears to scorn and the old man was brave and cheerful in the presence of youth and happiness. james pemberton followed him to the gate and held his horse's bridle with a tremor in his black hand. "you don't think, doctor--" he paused, afraid to say the thing--"you don't think my young mistis gwine ter die?" "she's very ill, jim--it's an even fight for life." "ef she do--hit'll kill my young marster--" "soldiers can't die that way--no--" "yassah--but dey ain't been married but three months, sah, an' he des worship de very groun' her little foot walks on--she des can't die--she too young an' putty, sah--hit des natchally can't be--" the doctor's gray head slowly moved as if in remembrance of tragic scenes. "death loves a shining mark sometimes!" he turned to the slave in tones of warning: "watch your master closely--" "my _marster_--sah!" "he'll go down next--" "yassah--yassah!" two days later, the strong man collapsed with a crash that took even the experienced old doctor by surprise. an iron will had bent over the bedside of his bride and fought with grim defiance the battle with unseen foe until the last ounce of strength had gone. in his delirium they moved him to another room and he awoke to find himself in a prison cell on a desert island a thousand miles from the mate he adored. he watched his jailers and at last his hour came. the tired guard beside his prison pallet slept. with fevered stealth he rose and with the strength of a giant, bent the bars of his cage and crawled and fought his way over hill and valley, rocks and mountains, back to the bedside of his beloved. he paused in rapture at the door. she was sitting up in bed, the pillows propped behind her back, singing their favorite song--"fairy bells." how soft and weirdly sweet her voice--its notes so far away and plaintive--never had she sung so divinely! he held his breath lest a word or quiver of its melody should be lost. and then he slipped his strong arms about her and looked into her eyes shining with unearthly beauty. "you have come at last, my own!" she sighed. "i knew the bells would call you--" "yes--dearest--and i'll never leave you again--they took me away a wounded prisoner of war--but i broke the bars and came when i heard you call--" "look," she whispered, pointing with the slender blue-veined finger, "there she is, in the doorway again with her baby in her arms, waving at sunset to her lover on the hill?--what does it matter, a cabin or a palace!" the shining eyes grew dim, the figure drooped, and a wild piteous cry came from the lover's fevered lips: "lord god of love and pity--she's dying!--help--help--help!" his faithful servant, worn with watching day and night, heard the cry, rushed to his side and caught his fainting form, as the light of the world faded. xii truth they nursed him slowly back into life again, the loving heart of the older brother guiding the arm of his faithful slave. he refused to live at first. "it's no use, joe," he cried with bitter despair. "life isn't worth the struggle any more. i'm tired, i just want to rest--by her side--that's all." "i know, boy, how you feel. but you must live. duty calls. great events are stirring the world. you've a man's part to play--" "i won't play it. i'm done with ambition. i'm done with strife. the game's not worth the candle. i've lived the only life worth living, and it's finished." little by little, each day, the brother slowly rebuilt in the stricken soul the will to live. before he was able to walk, he lifted the frail form in his arms, carried him into his big library, and seated him in an arm-chair before a fire of glowing logs. with a sweep of his arm about the room toward the crowded shelves he began in earnest tones: "you're going to live with me now, boy. we love each other with the love of strong men. i need your help and companionship in my study. you had the advantage of a college career--i didn't. we'll master here these records of the world's life. we'll seek wisdom in the history and experience of man. what do you know of the treasures buried in those big volumes? our young men go to school and plunge into life with a mere smattering. do you know the history of your own country, how it was discovered, how its colonies grew, how its battles were fought against overwhelming and impossible odds? how its great constitution grew in the hands of inspired leaders, who builded better than they knew a chart for the guidance of man. do you know the history of the mind of man? do you know the story of those ragged bleeding feet--of the great thinkers of the ages who have found the path of truth through blood and tears and then walked its way to the stake, to the block and the gallows? come with me into the big world of the past--read, study, think, and gird yourself with power! we're just entering on the struggle that means life or death to our republic. i believe as i believe in god, that we have set a beacon light on the shores of the world that will guide the human race to its mightiest achievements--unless we fail to keep its lantern trimmed and bright. "the poison of indolence is in our blood--the tendency to centralized tyranny. we are but a few years removed from its curse. as we grow in years, the temptation to make washington the gilded capital of an empire becomes more and more apparent. unless we control this tendency to lapse into the past, we are lost and the story of our fallen republic will be but one more added to the failures of history. unless we can preserve the sovereignty of our states, the union will become an empire, not a republic of republics. it's a difficult thing for men to govern themselves, though they can do it better than anyone else has ever done it for them. we are making this wonderful experiment here in the new world. the fate of unborn millions hangs on its success. you're done with self and self-seeking. ambition is a dream that is passed. good! lay your life in unselfish sacrifice on the altar of your country. only the man who has given up ambition is fit for great leadership. he alone dares to seek and know and speak the truth!" the tired spirit rose with a new view of human life, its aim and purpose. for eight years he buried himself in the library on his brother's estate. through the long winter nights the two brilliant minds fought over in friendly contests the battles of the ages until the passion for truth grew into the one purpose of a great soul. when the first rumblings of the storm that was to shake a continent broke over the republic, he stepped forth to take his place in the world of action--the best equipped, most thoroughly trained, most perfectly poised man who had ever entered the arena of american politics. his rise was brilliant and unprecedented. in his first contest he met the foremost orator of the age, sergeant prentiss, and vanquished him on his own ground. in two years he took his seat in congress, the favorite son of mississippi. he had scarcely begun his career, as a lawmaker, when war was declared against mexico. he resigned his high office, raised a regiment and once more found himself a soldier under the orders of stern old zachary taylor. on his first battle field at the head of his mississippi regiment, he planted the flag of the republic on the grand plaza of monterey. and in the supreme crisis of the battle of buena vista, with the blood streaming from his wounds, he led his men in a charge against overwhelming odds, turned the tide from defeat to victory and gave the presidency to the man who had denied to him his daughter's hand. he hobbled back on crutches to his brother's home in mississippi amid the shouts and frenzied acclaim of a proud and grateful people. within three years from the day he entered public life, he took his seat in the senate chamber of the united states beside clay, calhoun and webster, the peer of any man within its walls, and with the conscious power of knowledge and truth, girded himself for the coming struggle of giants. the story chapter i the curtain rises "for the lord's sake, jennie--" dick welford paused at the bottom of a range of steps which wound up the capitol hill from pennsylvania avenue. the girl standing at the top stamped her foot imperiously. "hurry--hurry!" "i won't--" "then i'll leave you!" the boy laughed. "you don't dare. it's barely sunup--still dark in spots--the boogers'll get you--" with a grin he deliberately sat down. "dick welford, you're the laziest white man i ever saw in my life--we won't get a seat, i tell you--" "we can stand up." "we won't even get our noses in the door--" "you don't think these old senators get up at daylight, do you?" "they didn't go to bed last night--" "i'll bet they didn't!" dick laughed. "i know one that didn't anyhow--" "who?" "senator davis." "how do you know?" "spent the night there. father stayed so late, mrs. davis put me to bed. regular procession all night long! and among his visitors the blackest republican of them all--" "old abe run over from illinois to say good-by?" "no, but his right hand man seward did--" "sly old snuff-dipping hypocrite--" "anyhow, he's the brains of his party." "and he called on jeff davis last night?" "not the first time either. mrs. davis told me that when the senator was so ill with neuralgia and came near losing his sight, seward came every day, sat in the darkened room and talked for hours to his enemy--" "that's because he's a black republican. their ways are dark. they like rooms with the shades pulled down--" "anyhow he likes mr. davis." "well, it's good-by to the old union--how many senators are going to-day?" "yulee and mallory from florida, clay and fitzpatrick from alabama and senator davis--" "all in a day?" "yes--" "jennie, they'll talk their heads off. it'll be three o'clock before the first one finishes. we'll die. let's go to mt. vernon--" "dick welford, i'm ashamed of you. you've no patriotism at all--" "and i just proposed a pilgrimage to the home of george washington!" "you don't care what happens in the senate chamber to-day--" "no--i don't." the boy's lazy figure slowly rose, mounted the steps, paused and looked down into the tense eager young face. "you really want to know," he began slowly, "why speaking tires me now?" "yes--why?" "because it's a waste of breath--we're going to fight!" the girl flushed with excitement. "who told you? what have you heard? who said so?" a dreamy look in the boy's eyes deepened. "nobody's told me. i just know. it's in the air. a wild duck knows when to go north. a bluebird knows when to move south. it's in the air. that's the way i know--" his voice dropped. "let's go to mt. vernon and spend the day, jennie--" the girl looked up sharply. the low persuasive tones were unmistakable. the faintest flush mantled her cheeks. "no--i wouldn't miss those speeches for anything. you promised to take me to the senate gallery. come on." with a quick bound the boy scaled the next flight of steps and looked down at her laughing: "all right, why don't _you_ come on!" with a frown she sprang up the stone stairs and he caught her step with a sudden military salute. they walked in silence for a few minutes. "what's the matter with you to-day, dick welford?" "why, miss jennie barton?" "i never saw you quite so foolish." "maybe it's because i never saw you quite so pretty--" the little figure stiffened with dignity. "that will do now, sir--" "yessum!" she threw him a look of quiet scorn as they picked their way through the piles of building material for the unfinished dome of the capitol and mounted the steps. barely half past seven o'clock and the crowds were pouring into the senate chamber, its cloak rooms and galleries. within thirty minutes after they had found seats opposite the diplomatic gallery every inch of space in the great hall was jammed and packed. southern women and their escorts outnumbered the others five to one. the southern wing of official washington was out in force. the tense electric atmosphere was oppressive. the men and women whose eager anxious faces looked down on the circular rows of senatorial chairs and desks were painfully conscious that they were witnessing the final scene of a great historical era. what the future might hold god alone could know. their fathers had dreamed a beautiful dream--"_e pluribus unum_"--one out of many. the union had yet to be realized as an historical fact. the discordant elements out of which our constitution had been strangely wrought had fought their way at last into two irreconcilable hostile sections, the very structure of whose civilization rested on antagonistic conceptions of life and government. the northern senators were in their seats with grave faces long before the last straggling southerner picked his way into the chamber bowing and smiling and apologizing to the ladies on whose richly embroidered dresses he must step or give up the journey. for weeks the pretense of polite formalities between parties had been unconsciously dropped. men no longer bowed and smirked and passed the time of day with shallow words. with heads erect, they glanced at each other and passed on. and if they spoke, it was with taunt, insult and challenge. jennie's keen eyes rested on two vacant chairs on the floor of the senate--every seat was crowded save these two. she pressed dick's arm. "see--the vacant seats of south carolina!" "they're not vacant," the boy drawled. "they are--look--" "i see a white figure in each--" "nonsense!" "we're going to have war, i tell you! death sits in those chairs to-day, jennie--" "sh--don't talk like that--" the boy laughed. "i'm not afraid, you know--just a sort of second sight--maybe it means i'll be killed--" * * * * * south carolina had felt no forebodings on the day her convention had recalled those senators. kiett the eloquent leader of the convention sprang to his feet, his face flaming with passion that was half delirium as he shouted: "this day is the culmination of long years of bitterness, of suffering and of struggle. we are performing a great deed, which holds in its magic not only the stirring present, it embraces the ages yet to come. i am content with what has been done to-day. i shall be content with it to-morrow. we have lowered the body of the old union to its last resting place. we drop the flag over its grave." when the vote was announced, without a single dissenting voice, the crowd rose to their feet with a shout of applause which shook the building to its foundations. it died away at last only to rise again with redoubled fury. alabama, mississippi, georgia and florida had followed in rapid succession, louisiana's convention was to meet on the twenty-sixth, texas on february first. on this the twenty-first day of january the senators from florida, mississippi and alabama had announced their farewell addresses to the old union. the girl's eyes swept the crowded tiers of the galleries packed with beautifully gowned southern women. every glove, fan, handkerchief, bonnet or dress--every dainty stocking and filmy piece of lingerie had been imported direct from the fashion centers of europe. gowns of priceless lace and velvets had been woven to order in the looms of genoa, venice and brussels. the south was rich. and yet not one of her representatives held his office in washington because of his money. her ruling classes were without exception an aristocracy of brains--yet they were distinctly an aristocracy. the election of abraham lincoln was more than a threat to confiscate three thousand millions of dollars which the south had invested in slaves. the homely rail splitter from the west was the prophecy of a new social order which threatened the foundations of the modern world. he himself was all unconscious of this fact. and yet this big reality was the secret of the electric tension which strangled men into silence and threw over the scene the sense of ominous foreboding. the debates in congress during the tempestuous session had been utterly insincere and without meaning. the real leaders knew that the time for discussion had passed. two absolutely irreconcilable moral principles had clashed and the republic was squarely and hopelessly broken into two vast sectional divisions on the issue. beyond the fierce and uncompromising hatred of slavery which had grown into a consuming passion throughout the north and had resulted in the election of lincoln as a purely sectional candidate--behind and underneath this apparent moral rage lay a bigger and far more elemental fact--the growing consciousness of the laboring man that the earth and the fullness thereof were his. and bigger than the fear of the confiscation of their property and the destruction of the constitution their fathers had created loomed before the southern mind the specter of a new democracy at the touch of whose fetid breath the soul of culture and refinement they believed must die. in the vulgar ranks of this democracy must march sooner or later four million negroes but yesterday from the jungles of africa. this greater issue was felt but dimly by the leaders on either side but it was realized with sufficient clearness to make compromise impossible. in vain did the aged and the feeble plead once more for compromise. real men no longer wished it. the day of reckoning had come. the seeds of this tragedy were planted in the foundation structure of the republic. the union of our fathers, for all the high sounding phrases of its declaration of independence was not a democracy. it was from the beginning an aristocratic republic founded squarely on african slavery. and the degraded position assigned to the man who labored with his hands was recognized in our organic law. the constitution itself was the work of a rich and powerful group of leaders in each state, and its provisions were a compromise of conflicting sectional property interests. the world had moved from to . the north was unconsciously lifting the banner of a mighty revolution. the south was clinging with the desperation of despair to the faith of its fathers. the north was the world of steam and electricity, of new ideas, of progress. the south still believed in the divine inspiration of the men who founded the republic. they must believe in it, for their racial life depended on it. four million negroes could not be loosed among five million southern white people and two such races live side by side under the principles of a pure democracy. had this issue been put to them in the beginning not one southern state would have entered the union. the northern workingman, with steam and electricity bringing north and south into closer and closer touch, answered this cry of fear from the south with the ultimatum of democracy: "this nation can not endure half slave and half free!" back of all the mouthings of demagogues and the billingsgate of sectionalists lay this elemental fact--a democracy against a republic. nor could the sword of the sections settle such an issue. the sectional sword could only settle an issue which grew out of it--whether a group of states holding a common interest in this conflict of principles could combine for their own peace and safety, leave the old union, form a new one and settle it in their own way. the north said no--the south said yes. this conviction bigger than party platforms was the brooding terror which brought the sense of tragedy to young and old, the learned and the unlearned--that made young men see visions and maids dream of mighty deeds. * * * * * the southern boy's eyes had again rested on the vacant chairs of the senators from south carolina with a set look in their depths. the crowd turned with sudden stir to the door of the senate chamber. "look," jennie cried, "that's mrs. clem clay of alabama--how pale and beautiful she is! the senator's going to make the speech of his life to-day. she's scared--ah, that dress, that dress--isn't it a dream? did you ever see such a piece of velvet--and--do look at that dear little gold hand holding the skirt up just high enough to see the exquisite lace on her petticoat--" "where's the golden hand--i don't see it?" dick broke in skeptically. "don't you see the chain hanging from her waist?" "yes, i see that." "follow it with your eye and you'll see the hand. the bayard sisters introduced them from paris, you know." the boy had ceased to listen to jennie's chatter. his eye had suddenly rested on a group of three men seated in the diplomatic gallery--one evidently of high official position by the deference paid him. the man on the left of the official was young, handsome, slender, and pulled the corners of his mustache with a slow lazy touch of his graceful hand. his eyes were fixed on jennie with a steady gaze. the minister from sardinia, of the court of victor emmanuel, sat on the right, bowing and gesticulating with an enthusiasm out of all proportion to the importance of the conversation. behind this group sat a fourth man who leaned forward occasionally and whispered to the official. his face was in shadow and the only thing dick could see was the thick dark brown beard which covered his regular features and a pair of piercing black eyes. "for heaven's sake, jennie," the boy cried at last, "who is that villain in the diplomatic gallery?" "where?" "in the corner there on the right." "oh, that's the sardinian minister--king victor emmanuel's new drummer of trade for genoa. he's getting ahead of the french, too." "no--no, i don't mean that little rat. i mean the big fellow with the heavy jaw and a face like a rattlesnake. he's trying to charm you too." jennie laughed. "silly! that's the new secretary of war, joseph holt." "a scoundrel, if god ever made one--" "because he looks at me?" "no--that shows his good taste. it's the way he looks at you and moves his crooked mouth and the way he bends his big flat head forward." "rubbish--he's a loyal southerner--and if we have to fight he'll be with us." "yes--he--_will_!" "of course, he will. he's careful now. he's in old buck's cabinet. wait and see. he called on mr. davis last night." "that's nothing--so did old seward--" "different--seward's a black republican from new york--holt's a southern democrat from mississippi." "and who's the young knight by his side with the dear little mustache to which he seems so attached?" jennie looked in silence for a moment. "i never saw him before. he's handsome, isn't he?" "looks to me like a young black snake just shed his skin waiting for that old adder to show him how to strike." "dick--" "god save the queen! they're coming here--they're coming for you--" the secretary of war had nodded in recognition of jennie, risen suddenly, and moved toward the gallery exit with his slender companion. "nonsense, dick--he only bowed because he saw me staring--" "he's bringing that mustache to meet you--" the boy turned with a scowl toward the door of their gallery and saw the secretary of war slowly making his way through the crowd to their seats. "i told you so--" jennie blushed and smiled in friendly response to the secretary's awkward effort at southern politeness. "miss barton, may i ask a little favor of you?" "certainly, mr. holt. allow me to introduce my friend, mr. welford of virginia." the secretary bowed stiffly and dick nodded his head with indifference. "the italian minister with whom i've just been talking wishes the honor of an introduction for his secretary. miss jennie, will you meet him?" "certainly--" "he's looking forward to the possible new empire of the south," holt whispered, "and proposes at an early day to forestall the french--" dick threw him a look of scorn as he returned to the door and rose with a scowl. "i'll go out and get fresh air." "don't go--" "i can't breathe in here. two's company and three's a crowd." she seized his arm: "please sit down, dick." "i'll be back directly--" in spite of her protest he bounded up the steps of the gallery, turned sharply to the right, avoided the intruders and disappeared in the crowd. the secretary of war bowed again: "miss barton, permit me to introduce to you signor henrico socola, secretary to his excellency, the minister of sardinia." the slender figure bent low with an easy grace. "pleased to meet you, signor socola," jennie responded, lifting the heavy lashes from her lustrous brown eyes with the slightest challenge to his. "the pleasure is all mine, mad'moiselle," he gravely replied. "you'll excuse me now if i hurry on?" the secretary said, again bowing and disappearing in the crowd. "mr. holt tells me, miss barton, that you know every senator on the floor." "yes. my father has been in congress and the senate for twenty years." "you'll explain the drama to me to-day when the curtain rises?" "if i can." "i'll be so much obliged--" he paused and the even white teeth smiled pleasantly. "i'm pretty well up on american history but confess a little puzzled to-day. your southern senators are really going to surrender their power here without a struggle?" "what do you mean?" the girl asked with a slight frown. "that your democratic party has still a majority in both the house and the senate. if the southern members simply sit still in their places, the incoming administration of abraham lincoln will be absolutely powerless. the new president can not even call a cabinet to his side without their consent." "the north has elected their president," jennie answered with decision. "the south scorns to stoop to the dishonor of cheating them out of it. they've won the election. they can have it. the south will go and build a government of her own--as we built this one--" "and fight twenty-three million people of the north?" "if forced to--yes!" "with the certainty of an uprising of your slaves at home?" jennie laughed. "our slaves would fight for us if we'd let them--" a curious smile twitched the lips of the italian. "you speak with great confidence, miss barton!" "yes. i know what i'm talking about." the keen eyes watched her from the shadows of the straight thick brows. "and your senators who took a solemn oath in entering this chamber to support the constitution will leave their seats in violation of that oath?" the southern girl flushed, turned with quick purpose to answer, laughed and said with winning frankness: "you don't mind if i give you my father's answer in his own words? i know them by heart--" "by all means." "an oath to support the constitution of the united states does _not_ bind the man who takes it to support an administration elected by a mob whose purpose is to subvert the constitution!" "oh,--i see," was the quiet response. "you speak english with perfection, signor!" jennie said with a smile. "yes, mad'moiselle, i've spent my life in the diplomatic service." he bowed gravely, lifted his head and caught the smile on the lips of the secretary of war standing in the shadows of the doorway of the diplomatic gallery. the stately figure of john c. breckinridge, the vice-president, suddenly mounted the dais and his piercing eyes swept the assembly. he rapped for order and the silence which followed was as the hush of death. "the curtain rises on our drama, mad'moiselle," the smooth even voice said. "sh!" the girl whispered. chapter ii the parting the breathless galleries leaned forward to catch the slightest sound from the arena below. one by one the senators from the seceding southern states rose and renounced their allegiance to the united states in obedience to the voice of their people. with each solemn exit the women of the galleries grew hysterical, waved their perfumed handkerchiefs and shouted their approval with cries of sympathy and admiration. david yulee, stephen k. mallory and benjamin fitzpatrick had each closed his portfolio and with slow measured tread marched down the crowded aisle and out of the chamber never again to enter its doors. all eyes were focused now on the brilliant young senator from alabama, clement c. clay, jr. it was understood that he had prepared an eloquent defense of his action and would voice the passionate feeling of the masses of the southern people in this his last utterance in the crumbling temple of the old republic. he rose in his place, lifted his strong head with its leonine locks and broad, high forehead, paused a moment and began his speech in the clear steady tones of the trained orator, master of himself, his theme and his audience. the northern senators met his gaze with scorn and he answered with a look of bold defiance. the formal announcement of the secession of his state he made in brief sharp sentences and plunged at once into the reasons for their solemn act. "forty-two years ago, alabama was admitted into the union," he declared in ringing tones. "she entered it as she goes out, with the republic convulsed by the hostility of the north to her domestic institutions. not a decade has passed, not a year has elapsed since her birth as a state that has not been marked by the steady and insolent growth of the mob violence of the north which has demanded the confiscation of her property and the destruction of the foundations of her civilization. "who are the leaders of these mobs who seek thus to overthrow the constitution? who are these hypocrites who claim the championship of freedom and the moral leadership of the world? "the men who sold their own slaves to us because they could not use them with profit in a northern climate; the men who built and manned every american slave ship that ever sailed the seas; the sons of old peter faneuil of boston who built faneuil hall, their cradle of liberty, out of the profits of slave ships whose trade the southern people had forbidden by law; the men who have flooded congress for two generations with petitions to dissolve the union; the men who threatened to secede with the addition of every foot of territory we have added to our republic! "these are the men who have denied to the manhood of the south christian communion because they could not endure what they have been pleased to style the moral leprosy of slavery! these are the men who refuse us permission to sojourn or even pass through the sacred precincts of a northern state and dare to carry our servants with us. these are the men who deny to the south equal rights in the lands of the west bought by southern blood and brains and added to our inheritance against their furious protests. these are the men who burn the sacred charters of american liberty in their public squares, and inscribe on their banners the foul motto: "'the constitution is an agreement with death, a covenant with hell.' "these are the men who dare to call us traitors! these are the men who have deliberately passed laws in fourteen northern states nullifying the provisions of the constitution of the union which they have sworn to defend and enforce--" the speaker paused and lifted high above his head a little morocco bound volume. "here in the presence of almighty god--the god of our fathers, and these witnesses, i read its solemn provisions which the laws of fourteen northern states have brazenly and openly defied!" he opened the little book and slowly read: "'article , section . "'_no person held to service of labor in one state, under the laws thereof, escaping into another, shall in consequence of any law or regulation therein, be discharged from such service or labor--but shall be delivered up on claim of the party to whom such service or labor may be due._'" he turned suddenly to the northern senators: "your states have not only repudiated the constitution you have sworn to uphold, but your emissaries have invaded the peaceful south and sought to lay it waste with fire and sword and servile insurrection. you have murdered southern men who have dared demand their rights on northern soil. you have invaded the borders of southern states, burned their dwellings and murdered their people. you have proclaimed john brown, the criminal maniac who sought to murder innocent and helpless men, women and children in virginia, a hero and martyr and then denounced _us_ in your popular meetings, your religious and legislative assemblies as habitual violators of the laws of god and the rights of humanity! you have exerted all the moral and physical agencies that human ingenuity can devise or a devil's malice employ to heap odium and infamy upon us and make the very name of the south a by-word of hissing and of scorn throughout the civilized world--" he paused overcome with emotion and lifted his hand to stay the burst of applause from the galleries. "we have borne all this for long years and might have borne it many more under the assurance of our northern friends that such fanaticism does not represent the true heart of the northern people. but the fallacy of these promises and the folly of our hopes have been too clearly proven in the late election. the platform of the political party on which you have swept every northern state and elected a sectional president is a foul libel upon our character and a declaration of open war on the lives and property of the southern people. "in defiance of the constitution which protects our rights your mob has decreed the confiscation of three thousand million dollars' worth of our property. if we claim the protection of our common law, your mob solemnly burns the constitution in your public squares and denounces it as 'an agreement with death and covenant with hell.' we appeal to the supreme court of the republic and when its judges unanimously sustain our position on every point, your mob cries: "'down with the supreme court of the united states!' "you have not only insulted us as unchristian and heathen, you have proclaimed that four million ignorant negroes but yesterday taken from the savagery of cannibal africa are our equals and entitled to share in the solemn rights of american citizenship. your declaration is an open summons that they rise in insurrection with the knife in one hand and the torch in the other. "your mob has declared the south outlawed, branded with ignominy, consigned to execration and ultimate destruction. your mob has decreed the death of slavery and sends the new president to execute their decree. "all right--kill slavery and then what? kill slavery and what will you do with its corpse? who shall deliver us from the body of this death? we are not leaving this hall to fight for the institution of african slavery. the grim specter of a degraded and mongrel citizenship which lies back of your mob's programme of confiscation is the force that is driving the southern people out of the union to find peace and safety. whatever may be the sins of slavery in the south they are as nothing when compared to the degradation of your life which must follow their violent emancipation. the southern white man is slowly lifting the african out of barbarism into the light of christian civilization. in our own good time we will emancipate him and start him on a new life beyond the boundaries of our republic. whatever may be the differences of opinion in the south on the institution of slavery--there is no difference and there has never been on one point--it was true yesterday--it is true to-day--it will be true to-morrow--_slavery is the only modus viviendi by which two such races as the negro and the aryan can live side by side in a free democracy with equality the law of its life_--" again a burst of tumultuous applause swept the gallery. "the issue is clear cut and terrible in its simplicity--the south stands on the faith of our fathers who created this republic. the south stands for constitutional freedom under the forms of established law. the north has lifted the red flag of revolution and proclaims the irresponsible despotism of an enthroned mob! "for a generation your school mistresses have been training your boys to hate us and arming them to fight us. make no mistake about this movement to-day. we who go are but the servants of those who sent us. they now recall their ambassadors, and we obey their sovereign will. make no mistake about it. they are not a brave and rash people, deluded by bad men, who are attempting in an illegal way to wreck the union. they seek peace and safety outside driven by the rebellion against law and order within. "are we more or less than men? can we love our enemies and bless them that curse and revile us? are we devoid of the sensibilities, the sentiments, the passions, the reason, and the instincts of mankind? have we no pride, no honor, no sense of shame, no reverence for our ancestors, no care for posterity, no love for home, or family or friends? must we quail before the onion breath of an enthroned mob, confess our baseness, discredit the fame of our sires, degrade our children, abandon our homes, flee from our country and dishonor ourselves--all for the sake of a union whose constitution you have publicly burned and whose supreme court you have spit upon? "shall we consent to live under an administration controlled by those who not only deny us justice and equality and brand us as infamous, but boldly proclaim their purpose to rob us of our property and destroy our civilization? "the freemen of alabama have proclaimed to the world they will not. in their sovereign power they have recalled me. as their servant i go!" with a wave of his hand in an imperious gesture of defiance to the silent senators of the north, amid a scene of unparalleled passion, the speaker turned to his seat, gathered his books and papers and strode with quick firm step down the aisle. jennie had leaped to her feet and stood clapping her hands in a frenzy of excitement, unconscious of the existence of the strangely quiet young man by her side. he rose and stood smiling into her flushed face as she gasped: "a wonderful speech--wasn't it?" "they say the south has never lacked audacity, miss barton. i'm wondering if they are really going to make good such words with deeds." he spoke with a cold detachment that chilled and angered the impulsive girl. a hot answer was on her lips when she remembered suddenly that he was a foreigner. "of course, signor, you can not understand our feelings!" "on the other hand, i assure you, i do--i'm just wondering in a cold intellectual way whether the oratorical temperament--the temperament of passion, of righteous wrath of the explosive type which we have just witnessed, will win in the trial by fire which war will bring--" "you doubt our courage?" she interrupted, with a slight curve of the proud little lips. "far from it--i assure you! i'm only wondering if it has the sullen, dogged, staying qualities these stolid northern men down there have exhibited while they listened--" the girl threw him a quick surprised look and he stopped. his voice had unconsciously taken the tones of a soliloquy. "i beg your pardon, miss barton," he said, with sudden swing to the polite tones of society. "i'm annoying you with my foreign speculations--" a sudden murmur swept the galleries and all eyes were turned on the tall slender figure of jefferson davis as he slowly entered the senate chamber. "who is it?" socola asked. "senator davis--you don't know him?" "i have never seen him before. he has been quite ill i hear." "yes. he's been in bed for the past week suffering agonies from neuralgia. he lost the sight of one of his eyes from chronic pain caused by exposure in the service of his country in the northwest." "really--i didn't know that." "he was compelled to remain in a darkened room for months the past year to save the sight of his remaining eye." "that accounts for my not having seen him before." socola followed the straight military figure with painful interest as he slowly moved toward his seat greeting with evident weakness his colleagues as he passed. he was astonished beyond measure at the personality of the famous leader of the "southern conspirators" of whom he had heard so much. he was the last man in all the crowd he would have singled out for such a rôle. the face was too refined, too spiritual, too purely intellectual for the man of revolution. his high forehead, straight nose, thin compressed lips and pointed chin belonged to the poet and dreamer rather than the man of action. the hollow cheek bones and deeply furrowed mouth told of suffering so acute the sympathy of every observer was instantly won. in spite of evident suffering his carriage was erect, dignified, and graceful. the one trait which fastened the attention from the first and held it was the remarkable intensity of expression which clothed his thin muscular face. "you like him?" jennie ventured at last. "i can't say, miss barton," was the slowly measured answer. "he is a remarkably interesting man. i'm surprised and puzzled--" "surprised and puzzled at what?" "well, you see i know his history. the diplomatist makes it his business to know the facts in the lives of the leaders of a nation to whose government he is accredited. mr. davis spent four years at west point. he gave seven years of his life to the service of the army in the west. he carried your flag to victory in mexico and hobbled home on crutches. he was one of your greatest secretaries of war. he sent george b. mcclellan and robert e. lee to the crimea to master european warfare, organized and developed your army, changed the model of your arms, introduced the rifled musket and the minie ball. he explored your western empire and surveyed the lines of the great continental railways you are going to build to the pacific ocean. he planned and built your system of waterworks in the city of washington and superintends now the extension of the capitol building which will make it the most imposing public structure in the world. he has never stooped to play the part of a demagogue. he has never sought an office higher than the rôle of senator which fits his character and temperament. his mind has always been busy dreaming of the imperial future of your widening republic. his eye has seen the vision of its extension to the arctic on the north and the jungles of panama on the south. why should such a man deliberately come into this chamber to-day before this assembled crowd and commit hari-kari?" "he's a true son of the south!" jennie barton proudly answered. "even so, how can he do the astounding thing he proposes to carry out to-day? his record shows that passionate devotion to the union has been the very breath of his life. i've memorized one of his outbursts as a model of your english language--" jennie laughed. "i never heard of his union speeches, i'm sure!" "strange that your people have forgotten them. listen: 'from sire to son has descended the love of the union in our hearts, as in our history are mingled the names of concord and camden, of yorktown and saratoga, of new orleans and bunker hill. together they form a monument to the common glory of our common country. where is the southern man who would wish that monument less by one northern name that constitutes the mass? who, standing on the ground made sacred by the blood of warren, could allow sectional feeling to curb his enthusiasm as he looks upon that obelisk which rises a monument to freedom's and his country's triumph, and stands a type of the time, the men and the event it commemorates; built of material that mocks the waves of time, without niche or molding for parasite or creeping thing to rest upon, pointing like a finger to the sky to raise man's thoughts to high and noble deeds!'" socola paused and turned his dark eyes on jennie's upturned face. "how can the man who made that speech in boston do this mad deed to-day?" "senator clay has given the answer," was the girl's quick reply. "for senator clay, yes--the fiery, impulsive, passionate child of emotion. but this thin hollow-cheeked student, thinker and philosopher, who spoke the thrilling words i quote--he should belong to the order of the prophet and the seer--the greatest leaders and teachers of history." "we believe he does, signor!" was the quick answer. "look--he's going to speak--you'll hear him now." jennie leaned forward, her thoughtful little chin in both hands, as a silence so intense it was pain fell suddenly on the hushed assembly. the face of the southern leader was chalk white in its pallor. his first sentences were weak and scarcely reached beyond the circle of his immediate hearers. his physician had forbidden him to leave his room. the iron will had risen to perform a solemn duty. the senators leaned forward in their arm-chairs fearful of losing a word. he paused as if for breath and gazed a moment on the upturned faces with the look of lingering tenderness which the dying cast on those upon whom they gaze for the last time. his figure suddenly rose to its full height, as if the soul within had thrust the feeble body aside to speak its message. his words, full, clear and musical rang to the furthest listener craning his neck through the jammed doorways of the galleries. never was the music of the human voice more profoundly appealing. unshed tears were in its throbbing tones. there was no straining for effect--no outburst of emotion. the impression which reached the audience was the sense of restraint and the consciousness of his unlimited reserve power. back of the simple clean-cut words which fell in musical cadence from his white lips was the certainty that he was only speaking a small part of what he felt, saw and knew. he neither stormed nor raved and yet he filled the hearts of his hearers with unspeakable passion. he turned suddenly and bent his piercing single eye on the northern senators: "i hope none who hear me will confound my position with the advocacy of the right of a state to remain in the union and disregard its constitutional obligations by the nullification of the law--" a sudden cheer swept the tense galleries. the sergeant-at-arms called for order. the cheer rose again. the vice-president rapped for silence and threatened to close the galleries. the speaker lifted his hand and commanded silence. "it was because of his deep attachment to the union--his determination to find some remedy for existing ills short of a severance of the ties which bound south carolina to the other states--that john c. calhoun advocated the doctrine of nullification which he proclaimed to be peaceful and within the limits of state power. "secession belongs to a different class of remedies. it is to be justified upon the basis that the states are sovereign. there was a time when none denied it. the phrase 'to execute the laws' general jackson applied to a state refusing to obey the law while yet a member of the union. you may make war on a foreign state. if it be the purpose of gentlemen--" he paused and again his eagle eye swept the tiers of northern senators. "you may make war against a state which has withdrawn from the union; but there are no laws of the united states to be executed within the limits of a seceded state--" seward leaned forward in his seat and shook his head in grave dissent. the speaker bent his gaze directly upon his great antagonist and spoke with strange regretful tenderness. "a state finding herself in a condition in which mississippi has judged she is--in which her safety requires that she should provide for the maintenance of her rights out of the union--surrenders all the benefits (and they are known to be many), deprives herself of all the advantages (and they are known to be great), severs all the ties of affections (and they are close and enduring) which have bound her to the union; and thus divesting herself of every benefit--taking upon herself every burden--she claims to be exempt from any power to execute the laws of the united states within her limits. "when massachusetts was arraigned before the bar of the senate for her refusal to permit the execution of the laws of the united states within her borders, my opinion was the same then as now. her state is sovereign. she never delegated to the federal government the power to drive her by force. and when she chooses to take the last step which separates her from the union, it is her right to go!--" another electric wave swept the crowd that burst into applause. the speaker lifted his long arm with an impatient gesture. "and i would not vote one dollar nor one man to coerce her back into unwilling submission. i would say to her--'god speed in the memory of the kind associations which once existed between her and her sister states.' "it has been a conviction of pressing necessity--a belief that we are to be deprived in the union of the rights which our fathers bequeathed us--which has brought mississippi to her present decision. "you have invoked the sacred declaration of independence as the basis of an attack upon her social order. the declaration of independence is to be construed by the circumstances and purposes for which it was made. it was written by a southern planter and slave owner. the colonies were declaring their independence from foreign tyranny--were asserting in the language of jefferson, 'that no man was born booted and spurred to ride over the rest of mankind; that men were created equal'--meaning the men of their american political community; that there was no divine right to rule; that no man could inherit the right to govern; that there were no classes by which power and place descended from father to son; but that all stations were equally within the grasp of each member of the body politic. these were the principles they announced. "they had no reference to a slave. the same document denounced george iii for the crime of attempting to stir their slaves to insurrection, as john brown attempted at harper's ferry. if their declaration of independence announced that negroes were free and the equals of english citizens how could the prince be arraigned for daring to raise servile insurrection among them? and how should this be named among the high crimes of george iii which caused the colonies to sever their connection with the mother country? "if slaves were declared our equals how did it happen that in the organic law of the union they were given a lower caste and their population allowed (and that only through the dominant race) a basis of three-fifths representation in congress? so stands the compact of union which binds us together. "we stand upon the principles on which our government was founded!--" the sentence rang clear and thrilling as the peal of a trumpet. the effect was electric. the galleries leaped to their feet, and cheered. jennie turned to the silent diplomat. "isn't he glorious!" "he stirs the hearts of men"--was the even answer. around them were unmistakable evidences. women were weeping hysterically and men embracing one another in silence and tears. again the senator's hand was lifted high in command for silence and again he faced seward and his northern colleagues with figure tense, erect. "when you repudiate these principles, and when you deny to us the right to withdraw from a government which, thus perverted, threatens to destroy our rights, we but tread the path of our fathers when we proclaim our independence and take the hazard!" again a cheer and shout which the vice-president's gavel could not quell. when the murmur at last died away the speaker's voice had dropped to low appealing tenderness. "we do this, senators, not in hostility to others, not to injure any section of our common country, not for our own pecuniary benefit, but from the high and solemn motive of defending and protecting the rights we inherited, which we will transmit unshorn to our children. we seek outside the union that peace, with dignity and honor, which we can no longer find within. "i trust i find myself a type of the general feeling of my constituents towards yours. i am sure i feel no hostility toward you, senators from the north--" he paused and swept the northern tiers with a look of tender appeal. "i am sure there is not one of you, whatever sharp discussion there may have been between us, to whom i can not now say in the presence of my god, i wish you well!" seward turned his head from the speaker, his eyes dimmed--the scheming diplomat and unscrupulous politician lost in the heart of the man for the moment. "such i am sure is the feeling of the people whom i represent toward those whom you represent. i but express their desire when i say i hope and they hope for peaceful relations with you, though we must part--" he paused as if to suppress emotions too deep for words while a silence, intense and suffocating, held the crowd in a spell. the speaker's voice dropped to still lower and softer notes of persuasive tenderness as each rounded word of the next sentence fell slowly from the thin lips. "if war must come, we can only invoke the god of our fathers, who delivered us from the power of the lion, to protect us from the ravages of the bear, and putting our trust in him and in our firm hearts and strong arms we will vindicate the right as best we may--" no cheer greeted this solemn utterance. in the pause which followed, the speaker deliberately gazed over the familiar faces of his northern opponents and continued with a suppressed intensity of feeling that gripped his bitterest foe. "in the course of my service here, associated at different times with a great variety of senators, i see now around me some with whom i have served long. there have been points of collision, but, whatever offense there has been to me, i leave here. i carry with me no hostile remembrance. for whatever offense i may have given which has not been redressed, or for which satisfaction has not been demanded, i have, senators, in this solemn hour of our parting to offer you my apology--" the low musical voice died softly away in the silence of tears. a woman sobbed aloud. socola bent toward his trembling companion and whispered: "who is she?" jennie brushed the tears from her brown eyes before replying: "the senator's wife. she's heart-broken over it all--didn't sleep a wink all night. i've been looking for her to faint every minute." the leader closed his portfolio. his hollow cheeks, thin lips and white drawn face were clothed with an expression of sorrow beyond words as he slowly turned and left the scene of his life's triumphs. the spell of his eloquence at last thrown off the crowd once more dissolved into hostile lowering groups. stern old zack chandler of michigan collided with jennie's father in the cloak room, his eyes red with wrath. "well, barton," he growled, "after the damned insolence of that scene if the north don't fight, i'll be much mistaken--" "you generally are, sir," barton retorted. "if they don't fight, by the living god, i'll leave this country and join another nation--the comanche indians preferred to this government." barton glanced at his opponent and his heavy jaw closed with a snap. "i trust, senator," he said with deliberate venom, "you will not carry out that resolution--the comanche indians have already suffered too much from contact with the whites!" dick welford heard the shot and gripped the fierce old southerner's hand as chandler turned on his heel and disappeared with an oath. "you got him that time, senator!" barton laughed with boyish glee. "i did, didn't i? sometimes we can only think of our best things when it's too late. but by gimminy i got the old rascal this time, didn't i?" "you certainly plugged him--what did you think of the speeches?" "clay said something! davis is too slow. he's got no blood in his veins. i don't like him. he'll pull us back into the union yet if we don't watch him. he's a reconstructionist at heart. the state of mississippi is dragging him out of washington by the heels. he makes me tired. the time for talk has passed. to your tents now, o israel!" dick hurried to the gallery and watched socola talking in his graceful italian way with jennie. he had hated this elegant foreigner the moment he had laid eyes on him. he made up his mind to declare himself before another sun set. he ignored the italian's existence. "you are ready, miss jennie?" she took dick's proffered arm in silence and bowed to socola who watched them go with a peculiar smile playing about his handsome mouth. jennie insisted on stopping at senator davis' home to tell his wife of the wonderful power with which his speech had swept the galleries. the house was still, the library door open. the girl paused on the threshold in awe. the senator's tall figure was lying prostrate across his desk, his thin hands clasped in prayer, his face buried in his arms. his lips were murmuring words too low to be heard until at last they swelled in sorrowful repetition: "may god have us in his holy keeping and grant that before it is too late peaceful councils may prevail!" the girl turned softly and left without a word. chapter iii a midnight session the secretary of war invited socola to join him at the white house after the cabinet meeting which president buchanan had called at the unusual hour of ten at night. he had waited for more than two hours in the anteroom and still the cabinet was in session. without show of impatience he smoked cigar after cigar, flicked their ashes into the fireplace and listened with an expression of quiet amusement to the storm raging within while the sleet of a january blizzard rattled against the windows with increasing fury. once more the question of the little fort in the harbor of charleston had plunged the discordant cabinet of the dying administration into the convulsions of a miniature war. the feeble old president, overwhelmed by the gathering storm, crouched in the corner by the fire. his emaciated figure was shrouded in a ridiculous old dressing-gown. mentally and physically prostrate he sat shivering while his ministers wrangled. he rose at last, shambled to the cabinet table, and leaned his trembling hands on it for support. "what can i do, gentlemen--what can i do? if anderson hadn't gone into that fort at night, the state of south carolina might not have seceded--" stanton shook his massive head with an expression of uncontrollable rage. "great god!" the president continued in feeble, pleading tones: "now they tell me that unless anderson withdraws his troops their presence will provoke bloodshed--" "let them fire on him if they dare!" shouted stanton. "i cannot plunge my country into fratricidal war. my sands are nearly run. i only ask of god that my sun may not set in a sea of blood--" he paused and lifted his thin hands, trembling like two withered leaves of aspen in the winter's blast. "what can i do?" stanton suddenly sprang from his seat and confronted the shivering old man. "i'll tell you what you can _not_ do!" the president gasped for breath and listened helplessly. "you can't yield that fort to the conspirators who demand it. dare to do it, and i tell you, as the attorney general of the united states, you are guilty of high treason--and by the living god you should be hung!" the venerable secretary of the navy, isaac toucey, lifted his hand in protest. stanton merely threw him a look of scorn, and shouted into the president's face: "your act could no more be defended than benedict arnold's!" "and what say you, holt?" the president asked, turning to his heavy-jawed secretary of war. "send a ship to the relief of sumter within twenty-four hours, and let south carolina take the consequences--" "good!" stanton cried. holt's crooked mouth was drawn in grim lines, and the left-hand corner was twisted into a still lower knot of ugly muscles. his furtive eyes beneath their shaggy brows glanced quickly around the table to see the effect of his patriotic stand. the president turned to the white-haired secretary of the navy: "and you, general toucey?" the venerable statesman from connecticut bowed gravely to his chief and spoke with quiet dignity. "i would order anderson to return at once to fort moultrie--" stanton smashed the table with his big fist. "and you know that the state of south carolina has dismantled fort moultrie?" toucey answered stanton's bluster with quiet emphasis. "i'm aware of that fact, sir!" "and it makes no difference?" "none whatever. anderson left fort moultrie and moved into fort sumter without orders--" a faint smile flickered about the drooping corners of holt's mouth-- the speaker turned to holt: "as a matter of fact, he moved into that fort against the positive orders of your predecessor, james b. floyd, the secretary of war. as he went there without orders, and against orders, he should be ordered back forthwith--" "with the look of a maddened tiger stanton flew at him. "and you expect to go back to connecticut after making that statement?" "i do, sir--" "i couldn't believe it." "and why, pray?" "i asked the question in good faith, that i might know the character of the people of connecticut, or your estimate of them." the old man drew himself up with cold dignity. "i have served the people of my state for over forty years--their congressman, their attorney general, their governor, their senator. i consult no upstart of your feeble record, sir, on any question of principle or policy!" stanton quailed a moment beneath the cold scorn of his antagonist, surprised that another man should dare to use his methods of invective. he lifted his hands with a gesture of contempt. "all i can say is, that if i should dare take that position and return to the state of pennsylvania, i should expect to be stoned the moment i set foot on her soil, stoned through the state and flung into the river at pittsburg with a stone around my neck--" toucey stared at his opponent. "and in my opinion they would deserve well of their country for the performance!" while his cabinet wrangled, the feeble, old man in the faded wrapper shambled to the window and gazed with watery eyes on the swaying trees of the white house grounds. the sleet had frozen in shining crystals and every limb was hung in diamonds. the wind had risen to hurricane force, howling and shrieking its requiem through the chill darkness. a huge bough broke and fell to the ground with a crash that sent a shiver through his distracted soul. he turned back to the table to hear their decision. it came with but one dissenting voice, toucey, secretary of the navy. "a ship be sent at once to the relief of sumter." with stubborn terror the president refused to sign the order for an armed vessel. at one o'clock they compromised on the little steamer, _star of the west_, and buchanan agreed that she should attempt to land provisions for anderson's fifty-odd men. holt hurried from the council chamber at one o'clock with a smile of triumph playing about his sinister mouth. his plan had succeeded. he had worked stanton as the legal adviser of the president exactly as he had foreseen. the little steamer would test the mettle of the men of south carolina who were training their batteries on fort sumter. if they dared to fire on her--all right--the lines of battle would be drawn. he seized socola's arm. "come with me to the war office." inside, he closed the door, inspected the room in every nook and corner for a possible eavesdropper, seated himself and leaned close to his attentive listener. "i have established your character now through your connection with the minister from sardinia beyond the possibility of any doubt. your position will not be called in question. you will appear in the south as the representative, unofficial and yet duly accredited, for king victor emmanuel. your purpose will be, of course, the cultivation of friendly relations with the officials of the new government looking to the day of its coming recognition--you understand?" "perfectly--" "you have absolutely consecrated your life, and every talent, to your country?" "body and soul--" the dark eyes flashed with the light of a religious fanatic. "good." the secretary paused and studied his man a moment. "i introduced you to the girl not merely to obtain an invaluable witness to your credentials should they be questioned--but for a double purpose." socola nodded. "i guessed as much." "she's bright, young, pretty, and you can pass the time pleasantly in her company. the association will place you in a strong position. her father is a fool--the storm petrel of secession. he has the biggest mouth in america, barring none. his mouth is so huge, they'll never find a muzzle big enough if they could get men enough around him to put it on. he's bound to land somewhere high in the councils of the coming confederacy--" "there'll be one?" holt smiled. "you doubt it?" "it may be bluster after all." "men of the davis type don't bluster, my boy. they are to meet at montgomery, alabama, on february fourth. they'll organize the cotton states into a southern confederacy. if they can win virginia, north carolina, tennessee and arkansas, they may gobble maryland, kentucky, and missouri--all slave states. if they get them all--they'll win without a fight, and reconstruct the union on their own terms; if they don't--well, we'll see what we'll see--" "and you wish?" "that you get for me--and get quickly--inside information of what is done and what is proposed to be done at montgomery. i want the names of every man discussed for high office among them, his chances of appointment, his friends, his enemies--why they are his friends, why they are his enemies. i want their plans, their prospects, their hopes, their fears, and i want this information quickly. you will be supplied with ample funds, and your report must be made to me in person. my tenure of this office will be but a few weeks longer--but you are my personal representative, you understand?" "quite." "your report must be in person to me, and to me alone." "i understand, sir." socola rose, extended his hand, drew his cloak about his slender shoulders and passed out into the storm, his dark face lighted by a smile as he recalled the winsome face of jennie barton. chapter iv a friendly warning the withdrawal of the southern senators and representatives from congress produced in washington the upheaval of a social earthquake. an atmosphere of tears and ominous foreboding hung pall-like over the city's social life. each step in the departure of wives and daughters was a pang. carriages drawn by sleek, high-bred horses dashed through the broad streets with excited haste. the black coachman on the box held his reins with a nervous grip that communicated itself to the horses. he had caught the excitement in the quivering social structure of which he was part. what he was really thinking down in the depths of his african soul only god could see. his dark face merely grinned in quick obedience to command. from every house where these farewells were being said, a weeping woman emerged and waved a last adieu to the tear-stained faces at the window. wagons and carts lumbered through the streets on their way to the wharf or station, piled high with baggage. hotel-keepers stood in the doorway of their establishments with darkened brows. the glory of the past was departing. the future was a blank. on the morning after his farewell address to the senate, a messenger, who refused to give his name, was ushered into the library of senator davis. the stately black butler bowed again with quiet dignity. "yo' name, sah? i--failed to catch it?" the messenger lifted his hand: "no name. please say to the senator that i came from an important official with a message of the gravest importance--i wish to see him alone at once--" the faithful servant eyed his visitor with an ominous look. there was no question of his loyalty to the man he served. "it's all right, robert, i'm a friend of senator davis." a moment's hesitation and the black man bowed with deference. "yassah--yassah--i tell him right away, sah. you sho' knows me anyhow, sah--" the senator was in bed suffering again from facial neuralgia. he rose promptly, dressed hastily but completely and carefully and extended both hands to his visitor. "you have come to see me at an unusual hour, sir. it must be important--" "of the utmost importance, senator. a high official in the confidence of the president sent me to inform you that stanton, the attorney general, is planning to issue a warrant for your arrest for high treason." "indeed?" "you are advised to leave washington on the first train." a dry smile flickered about the corners of the senator's strong mouth. "thank you. please say to my friend that i appreciate the spirit that prompted his message. ask him to say to mr. stanton that i have decided to remain in washington a week. nothing would please me better than to submit this issue to the courts for adjustment. he will find me at home every day and at all hours." chapter v boy and girl from the moment dick welford had seen socola bowing and smiling before jennie barton he had hated the man. he hated foreigners on general principles, anyhow. this kind of foreigner he particularly loathed--the slender, nervous type which suggested over-refinement to the point of effeminacy. he had always hated slender, effeminate-looking men of the native breed. this one was doubly offensive because he was an italian. how any woman with true womanly instincts could tolerate such a spider was more than he could understand. jennie barton had always frankly said that she admired men of his own type. he was six feet one, fair-haired, blue-eyed, and weighed a hundred and ninety-six pounds at twenty-one years of age. he had always felt instinctively that he was exactly the man for jennie's mate. she was nineteen, dark and slender, a bundle of quick, sensitive, nervous intelligence. her brown eyes were almost black and her luxuriant hair seemed raven-hued beside his. he had always imagined it nestling beside his big blond head in perfect contentment since the first summer he had spent with tom barton at their cottage at the white sulphur springs. he had taken it for granted that she would say yes when he could screw up his courage to speak. she had treated him as if he were already in the family. "confound it," he muttered, clenching his big fist, "that's what worries me! maybe she just thinks of me as one of her brothers!" it hadn't occurred to him until he saw the light kindle in her eyes at the sight of that smooth-tongued reptilian foreigner. he was on his way now to her house, to put the thing to the test before she could leave washington. thank god, the spider was tied down here at the sardinian ministry. he hoped victor emmanuel would send him as consul to shanghai. mrs. barton met him at the door with a motherly smile. "walk right in the parlor, dick. it's sweet of you to come so early to-day. we're all in tears, packing to go. jennie'll be delighted to see you. poor child--she's sick over it all." mrs. barton pressed dick's hand with the softest touch that reassured his fears. the only trouble about mrs. barton was she was gentle and friendly to everybody, black and white, old and young, yankee or southerner. she was even sorry for old john brown when they hung him. "poor thing, he was crazy," she said tenderly. "they ought to have sent him to the asylum." try as he might, he couldn't fling off the impression of tragedy the meeting of socola with jennie had produced. he was in a nervous fit to see and tell her of his love. why the devil hadn't he done so before anyhow? they might have been engaged and ready to be married by this time. they had met when she was sixteen. why on earth couldn't he throw off the fool idea that he was going to lose her? his big fist suddenly closed with resolution. "i'll not lose her! i'll wring that viper's neck--i'll wade through blood and death and the fires of h--" just as he was plunging waist deep through the flames of the pit, she appeared in the door, the picture of wistful, tender beauty. he rose awkwardly and extended his hand. "good morning, dick!" "good morning, jennie--" her hand was hot, her eyes heavy with tears. "what's the matter?" he asked. "as if you didn't know--i've been saying good-by to some of the dearest friends i've ever known. it's terrible. i just feel it's the end of the world--" he started to say: "don't worry, jennie darling, you have me. i love you!" the thought of it made the cold beads of perspiration suddenly stand out on his forehead. it was one thing to think such things--another to say it aloud to a girl with jennie's serious brown eyes. she seemed terribly serious this morning and far away somehow. never had he seen her so utterly lovely. the mood of tender seriousness made her more beautiful than ever. if he only dared to crush her in his arms and laugh the smiles back into her eyes. when he spoke it was only a commonplace he managed to blurt out: "so you're really going to-morrow?" "yes--we've telegraphed the boys to come home from school at once and join us in montgomery." he tried to say it again, but the speech turned out to be political, not personal. "of course virginia'll stand by her southern sisters, jennie--" "yes--" "it's just a few old moss-backs holding her. no army will ever march across her soil to fight a southern state--" "i hope not." "of course not. i'll meet them on the border with one musket anyhow--" the girl was looking out the window at the slowly drizzling rain and made no answer. he flushed at her apparent indifference to his heroic stand. "don't you believe i would?" "would what, dick?" she smiled, recovering herself from her reverie. it was no use beating about the bush, trying to talk politics. he had to make the plunge. he suddenly took her hand in his. she threw him a startled look, sat bolt upright, made the faintest effort to draw her hand away, and blushed furiously. he was in for it now. there was no retreat. he gripped with desperate earnestness, tried to speak, and choked. he drew a deep breath, tried again and only squeezed her hand harder. the girl began to smile in a sweet, triumphant way. it was nice, this conscious power over a big, stunning six-footer who grasped her hand as a drowning man a straw. the sense of her strength was thrilling. she looked at him with demure reproach. "dick!" he grinned sheepishly and clung to her hand. "yes--jennie--" "do you know what you are doing?" "no--but--i know--what--i'm--trying--to--do--and--i'm--going--to--do--it--" again his big hand crushed hers. "you're trying to break every bone in my hand as near as i can make out--i'd like it back when you're through with it--" he found his tongue at last: "i--i--can't let you have it back, jennie, i'm going to keep it forever--" "really?" "yes--i am. i--i love you--jennie--don't you love me--just--a--little bit?" the girl laughed. "no!" "not the least--little--tiny--bit?" "i don't think so--" the hand slipped through his limp fingers and he stared at her in a hopeless, pitiful way. her heart went out in a wave of tender sympathy. she put her hand back in his in a wistful touch. "i'm sorry, dick dear, i didn't think you loved me in that way--" "what did you think i was hanging round you so much for?" "i knew you liked me, of course. and i like you--but i've never thought seriously about love." "there's no other fellow?" "of course, not--" "you liked that socola, didn't you?" "i liked him--yes--" "i thought so." "he's cultured, handsome, interesting--" "he's a sissy!" "dick!" "a little wizened-faced rat--the spider-snake! i could break his long neck. yes--you do like him! i saw it when you met him. you're throwing me down because you met him!" "dick!" "but he shan't have you, i tell you--i'll show him i could lick a thousand such sissies with one hand tied behind me." the girl rose with dignity. "don't you dare to speak to me like that, sir--" "you're going to see that fellow again--i'll bet you've got an engagement with him now--to-night--to-day!" the slender figure rose. "i'll see him if i please--when i please and where i please and i'll not consult you about it, dick welford--good day!" trembling with anger the big, awkward boy turned and stumbled out of the house. chapter vi god's will dick welford had played directly into the hands of his enemy. when socola called at the barton home to pay his respects to miss jennie and wish them health and happiness and success in their new and dangerous enterprise, he found the girl in a receptive mood. the accusation of interest had stimulated her to her first effort to entertain the self-poised and gentlemanly foreigner. he turned to jennie with a winning appeal in his modulated voice: "will you do me a very great favor, miss barton?" "if i can--certainly," was the quick answer. "i wish to meet your distinguished father. he is a great southern leader. i have been commissioned by the sardinian ministry to cultivate the acquaintance of the leaders of the confederacy. i am to make a report direct to the court of king emmanuel on the prospects of the south." jennie rose with a smile. "with pleasure. i'll call father at once." barton was delighted at the announcement. "invite him to spend a week with us at fairview," jennie suggested. "good idea--we'll show him what southern hospitality means!" burton grasped socola's outstretched hand with enthusiasm. "permit me," he began in his grand way, "to extend you a welcome to the south. your king is interested in our movement. it's natural. europe must reckon with us from the first. cotton is the real king. we are going to build on this staple an industrial empire whose influence will dominate the world. the sooner the political rulers realize this the better." socola bowed. "i quite agree with you, senator barton. his majesty king victor emmanuel has great plans for the future. he is profoundly interested in your movement. he does not believe that the map of italy has yet been fixed. it will be quite easy to convince his brilliant, open mind that the boundaries of this country may be readjusted--" "i shall be delighted to show you every courtesy within my power, sir," barton responded. "you must go south with us to-morrow and spend a week at fairview, our country estate. you must meet my grand old father and my mother and see the curse of slavery at its worst!" barton laughed heartily and slipped his arm persuasively about the graceful shoulders of his guest. "i hadn't thought of being so honored, i assure you--" he paused and looked at jennie with a timid sort of appeal. "come with us--we'll be delighted to have you--" "i'll enjoy it, i'm sure," he said hesitatingly. "we will reach montgomery in time for the meeting of the convention of seceding states?" "certainly," barton replied. "i'm already elected a delegate from my state. her secession is but a question of days." socola's white, even teeth gleamed in a happy smile. "i'll go with pleasure, senator. you leave to-morrow?" "the ten-twenty train for the south. you'll join our party, of course?" "of course." with a graceful bow he hurried home to complete the final preparations for his departure. he walked with quick, strong step. and yet as he approached the door of the little house in the humbler quarter of the city his gait unconsciously slowed down. he dreaded this last struggle with his mother. but it must come. he entered the modestly furnished sitting room and looked at her calm, sweet face with a sudden sinking. she would be absolutely alone in the world. and yet no harm could befall her. she was the friend of every human being who knew her. it was the agony of this parting he dreaded and the loneliness that would torture her in his absence. he spoke with forced cheerfulness. "well, mater, it's all settled. i leave at ten-twenty to-morrow morning." she rose and placed her hands on his shoulders. the tears blinded her. "how little i thought when i taught your boyish lips to speak the musical tongue of italy i was preparing this bitter hour for my soul! i begged your father to resign his consulship at genoa and brought you home to teach you the great lesson--to love your country and reverence your country's god. and since your father's death the dream of my heart has been to see you a minister, teaching and uplifting the people into a higher and nobler life--" "that is my aim, mater dear. i am consecrating body, mind and soul to the task now of saving the union, an inheritance priceless and glorious to millions yet unborn. i'm going to break the chains that bind slaves. i'm going to break the brutal and cruel power of the southern tyranny that has been strangling the nation for forty years!" his eyes flashed with the fire of fanatical enthusiasm. he slipped his arm about his mother's slender waist, drew her to the window and pointed to the unfinished dome of the white, majestic capitol. "see, mater dear, the sun is bursting through the clouds now and lighting with splendor the marble columns. last night when the speeches were done and the crowds gone i stood an hour and studied the flawless symmetry of those magnificent wings and over it all the great solemn dome with its myriad gleaming eyes far up in the sky--and i wondered if god meant nothing big or significant to humanity when he breathed the dream of that poem in marble into the souls of our people! i can't believe it, dear. i stood and prayed while i dreamed. i saw in the ragged scaffolding and the big ugly crane swinging from its place in the sky the symbol of our crude beginnings--our ragged past. and then the snow-white vision of the finished building, the most majestic monument ever reared on earth to freedom and her cause--and i saw the glory of a new democracy rising from the blood and agony of the past to be the hope and inspiration of the world! "you hate this masquerade--this battle name i've chosen. forget this, dear, and see the vision your god has given to me. you've prayed that i might be his minister. and so i am--and so i shall be when danger calls; you dislike this repulsive mission on which i'm entering. just now it's the _one_ and only thing a brave man can do for his country. forget that i'm a spy and remember that i'm fitted for a divine service. i speak two languages beside my own. our people don't study languages. few men of my culture and endowment will do this dangerous and disagreeable work. i rise on wings at the thought of it!" the mother's spirit caught at last the divine spark from the soul of the young enthusiast. her eyes were wide and shining without tears when she slipped both arms about his neck and spoke with deep tenderness. "you have fully counted the cost, my son?" "yes." "the lying, the cheating, the false pretenses, the assumed name, the trusting hearts you must betray, the men you must kill alone, sometimes to save your own life and serve your country's?" "it's war, mater dear. i hate its cruelty and its wrongs. i'll do my best in these early days to make it impossible. but if it comes, i'll play the game with my life in my hands, and if i had a hundred lives i'd give them all to my country--my only regret is that i have but one--" "how strange the ways of god!" the mother broke in. "he planted this love in your soul. he taught it to me and i to you and now it ends in darkness and blood and death--" "but out of it, dear, must come the greater plan. you believe in god--you must believe this, or else the devil rules the universe, and there is no god." the mother drew the young lips down and kissed them tenderly. "god's will be done, my boy--it's the bitterness of death to me--but i say it!" chapter vii the best man wins before socola could purchase his ticket for the south, senator barton laid his heavy hand on his shoulder. "i just ran down, sir, to ask you to wait and go in senator davis' party. he has been threatened with arrest by the cowards who are at the present moment in charge of the government. he can't afford to leave town while there's a chance that so fortunate an event may be pulled off. i have decided to stay until lincoln's inauguration. my wife and daughter will make you welcome at fairview. and you'll meet my three boys. i'm sorry i can't be with you." socola's masked face showed no trace of disappointment. he merely asked politely: "and the party of senator davis will start?" "a week from to-day, sir--and my wife and daughter will accompany them--unless--of course--" he laughed heartily. "unless the great attorney general, edwin m. stanton, decides to arrest him--if he'll only do it!" socola nodded carelessly. "i understand, senator. a week from to-day. the same hour--the same train." in a moment he had disappeared in the crowd and hurried to the office of the secretary of war. holt received his announcement with a smile about the corners of his strong, crooked mouth. "that's lucky. i'd rather you were with davis ten to one. amuse yourself for the week by getting all the information possible of their junta here--" "barton will stay until the inauguration--" "of course--a spy in the camp of the enemy. he could be arrested, but it's not wise under the circumstances--" "you will not arrest senator davis?" "nonsense. stanton's a fool. nothing would please them better. i've convinced him of that. a wrangle in the courts now over such an issue would postpone its settlement indefinitely. the supreme court of the united states has sustained the south on every issue that has been raised. the north is leading a revolution. the south is entrenched behind the law. they can't be ousted by law. it can only be done by the bayonet--" holt paused and looked thoughtfully across the potomac. "report to me daily--" socola silently saluted and left the office with his first feeling of suspicion and repulsion for his chief. he didn't like the blunt, brutal way this southern democrat talked. he couldn't believe in his honesty. beneath those bushy eyebrows burned a wolf's hunger for office and power. on the surface he was loyal to the union. he wondered if he were not in reality playing a desperate waiting game, ready at the moment of the crisis to throw his information to either side? the air of washington reeked with suspicion and double dealing. "oh, my country," he murmured bitterly, "if ever true men were needed!" he strolled through the street on which senator davis and barton lived directly opposite each other. he would call on jennie and express his regret that their party had been postponed. at the door he changed his mind. too much attention at this stage of the game would not be wise. he passed on, glancing at the distinguished-looking group of men who were emerging from the davis door. he wondered what was going on in that home? it seemed impossible that davis should be the leader of a southern rebellion. clay or toombs, yes--but this man with his blood-marked history of devotion to the union--this man with his proud record of constructive statesmanship as senator and secretary of war--it seemed preposterous! could he have heard the counsel davis was giving at that moment to the excited men who made his unpretentious house their mecca, he would have been still more astonished. for six days and nights with but a few hours snatched for sleep, he implored the excited leaders of southern opinion to avoid violence, and be patient. the one note of hopefulness in his voice came with the mention of the new president-elect, abraham lincoln. "mr. lincoln is a man of friendly, moderate opinions personally," he persistently advised. "he may he able to surround himself with a council of conservative men who will use their power to hold the radical wing of his party in check until by delay we can call a convention of all the states and in this national assembly find a solution short of bloodshed. we must try. we must exhaust every resource before we dream of war. we must accept war only when it is forced upon us by our enemies." by telegrams and letters to every southern leader he knew he urged delay, moderation, postponement of all action. the week passed and the cabinet of buchanan had not dared accept the southern leader's challenge to arrest and trial. the davis party had found their seats in the train for the south. socola strolled the platform alone, waiting without sign of interest for the hour of departure. dick welford arrived five minutes before the train left and extended his hand to jennie. "forgive me, jennie!" with a bright smile she clasped his hand. "of course, dick--i took your silly ravings too seriously." "no--i was a fool. i'll make up for it. i'll go over now and shake hands with the reptile if you say so--" "nonsense--you'll not do anything of the sort. he's nothing to me. he's the guest of the south--that's all." "honest now, jennie--you don't care for any other fellow?" "nor for you, either!" she laughed. "of course, i know that--but i can keep on trying, can't i?" "i don't see how i can prevent it!" dick grinned good-naturedly and jennie laughed again. "you're in for a siege with me, i'll tell you right now." "it's a free fight, dick. i'm indifferent to the results." "then you don't _mind_ if i win?" "not in the least. at the present moment i'm a curious spectator--that's all." "lord, i wish i were going with you--" "i wish so, too--" "honest, jennie?" "cross my heart--" dick laughed aloud. "say--i tell you what i'm going to do!" "yes?" "if virginia don't secede in ten days--i will. i'll resign my job here with old hunter and join the confederacy. i don't like this new clerkship business anyhow--expect me in ten days--" before jennie could answer he turned suddenly and left the car. at the end of the platform he ran squarely into socola. he was about to pass without recognition, stopped on an impulse, and extended his hand: "fine day, signor!" "beautiful, m'sieur," was the smooth answer. dick hesitated. "i'm afraid i was a little rude the other day?" "no offense, i'm sure, mr. welford--" "of course, you can guess i'm in love with miss barton--" "i hadn't speculated on that point!" socola laughed. "well, i've been speculating about you--" "indeed?" "yes--and i'm going to be honest with you--i don't like you--we're enemies from to-day. but i'll play the game fair and the best man wins--" the two held each other's eye steadily for a moment and socola's white teeth flashed. "the best man wins, m'sieur!" chapter viii the storm center socola hastened, through jennie, to cultivate the acquaintance of senator davis. "you'll be delighted with mrs. davis, too," the girl informed him with enthusiasm. "his second love affair you know--this time, late in life, he married the young accomplished granddaughter of governor howell of new jersey. their devotion is beautiful--" the train had barely pulled out of the station before socola found himself in a delightful conversation with the senator. to his amazement he discovered that the southerner was a close student of european statesmanship and well informed on the conditions of modern italy. "i am delighted beyond measure, signor," he said earnestly, "to learn of the interest of your king in the south. i have long felt that cavour was one of the greatest statesmen and diplomats of the world. his achievement in establishing the kingdom of sardinia in the face of the bitter rivalries and ambitions of europe, to say nothing of the power of rome, was in itself enough to mark him as the foremost man of his age." "the king has great ambitions, senator. very shortly his title will be king of italy. he dreams of uniting all italians." "and if it is possible, the piedmontese are the people ordained for leadership in that sublime work--" he looked thoughtfully out of the window at the virginia hills and socola determined to change the conversation. he was fairly well informed of the affairs in the little kingdom on whose throne young victor emmanuel sat, but this man evidently knew the philosophy of its history as well as the facts. a question or two with his keen eye boring through him might lead to an unpleasant situation. "your family are all with you, senator?" he asked pleasantly. instantly the clouds lifted from the pale, thoughtful face. "yes--i've three darling babies. i wish you to meet mrs. davis--come, they are in the next car." in a moment the statesman had forgotten the storm of revolution. he was laughing and playing with his children. however stern and high his uncompromising opinions might be on public questions, he was wax in the hands of the two lovely boys who climbed over him and the vivacious little girl who slipped her arms about his neck. his respite from care was brief. at the first important stop in virginia a dense crowd had packed the platforms. their cries throbbed with anything but the spirit of delay and compromise. "davis!" "hurrah for jefferson davis!" "speech--speech!" "davis!" "speech!" there was something tense and compelling in the tones of these cries. they rang as bugle calls to battle. in their hum and murmur there was more than curiosity--more than the tribute of a people to their leader. there was in the very sound the electric rush of the first crash of the approaching storm. the man inside who had led soldiers to death on battle fields felt it instantly and the smile died on his thin lips. the roar outside his car window was not the cry of a mob echoing the sentiments of a leader. it was the shrill imperial cry of a rising people creating their leaders. from the moment he bowed his head and lifted his hand over the crowd that greeted him, hopeless sorrow filled his soul. war was inevitable. these people did not realize it. but he saw it now in all its tragic import. he had intended to counsel patience, moderation and delay. before the hot breath of the storm he felt already in his face such advice was a waste of words. he would tell them the simple truth. he could do most good in that way. these fiery, impulsive southern people were tired of argument, tired of compromise, tired of delay. they were reared in the faith that their states were sovereign. and these virginians had good reason for their faith. the bankers of europe had but yesterday refused to buy the bonds of the united states government unless countersigned by the state of virginia! these people not only believed in the sovereignty of their states and their right to withdraw from the union when they saw fit, but they could not conceive the madness of the remaining states attempting to use force to hold them. they knew, too, that millions of northern voters were as clear on that point as the people of the south. their spokesman, horace greeley, in _the tribune_ had said again and again: "if the southern states are mad enough to withdraw from the union, they must go. we cannot prevent it. let our erring sisters go in peace." the people before him believed that horace greeley's paper represented the north in this utterance. davis knew that it was not true. in a flash of clear soul vision he saw the inevitable horror of the coming struggle and determined to tell the people so. the message he delivered was a distinct shock. he not only told them in tones of deep and tender emotion that war was inevitable, but that it would be long and bloody. "we'll lick 'em in two months!" a voice yelled in protest and the crowd cheered. the leader shook his fine head. "don't deceive yourselves, my friends. war once begun, no man can predict its end--" "it won't begin!" another cried. "you have convinced me to-day that it is now inevitable." "the yankees won't fight!" shouted a big fellow in front. the speaker bent his gaze on the stalwart figure in remonstrance. "you never made a worse mistake in your life, my friend. i warn you--i know these yankees. once in it they'll fight with grim, dogged, sullen, unyielding courage. we're men of the same blood. they live north, you south--that's all the difference." at every station the same scene was enacted. the crowd rushed around his car with the sudden sweep of a whirlwind, and left for their homes with grave, thoughtful faces. by three o'clock in the afternoon he was thoroughly exhausted by the strain. the eager crowds had sapped his last ounce of vitality. the conductor of the train looked at him with pity and whispered: "i'll save you at the next station." the leader smiled his gratitude for the sympathy but wondered how it could be done. at the next stop, the senator had just taken his position on the rear platform, lifted his hand for silence and said: "friends and fellow citizens--" the engine suddenly blew off steam with hiss and roar and when it ceased the train pulled out with a jerk amid the shouts and protests of the crowd. the grateful speaker waved his hand in regretful but happy farewell. the conductor repeated the trick for three stations until the exhausted speaker had recovered his strength and then allowed him a few brief remarks at each stop. from the moment the train entered the state of mississippi, grim, earnest men in groups of two, three, four and a dozen stepped on board, saluted their chief and took their seats. when the engine pulled into the station at jackson a full brigade of volunteer soldiers had taken their places in the ranks. the governor and state officials met their leader and grasped his hand. "you have been commissioned, senator," the governor began eagerly, "as major-general in command of the forces of the state of mississippi. four brigadier-generals have been appointed and await your assignment for duty." the tall figure of the hero of buena vista suddenly stiffened. "i thank you. governor, for the high honor conferred on me. no service could be more congenial to my feelings at this moment." the governor waved his hand at the crowd of silent waiting men. "your men are ready--the first question is the purchase of arms. i think a stand of , will be sufficient for all contingencies?" the senator spoke with emphasis: "the limit of your purchases should be our power to pay--" "you can't mean it!" the governor exclaimed. "i repeat it--the limit of your purchase of arms should be the power to pay. i say this to every state in the south. we shall need all we can get and many more i fear." the governor laughed. "general, you overrate our risks!" "on the other hand," davis continued earnestly, "we are sure to underestimate them at every turn." he paused, overcome with emotion. "a great war is impending, governor, whose end no man can foresee. we are not prepared for it. we have no arms, we have no ammunition and we have no establishments to manufacture them. the south has never realized and does not now believe that the north will fight her on the issue of secession. they do not understand the silent growth of the power of centralization which has changed the opinions of the north under the teaching of abolition fanatics--" again he paused, overcome. "god help us!" he continued. "war is a terrible calamity even when waged against aliens and strangers--our people are mad. they know not what they do!" the new commander hurried to briarfield, his plantation home, to complete his preparations for a long absence. socola on a sudden impulse asked the honor of accompanying him. it was granted without question and with cordial hospitality. it was an opportunity not to be lost. an intimate view of this man in his home might be of the utmost importance. he promised jennie to hasten to fairview when he had spent two days at briarfield. mrs. barton was glad of the opportunity to set her house in order for her charming and interesting guest. the davis plantation was a distinct shock to his fixed new england ideas of the hellish institution of slavery. the devotion of these simple black men and women to their master was not only genuine, it was pathetic. he had never before conceived the abject depths to which a human being might sink in contentment with chains. and he had come to break chains! these poor ignorant blacks kissed the hand that bound them and called him their best friend. the man they called master actually moved among them, a minister of love and mercy. he advised the negroes about the care of their families in his long absence. he talked as a hebrew patriarch to his children. he urged the younger men and women to look after the old and helpless. he was particularly solicitous about bob, the oldest man on the place. over and over again he enumerated the comforts he thought he might need and made provision to supply them. he sent him enough cochineal flannel for his rheumatism to wrap him four-ply deep. for rhinah, his wife, he ordered enough flannel blankets for two families. "is there anything else you can think of, uncle bob?" he asked kindly. the old man scratched his gray head and hesitated, looked into his master's face, smiled and said: "i _would_ like one er dem rockin' cheers outen de big house, marse jeff.--yassah!" "of course, you shall have it. come right up, you and rhinah, and pick out the two you like best." with suppressed laughter socola watched the old negroes try each chair in the hallway and finally select the two best rockers in the house. the southern leader was obviously careworn and unhappy. socola found his heart unconsciously going out to him in sympathy. assuming carefully his attitude of foreign detached interest, the young man sought to draw him out. "you have given up all hope of adjustment and reunion with the north?" he asked. "no," was the thoughtful reply, "not until the first blood is spilled." "your people must see, senator, that secession will imperil the existence of their three thousand millions of dollars invested in slaves?" "certainly they see it," was the quick answer. "slavery can never survive the first shot of war, no matter which side wins. if the north wins, we must free them, or else maintain a standing army on our borders for all time. it would be unthinkable. rivers are bad boundaries. we could have no others. fools have said and will continue to say that we are fighting to establish a slave empire. nothing could be further from the truth. we are seeking to find that peace and tranquillity outside the union we have not been able to enjoy for the past forty years inside. if the southern states enact a constitution of their own, they will merely reaffirm the constitution of their fathers with no essential change. the north is leading a revolution, not the south. "not one man in twenty down here owns a slave. the south would never fight to maintain slavery. we know that it is doomed. we simply demand as the sons of the men who created this republic, equal rights under its laws. if we fight, it will be for our independence as freemen that we may maintain those rights." "i must confess, sir," socola replied with carefully modulated voice, "that i fail to see as a student from without, why, if slavery is doomed and your leaders realize that fact, a compromise without bloodshed would not be possible?" "if slavery were the only issue, it would be possible--although as a proud and sensitive people we propose to be the judge of the time when we see fit to emancipate our slaves. abolition fanatics, whose fathers sold their slaves to us, can't dictate to the south on such a _moral_ issue." "i see--your pride is involved." "not merely pride--our self-respect. in before the northern abolitionists began their crusade of violence there were one hundred four abolition societies in america--ninety-eight of them in the south and only six in the entire north. but the south grew rich. at the bottom of our whole trouble lies the issue of sectional power. new england threatened to secede from the union when we added the territory of louisiana to our domain, out of which we have carved seven great states. slavery at that time was not an issue. sectional rivalry and sectional hatred antedates even our fight against england for our freedom. washington was compelled to warn his soldiers when they entered new england to avoid the appearance of offense. the governor of massachusetts refused to call on george washington, the first president of the union, when he visited boston. "and mark you, back of the sectional issue looms a vastly bigger one--whether the union is a republic of republics or a centralized empire. the millions of foreigners who have poured into the north from europe during the past thirty years, until their white population outnumbers ours four to one, know nothing and care nothing about the constitution of our fathers. they know nothing and care nothing for the principles on which the federal union was founded. they came from empires. they think as their fathers thought in europe. and they are driving the sons of the old revolution in the north into the acceptance of the ideas of centralized power. if this tendency continues the president of the united states will become the most autocratic ruler of the world. the south stands for the sovereignty of the states as the only bulwark against the growth of this irresponsible centralized despotism. the democratic party of the north, thank god, yet stands with us on that issue. our only possible hope of success in case of war lies in this fact--" socola suddenly started. "quite so--i see--the north may be divided, the south will be a unit." "exactly; they'll fight as one man if they must." the longer socola talked with this pale, earnest, self-poised man, the deeper grew the conviction of his utter sincerity, his singleness of purpose, his pure and lofty patriotism. his conception of the man and his aims had completely changed and with this change of estimate came the deeper conviction of the vastness of the tragedy toward which the nation was being hurled by some hidden, resistless power. he had come into the south with a sense of moral superiority and the consciousness not only of the righteousness of his cause but the certainty that god would swiftly confound the enemies of the union. he had waked with a shock to the certainty that they were entering the arena of the mightiest conflict of the century. he girded his soul anew for the rôle he had chosen to play. the character of this southern leader held for him an endless fascination. it was part of his mission to study him and he lost no opportunity. the greatest surprise he received during his stay was the day of the election of president at montgomery. he had expected to be present at this meeting of the southern convention but, hearing that it would be held behind closed doors, had decided on his visit to briarfield. a messenger dashed up to the gate, sprang from his horse, hurried into the garden, thrust a telegram into the senator's hand. he opened it without haste, and read it slowly. his face went white and he crushed the piece of paper with a sudden gesture of despair. for a moment he forgot his guest, his head was raised as if in prayer and from the depths came the agonizing cry of a soul in mortal anguish: "lord, god, if it be possible let this cup pass from me!" a moment of dazed silence and he turned to socola. he spoke as a judge pronouncing his own sentence of death. his voice trembled with despair and his lips twitched with pitiful suffering. "i have been elected president of the southern confederacy!" he handed the telegram to socola, who scanned it with thrilling interest. he had half expected this announcement from the first. what he could not dream was the remarkable way in which the southern leader would receive it. "you are a foreigner, signor. i may be permitted to speak freely to you. you are a man of culture and sympathy and you can understand me. as god is my judge, i have neither desired nor expected this position. i took particular pains to forestall and make it impossible. but it has come. i am not a politician. i have never stooped to their tricks. i cannot lie and smile and bend to low chicanery. i hate a fool and i cannot hedge and trim and be all things to all men. i have never been a demagogue. i'm too old to begin. other men are better suited to this position than i--" he paused, overcome. socola studied him with surprise. "permit me to say, sir," he ventured disinterestedly, "that such a spirit is evidence that your people have risen to the occasion and that their choice may be an inspiration." the leader's eye suddenly pierced his guest's. "god knows what is best. it may be his hand. it may be that i must bow to his will--" again he paused and looked wistfully at socola's youthful face. "you are young, signor--you do not know what it is to yield the last ambition of life! i have given all to my country for the past years. i have sacrificed health and wealth and every desire of my soul--peace and contentment here with those i love! when i saw this mighty struggle coming, i feared a tragic end for my people. i fear it now. the man who leads her armies will win immortality no matter what the fate of her cause--i've dreamed of this, signor--but they've nailed me to the cross!" he called his negroes together and made them an affectionate speech. they responded with deep expressions of their devotion and their faith. with the greatest sorrow of life darkening his soul he left next day for his inauguration at montgomery. chapter ix the old rÉgime socola left briarfield with the assurance of the president-elect of the confederacy that he might spend a week with the bartons and yet be in ample time for the inauguration at montgomery. he boarded the steamer at the davis landing and floated lazily down to baton rouge. from briarfield he carried an overwhelming impression of the folly of slavery from its economic point of view. the thing which amazed his orderly new england mind was the confusion, the waste, the sentimental extravagance, the sheer idiocy of the slave system of labor as contrasted with the free labor of the north. the one symbol before his vivid imagination was the sight of old uncle bob and aunt rhinah seated in their rocking chairs gravely listening to the patriarchal farewell of their master. the ancient seers dreamed of nirvana. these two wonderful old africans had surely found it in the new world. no wave of trouble could ever roll across their peaceful breasts so long as their lord and master lived. he was their king, their protector, their physician, their almoner, their friend. the burden of life was on his shoulders, not on theirs. their working days were over. he must feed and clothe, house and care for their worthless bodies unto the end. and the number of these helpless ones were constantly increased. he marveled at the folly that imagined such a system of labor possible in a real world where the iron laws of economic survival were allowed free play. he ceased to wonder why it still flourished in the south. the south was yet an unsettled jungle of bewildering tropical beauty. one might travel for miles and hundreds of miles without the sight of a single important town. vast reaches of untouched forests stretched away in all directions. apparently the foot of man had never pressed them. rich plantations of thousands of acres were only scratched in spots to yield their marvelous harvests of cotton and cane, of rice and corn. the idea of defending such a territory, extending over thousands of miles, from the invading hosts of the rich and densely populated north was preposterous. his heart leaped with the certainty of swift and sure triumph for the union should the question be submitted to the test of the sword. as the boat touched her landing at baton rouge, jennie waved her welcome from the shore. the graceful figure of her younger brother stood straight and trim by her side in his new volunteer uniform. whatever the political leaders might think or do, these southern people meant to fight. there was no mistaking that fact. with every letter to his chief in washington he had made this plain. the deeper he had penetrated the lower south the more overwhelming this conviction had become. for the moment he put the thought of his tragic mission out of his heart. there was something wonderful in the breath of this early southern spring. the first week in february and flowers were blooming on every lawn of every embowered cottage and every stately house! the song of birds, the hum of bees, the sweet languor of the perfumed air found his inmost soul. the snows lay cold and still and deathlike over the northern world. this was fairyland. and the bartons' home on the banks of the river was the last touch that completed the capture of his imagination. through a vista of overhanging boughs he caught the flash of its white fluted pillars in the distance. the broad verandas were arched with climbing roses. in the center of the sunlit space in front a fountain played, the splash of its cooling waters keeping time to the song of mocking birds in shrubs and trees. in the spacious grounds which swept to the water's edge more than a thousand magnificent trees spread their cooling shade. the white rays of the southern sun shot through them like silver threads and glowed here and there in the changing, shimmering splotches on the ground. and everywhere the grinning faces of slowly moving negroes. the very rhythm of their lazy walk seemed a part of the landscape. this fairy world belonged to his country. his heart went out in renewed devotion. not one shining southern star should ever be torn from her diadem! he swore it. for three days he bathed in the beauty and joy of a southern home. he saw but little of jennie. the boys absorbed him. they were eager for news. they plied him with a thousand questions. tom was going to join the navy, jimmie and billy the army. "would the united states army stand by the old flag?" tom asked with painful eagerness. socola was non-committal. "as a rule the sailor is loyal to the flag of his ship. it's the symbol of home, of country, of all he holds dear." "that's so, too," tom answered thoughtfully. "well, we'll build a navy. we built the old one. we can build a new one!" the last night he spent at fairview was one never to be forgotten. it gave him another picture of the old régime. they sat on the great pillared front porch looking out on the silvery surface of the moonlit river. jennie's grandfather. colonel james barton, a stately man of eighty-five, who had led a regiment with jefferson davis in the mexican war, though at that time long past the age of military service, honored them with his presence to a late hour. his eyes were failing but his voice was stentorian. its tones had been developed to even deeper power during the past ten years owing to the deafness of his wife. this beautiful old woman sat softly rocking beside the colonel, answering in gentle monosyllables the questions he roared into her ears. to escape the volume of the colonel's conversation socola asked jennie to walk to the river's edge. they sat down on a bench perched high on the bluff which rose abruptly from the water at the lower end of the grounds. the scene was one of memorable beauty. he laughed at the folly of his schemes to learn the inner secrets of the south. these people had no secrets. they wore their hearts on their sleeves. he had only to ask a question to receive the answer direct without reserve. "your three younger brothers will fight for the south, of course, miss jennie?" "of course--i only wish i were a man!" "you have an older brother in new orleans, i believe?" "judge barton, yes." "he, too, will enter the army?" the girl drew a deep breath and hesitated. "he says he will not. he is bitterly opposed to my father's views." socola's eyes sparkled. "he is for the union then?" "yes." "he is a man of decided views and character i take it." "yes--as firm and unyielding in his position as my father on the other side." "you will be very bitter towards him if war should come?" "bitter?" a little sob caught her voice. "he is my big brother. i love him. it would break my heart--that's all--but i'll love him always." her tones were music, her loyalty to her own so sweet in its simplicity, so utterly charming, he opened his lips to speak the first words to test her personal attitude toward him. a flirtation would be delightful with such a girl. and mr. dick welford was a fearful temptation. he put the thought out of his heart. she was too good and fine to be made a pawn in such a game. beside it was utterly unnecessary. he had gotten exactly the information about this older brother in new orleans he desired and sat in brooding silence. jennie rose suddenly. "oh, i forgot--i must go in. my maids are waiting for me, i've an affair to settle between them before they go to bed." socola accompanied her to the door and turned again on the lawn to enjoy the white glory of the southern moon. the lights were still twinkling in the long rows of negro cabins that lined the way to the overseer's house. through the shadows of the trees he could see the dark figures in the doorways of their cabins silhouetted against the lighted candles in the background. he strolled leisurely into the lower hall. the door of the library was open. he paused at the scene within. a group of four little negro girls surrounded jennie. she was reading the bible to them. "can't you say your prayers together to-night?" the young mistress asked. the kinky heads shook emphatically. lucy couldn't say hers with amy: "'cause she ain't got no brother and sister to pray for." maggie couldn't say hers with mandy: "'cause she ain't got no mother and father." so each repeated her prayer alone and stood before their little mistress who sat in judgment on their day's deeds. lucy had jabbed a carving knife into amy's arm in a fit of temper. her prayer had made no mention of this important fact. the judge gave a tender lecture on the need of repentance. the little sullen black figure hung back stubbornly for a moment and walled her eyes at her enemy. a sudden burst of tears and they were in each other's arms, crying and begging forgiveness. and then they filed out, one by one. "good night, miss jennie!" "good night!" "god bless you, miss jennie--" "i'll never be bad no mo'!" he had come to break the chains that cut through human flesh and he had found this--great god! for hours he lay awake, dreaming with wide staring eyes of the long blood-stained history of human slavery and its sharp contrast with the strange travesty of such an institution which the south was giving to the world. he had barely lost consciousness when he leaped to the floor, roused by loud voices, tramping feet and the flash of weird lights on the lawn. growls and long calls echoed from point to point on the spacious grounds, hulloes and echoing answers and the tramp of many feet. some horrible thing had happened--sudden death, murder or war had broken out. a voice was screaming from the balcony aloft that sounded like the trumpet of the arch-angel calling the end of time. he listened. it was old colonel barton yelling at the sleepy negroes. in heaven's high name what could they be doing? socola dressed hastily and rushed down-stairs. jennie and the boys appeared almost at the same moment. "what is it?" socola asked excitedly. "war has been declared? the slaves have risen?" jennie laughed. "no--no! grandmamma smells a smell. she thinks something is burning somewhere." "oh--" the whole place, house, yard, grounds, outhouses, swarmed with bellowing negroes. those that were not bellowing were muttering in sleepy, quarrelsome protest. and they all carried candles to look for a fire in the dark! there were at least seventy--two-thirds of them too old or too young to be of any service, but they belonged to the house. the old colonel's voice could be heard a mile. in his nightgown he was roaring from the balcony, giving his orders for the busy crowd hunting for fire with their candles flickering in the shadows. old mrs. barton, serenely deaf, was of course oblivious of the sensation she had created. the loss of her hearing had rendered doubly acute her sense of smell. candles had to be taken out of her room to be snuffed. lamps were extinguished only on the portico or on the lawn. violets she couldn't endure. a tea rose was never allowed in her room. only one kind of sweet rose would she tolerate at close range. in the mildest voice she was suggesting places to be searched. far out at the negro quarters the candle brigade at length gathered--the flickering lights closing in to a single point one by one. the smell was found. a family had been boiling soap--a slave-ridden plantation was a miniature world which must be practically self-supporting. there could be no economy of labor by its scientific division. around the soap pot the negro woman had swept some woolen rags. they were smoldering there and the faint odor had been wafted to the great house. socola couldn't sleep. all night long he could hear that wild commotion--the old colonel's voice roaring from the balcony and seventy sleepy, good-for-nothing negroes with lighted candles looking for a fire in the dark. when at last he was tired of laughing at the ridiculous picture, his foolish fancy took another turn and fixed itself again on old bob and aunt rhinah in their rocking chairs, swathed in cochineal flannel. chapter x the gauge of battle socola found the little town of montgomery, alabama, breathing under a suppression of emotion that was little short of uncanny on the day jefferson davis was inaugurated president. the streets were crowded to suffocation and tents were necessary to accommodate the people who could not be housed. he was surprised at the strange quiet which the spirit of the new president had communicated to the people. there was no loud talk, no braggadocio, no threats, no clamor for war. on the contrary there had suddenly developed an overwhelming desire for a peaceful solution of the crisis. the convention which had unanimously elected jefferson davis, president, and alexander h. stephens, vice president, had relegated the hot heads and fire eaters to the rear. three great agitators had really created the new nation, william l. yancey of alabama, robert toombs of georgia and barnwell rhett of south carolina. and they were consumed with ambition for the presidency. toombs was the most commanding figure among the uncompromising advocates of secession in the south--an orator of consummate power, a man of wide learning and magnetic personality. william l. yancey was as powerful an agitator as ever stirred the souls of an american audience since the foundation of our republic. barnwell rhett of the charleston _mercury_ was the most influential editor the country had ever produced. yet the suddenness with which these fiery leaders were dropped in the hour of crisis was so amazing to the men themselves they had not yet recovered sufficient breath to begin complaints. toombs destroyed what chance he ever had by getting drunk at a banquet the night before the convention met. william l. yancey's turbulent history ruled him out of consideration. he had killed his father-in-law in a street brawl. rhett's extreme views had been the bugle call to battle but something more than sound was needed now. toombs was dropped even for vice-president for alexander h. stephens, the man who had pleaded in tears with his state not to secede. the highest honor had been forced on the one man in all the south who most passionately wished to avoid it. so acute was the consciousness of tragedy there was scarcely a ripple of applause at public functions where socola had looked for mad enthusiasm. the old constitution had been reënacted with no essential change. the new president had even insisted that the provisional congress retain the old flag as their emblem of nationality with only a new battle flag for use in case of war. the congress over-ruled him at this point with an emphasis which they meant as a rebuke to his tendency to cling to the hope of reconciliation. it was exactly one o'clock on monday, february , , that jefferson davis rose between the towering pillars of the state capitol in montgomery and began his inaugural address. it was careful, moderate, statesmanlike, and a model of classic english. the closing sentence swept the crowd. "it is joyous in the midst of perilous times to look thus upon a people united in heart, whose one purpose of high resolve animates and actuates the whole; where the sacrifices to be made are not weighed in the balance against honor, and right, and liberty and equality." the cheer that greeted his appeal rose and fell again and again the third time with redoubled power and enthusiasm. the president-elect stepped forward, placed his hand on the open bible, and took the oath of office. as the last word fell from his white lips cannon thundered a salute from the hill crest and the great silk ensign of the south was slowly lifted by the hand of the granddaughter of president tyler. as the breeze unrolled its huge red, white and blue folds against the shining southern skies the crowd burst into hysterical applause. a nation had been born whose history might be brief, but the people who created it and the leader who guided its destiny were the pledge of its immortality. socola found no difficulty in possessing himself of every secret of the new government. what was not proclaimed from the street corners and shouted from the housetops, the newspapers printed in double leads. the new government had yet to organize its secret service. the president addressed himself with energy to the task which confronted him. but seven states had yet enrolled in the confederacy. of four more he felt sure. the first attempt to coerce a southern state by force of arms would close the ranks with virginia, north carolina, tennessee and arkansas by his side. maryland, kentucky and missouri were peopled by the south and the institution of slavery bound them in a common cause. and yet the defense of these eleven southern states with their five million white population and four million blacks was a task to stagger the imagination of the greatest statesman of any age. this vast territory would present an open front on land of more than a thousand miles without a single natural barrier. its sea coast presented three thousand miles of water front--open to the attack of the navy. this enormous coast of undefended shore was pierced by river after river whose broad, deep waters would carry the gunboats of an enemy into the heart of the south. the audacity of our fathers in challenging the power of great britain was reasonable in comparison with the madness of the south's challenge to the north. three thousand miles of storm-tossed ocean defended our revolutionary ancestors from the base of the enemy supplies. three thousand miles of undefended coast invited the attack of the u. s. navy, while twenty million northerners stood with their feet on the borders of the south ready to advance without the possibility of hindrance save the bare breasts of the men who might oppose them. the difference between the sections in material resources was absurd. the north was rich and powerful her engines of war were exhaustless and under perfect control. the railroads of the south were few and poorly equipped, with no work shops from which to renew their equipment when exhausted. the railroad system of the entire country was absolutely dependent on the north for supplies. the missouri river was connected with the northern seaboard by the finest system of railways in the world, with a total mileage of over thirty thousand. its annual tonnage was thirty-six million and its revenue valued at four thousand millions of dollars. the annual value of the manufactures of the north was over two thousand millions, and their machinery was complete for the production of all the material of war. her ships sailed every sea and she could draw upon the resources of the known world. her manufacturing power compared to the south was five hundred to one. no leader in the history of his race was ever confronted by such insuperable difficulties as faced jefferson davis. he had been called to direct the government of a proud, sensitive, jealous people thrown without preparation into a position which threatened their existence, without an army, without arms, or the means to manufacture them, without even powder, or the means to make it, or the material out of which it must be made, without a navy or a single ship-yard in which to build one, and three thousand miles of coast to be defended against a navy which had whipped the greatest maritime nation of the world. his genius must meet every difficulty and supply every want or his confederacy would fall at the first shock of war. the one tremendous and apparently insuperable difficulty in case of war was the lack of a navy. a navy could not be built in a day, or a year or two years, were the resources of the confederacy boundless. the ships of war now in the possession of the united states were of incalculable power in such a crisis. the south was cut in every quarter by navigable rivers. many of their waters opened on northern interiors accessible to great workshops from which new gunboats could be built with rapidity and launched against the south. the mississippi river, navigable for a thousand miles, flowed through the entire breadth of the confederacy with its approaches and its mouth in the hands of the north. both the tennessee and the cumberland rivers had their mouths open to northern frontiers and were navigable in midwinter for transports and gunboats which could pierce the heart of tennessee and alabama. it is not to be wondered at, therefore, that the first purpose of the president of the confederacy was to secure peace by all means consistent with public honor and the trust imposed on him by the people. his first official act was the dispatch of confederate commissioners to washington to treat for peace. the hope that they would be received with courtesy and consideration was a reasonable one. the greatest newspapers of the north were outspoken in their opposition to the use of arms against any state of the union. the new york _tribune_, the creator of lincoln's party, led in this opposition to the use of force. the albany _argus_ and the new york _herald_ were equally emphatic. governor seymour of new york boldly declared in a great mass meeting his unalterable opposition to coercion. the detroit _free press_ suggested that a fire would be poured into the rear of any troops raised to coerce a state. it was already known that mr. lincoln would not advocate coercion in his inaugural. stephen a. douglas, leader of the millions of the northern democracy, offered a resolution in the senate of the united states recommending the immediate withdrawal of the garrisons from all forts within the limits of the states which had seceded except those at key west and dry tortugas needful for coaling stations. "i proclaim boldly," declared the senator from illinois, "the policy of those with whom i act. we are for peace!" socola reported to his chief in washington that nothing was more certain than that jefferson davis hoped for reunion, with guarantees against aggression by the stronger section of the union. buchanan had agreed to receive the southern commissioners, and sent a message to congress announcing their presence and their overtures. the commissioners found washington seething with passion and trembling with excitement. buchanan had collapsed in terror, fearing each hour to hear that his home had been sacked and burned at wheatland. but the southern leaders' hope of peaceful settlement was based on a surer foundation than the shattered nerves of the feeble old man in the white house. joseph holt, the secretary of war, was a southern democrat born in kentucky, and from the state of mississippi. holt had called on davis in washington and assured him of his loyalty to the south and her people. the president of the confederacy knew of his consuming personal ambitions and had assured him of his influence to secure generous treatment. but the secretary of war had received information from the south. he had studied the situation carefully. he believed his chances of advancement in the north a better risk. the new government had ignored him in the selection of a cabinet--and with quick decision he cast his fortunes with the union. that he had deceived davis and clay, to whom he had given his pledge of southern loyalty, was a matter of no importance, save that these two men, who alone knew his treachery, were marked for his vengeance. little could they dream in this hour the strange end toward which fate was even now hurrying them through the machinations of this sullen, envious southern renegade. the secretary of war placed his big fist on the throat of the trembling president, and the peace commissioners could not reach the white house or its councils. they were forced to await the inauguration of abraham lincoln. jefferson davis gave himself body and soul to the task of preparing his over-sanguine, credulous people for the possible tragedy of war. general beauregard was ordered to command the forces in south carolina, and erect batteries for the defense of charleston and the reduction of fort sumter in case of an attempt to reënforce it. this grim fort, in the center of the harbor of the chief southern atlantic city, commanded the gateway of the confederacy. if it should be reënforced, the confederate government might be strangled by the fall of charleston, and the landing of an army even before a blow could be struck. captain raphael semmes was sent north to buy every gun in the market. he was directed to secure machinery, and skilled workingmen to man it, for the establishment of arsenals and shops, and above all to buy any vessel afloat suitable for offensive or defensive work. not a single ship of any description could be had, and the intervention of the authorities finally prevented the delivery of a single piece of machinery or the arms he had purchased. major huse was sent to europe on the third day after the inauguration at montgomery on a similar mission. general g. w. rains was appointed to establish a manufactory for ammunition. his work was an achievement of genius. he created artificial niter beds, from which sufficient saltpeter was obtained, and within a year was furnishing the finest powder. general gorgas was appointed chief of ordnance. there was but one iron mill in the south which could cast a cannon, and that was the little tredegar works at richmond, virginia. the state of virginia had voted against secession and it would require the first act of war against her southern sisters to bring her to their defense. the widespread belief in the north that the south had secretly prepared for war, was utterly false, and yet the impression was of the utmost importance to the president of the confederacy. it gave his weak government a fictitious strength, and gave him a brief time in which to prepare his raw recruits for their first battle. day and night he prayed for peace at any sacrifice save that of honor. the first bloodshed would be the match in the powder magazine. he pressed his commissioners in washington for haste. the inaugural address of abraham lincoln had been so carefully worded, its utterances so conservative and guarded, his expressions of good will toward the south so surprisingly emphatic, that davis could not believe an act of aggression which would bring bloodshed could be committed by his order. and yet day dragged after day with no opportunity afforded his commissioners to treat with the new administration save through the undignified course of an intermediary. the southern president ordered that all questions of form or ceremony be waived. seward, the secretary of state, gave to these commissioners repeated assurances of the peaceful intention of the government at washington, and the most positive promise that fort sumter would be evacuated. he also declared that no measure would be instituted either by the executive or congress changing the situation except on due notice given the commissioners. these assurances were accepted by the confederate president in absolute good faith. and yet early in april the news was flashed to montgomery that extraordinary preparations were being made in the northern ports for a military and naval expedition against the south. on april the fifth, sixth and seventh, a fleet of transports and warships with shotted guns, munitions and military supplies sailed for charleston. the commissioners in alarm requested an answer to their proposals. to their amazement they were informed that the president of the united states had already determined to hold no communication with them whatever in any capacity or listen to any proposals they had to make. on beauregard's report to them that anderson was endeavoring to strengthen his position instead of evacuating the fort the commissioners again communicated with mr. seward. the wily secretary of state assured them that the government had not receded from his promise. on april seventh mr. seward sent them this message: "faith as to sumter fully kept: wait and see." his war fleet was already on the high seas, their black prows pointed southward, their one hundred and twenty guns shotted, their battle flags streaming in the sky! lincoln's sense of personal honor was too keen to permit this crooked piece of diplomacy to stain the opening of his administration. he dispatched a special messenger to the governor of south carolina and gave notice of his purpose to use force if opposed in his intention of supplying fort sumter. on the eve of the day the fleet was scheduled to arrive this notice was delivered. but a storm at sea had delayed the expedition and beauregard asked the president of the confederacy for instructions. his cabinet was called, and its opinion was unanimous that fort sumter must be reduced or the confederacy dissolved. there was no choice. their president rose, his drawn face deadly pale: "i agree with you, gentlemen. the order of the sailing of the fleet was a declaration of war. the responsibility is on their shoulders, not ours. to juggle for position as to who shall fire the first gun in such an hour is unworthy of a great people and their cause. a deadly weapon has been aimed at our heart. only a fool would wait until the shot has been fired. the assault has already been made. it is of no importance who shall strike the first blow or fire the first gun." with quick decision he seized his pen and wrote the order for the reduction of fort sumter. chapter xi jennie's vision wild rumors of bombardment held charleston in a spell. jennie barton sat alone on the roof of her aunt's house at two o'clock on the morning of april . the others had gone to bed, certain that the rumors were false. she had somehow felt the certainty of the crash. seated beside the brick coping of the roof she leaned the strong little chin in her hands, waited and watched. lights were flickering around the shore batteries like fireflies winking in the shadows of deep woods. her three brothers were there. she might look on their dead faces to-morrow. her father had rushed to charleston from washington at the first news of the sailing of the fleet. he had begged and pleaded with general beauregard to reduce the fort immediately, with or without orders from davis. "for god's sake, use your discretion as commanding general and open fire. if that fleet reaches sumter the cause of the confederacy is lost. old davis is too slow. he's still crying peace, peace, when there is no peace. the war has begun!" the general calmly shook his head and asked for instructions. besides losing her brothers, she might be an orphan to-morrow. her father was quite capable of an attack on sumter without orders. and if the bombardment should begin he would probably be roaming over the harbor from fort to fort, superintending the job under the guns of both sides. "if anderson does not accept the terms of surrender offered he will be fired on at four o'clock." jennie repeated the headlines of the extra with a shiver. the chimes of st. michael's struck three. the minutes slowly dragged. the half hour was sung through the soft balmy air of the southern spring. dick welford, too, was behind one of those black guns on the shore. how handsome he had looked in his bright new uniform! he was a soldier from the crown of his blond head to the soles of his heavy feet. he had laughed at danger. she had liked him for that. he hadn't posed. he hadn't asked for sympathy or admiration. he just marched to his duty with the quick, firm step of the man who means business. she was sorry now she hadn't told him how much she liked and admired him. she might not have another chance-- "nonsense, of course i will!" she murmured with a toss of her brown head. a dog barked across the street, and a wagon rattled hurriedly over the cobblestones below. a rooster crowed for day. she looked across the way, and a dark group of whispering women were huddled in a corner on the roof, their gaze fixed on sumter. another wagon rumbled heavily over the cobbles, and another, and another. a blue light flamed from fort sumter, blinking at intervals. anderson was signaling someone. to the fleet that lay on the eastern horizon beyond the bar, perhaps. the chimes of st. michael struck the fatal hour of four. their sweet notes rang clear and soft and musical over the dim housetops just as they had sung to the sleeping world through years of joyous peace. jennie sprang to her feet and strained her eyes toward the black lump that was sumter out in the harbor. she waited with quick beating heart for the first flash of red from the shore batteries. it did not come. five minutes passed that seemed an hour, and still no sound of war. only those wagons were rumbling now at closer intervals--one after the other in quick succession. they were ammunition trains! the crack of the drivers' whips could be heard distinctly, and the cries of the men urging their horses on. the noise became at last a dull, continuous roar. the chimes from the old church tower again sang the half hour and then it came--_a sudden sword leap of red flame on the horizon_! a shell rose in the sky, glowing in pale phosphorescent trail, and burst in a flash of blinding flame over the dark lump in the harbor. the flash had illumined the waters and revealed the clear outlines of the casemates with their black mouths of steel gaping through the portholes. a roar of deep, dull thunder shook the world. jennie fell on her knees with clasped hands and upturned face. her lips were not moving, and no sound came from the little dry throat, but from the depths of her heart rose the old, old cry of love. "lord have mercy on my darling brothers, and keep them safe--let no harm come to them--and dick, too--brave and strong!" the house below was stirring with the rush of hurrying feet in the corridors and the clatter on the narrow stairs that led to the roof. they crowded to the edge and gazed seaward. the hum of voices came now from every house. women were crying. some were praying. men were talking in low, excited tones. jennie paid no attention to the people about her. her eyes were fixed on those tongues of flame that circled sumter. anderson was firing now, his big guns flashing their defiant answer to beauregard's batteries. jennie watched the lurid track of his shells with sickening dread. a man standing beside her in the gray dawn spoke. "a waste of ammunition!" the cannon boomed now with the regular throb of a great human pulse. the sobs and excited cries and prayers of women had become a part of the weird scene. a young mother stood beside jennie with a baby boy in her arms. he was delighted with the splendid display and the roar of the guns. he pointed his fingers to the circling shells and cried: "'ook, mamma, 'ook!" the mother made no answer. only with her hungry eyes did she follow their track to the shore. her mate was there. the baby clapped his hands and caught the rhythm of the throb and roar of the cannon in his little voice: "boom!--boom!" the sun rose from the sea, a ball of dull red fire glowing ominously through the haze of smoke that hung in the sky. hour after hour the guns pealed, the windows rattled and the earth trembled. couriers were dashing into the city with reports from the batteries. soldiers were marching through the streets. it was reported that the men from the fleet would attempt a landing. the women rushed to the little iron balcony and watched the troops marching to repel them. in the first line jennie saw the tall figure of dick welford. he glanced upward, lifted his cap and held it steadily in his hand for four blocks until they turned and swept out of sight. jennie was leaning on the rail with tear-dimmed eyes. "i wonder why that soldier took his hat off?" her aunt asked. "yes--i wonder!" was the soft answer. by three o'clock it was known that not a man had been killed at either of the shore batteries and women began to smile and breathe once more. the newsboys were screaming an extra. jennie hurried into the street and bought one. in big black headlines she read: richmond and washington ablaze with excitement! the north wild with rage virginia and north carolina arming to come to our rescue! she walked rapidly to the water's edge to get the latest news from the front. a tiny rowboat was deliberately pulling through the harbor squarely under the guns of sumter. she watched it with amazement, looking each moment to see it disappear beneath the waves. it was probably her foolish father. with steady, even stroke the boatman pulled for the shore as unconcerned as if he were listening to the rattle of firecrackers on the fourth of july. to her surprise it proved to be a negro. he tied his boat and deliberately unloaded his supply of vegetables. his stolid, sphinx-like face showed neither fear nor interest. "weren't you afraid of anderson's cannon, uncle?" jennie asked. "nobum--nobum--" "you might have been blown to pieces--" "nobum--marse anderson daresn't hit me!" "why not?" "he knows my marster don't 'low nuttin like dat--i'se too val'eble er nigger. nobum, dey ain't none ob 'em gwine ter pester me, an' i ain't gwine ter meddle wid dem--dey kin des fight hit out twixt 'em--" through the long night the steady boom of cannon, and the scream of shells from the shore. at one o'clock next day the flagstaff was cut down by a solid shot, and sumter was silent. at three o'clock a mob surged up the street following senator barton, who had just come from the harbor. he was on his way to beauregard's headquarters. anderson had surrendered. a strange quiet held the city. there was no jubilation, no bonfires, no illuminations to celebrate the victory. a sigh of relief for deliverance from a great danger that had threatened their life--that was all. the southern flag was flying now from the battered walls, and the people were content. they were glad that beauregard had given old bob anderson the privilege of saluting his flag and marching out with the honors of war. all they asked was to be let alone. and they were doubly grateful for the strange providence that had saved every soldier's life while the walls of the fort had been hammered into a shapeless mass. no blood had yet been spilled on either side. the president of the confederacy caught the wonderful news from the wires with a cry of joy. "peace may yet be possible!" he exclaimed excitedly. "no blood has been spilled in actual conflict--" his joy was short lived. a rude awakening was in store. dick welford strolled along the brilliantly lighted "battery" that night with jennie's little hand resting on his arm. "i tell you, jennie, i was scared!" he was saying with boyish earnestness. "you see a fellow never knows how he's going to come out of a close place like that till he tries it. i had a fine uniform and i'd learned the drill and all that--but i had not smelled brimstone at short range. i didn't know how i'd do under fire. now i know i'm a worthy descendant of my old scotch-irish ancestor who held a british officer before him for a shield and gracefully backed out of danger." they stopped and gazed over the lazy, shimmering waters of the harbor. jennie looked up into his manly face with a glow of pride. "you're splendid, dick,--i'm proud of you!" "are you?" he asked eagerly. "yes. you're just like my brothers." "look here now, jennie," he protested, "don't you go telling me that you'll be a sister to me. i've got a lot of sisters at home and i don't need any more--" "i didn't mean it that way, dick," she responded tenderly. "my brothers are just the finest, bravest men that god ever made in this world--that's what i meant." "don't you like me a little?" "i almost love you to-night--maybe it's our victory--maybe it's the fear that made me pray for you and the boys on that house top the other night--i don't know--" "did you pray for me?" he asked softly. "yes--" "i ought to be satisfied with that, but i'm not--i want you! won't you be mine?" she smiled into his eager face in a gentle, whimsical way. a half promise to him was just trembling on her lips when socola's slender, erect figure suddenly crossed the street. he lifted his hat with a genial bow. dick ground his teeth in a smothered oath, and jennie spoke abruptly: "come--it's late--we must go in." through the long night the girl lay awake with the calm, persistent, smiling face of the foreigner looking into the depths of her brown eyes. chapter xii a little cloud the first aggressive act of the president of the confederacy revealed his alert and far-seeing mind. his keen eye was bent upon the sea, with an instinctive appreciation of the tremendous import of the long southern coast line. without a ship afloat or a single navy yard, by a stroke of his pen he created a fleet destined to sweep the commerce of the north from every sea. his task was to create something out of nothing and how well he did it events swiftly bore their testimony. the united states government was the only nation which had refused to join the agreement to abandon the use of letters of marque and reprisal for destroying the unarmed vessels of commerce in time of war. this unfortunate piece of diplomacy gave jefferson davis the opportunity to strike his first blow at the power and prestige of the north. he immediately issued a proclamation offering to issue such letters to any ship that would arm herself and enlist under the ensign of the confederate navy. the response was quick and the ultimate result the lowering of the flag of the union from practically every ship of commerce that sailed the ocean. gideon welles conferred with his chief in washington and abraham lincoln issued a proclamation which at the time created scarcely a ripple of excitement. and yet that order was the most important document which came from the white house during the entire four years of the war. when the test came sixteen captains, thirty-four commanders and one hundred and eleven midshipmen resigned and cast their fortunes with the south. not one of them attempted to use his position to surrender a ship. small as it was, the entire navy of the united states was practically intact. it comprised ninety ships of war--forty-two of them ready for active service. the majority of the vessels ready for war were steam-propelled craft of the latest improved type. the united states had been one of the first world powers to realize the value of steam and rebuild its navy accordingly. in twenty years, practically a new navy had been constructed, ranking in effective power third only to england and france. within the past five years, the government had built the steam frigates, _merrimac_, _niagara_, _colorado_, _wabash_, _minnesota_, and _roanoke_. in addition to these twelve powerful steam sloops of war had been commissioned--the _hartford_, _brooklyn_, _lancaster_, _richmond_, _narragansett_, _dakota_, _iroquois_, _wyoming_, and _seminole_. they were of the highest type of construction and compared favorably with the best ships of the world. these ships at the opening of the war were widely scattered, but their homeward bound streamers were all fluttering in the sky. president lincoln in his proclamation ordered the most remarkable blockade in the history of the world. this document declared three thousand miles of southern coast, from the virginia capes to the rio grande, closed to the commerce of the world. the little fleet boldly sailed on its tremendous mission. the smoke of its funnels made but a tiny smudge on the wide, shining southern skies. but with swift and terrible swirl this cloud, no bigger than a man's hand, grew into a storm whose black shadow shrouded the southland in gloom. chapter xiii the closing of the ranks a wave of fierce anger swept the north. the fall of sumter was the one topic on every lip. men stopped their trade, their work, their play and looked about them for the nearest rallying ground of soldiers. the president of the united states was quick to seize the favorable moment to call for , volunteers. that these troops were to fight the confederacy was not questioned for a moment. the effect of this proclamation on the south was a political earthquake. in a single day all differences of opinion were sunk in the common cause. a feeling of profound wonder swept every thoughtful man within the southern states. to this moment, even a majority of those who favored the policy of secession had done so under the belief that it was the surest way of securing redress of grievances and of bringing the federal government back to its original constitutional principles. many of them believed, and all of their leaders in authority hoped, that a re-formation of the union would soon take place in peaceful ways on the basis of the new constitution proclaimed at montgomery. many northern newspapers, led by the new york _herald_, had advocated this course. the hope of the majority of the southern people was steadfast that the union would thus be continued and strengthened, and made more perfect, as it had been in after the withdrawal of nine states from the old union by the adoption of the constitution of . abraham lincoln's proclamation shattered all hope of such peaceful adjustment. thousands of the best men in virginia and north carolina had voted against secession. not one of them, in the face of this proclamation, would dispute longer with their brethren. whatever they might think about the expediency of withdrawing from the union, they were absolutely clear on two points. the president of the united states had no power under the charter of our government to declare war. congress only could do that. if the cotton states were out of the union, his act was illegal because the usurpation of supreme power. if they were yet in the union, the raising of an army to invade their homes was a plain violation of the constitution. the heart of the south beat as one man. the cause of the war had been suddenly shifted to a broader and deeper foundation about which no possible difference could ever again arise in the southern states. the demand for soldiers to invade the south was a bugle call to southern manhood to fight for their liberties and defend their homes. it gave even to the staunchest union men of the old south the overt act of an open breach of the constitution. from the moment abraham lincoln proclaimed a war without the act of congress, from that moment he became a dictator and a despot who deliberately sought to destroy their liberties. the cause of the south not only meant the defense of their homes from foreign invasion; it became a holy crusade for the reëstablishment of constitutional freedom. virginia immediately seceded from the union by the vote of the same men who had refused to secede but a few weeks before. the old flag fell from its staff on her capitol and the new symbol of southern unity was unfurled in its place. as if by magic the new flag fluttered from every hill, housetop and window, while crowds surged through the streets shouting and waving it aloft. cannon boomed its advent and cheering thousands saluted it. a great torchlight parade illumined the streets on april . in this procession walked the men who a week ago had marched through franklin street waving the old flag of the union and shouting themselves hoarse in their determination to uphold it. they had signed the ordinance of secession with streaming eyes, but they signed it with firm hands, and sent their sons to the muster fields next day. augusta county, a whig and union center, and rockingham, an equally strong democratic union county, each contributed fifteen hundred soldiers to the new cause. women not only began to prepare the equipment for their men, but many of them began to arm and practice themselves. boys from ten to fourteen were daily drilling. in petersburg three hundred free negroes offered their services to fight or to ditch and dig. the bitterness of the answers of the southern governors from the border states yet in the union amazed the president at washington. his demand for troops was refused in tones of scorn and defiance. governor magoffin of kentucky replied: "the state will furnish no troops for the wicked purpose of subduing her sister southern states." governor harris telegraphed from nashville: "the state of tennessee will not furnish a single man for coercion, but fifty thousand if necessary for the defense of her rights." the message of governor ellis of north carolina was equally emphatic: "i will be no party to this wicked violation of the laws of our country, and to this war upon the liberties of a free people." governor rector of arkansas replied: "your demand adds insult to injury." governor jackson of missouri was indignant beyond all others: "your requisition in my judgment is illegal, unconstitutional, and revolutionary--its objects inhuman and diabolical." tennessee followed virginia by seceding on may . arkansas on may , and north carolina by unanimous vote on may . north carolina had been slow to announce her final separation from the old union. but she had been prompt in proclaiming her own sovereign rights within her territory when the national government had dared to call them in question. on the day the president had issued his proclamation she seized fort macon at beaufort. fort caswell was taken and garrisoned by her volunteers, and on april , the arsenal at fayetteville was captured without bloodshed. the value of this achievement to the south was incalculable. the confederacy thus secured sixty-five thousand stand of arms, of which twenty-eight thousand were of the most modern pattern. virginia had seceded on april and immediately moved to secure under the resumption of her complete sovereignty all the arms, munitions of war, ship stores and military posts within her borders. two posts of tremendous importance she attempted to seize at once--the great navy yard at norfolk and the arsenal and shops at harper's ferry. the navy yard contained a magnificent dry dock worth millions, huge ship houses, supplies, ammunition, small arms and cannon, and had lying in its basin several vessels of war, complete and incomplete. harper's ferry contained ten thousand muskets, five thousand rifles and a complete set of machinery for the manufacture of arms capable of turning out two thousand muskets a month. a force of virginia volunteers moved on harper's ferry. the small federal garrison asked for a parley, which was granted. in a short time flames were pouring from the armory and arsenal. the garrison had set fire to the buildings and escaped across the railroad bridge into maryland. the virginia troops rushed into the burning buildings, and saved five thousand muskets and three thousand unfinished rifles. the garrison had laid trains of powder to blow up the workshops, but the virginians extinguished the flames and saved to the south the invaluable machinery for making and repairing muskets and rifles. it was shipped to fayetteville and richmond and installed for safety. the destruction of the navy yard at norfolk was more complete and irreparable. the dry dock was little damaged, but the destruction of stores and property was enormous. all ships in the harbor were set on fire and scuttled. events moved now with swift and terrible certainty. massachusetts attempted, on april , to send a regiment through the streets of baltimore to invade the south, and the indignant wrath of her citizens could not be controlled by the mayor or police. the street cars on which they were riding across town to the camden station were thrown from the tracks. the crowds jammed the streets and shouted their curses in the face of the advancing volunteers. stones were hurled into their ranks and two soldiers dropped. a volley was poured into the crowd and several fell dead and wounded. the crowd went mad. revolvers were drawn and fired point blank into the ranks of the soldiers and those who were unarmed rushed to arm themselves. from frederic to smith streets the firing on both sides continued with the regular crash of battle. citizens were falling, but even the unarmed men continued to press forward and hurl stones into the ranks of the new englanders. the troops began to yield before the determined onslaughts of the infuriated crowds, bewildered and apparently without real commanders. they pressed through the streets, staggering, confused, breaking into a run and turning to fire on their assailants as they retreated. harassed, bleeding and exhausted, the regiment at last reached the baltimore & ohio station. the fight continued without pause. volleys of stones were hurled into the cars, shattering windows and paneling. the troops were ordered to lie down on the floors and keep their heads below the line of the windows. maddened men pressed to the car windows, cursing and yelling their defiance. for half a mile along the tracks the crowd struggled and shouted, piling the rails with new obstructions as fast as policemen could remove them. through a steady roar of hoots, yells and curses the train at last pulled slowly out, the troops pouring a volley into the crowd. in this first irregular battle of the sections the massachusetts regiment lost four killed and thirty-six wounded. the baltimoreans lost twelve killed and an unknown number wounded. a wave of tremendous excitement swept the state of maryland. bridges on all railroads leading north were immediately burned and the city of washington cut off from communication with the outside world. troops were compelled to avoid baltimore and find transportation by water to annapolis. mass meetings were held and speeches of bitter defiance hurled against the federal government. the baltimore council appropriated five hundred thousand dollars to put the city in a state of defense, though the state had proclaimed its neutrality. the shrewd, good-natured, even-tempered president at washington used all his powers of personal diplomacy to pour oil on the troubled waters of maryland. in the meantime with swift, sure, and merciless tread he moved on the turbulent state with the power of federal arms. it was impossible to hold the capital of the nation with a hostile state separating it from the loyal north. the steps he took were all clearly unconstitutional, but they were necessary to save the capital. they were the acts of a dictator, for congress was not in session, but he dared to act. troops were suddenly thrown into the city of baltimore and its streets and heights planted with cannon. the chief of police was arrested and imprisoned, the police board was suspended and the city brought under the rule of drumhead court-martial. the writ of _habeas corpus_ was suspended by federal authorities in a free and sovereign state whose legislature had proclaimed its neutrality in the sectional conflict. blank warrants were issued by military officers and the house of every suspect entered by force and searched. the mayor and his council were arrested without warrant, held without trial, and imprisoned in a military fortress, and when the legislature dared to protest, its members were arrested and its session closed by bayonets. so thoroughly was this work done that within thirty days from the attack on the troops of new england, maryland's governor by proclamation called for four regiments of volunteers to assist the washington government in the proposed invasion of the south. in like manner, with hand of steel within a velvet glove, mr. lincoln prevented the secession of kentucky and missouri. it was done with less violence, but it was done, and these rich and powerful states saved to the union. the swift and bloodless conquest of maryland inspired the north with the most grotesque conception of the war and its outcome. the british and french governments had immediately recognized the confederate states as belligerents under the terms of international law and closed their ports to the armed vessels of both contestants. mr. seward, lincoln's secretary of state, hastened to assure the nations of europe that a dissolution of the union was an absurd impossibility. it had never entered the mind of any candid statesman in america and should be dismissed at once by statesmen in europe. and yet at this time eleven southern states, stretching from the james to the rio grande, with a population of eight millions, had by solemn act of their legislatures withdrawn from the union and their armies were camping within a few miles of the city of washington. in all the north not a single statesman or a single newspaper appeared to have any conception of the serious task before them. the fusillades of rant, passion and bombast which filled the air would have been comic but for the grim tragedy which was stalking in their wake. the "rebellion" was ridiculed and sneered at in terms that taxed the genius of the writers for words of contempt. the new york _tribune_, the greatest and most powerful organ of public opinion in the north, a paper which had boldly from the first proclaimed the right of the south to peaceable secession, was now swept away with the popular fury. its editor gravely declared: "the southern rebellion is nothing more or less than the natural recourse of all mean-spirited and defeated tyrannies to rule or ruin, making of course a wide distinction between the will and the power, for the hanging of traitors is soon to begin before a month is over. the nations of europe may rest assured that jeff davis and co. will be swinging from the battlements at washington, at least by the fourth of july. we spit upon a later and longer deferred justice." the new york _times_ gave its opinion with equal clearness: "let us make quick work. the rebellion is an unborn tadpole. let us not fall into the delusion of mistaking a local commotion for a revolution. a strong active pull together will do our work in thirty days. we have only to send a column of twenty-five thousand men across the potomac to richmond to burn out the rats there; another column of twenty-five thousand to cairo to seize the cotton ports of the mississippi and retain the remaining twenty-five thousand called for by the president at washington--not because there is any need for them there but because we do not require their services elsewhere." the staid old philadelphia _press_ declared: "no man of sense can for a moment doubt that all this much-ado-about-nothing will end in a month. the northern people are invincible. the rebels are a band of ragamuffins who will fly like chaff before the wind on our approach." the west vied with the east in boastful clamor. the chicago _tribune_ shouted from the top of its columns: "we insist that the west be allowed the honor of settling this little trouble by herself since she is most interested in its suppression to insure the free navigation of the mississippi river. let the east stand aside. this is our war. we can end it successfully in two months. illinois can whip the whole south by herself. we insist on the affair being turned over to us." with prospects of a short war and cheaply earned glory the rage for volunteering was resistless. the war for three months was to be a holiday excursion and every man would return a hero crowned with garlands of flowers, the center of admiring thousands. the blacksmiths of brooklyn were busy making handcuffs for one of her crack regiments. each volunteer had sworn to lead at least one captive rebel in chains through the crowded streets in the great parade on their return. socola on his arrival at montgomery from charleston read these fulminations from the north with amazement and rage. he sent his bitter and emphatic protest against such madness to holt. the faithful joseph had been rewarded with an office to his liking. he was now the judge advocate general of the united states army. he turned socola's letters over to cameron, the new secretary of war, who read them with rising wrath. "the author of those letters," he said with a scowl, "is either a damned fool, or traitor." holt's lower lip was thrust out and the lines of his big mouth drawn into a knot. "i assure you, sir--he is neither. he is absolutely loyal. his patriotism is a religion. he has entered his dangerous and important mission with the zeal of a religious fanatic." "that accounts for it then--he's insane. i don't care to read any more such twaddle and i won't pay for the services of such a man out of the funds of the war department." with the utmost difficulty holt secured the consent of the secretary of war to continue socola's commission for two months longer. the only consolation the young patriot found in the contemptuous reply his government made to his solemn warnings was the almost equal fatuity with which the southern people were now approaching their first test of battle. until the proclamation of president lincoln, both jefferson davis and the south had believed in the possibility of a peaceful reconciliation. even when the proclamation had been made and the wild response of the north had been instantly given, the southern people refused to believe that the millions of northern voters who still clung to the old forms of constitutional government under the leadership of stephen a. douglas would surrender their principles, arm themselves and march to coerce a state at the command of a president against whom they had voted. senator barton, from his new position in the confederate senate, scouted the idea of serious war. "bah!" he growled to socola, who was drawing him out. "the yankees won't fight!" "that's what they say about you, sir," was the cool response. "who ever heard of a race of shopkeepers turning into soldiers?" the senator laughed. "such men have no martial prowess! they are unequal to mighty deeds of valor." the white teeth of the young observer gleamed in a smile. "on the other hand, senator, i'm afraid history proves that commercial communities, once aroused, are the most dogged, pugnacious, ambitious and obstinate fighters of the world--carthage, venice, genoa, holland and england have surely proven this--" "there's one thing certain," barton roared. "we'll bring england to her knees if there is a war. cotton is the king of commerce, and we hold the key of his empire. the population of england will starve without our cotton. if we need them they've got to come to our rescue, sir!" socola did not argue the point. it was amazing how widespread was this idea in the south. he wrote his government again and again that the whole movement of secession was based on this conception. there was one man in washington who read these warnings with keen insight--gideon welles, the secretary of the navy. the part this quiet, unassuming man was preparing to play in the mighty drama then unfolding its first scene was little known or understood by those who were filling the world with the noise of their bluster. jefferson davis at his desk in montgomery saw with growing anxiety the confidence of his people in immediate and overwhelming success. in answer to abraham lincoln's proclamation calling for , volunteers to fight the south, he called for , to defend it. the rage for volunteering in the south was even greater than the north. an army of five hundred thousand men could have been enrolled for any length of service if arms and equipment could have been found. it was utterly impossible to arm and equip one hundred thousand, before the first battle would be fought. ambitious southern boys, raging for the smell of battle, rushed from post to post, begged and pleaded for a place in the ranks. they offered big bounties for the places assigned to men who were lucky enough to be accepted. the confederate congress, to the chagrin of their president, fixed the time of service at six months. jefferson davis was apparently the only man in the south who had any conception of the gigantic task before his infant government. he begged and implored his congress for an enrollment of three years or the end of the war. the congress laughed at his absurd fears. the utmost they would grant was enlistment for the term of one year. with grim foreboding but desperate earnestness the president of the confederacy turned his attention to the organization and equipment of this force with which he was expected to defend the homes of eight million people scattered over a territory of , square miles, with an open frontier of a thousand miles and three thousand leagues of open sea. chapter xiv richmond in gala dress from the moment virginia seceded from the union it wan a foregone conclusion that richmond would be the capital of the new confederacy--not only because the great virginian was the father of the country and his glorious old commonwealth the mother of states and presidents, but because her soil must be the arena of the first great battle. on may , the provisional congress at montgomery adjourned to meet in richmond on july , and jefferson davis began his triumphal procession to the new capital. jennie barton, her impulsive father, the senator, mrs barton, with temper serene and unruffled, and signor henrico socola of the sardinian ministry, were in the party. dick welford and two boys were already in virginia with their regiments. tom was in new orleans with raphael semmes, fitting out the little steamer _sumter_ for a confederate cruiser. senator barton had been requested by the new president to act as his aide, and the champion of secession had accepted the honor under protest. it was not of importance commensurate with his abilities, but it was perhaps worth while for the moment until a greater field was opened. the arrangement made socola's association with jennie of double importance. as the train whirled through the sunlit fields of the south he found his position by her side more and more agreeable and interesting. she was a girl of remarkable intelligence. he had observed that she was not afraid of silence. her tongue was not forever going. in fact she seemed disinclined to talk unless she had something to say. he glanced at her from the corners of his dark eyes with a friendly smile. "you are serious to-day, miss jennie?" "yes. i wish i were a man!" "you'd go to the front, of course?" "yes--wouldn't you?" "for _my_ country--yes--" he paused a moment and went on carelessly: "your older brother, the judge, will fight for the union?" the sensitive lips trembled. "no--thank god. he has sent my mother word that for her sake and mine he'll not fight his father and younger brothers in battle. he's going to do a braver thing than march to the front. he's going to face his neighbors in new orleans and stand squarely by his principles." "it will take a brave man to do that, won't it?" "the bravest of the brave." the train was just pulling into a sleepy southern town, the tracks running straight down the center of its main street. a company was drawn up to salute the new president and cheering thousands had poured in from the surrounding country to do him honor. they cheered themselves hoarse and were still at it when the train slowly started northward. the company which greeted their arrival with arms presented were on board now, chatting, shouting, singing, waving their caps and handkerchiefs to tear-stained women. the country through which the presidential party passed had been suddenly transformed into a vast military camp, the whole population war mad. every woman from every window of every house in sight of the train waved a handkerchief. the flutter of those white flags never ceased. the city of richmond gave their distinguished visitor a noble reception. he was quartered temporarily at the spotswood hotel, but the city council had purchased the handsomest mansion in town at a cost of $ , and offered it to him as their token of admiration of his genius. mr. davis was deeply touched by this mark of esteem from virginia, but sternly refused the gift for himself. he accepted it for the confederate government as the official residence of the president. socola found the city a mere comfortable village in comparison with new york or boston or philadelphia, though five times the size of montgomery. he strolled through its streets alone, wondering in which one of the big old-fashioned mansions lived the remarkable southern woman to whom his government had referred him for orders. he must await the arrival of the messenger who would deliver to him in person its description. in the meantime with tireless eye he was studying the physical formation of every street and alley. he must know it, every crook and turn. until the advent of the troops richmond had been one of the quietest of all the smaller cities of america. barely forty thousand inhabitants, one third of whom were negro slaves, it could boast none of the displays or excitements of a metropolis. its vices were few, its life orderly and its society the finest type of the genuine american our country had developed. rowdyism was unknown. the police department consisted of a dozen "watchmen" whose chief duty was to round up a few straggling negroes who might be found on the streets after nine o'clock at night and put them in "the cage" until morning. "the cage" was a ramshackled wooden building too absurd to be honored by the name of prison. the quiet, shady streets were suddenly transformed into the throbbing, tumultuous avenues of a crowded capital--already numbering more than one hundred thousand inhabitants. its pulse beat with a new and fevered life. its atmosphere was tense with the electric rumble of the coming storm--everywhere bustle, hurry and feverish preparations for war. the tredegar iron works had doubled its force of men. day and night the red glare of the furnaces threw its sinister glow over the yellow, turbulent waters of the james. with every throb now of its red heart a cannon was born destined to slay a thousand men. every hill was white with the tents of soldiers, their camps stretching away into the distant fields and forests. every street was thronged. couriers on blooded horses dashed to and fro bearing the messages of imperious masters. from every direction came the crash of military bands. and over all the steady, low rumble of artillery and the throbbing tramp of soldiers. in every field and wood for miles around the city could be heard the neighing of horses, the bugle call of the trooper, the shouts of gay recruits and the sharp command of drilling officers. the rattle of the ambulance and the long, red trenches of the uncoffined dead had not come yet. they were not even dreamed in the hearts of the eager, rollicking, fun-loving children of the south. there were as yet no dances, no social festivities. the town was soldier mad. few men not in uniform were to be seen on the streets. a man in citizen's clothes was under suspicion as to his principles. with each train, new companies and regiments arrived. day and night the tramp of soldiers' feet, the throb of drum, the scream of fife, the gleam of bayonets. everywhere soldiers were welcomed, fêted, lionized. the finest ladies of richmond vied with one another in serving their soldier guests. society turned out _en masse_ to every important review. southern society was melted into a single pulsing thought--the fight in defense of their homes and their liberty. in the white heat of this mighty impulse the barriers of class and sex were melted. the most delicately reared and cultured lady of society admitted without question the right of any man who wore a gray uniform to speak to her without introduction and escort her anywhere on the streets. in not a single instance was this high privilege abused by an insult, indignity or an improper word. socola saw but one lady who showed the slightest displeasure. a dainty little woman of eight, delicately trained in the ways of polite society, was shocked at the familiarity of a soldier who had dared to caress her. she turned to her elderly companion and gasped with indignation: "auntie! did you ever! any man who wears a stripe on his pantaloons now thinks he can speak to a lady!" socola laughed and passed on to inspect the camp of the famous hampton legion of south carolina. his heart went out in a sudden wave of admiration for these southern people who could merge thus their souls and bodies into the cause of their country. the hampton legion was recruited, armed and equipped and led by wade hampton. its private soldiers were the flower of south carolina's society. the dress parades of this regiment of gentlemen were the admiration of the town. the carriages that hung around their maneuvers were as gay and numerous as the assemblage on a fashionable race course. each member of this famous legion went into richmond with his trunks and body servant. they, too, were confident of a brief struggle. a kind fate held fast the dark curtains of the future. the camp was a picnic ground, and death was only a specter of the dim unknown. just as socola strolled by the grounds, the camp spied the handsome figure of young preston hampton in a pair of spotless yellow kid gloves. they caught and rolled him in the dust and spoiled his gloves. he laughed and took it good naturedly. the hardier sons of the south held the attention of the keen, observing eyes with stronger interest. he knew what would become of those trunks and fine clothes. the thing he wished most to know was the quality and the temper of the average man in the southern ranks. socola met dick welford suddenly face to face, smiled and bowed. dick hesitated, returned his recognition and offered his hand. "mr. welford--" "signor socola." dick's greeting was a little awkward, but the older man put him at once at ease with his frank, friendly manners. "a brave show your _champ de mars_, sir!" "does look like business, doesn't it?" dick responded with pride. "would you like to go through the camps and see our men?" "very much." "come, i'll show you." two hundred yards from the camp of the hampton legion they found the louisiana zouaves of wheat's command, small, tough-looking men with gleaming black eyes. "frenchmen!" dick sneered. "they'll fight though--" "their people in the old world have that reputation," socola dryly remarked. beyond them lay a regiment of fierce, be-whiskered countrymen from the lower sections of mississippi. "look out for those fellows," the young southerner said serenely. "they're from old jeff's home. you'll hear from them. their fathers all fought in mexico." socola nodded. beside the mississippians lay a regiment of long-legged, sinewy riflemen from arkansas. a hundred yards further they saw the quaint coon-skin caps of john b. gordon's company from georgia. socola watched these lanky mountaineers with keen interest. "the raccoon roughs," dick explained. "first company of georgia volunteers. they had to march over two or three states before anybody would muster them in. they're happy as june bugs now." they passed two regiments of quiet north carolinians. the young northerner observed their strong, muscular bodies and earnest faces. "and these two large regiments, mr. welford?" socola asked. "oh," the virginian exclaimed with a careless touch of scorn in his voice, "they're tarheels--not much for looks, but i reckon they'll _stick_." "i've an idea they will," was the serious reply. dick pointed with pride to a fine-looking regiment of virginians. "good-looking soldiers," socola observed. "aren't they? that's my regiment. you'll hear from them in the first battle." "and those giants?" socola inquired, pointing to the right at a group of tall, rude-looking fellows. "texas rangers." "i shouldn't care to meet them in a row--" "you know what general taylor said of them in the mexican war?" "no--" "_they're anything but gentlemen or cowards._" "i agree with him," socola laughed. "what chance has a yankee got against such men?" dick asked with a wag of his big blond head. "let me show you what they think--" socola drew a leaf of _harper's magazine_ from his pocket and spread it before the young trooper's indignant gaze. the cartoon showed a sickly-looking southerner carrying his musket under an umbrella accompanied by a negro with a tray full of mint juleps. "that's a joke, isn't it!" dick roared. "will you give me this paper?" "certainly, monsieur!" dick folded the sheet, still laughing. "i'll have some fun with this in camp to-night. come on--i want to show you just one more bunch of these sickly-looking mint-julipers--" again the southerner roared. they quickened their pace and in a few minutes were passing through the camps of the red river men from arkansas and northern louisiana. "aren't you sorry for these poor fellows?" dick laughed. "i have never seen anything like them," socola admitted, looking on their stalwart forms with undisguised admiration. scarcely a man was under six feet in height, with broad, massive shoulders and chests and not an ounce of superfluous flesh. their resemblance to each other was remarkable. nature had cast each one in the same heroic mold. the spread of giant unbroken forests spoke in their brawny arms and legs. the look of an eagle soaring over great rivers and fertile plains flashed in their fearless eyes. "what do you think of them?" dick asked with boyish pride. "i'd like to send their photographs to _harper's_--" "for god's sake, don't do that!" dick protested. "if you do, we'll never get a chance to see a yankee. i want to get in sight of 'em anyhow before they run. all i ask of the lord is to give me one whack at those little, hump-backed, bow-legged shoemakers from boston!" socola smiled dryly. "in five minutes after we meet--there won't be a shoe-string left fit to use." the dark face flashed with a strange light from the depths of the somber eyes--only for an instant did he lose self-control. his voice was velvet when he spoke. "your faith is strong, m'sieur!" "it's not faith--we know. one southerner can whip three yankees any day." "but suppose it should turn out that he had to whip five or six or a dozen?" "don't you think these fellows could do it?" socola hesitated. it was a shame to pull down a faith that could remove mountains. he shrugged his slender shoulders and a pensive look stole over his face. he seemed to be talking to himself. "your president tells me that his soldiers will do all that pluck and muscle, endurance and dogged courage, dash and red-hot patriotism can accomplish. and yet his view is not sanguine. a sad undertone i caught in his voice. he says your war will be long and bloody--" "yes--i know," dick broke in, "but nobody agrees with him. we'll show old jeff what we can do, if he'll just give us _one_ chance--that's all we ask--just _one_ chance. read that editorial in the richmond _examiner_--" he thrust a copy of the famous yellow journal of the south into socola's hand and pointed to a marked paragraph: "from mountain top and valleys to the shores of the seas there is one wild shout of fierce resolve to capture washington city at all and every human hazard!" the north was marching southward with ropes and handcuffs with which to end in triumph their holiday excursion on july . the south was marching to meet them with eager pride, each man afraid the fight would be over before he could reach the front to fire a single shot. and behind each gay regiment of scornful men marched the white silent figure of death. chapter xv the house on church hill as socola left his room at the spotswood the following night, a stranger met him at the turn of the dimly lighted corridor. "signor socola, i believe?" "at your service." "i know some mutual friends in washington connected with the sardinian ministry--" "i'm just starting for a stroll through the city," socola interrupted. "will you join me?" "with pleasure. as i am well acquainted with the streets of richmond, allow me to be your guide." socola followed with a nod of approval. their walk led to the highest of the city's seven hills. but few were stirring at this hour--half-past seven. the people were busy at supper. the two men paused at the gate of a stately, old-fashioned mansion in the middle of a spacious lawn. the odor of sweet pinks filled the air. the rose trellis and elaborate scheme of flower beds and the boxwood hedges told the story of wealth and culture and high social position. "i wish to introduce you to one of the most charming ladies of richmond," the stranger said in quick, business-like tones, opening the gate as if he were used to the feel of the latch. "certainly," was the short reply. in answer to the rap of the old-fashioned brass knocker, a quaint little woman of forty opened the door and showed them into the parlor. the blinds were closed, and the room lighted by a single small kerosene lamp. with quick precision the stranger presented his companion. "miss van lew, permit me to introduce to you signor henrico socola of the sardinian ministry. he is the duly accredited but unofficial agent of his majesty, victor emmanuel, and is cultivating friendly relations with the new government of the south." miss van low extended her hand and took the outstretched one with a warmth that surprised her visitor beyond measure. "i recognized him at once," she said with emotion. "recognized me?" "your dear mother, sir, was my schoolmate in philadelphia. i loved her. how alike you are!" "then we shall be friends--" "we shall be more than friends--we shall be comrades--" she paused and turned to the stranger: "you can leave us now." with a bow the man turned and left the room. socola studied the little woman who had deliberately chosen to lay her life, her fortune and her home on the altar of her country. he saw with a glance at her delicate but commanding figure the brilliant, accomplished, resolute woman of personality and charm. she took the young man's hand again in hers and led him to a high-backed mahogany settee. she stroked the hands with her thin, cold fingers. "how perfect the image of your mother! i would have known you anywhere. _you_ must know and trust me. i was sent north to school. i came back to virginia a more determined abolitionist than ever. our people have always hated slavery. i made good my faith by freeing mine. we're not so well-to-do now, my mother and i." she paused and looked wistfully about the stately room. "this house could tell the story of gay and beautiful scenes--of balls--receptions and garden parties in bowers of roses--of coaches drawn by six snow-white horses standing at our door for the start to the white sulphur springs--" she stopped suddenly, mastered her emotions and went on dreamily: "of great men and distinguished families our guests from the north and the south--bishop mann, chief justice john marshall, the lees, the robinsons, wickhams, adams, cabells,--the carringtons--fredrika bremer, the swedish novelist, visited us and wrote of us in her 'homes in the new world.' jennie lind in the height of her glory sang in this room. edgar allan poe read here aloud his immortal poem, 'the raven.' you must realize what it means to me to become an outcast in richmond--" she drew from her bosom a newspaper clipping and handed it to socola. "read that paragraph from this morning's editorial columns--" the young man scanned the marked clipping. rapped on the knucks "one of the city papers contained on monday a word of exhortation to certain females of southern residence (and perhaps birth) but of decidedly northern and abolition proclivities. the creatures, though specially alluded to, are not named. if such people do not wish to be exposed and dealt with as alien enemies to the country they would do well to cut stick while they can do so with safety to their worthless carcasses--" "and you will not 'cut stick'?" "it's not the way of our breed. i've been doing what i could for the past year. i have sent the government at washington letter after letter giving them full and accurate accounts of men and events here. i have made no concealment of my principles. we are abolitionists and unionists and they know it. these southern men will not lift their hands against two helpless women unless they discover the deeper plans i've laid. i've stopped them on the streets and openly flung my sentiments into their faces. as the excitement has increased i have grown more violent and more incoherent. they have begun to say that i am insane--" socola lifted his hand in a quiet gesture. "good. you can play the part." a look of elation overspread the thin, intellectual features. "true--i'll do it. i see it in a flash. 'crazy old bet,' they'll call me--" she sprang to her feet. "come upstairs." he followed her light step up three flights of stairs into the attic. she pushed aside an old-fashioned wardrobe and opened a small door of plain pine boards about four feet in height which led to the darkened space beneath the roof. she stooped and entered and he followed. a small, neat room was revealed eight feet high beside the inner wall, with ceiling sloping to three feet on the opposite side. an iron safe was fitted into the space beside the chimney and covered skillfully by a door completely cased in brick. the device was so perfect it was impossible to detect the fact that it was not a part of the chimney, each alternate layer of bricks fitted exactly into the place chiseled out for it in the wall of the chimney itself. socola examined the arrangement with care. "a most skillful piece of work!" he exclaimed. "i laid those bricks in that door casing with my own hand. the old safe has been there since my grandfather's day. this is your room, sir. that safe is for your important papers. you can spend the night here in safety when necessary. my house has been offered to the government as the headquarters of its secret service. i have in this safe an important document for you." she opened it and handed socola a sealed envelope addressed: "signor henrico socola, richmond, virginia." he broke the seal and read the order from the new bureau of military information placing him in command of its richmond office. he offered the paper to the little woman who held the candle for him to read. "i know its contents," she said, observing him keenly. "the government has chosen wisely. you can render invaluable service--" she paused and looked at socola with a curious smile. "you know any girls in richmond?" "but one and she has just arrived with the presidential party--miss jennie barton--" "the senator's daughter?" "the same." "wonderful!" the little woman went on eagerly. "her father is on the staff of jefferson davis. old barton is a loud-mouthed fool who can't keep a secret ten minutes. you must make love to his daughter--" socola laughed. "is it necessary?" "absolutely. you can't remain in richmond indefinitely without a better excuse than your unofficial connection with the ministry of sardinia. you are young. you are handsome. all southern girls have sweethearts--all southern boys. they can't understand the boy who hasn't. you'll be suspected at once unless you comply with the custom of the country." "of course. i needn't actually make love to her--" "that's exactly what you must do. make love to her with all your might--as if your life depends on her answer and your stay in richmond can be indefinite." "i don't like the idea," he protested. "neither do i like this--" she swept the little attic room with a wave of her slender hand. "come, my comrade, you must--" he hesitated a moment, laughed, and said: "all right." chapter xvi the flower-decked tent when socola rose the following morning he determined to throw every scruple to the winds and devote himself to jennie barton with a zeal and passion that would leave to his southern rivals no doubt as to the secret of his stay. at the first informal reception at the white house of the confederacy jennie had been pronounced the most fascinating daughter of the new republic, as modest and unassuming as she was brilliant and beautiful. after the manner of southern beaux he addressed a note to her on a sheet of exquisitely tinted foreign paper, at the top of which was the richly embossed coat of arms of the socola family of north italy. he asked of her the pleasure of a horseback ride over the hills of virginia. he was a superb horseman, and she rode as if born in the saddle. he sealed the note with a piece of tinted wax and stamped it with the die which reproduced his coat of arms. he smiled with satisfaction as he addressed the envelope in his smooth and perfectly rounded handwriting. he read the answer with surprise and disappointment. the senator had replied for his daughter. a slight accident to her mother had caused her to leave on the morning train for the south. she would probably remain at fairview for two weeks. there was no help for it. he must await her return. in the meantime there was work to do. the army of the south was slowly but surely shaping itself into a formidable engine of war. the master mind at the helm of the new government had laid the foundations of one of the most efficient forces ever sent into the arena of battle. it was as yet only a foundation but one which inspired in his mind not only a profound respect for his judgment, but a feeling of deep foreboding for the future. jefferson davis had received a training of peculiar fitness for his task. the first work before the south was the organization, equipment and handling of its army of defense. the president they had called to the leadership had spent four years at west point and seven years in the army on our frontiers, pushing the boundaries of the republic into the west. he had led a regiment of volunteers in the conquest of mexico, and in the battle of buena vista, not only saved the day in the moment of supreme crisis, but had given evidence of the highest order of military genius. on his return from the mexican war he had been appointed a brigadier general by the president of the united states but had declined the honor. for four years as secretary of war in the cabinet of franklin pierce he had proven himself a master of military administration, had reorganized and placed on a modern basis of the highest efficiency the army of the union and in this work has proven himself a terror to weakness, tradition and corruption. he knew personally every officer of the first rank in the united states army. his judgment of these men and their ability as commanders was marvelous in its accuracy. his genius as an army administrator undoubtedly gave to the south her first advantage in the opening of the conflict. from the men who had resigned from the old army to cast their fortunes with the south his keen eye selected without hesitation the three men for supreme command whose abilities had no equal in america for the positions to which they were assigned. and these three men were patriots of such singleness of purpose, breadth of vision and greatness of soul that neither of them knew he was being considered for the highest command until handed his commission. samuel cooper had been adjutant general of the united states army since . davis knew his record of stern discipline and uncompromising efficiency, and although a man of northern birth, he appointed him adjutant general of the confederate army without a moment's hesitation. albert sidney johnston was his second appointment to the rank of full general and robert e. lee his third--each destined to immortality. his fourth nomination for the rank of full general he made with hesitation. joseph e. johnston under the terms of the law passed by the provisional congress of the confederacy was entitled to a position in the first rank as acting commissary general of the old army. the keen intuition of the president had perceived from the first the evidences of hesitation and of timidity in crisis which was the chief characteristic of joseph e. johnston. his sense of fairness under the terms of the law required that this man be given his chance. with misgivings but with high hopes the appointment was made. robert e. lee he made military chieftain of the government with headquarters in richmond. from four points the northern forces were threatening the south. from the west by a flanking movement which might open the mississippi river; from the mountains of western virginia whose people were in part opposed to secession; from washington by a direct movement on richmond; and from fortress monroe on the virginia peninsula. the first skirmish before fortress monroe, led by b. f. butler, had been repulsed with such ease no serious danger was felt in that quarter. the ten thousand men under holmes and mcgruder could hold butler indefinitely. davis had seen from the first that one of the supreme dangers of the south lay in the long line of exposed frontier in the west. if a commander of military genius should succeed in turning his flank here the heart of the lower south would be pierced. for this important command he reserved albert sidney johnston. the northern army under george b. mcclellan and rosecrans had defeated the troops in western virginia. in a series of small fights they had lost a thousand men and all their artillery. general lee was dispatched from richmond to repair if possible this disaster. the first two clashes had been a draw. the south had won first blood on the peninsula--the north in western virginia. the main army of the south was now concentrated to oppose the main army of the north from washington. brigadier general beauregard, the widely acclaimed hero of fort sumter, was in command of this army near manassas station on the road to alexandria. beauregard's position was in a measure an accident of fortune. the first shot had been fired by him at sumter. he was the first paper-made hero of the war. he had led the first regiment into virginia to defend her from invasion. he was the man of the hour. his training and record, too, gave promise of high achievements. he had graduated from west point in , second in a class of forty-five men. his family was of high french extraction, having settled in louisiana in the reign of louis xv. he had entered the mexican war a lieutenant and emerged from the campaign a major. he was now forty-five years old, in the prime of life. his ability had been recognized by the national government in the beginning of the year by his appointment as superintendent of the military academy at west point. his commission had been revoked at the last moment by the vacillating buchanan because his brother-in-law, senator slidell of louisiana, had made a secession speech in washington. jefferson davis was not enthusiastic in his confidence in the new hero. he was too much given to outbursts of a public kind to please the ascetic mind of the southern leader. he had written some silly letters to the public deriding the power of the north. no one could know better than davis how silly these utterances were. he "hated and despised the yankees." davis feared and recognized their power. beauregard's assertion that the south could whip the north even if her only arms were flintlocks and pitchforks had been often and loudly repeated. of the army marshaling in front of him under the command of the venerable winfield scott he wrote with the utmost contempt. "the enemies of the south," he declared, "are little more than an armed rabble, gathered together hastily on a false pretense and for an unholy purpose, with an octogenarian at its head!" in spite of his small stature, beauregard was a man of striking personal appearance--small, dark, thin, hair prematurely gray, his manners distinguished and severe. it was natural that, with the fame of his first victory, itself the provoking cause of the conflict, his distinguished foreign name and courtly manners, he should have become the toast of the ladies in these early days of the pomp and glory of war. he was the center of an ever widening circle of fair admirers who lavished their attentions on him in letters, in flags, and a thousand gay compliments. his camp table was filled with exquisite flowers which flanked and sometimes covered his maps and plans. he used his bouquets for paper weights. it was not to be wondered at, therefore, that the cold intellectual standard by which davis weighed men should have found beauregard wanting in the qualifications of supreme command. the president turned his eye to the flower-decked tent of his general with grave misgivings. yet he was the man of the hour. it was fair that he should have his chance. chapter xvii the fatal victory on the banks of the potomac general scott had massed against beauregard the most formidable army which had ever marched under the flag of the union. its preparation was considered thorough, its numbers all that could he handled, and its artillery was the best in the world. all the regular army east of the rockies, seasoned veterans of indian campaigns, were joined with the immense force of volunteers from the northern states--fifty full regiments of volunteers, eight companies of regular infantry, four companies of marines, nine companies of regular cavalry and twelve batteries of artillery with forty-nine big guns. in command of this army of invasion was general mcdowell, held to be the most scientific general in the north. to supplement beauregard's weakness as a commanding general in case of emergency, joseph e. johnston was placed at harper's ferry to guard the entrance of the shenandoah valley, secure the removal of the invaluable machinery saved from the arsenal, and form a junction with beauregard the moment he should be threatened. the movement of general patterson's army against harper's ferry had been too obviously a feint to deceive either davis or lee, his chief military adviser. johnston was given ten thousand men and able assistants including general jackson. on the tenth of july beauregard, anxiously awaiting information of the federal advance, received an important message from an accomplished southern woman, mrs. rose o'neal greenhow. she had remained in washington as miss van lew had in richmond, to lay her life on the altar of her country. during the administration of buchanan she had been a leader of washington society. she was now a widow, noted for her wealth, beauty, wit and forceful personality. her home was the meeting place of the most brilliant men and women of the old régime. buchanan was her personal friend, as was william h. seward. her niece, a granddaughter of dolly madison, was the wife of the little giant of the west, stephen a. douglas. before leaving washington to become the adjutant general of beauregard's army colonel thomas jordan had given her the cipher code of the south and arranged to make her house the northern headquarters of the southern secret service. her first messenger was a girl carefully disguised as a farmer's daughter returning from the sale of her vegetables in the washington market. she passed the lines without challenge and delivered her message into beauregard's hands. with quick decision beauregard called his aide and dispatched the news to the president at richmond: "i have positive information direct from washington that the enemy will move in force across the potomac on manassas via fairfax court house and centreville. i urge the immediate concentration of all available forces on my lines." the southern commander began his preparations to receive the attack. the house on church hill had not been idle. richmond swarmed with federal spies under the skillful guidance of socola. general scott knew in washington within twenty-four hours that beauregard was planting his men behind the bull run river in a position of great strength and that the formation of the ground was such with bull run on his front that his dislodgment would be a tremendous task. the advance of the federal army was delayed--delayed until the last gun and scrap of machinery from harper's ferry had been safely housed in richmond and fayetteville and johnston had withdrawn his army to winchester in closer touch with beauregard. and still the union army did not move. beauregard sent a trusted scout into washington to mrs. greenhow with a scrap of paper on which was written in cipher the two words: "trust bearer--" he arrived at the moment she had received the long sought information of the date of the army's march. she glanced at the stolid masked face of the messenger and hesitated a moment. "you are a southerner?" donellan smiled. "i've spent most of my life in washington, madam," he said frankly. "i was a clerk in the department of the interior. i cast my fortunes with the south." it was enough. her keen intuitions had scented danger in the man's manner, his walk and personality. he was not a typical southerner. the officials of the secret service bureau had already given her evidence of their suspicions. she could not be too careful. she seized her pen and hastily wrote in cipher: "order issued for mcdowell to move on manassas to-night." she handed the tiny scrap of paper to donellan. "my agents will take you in a buggy with relays of horses down the potomac to a ferry near dumfries. you will be ferried across." the man touched his hat. "i'll know the way from there, madam." the scout delivered his message into beauregard's hands that night before eight o'clock. at noon the next day colonel jordan had placed in her hands his answer: "yours received at eight o'clock. let them come. we are ready. we rely upon you for precise information. be particular as to description and destination of forces and quantity of artillery." she had not been idle. she was able to write a message of almost equal importance to the one she had dispatched the day before. with quick nervous hand she wrote on another tiny scrap of paper: "the federal commander has ordered the manassas railroad to be cut to prevent the junction of johnston with beauregard." the moment the first authentic information reached president davis of the purpose to attack beauregard he immediately urged general johnston to make his preparations for the juncture of their forces. and at once the president received confirmation of his fears of his general-in-chief. johnston delayed and began a correspondence of voluminous objections. july , on receipt of the dispatch to beauregard announcing the plan to cut the railroad, the president was forced to send johnston a positive order to move his army to manassas. the order was obeyed with a hesitation which imperiled the issue of battle. and while on the march, beauregard's pickets exchanging shots with mcdowell's skirmish line, johnston began the first of his messages of complaint and haggling to his chief at richmond. jealous of beauregard's popularity and fearful of his possible insubordination, johnston telegraphed davis demanding that his relative rank to beauregard should be clearly defined before the juncture of their armies. the question was utterly unnecessary. the promotion of johnston to the full grade of general could leave no conceivable doubt on such a point. the president realized with a sickening certainty the beginning of a quarrel between the two men, dangerous to the cause of the south. their failure to act in harmony would make certain the defeat of the raw recruits on their first field of battle. he decided at the earliest possible moment to go in person and prevent this threatened quarrel. already blood had flowed. with a strong column of infantry, artillery and cavalry mcdowell had attempted to force the approaches to one of the fords of bull run. they were twice driven back and withdrew from the field. longstreet's brigade had lost fifteen killed and fifty-three wounded in holding his position. the president hastened to telegraph his sulking general the explicit definition of rank he had demanded: richmond, july , . "general j. e. johnston, "manassas junction, virginia. "you are a general of the confederate army possessed of the power attached to that rank. you will know how to make the exact knowledge of brigadier general beauregard, as well of the ground as of the troops and preparation avail for the success of the object for which you coöperate. the zeal of both assures me of harmonious action. "jefferson davis." as a matter of fact the president was consumed with painful anxiety lest there should not be harmonious action if johnston should reach the field in time for the fight. his own presence was required by law at richmond on july , for the delivery of his message to the assembled congress. it was impossible for him to leave for the front before sunday morning the st. the battle began at eight o'clock. general mcdowell's army had moved to this attack hounded by the clamor of demagogues for the immediate capture of richmond by his "grand army." every northern newspaper had dinned into his ears and the ears of an impatient public but one cry for months: "on to richmond!" at last the news was spread in washington that the army would move and bivouac in richmond's public square within ten days. the march was to be a triumphal procession. the washington politicians filled wagons and carriages with champagne to celebrate the victory. tickets were actually printed and distributed for a ball in richmond. the army was accompanied by long lines of excited spectators to witness the one grand struggle of the war--congressmen, toughs from the saloons, gaudy ladies from questionable resorts, a clamoring, perspiring rabble bent on witnessing scenes of blood. the union general's information as to beauregard's position and army was accurate and full. he knew that johnston's command of ten thousand men had begun to arrive the day before. he did not know that half of them were still tangled up somewhere on the railroad waiting for transportation. even with johnston's entire command on the ground his army outnumbered the southerners and his divisions of seasoned veterans from the old army and his matchless artillery gave him an enormous advantage. with consummate skill he planned the battle and began its successful execution. his scouts had informed him that the southern line was weak on its left wing resting on the stone bridge across the river. here the long drawn line of beauregard's army thinned to a single regiment supported at some distance by a battalion. here the skillful union general determined to strike. at two-thirty before daylight his dense lines of enthusiastic men swung into the dusty moonlit road for their movement to flank the confederate left. swiftly and silently the flower of mcdowell's army, eighteen thousand picked men, moved under the cover of the night to their chosen crossing at sudley's ford, two miles beyond the farthest gray picket of beauregard's left. tyler's division was halted at the stone bridge on which the lone regiment of col. evans lay beyond the stream. he was ordered to feign an attack on that point while the second and third divisions should creep cautiously along a circuitous road two miles above, cross unopposed and slip into the rear of beauregard's long-drawn left wing, roll it up in a mighty scroll of flame, join tyler's division as it should sweep across the stone bridge and together the three divisions in one solid mass could crush the ten-mile battle line into hopeless confusion. the plan was skillfully and daringly conceived. tyler's division halted at the stone bridge and silently formed as the first glow of dawn tinged the eastern hills. the dull red of the july sun was just coloring the sky with its flame when the second and third divisions crossed bull run at sudley's ford and began their swift descent upon the rear of the unsuspecting southern army. as the sun burst above the hills, a circle of white smoke suddenly curled away from a cannon's mouth above the stone bridge and slowly rose in the still, clear morning air. its sullen roar echoed over the valley. the gray figures on the hill beyond leaped to their feet and looked. only the artillery was engaged and their shots were falling short. the confederates appeared indifferent. the action was too obviously a feint. colonel evans was holding his regiment for a clearer plan of battle to develop. from the hilltop on which his men lay he scanned with increasing uneasiness the horizon toward the west. in the far distance against the bright southern sky loomed the dark outline of the blue ridge. the heavy background brought out in vivid contrast the woods and fields, hollows and hills of the great manassas plain in the foreground. suddenly he saw it--a thin cloud of dust rising in the distance. as the rushing wall of sixteen thousand men emerged from the "big forest," through which they had worked their way along the crooked track of a rarely used road, the dust cloud flared in the sky with ominous menace. colonel evans knew its meaning. beauregard's army had been flanked and the long thin lines of his left wing were caught in a trap. when the first rush of the circling host had swept his little band back from the stone bridge tyler's army would then cross and the three divisions swoop down on the doomed men. evans suddenly swung his regiment and two field pieces into a new line of battle facing the onrushing host and sent his courier flying to general bee to ask that his brigade be moved instantly to his support. when the shock came there were five regiments and six little field pieces in the southern ranks to meet mcdowell's sixteen thousand troops. with deafening roar their artillery opened. the long dense lines of closely packed infantry began their steady firing in volleys. it sounded as if some giant hand had grasped the hot southern skies and was tearing their blue canvas into strips and shreds. for an hour bee's brigade withstood the onslaught of the two federal divisions--and then began to slowly fall back before the resistless wall of fire. the union army charged and drove the broken lines a half mile before they rallied. tyler's division now swept across the stone bridge and the shattered confederate left wing was practically surrounded by overwhelming odds. again the storm burst on the unsupported lines of bee and drove them three quarters of a mile before they paused. the charging federal army had struck something they were destined to feel again on many a field of blood. general t. j. jackson had suddenly swung his brigade of five regiments into the breach and stopped the wave of fire. bee rushed to jackson's side. "general," he cried pathetically, "they are beating us back!" the somber blue eyes of the virginian gleamed beneath the heavy lashes: "then sir, we will give them the bayonet!" bee turned to his hard-pressed men and shouted: "see jackson and his virginians standing like a stone wall! let us conquer or die!" the words had scarcely passed his lips when bee fell, mortally wounded. four miles away on the top of a lonely hill sat beauregard and johnston befogged in a series of pitiable blunders. the flanking of the southern army was a complete and overwhelming surprise. johnston, unacquainted with the ground, had yielded the execution of the battle to his subordinate. while the two puzzled generals were waiting on their hill top for their orders of battle to be developed on the right they looked to the left and the whole valley was a boiling hell of smoke and dust and flame. their left flank had been turned and the triumphant enemy was rolling their long line up in a shroud of flame and death. the two generals put spurs to their horses and dashed to the scene of action, sending their couriers flying to countermand their first orders. they reached the scene at the moment bee's and evans' shattered lines were taking refuge in a wooded ravine and jackson had moved his men into a position to breast the shock of the enemy's avalanche. in his excitement johnston seized the colors of the fourth alabama regiment and offered to lead them in a charge. beauregard leaped from his horse, faced the troops and shouted: "i have come to die with you!" the first of the reserves were rushing to the front in a desperate effort to save the day. but in spite of the presence of the two commanding generals, in spite of the living stone wall jackson had thrown in the path of the union hosts, a large part of the crushed left wing could not be stopped and in mad panic broke for the rear toward manassas junction. the fate of the southern army hung on the problem of holding the hill behind jackson's brigade. on its bloody slopes his men crouched with rifles leveled and from them poured a steady flame into the ranks of the charging union columns. beauregard led the right wing of his newly formed battle line and jackson the center in a desperate charge. the union ranks were pierced and driven, only to re-form instantly and hurl their assailants back to their former position. charge and counter-charge followed in rapid and terrible succession. the confederates were being slowly overwhelmed. the combined union divisions now consisted of an enveloping battle line of twenty thousand infantry, seven companies of cavalry and twenty-four pieces of artillery, while behind them yet hung ten thousand reserves eager to rush into action. beauregard's combined forces defending the hill were scarcely seven thousand men. at two o'clock the desperate southern commander succeeded in bringing up additional regiments from his right wing. two brigades at last were thrown into the storm center and a shout rose from the hard-pressed confederates. again they charged, drove the union hosts back and captured a battery of artillery. the hill was saved and the enemy driven across the turnpike into the woods. mcdowell now hurried in a division of his reserves and re-formed his battle line for the final grand assault. once more he demonstrated his skill by throwing his right wing into a wide circling movement to envelop the confederate position on its left flank. the scene was magnificent. as far as the eye could reach the glittering bayonets of the union infantry could be seen sweeping steadily through field and wood flanked by its cavalry. beauregard watched the cordon of steel draw around his hard-pressed men and planted his regiments with desperate determination to hurl them back. far off in the distance rose a new cloud of dust in the direction of the manassas railroad. at their head was lifted a flag whose folds drooped in the hot, blistering july air. they were moving directly on the rear of mcdowell's circling right wing. if they were union reserves the day was lost. the southerner lifted his field glasses and watched the drooping flag now shrouded in dust--now emerging in the blazing sun. his glasses were not strong enough. he could not make out its colors. beauregard turned to colonel evans, whose little regiment had fought with sullen desperation since sunrise. "i can't make out that flag. if it's patterson's army from the valley--god help us--" "it may be elzey and kirby smith's regiments," evans replied. "they're lost somewhere along the road from winchester." again beauregard strained his eyes on the steadily advancing flag. it was a moment of crushing agony. "i'm afraid it's patterson's men. we must fall back on our last reserve--" he quickly lowered his glasses. "i haven't a courier left, colonel. you must help me--" "certainly, general." "find johnston, and ask him to at once mass the reserves to support and protect our retreat--" evans started immediately to execute the order. "wait!" beauregard shouted. his glasses were again fixed on the advancing flag. a gust of wind suddenly flung its folds into the bright southern sky line--the stars and bars of the confederacy! "glory to god!" the commander exclaimed. "they're our men!" the dark face of the little general flashed with excitement as he turned to evans: "ride, colonel--ride with all your might and order general kirby smith to press his command forward at double quick and strike that circling line in the flank and rear!" there were but two thousand in the advancing column but the moral effect of their sudden assault on the rear of the advancing victorious men, unconscious of their presence, would be tremendous. a charge at the same moment by his entire army confronting the enemy might snatch victory out of the jaws of defeat. beauregard placed himself at the head of his hard-pressed front, and waited the thrilling cry of smith's men. at last it came, the heaven-piercing, hell-quivering, rebel yell--the triumphant cry of the southern hunter in sight of his game! jackson, longstreet and early with sudden rush of tigers sprang at the throats of the union lines in front. the men had scarcely gripped their guns to receive the assault when from the rear rose the unearthly yell of the new army swooping down on their unprotected flank. it was too much for the raw recruits of the north. they had marched and fought with dogged courage since two o'clock before day--without pause for food or drink. it was now four in the afternoon and the blazing sun of july was pouring its merciless rays down on their dust-covered and smoke-grimed faces without mercy. mcdowell's right wing was crumpled like an eggshell between the combined charges front and rear. it broke and rushed back in confusion on his center. the whole army floundered a moment in tangled mass. in vain their officers shouted themselves hoarse proclaiming their victory and ordering them to rally. wild, hopeless, senseless, unreasoning panic had seized the union army. they threw down their guns in thousands and started at breakneck speed for washington. with every jump they cursed their idiotic commanders for leading them blindfolded into the jaws of hell. at least they had common sense enough left to save what was left. the fields were covered with black swarms of flying soldiers. they cut the horses from the gun carriages, mounted them and dashed forward trampling down the crazed mobs on foot. as the shouting, screaming throng rushed at the cub run bridge, a well directed shot from kemper's battery smashed a team of horses that were crossing. the wagon was upset and the bridge choked. in mad efforts to force a passage mob piled on mob until the panic enveloped every division of the army that thirty minutes before was sweeping with swift, sure tread to its final victorious charge. across every bridge and ford of bull run the panic-stricken thousands rushed pellmell, horse, foot, artillery, wagons, ambulances, excursion carriages, red-jowled politicians mingling with screaming women whose faces showed death white through the rouge on their lips and cheeks. for three miles rolled the dark tide of ruin and confusion--with not one confederate soldier in sight. it was three o'clock before the train bearing the anxious confederate president and his staff drew into manassas junction. he had heard no news from the front and feared the worst. the long deep boom of the great guns told him that the battle was raging. from the car window he saw rising an ominous cloud of dust rapidly approaching the junction. to his trained eye it could mean but one thing--retreat. he sprang from the car and asked its meaning of a pale trembling youth in disheveled, torn gray uniform. billy barton turned his bloodshot eyes on the president. his teeth were chattering. "m-m-eaning of w-what?" he stammered. "that cloud of dust coming toward the station?" billy stared in the direction the president pointed. "why, that's the--the--w-w-wagoners--they're trying to save the pieces i reckon--" "the army has been pushed back?" the president asked. "no, sir--they--they never p-p-ushed 'em back! they--they just jumped right on top of 'em and made hash out of 'em where they stood! thank god a few of us got away." the president turned with a gesture of impatience to an older man, dust-covered and smoke-smeared. "can you direct me to general beauregard's headquarters?" "beauregard's dead!" he shouted, rushing toward the train to board it for home. "johnston's dead. bee's dead. bartow's dead. they're all dead--piled in heaps--fur ez ye eye kin see. take my advice and get out of here quick." without waiting for an answer he scrambled into the coach from which the president had alighted. the station swarmed now with shouting, gesticulating, panic-stricken men from the front. they crowded around the conductor. "pull out of this!" "crowd on steam!" "save your engine and your train, man!" "and take us with you for god's sake!" the president pushed his way through the crowd. "i must go on, conductor--the train is the only way to reach the field--" "i'm sorry, sir," the conductor demurred. "i'm responsible for the property of the railroad--" the panic-stricken men backed him up. "what's the use?" "the battle's lost!" "the whole army's wiped off the earth." "there's not a grease spot left!" the president confronted the trembling conductor: "will you move your train?" "i can't do it, sir--" "will you lend me your engine?" the conductor's face brightened. "i might do that." the engine was detached to the disgust of the panic-stricken men and the cool-headed engineer nodded to the president, pulled his lever and the locomotive shot out of the station and in five minutes davis alighted with his staff near the battle field. by the guidance of stragglers they found headquarters. adjutant general jordan sent for horses and volunteered to conduct the president to the front. while they were waiting he turned to mr. davis anxiously: "i think it extremely unwise, sir, for you to take this risk." the thin lips smiled: "i'll take the responsibility, general." the president and his staff mounted and galloped toward the front. the stragglers came now in droves. they were generous in their warnings. "say, men, do ye want to die?" "you're ridin' straight inter the jaws er death." "don't do it, i tell ye!" the president began to rally the men. as they neared the front he was recognized and the wounded began to cheer. a big strapping soldier was carrying a slender wounded boy to the rear. the boy put his trembling hand on the man's shoulder, snatched off his cap and shouted: "three cheers for the president! look, boys, he's here--we'll lick 'em yet!" the president lifted his hat to the stripling, crying: "to a hero of the south!" the storm of battle was now rolling swiftly to the west--its roar growing fainter with each cannon's throb. the president, sitting his horse with erect tense figure, dashed up the hill to general johnston: "how goes the battle, general?" "we have won, sir," was the sharp curt answer. [illustration: "'we have won, sir!' was the short, curt answer."] the president wheeled his horse and rode rapidly into the front lines until stopped by the captain of a command of cavalry. "you are too near the front, sir, without an escort--" the president rode beside the captain and watched him form his men for their last charge on the enemy. he inspected the field with growing amazement. for miles the earth was strewn with the wreck of the northern army--guns, knapsacks, blankets, canteens--and brooklyn-made handcuffs! their defeat had been so sudden, so complete, so overwhelming, it was impossible at first to grasp its meaning. he passed the rugged figure of jackson who had won his immortal title of "stonewall." an aide was binding a cloth about his wounded arm. the grim general pushed aside his surgeon, raised his battered cap and shouted: "hurrah for the president! ten thousand fresh men and i will be in washington to-night!" the president lifted his hat and congratulated him. the victory of the south was complete and overwhelming. jefferson davis breathed a sigh of relief for deliverance. within two hours he knew that this victory had not been won by superior generalship of his commanding officers. they had been outwitted at every turn and overwhelmed by the plan of battle their wily foe had forced upon them. it had not been won by the superior courage of his men in the battle which raged from sunrise until four o'clock. the broken and disorganized lines of the south and the panic-stricken mob he had met on the way were eloquent witnesses of northern valor. his army had been saved from annihilation by the quick wit and daring courage of a single brigadier general who had moved his five regiments on his own initiative in the nick of time and saved the confederates from utter rout. victory had been snatched at last from the jaws of defeat by an accident. the misfortune of a delayed regiment of johnston's army was suddenly turned into an astounding piece of luck. the sudden charge of those two thousand men on the flank of the victorious army had produced a panic among tired raw recruits. mcdowell was at this moment master of the field. in a moment of insane madness his unseasoned men had thrown down their guns and fled. the little dark general in his flower-decked tent had made good his boasts. and worse--the northern army had proven his wildest assertions true. they were a rabble. the star of beauregard rose in the southern sky, and with its rise disaster stalked grim and silent toward the hilarious confederacy. the south had won a victory destined to prove itself the most fatal calamity that ever befell a nation. chapter xviii the aftermath socola dismissed his hope of a speedy end of the war and devoted himself with new enthusiasm to his work. his eyes were sleepless--his ear to the ground. the information on conditions and public sentiment in richmond and the south which he had dispatched to washington were of incalculable service to his government. one of the immediate effects of the battle was the return of jennie barton to the capital. her mother was improving and jimmie had been wounded. her coming was most fortunate. it was of the utmost importance that he secure a position in the civil service of the confederacy. it could be done through her father's influence. socola watched the first division of northern prisoners march through the streets amid the shouts and laughter of a crowd of urchins black and white. a feeling of blind rage surged within him. that the tables would be shortly turned, he was sure. he would play his part now without a scruple. he would use pretty jennie barton as any other pawn on the chessboard of life and death over which he bent. jefferson davis watched the effects of the battle on the north with breathless interest and increasing dismay. his worst fears were confirmed. he had hoped that a decisive victory would place his government in a position to make overtures for a peaceful adjustment of the conflict. the victory had been too decisive. the disgraceful rout of the northern army had stung twenty-three million people to the quick. defeat so overwhelming and surprising had roused the last drop of fighting blood in their veins. boasting and loud talk suddenly ceased. there was no lying about the results. in all their bald hideous reality the northern mind faced them and began with steady purpose their vast preparations to wipe that disgrace out in blood. abraham lincoln suddenly found himself relieved of all embarrassment in the conduct of the war. his critics had threatened to wreck his administration unless he forced their "grand army" to march on richmond and take it without a day's delay. in obedience to this idiotic clamor he was forced to order the army to march. they came home by a shorter route than they marched and they came quicker. they returned without baggage. incompetent men and hungry demagogues had clamored for high positions in the army. their influence had been so great he had been forced to find berths for many incompetent officers. he had suddenly become the actual commander-in-chief of the army and navy and his word was law. fools and incompetents were relegated to the rear. men who knew how to fight and how to organize armies marched to the front. his administration had been embarrassed for funds. it was found next to impossible to float a loan of a paltry seven million dollars for war purposes. he borrowed one hundred and fifty million dollars next day at a fraction above the legal rate of interest in new york. he asked congress for , more men and $ , , to support them. congress voted a half million men and five hundred millions of dollars--a hundred million more than he had asked. while washington's streets were thronged with the mud-smeared, panic-stricken rabble that was once an army, the federal congress eagerly began the task of repairing the disaster. when they had done all and much more than their president had asked, they calmly and unanimously passed this resolution: "_resolved_, that the maintenance of the constitution, the preservation of the union, and the enforcement of the laws, are sacred trusts which must be executed; that no disaster shall discourage us from the most ample performance of this high duty; and that we pledge to the country and the world the employment of every resource, national and individual, for the suppression, overthrow and punishment of rebels in arms." to the dismay of the far-seeing southern leader in richmond the press and people of the south received this resolution with shouts of derision. in vain did he warn his own congress that the north was multiplying its armies, and building two navies with furious energy. the people of the south went mad over their amazing victory. davis saw their deliverance suddenly develop into the most appalling disaster. the decisive battle of the war was fought and won. the european powers must immediately recognize the new nation. in this hope their president could reasonably share. their other delusions he knew to be madness. the southern press without a dissenting voice proclaimed that the question of manhood between the north and south was settled and settled forever. from the hustings the demagogue shouted: "one southerner is the equal anywhere of five yankees." manassas, with its insignificant record of killed and wounded, was compared with the decisive battles of the world. the war was over. there might still be fought a few insignificant skirmishes before peace was proclaimed but that auspicious event could not be long delayed. the fatal victory was followed by a period of fancied security and deadly inactivity. exertions ceased. volunteers were few. the volatile, sanguine people laughed at the fears of their croaking president. so firmly had they established the new nation that politicians began to plot and scheme for control of the confederate government on the expiration of the davis term of office. r. m. t. hunter, the foremost statesman of virginia, resigned his position in the cabinet to be unembarrassed in his fight for the presidency. beauregard had been promoted to the full rank of general and his tent was now a bower of roses. around the figure of the little fiery, impulsive, boastful south carolinian gathered a group of ambitious schemers who determined to make him president. they filled the newspapers with such fulsome praise that the popular nominee for an honor six years in the distance, and shrouded in the smoke of battle, sought to add fuel to the flame by waving the crown aside! in a weak bombastic letter which deceived no one, dated, "within hearing of the enemies' guns," he emphatically declared: "i am not a candidate, nor do i desire to be a candidate, for any civil office in the gift of the people or executive!" controversies began between different southern states, as to the location of the permanent capital of the confederacy. the contest developed so rapidly and went so far, that the municipal council of the city of nashville, tennessee, voted an appropriation of $ , for a residence for the president as an inducement to remove the capital. a furious controversy broke out in the yellow journals of the south as to why the southern army had not pursued the panic-stricken mob into the city of washington, captured lincoln and his congress and ended the war next day in a blaze of glory. it was inconceivable that it was the fault of the two heroes of the battle, joseph e. johnston and peter g. t. beauregard. the president had rushed to the battlefield for some purpose. the champions of the heroes insinuated that his purpose was not to prevent their quarreling, but to take command of the field and rob them of their glory. they made haste to find a scapegoat on whose shoulders to lay the failure to pursue. they seized on jefferson davis as the man. they declared in the most positive terms that johnston and beauregard, flushed with victory, were marshaling their hosts to sweep into washington when they were stopped by the confederate chief and had no choice but to bivouac for the night. three men alone knew the truth: davis, beauregard and johnston. the two victorious generals remained silent while their friends made this remarkable accusation against the president. the president remained silent to save his generals from the wrath of a fickle public which might end their usefulness to the country. as a matter of fact, davis' trained eye had seen the enormous advantage of quick merciless pursuit the moment he was convinced that mcdowell's army had fled in panic. he had finally written a positive order commanding pursuit but was persuaded by the continued pleas of both commanders not to press it. the reptile press of the south began on the president a bitter, malignant and unceasing vilification for this, his first fatal and inexcusable blunder! defeat had freed abraham lincoln of fools and incompetents and armed him with dictatorial powers. victory had saddled on the confederacy two heroes destined to cripple its efficiency with interminable controversy, sulking bitterness and personal ambitions. the halo of supreme military genius which encircled the brows of johnston and beauregard with the lifting of the smoke from the field of bull run grew quickly into two storm clouds which threatened the life of the new republic. johnston's contempt for beauregard had from the beginning been outspoken to his intimate friends. the battle had raised this little upstart to his equal in rank! he claimed that the president had robbed him of his true position in the southern army through favoritism in the appointment of albert sidney johnston and robert e. lee to positions of seniority to which they were not entitled. johnston began a series of bitter insulting letters to the confederate president, complaining of his injustice and demanding his rights. not content with his letters to the executive, johnston poured his complaints into the ears of his friends and admirers in the confederate congress and began a systematic and determined personal campaign to discredit and ruin the administration. among his first recruits in his campaign against jefferson davis was the fiery, original secessionist, roger barton. barton had never liked davis. their temperaments were incompatible. he resigned his position on the staff of the president, allied himself openly with johnston and became one of the bitterest and most uncompromising enemies of the government. his position in the confederate senate would be a powerful weapon with which to strike. the substance of johnston's claim on which was founded this malignant clique in richmond was the merest quibble about the date of his commission to the rank of full general. because its date was later than that of robert e. lee he felt himself insulted and degraded. when the president mildly and good naturedly informed him that his position of quartermaster general in the old army did not entitle him to a field command and that lee's rank as field commander was higher, he replied in a letter which became the text of his champions. its high-flown language and bombastic claims showed only too plainly that a consuming ambition had destroyed all sense of proportion in his mind. with uncontrolled passion he wrote to the president: "human power cannot efface the past. congress may vacate my commission and reduce me to the ranks. it cannot make it true that i was not a general before july , . "the effect of the course pursued is this: "it transforms me from the position first in rank to that of fourth. the relative rank of the others among themselves (cooper, albert sidney johnston and robert e. lee) is unaltered. it is plain that this is a blow aimed at me only. it reduces my rank in the grade i hold. this has never been done heretofore in the regular service in america but by the sentence of a court-martial as a punishment and as a disgrace for some military offense. "it seeks to tarnish my fair name as a soldier and as a man, earned by more than thirty years of laborious and perilous service. i have but this--the scars of many wounds all honestly taken in my front and in the front of battle, and my father's revolutionary sword. it was delivered to me from his venerable hand without stain of dishonor. its blade is still unblemished as when it passed from his hand to mine. i drew it in the war not for rank or fame (sic!), but to defend the sacred soil, the homes and hearths, the women and children, aye, and the men of my mother, virginia--my native south. it may hereafter be the sword of a general leading armies, or of a private volunteer. but while i live and have an arm to wield it, it shall never be sheathed until the freedom, independence, and full rights of the south are achieved. when that is done, it then will be a matter of small concern to the government, to congress, or to the country, what my rank or lot may be. "what has the aspect of a studied indignity is offered me. my noble associate with me in the battle has his preferment connected with the victory won by our common trials and dangers. his commission bears the date of july , , but care seems to be taken to exclude the idea that i had any part in winning that triumph. "my commission is made to bear such a date that my once inferiors in the service of the united states and of the confederate states (cooper, albert sidney johnston and robert e. lee) shall be above me. but it must not be dated as of july , nor be suggestive of the victory of manassas! "if the action against which i have protested is legal, it is not for me to question the expediency of degrading one who has served laboriously from the commencement of the war on this frontier, and borne a prominent part in the only great event of that war, for the benefit of persons, neither of whom has yet struck a blow for this confederacy. "these views and the freedom with which they are presented may be unusual, so likewise is the occasion which calls them forth. "i have the honor to be, most respectfully, your obedient servant, j. e. johnston, _general_." with a curve of his thin lips and a look of mortal weariness on his haggard face, the man on whose shoulders rested the burden of the lives of millions of his people seized his pen and wrote this brief note: "richmond, va., september , . "general j. e. johnston: "sir: "i have just received and read your letter of the instant. its language is, as you say, unusual; its arguments and statements utterly one-sided, and its insinuations as unfounded as they are unbecoming. "i am, etc., jefferson davis." while the commander of the victorious confederacy was sulking in his tent on the field of manassas, playing this pitiful farce about the date of a commission, and allowing his army to go to pieces, george b. mcclellan with tireless energy and matchless genius as an organizer was whipping into shape lincoln's new levy of five hundred thousand determined northern men. to further add to his embarrassment and cripple his work the vice president of the confederacy, alexander h. stephens, developed early into a chronic opponent of the administration. much of this opposition was due to dyspepsia but it was none the less effective in undermining the influence of the executive. mr. stephens' theories were the outgrowth of the most radical application of the dogma of states' rights. before secession he had bitterly opposed the withdrawal of georgia from the union. his extreme advocacy of the sovereignty of the states now threatened the unity and integrity of the confederacy as a republic. he proclaimed the remarkable doctrine that as the war was one in which the people had led the politicians into a struggle for their rights, therefore the people could be absolutely relied on by the administrators of the government to properly conduct the war. the people could always be depended on when a battle was to be fought. when no fighting was to be done they should be at home attending to their families and their business. the people were intelligent. they were patriotic. and they were as good judges of the necessity of their presence with the colors as the commanders of the armies. the generals were professional soldiers. they fought for rank and pay and most of them had no property in the south! in the face of such doctrines proclaimed from so high a source it was not to be wondered at if thousands of men obtained furloughs on long leaves of absence. in the judgment of the intelligent and patriotic people of the south the war was practically over. why should they swell the ranks of great armies to augment the power of military lords? while these comfortable doctrines were being proclaimed in the south, the north was drilling five hundred thousand soldiers who had enlisted for three years. the soreheads, theorists, and chronic kickers now had their supreme opportunity to harass the president. they rallied behind the sulking general and his friends and established a vigilant and malignant opposition to jefferson davis in the confederate congress. they centered their criticism naturally on the weakest spot in the new government--the weakest spot in all new nations--its financial policy. they demanded the immediate purchase of all the cotton in the south and its exportation to england as a basis of credit. they blithely ignored two facts--that the government had no money with which to purchase this enormous quantity of the property of its people and the still more important fact that the ports of the south had been blockaded, that this blockade was becoming more and more effective and that blockade-runners could not be found with sufficient tonnage to move one-tenth of the crop if they were willing to risk capture and confiscation. if the president could have met the members of his congress in daily social intercourse much of the opposition could have been cleared by his close reasoning and the magnetism of his powerful personality. but under the strain of his official life his health forbade the attempt at social amenities. he ceased to entertain except at formal receptions, gave himself body and soul to his duties as president and allowed his critics full swing with their tongues. the richmond _examiner_ early developed into the leader of the reptile press of the south which sought by all means fair or foul to break down and destroy the president. this sheet was made the organ of all the bickering, backbiting, complaining and sulking in the army and the civil life of the new republic. because the president could not spare the time for social entertainments, he was soundly abused for the stinginess of his administration. because the young people of richmond could not be received at the white house of the confederacy on every evening in the week _the examiner_ sneered at the assumption of "superior dignity by the satraps." this scurrilous newspaper at last made the infamous charge that davis was getting rich on his savings from a salary of twenty-five thousand dollars in confederate money! every politician who had been overlooked rushed into these friendly columns and aired his grievances. the old secession leaders who had been thrust aside for the presidency by the people who had forced the office on jefferson davis now pressed forward to put their knives into the sensitive soul of the man they envied. wm. l. yancey, barnwell rhett and robert toombs joined his foes in a chorus of criticism and abuse. every man who had been slighted in high positions bestowed on rivals rushed now to the attack. davis was never a man who could hedge and trim and lie and be all things to all men. he was totally lacking in the patience that can flatter a fool. he was too sincere, too downright in his honesty for such demagoguery. he was abused for a thousand things for which he was in no sense responsible and made no effort to defend himself. he merely took refuge in dignified silence. and when his enemies could not provoke him into angry outbursts they accused him of contempt for public opinion. in this hour of his sore trial he lacked the sense of broad humor which saved abraham lincoln. his rival in washington was abused with far more savage cruelty--but it always reminded him of a funny story. he told the story, roared with laughter himself, and turned again to his work. not so with jefferson davis. he was keenly and painfully sensitive to the approval or condemnation of the people about him. the thoughtless word of a child could cut him to the quick. to have explained many of the difficulties on which he was attacked would have been to endanger the usefulness of one of his generals or expose the army to danger. he steadfastly remained silent and accepted as inevitable the accusation that his manner was cold and repellent. but once did his soul completely break down under the strain. an officer whom he loved had been censured by one of his commanding generals who demanded his removal. this censure was conveyed to the president in a letter marked "private." the officer was removed. hard as the duty was, he felt that as the servant of his country he had no other choice. flushed and indignant, his old friend called. "you know me, mr. president," he cried passionately. "how can i ever hold my head up again under censure from you--one of my oldest and best friends?" the muscles of the drawn face twitched with nervous agony. he could not with his high sense of honor as president tell this man that he loved him and found no fault with him. to make his acceptance of the situation easier, his only course was to roust his friend's anger. he turned and said curtly: "you have, i believe, received your orders. i can suggest nothing but obedience." too angry to ask an explanation, he strode from the room without a word. the president closed his desk, climbed the steep hill of the capitol square, walked home in brooding silence, and locked himself in his room without eating his dinner. alarmed at his absence, mrs. davis at last gently rapped on his door. with tender tact she drew from his reluctant lips the story. turning his dimmed eyes on hers, he burst out in tones of quivering anguish: "oh, my winnie dear, how could any man with a soul write a letter like that, mark it private and force me to plunge a knife into the heart of my best friend and leave it there without a word--" "you should have told your friend the whole truth!" "no--he could have made trouble in the army. his commander knew that i could bear it best." "you must try to mingle more with those men, dear," his wife pleaded. "use your brains and personality to win them. you can do it." "at the cost of precious hours i can give to better service for my country. no. i've given my life to the south. i'll eat my heart out in silence if i must--" he paused and looked at her tenderly. "only your friendly eyes shall see, my dear. after all, what does it matter what men think of me now? if we succeed, we shall hear no more of malcontents. if we do not succeed, i shall be held accountable by both friend and foe. it's written so in the book of life. i must accept it. i'll just do my best and god will give me strength to bear what comes." and so while the south was gayly celebrating the end of the war and every crow was busy pecking at the sensitive heart of their leader, the ominous shadow of five hundred thousand northern soldiers, armed with the best weapons and drilled by the masters of military science, was slowly but surely drawing near. chapter xix socola's problem socola found his conquest of jennie beset with unforeseen difficulties. his vanity received a shock. his success with girls at home had slightly turned his head. his mother was largely responsible for his conceit. she honestly believed that he was the handsomest man in america. for more than six years--in fact, since his eighteenth birthday--his mother's favorite pet name was "handsome." he had heard this repeated so often he had finally accepted it philosophically as one of the fixed phenomena of nature. from the moment he made up his mind to win jennie he considered the work done--until he had set seriously about it. the first difficulty he encountered was the discovery that a large number of southern boys apparently considered the chief business of life going to see the girls--this girl in particular. the first day he called he found five young men who had lingered beyond their appointed hours and were encroaching on his time without the slightest desire to apologize. he could see that she was trying to get rid of them but they hung on with a dogged, quiet persistence that was annoying beyond measure. war seemed to have precipitated an epidemic of furious love-making. he watched jennie twist these enterprising young southerners around her slender fingers with an ease that was alarming. they were fine-looking, wholesome fellows, too--a little given to boyish boasting of military prowess, but for all that genuine, serious, big-hearted boys. the matter-of-fact way in which she ruled them, as if she were a queen born to the royal purple and they were so many lackeys, was something new under the sun. for a moment the thought was cheering. perhaps it was her way of serving notice on his rivals that her real interests lay in another direction. but the disconcerting thing about it was that it seemed to be a habit of mind. for the life of him he couldn't make out her real attitude. the one encouraging feature was that she certainly treated him with more seriousness than these home boys. it might be, of course, because she thought him a foreigner. and yet he didn't believe it. she had a way of looking frankly and inquiringly into his eyes with a deep, serious expression. such a look could not mean idle curiosity. and yet the problem he could not solve was how far he dared as yet to presume on that interest. a single false step might imperil his enterprise. his plan was of double importance since the break between her impulsive father and the president of the confederacy. barton was now the spokesman for the opposition. his tongue was one that knew no restraint. an engagement with his daughter might mean the possession of invaluable secrets of the richmond government. barton's championship of the quarrelsome commanders, who, in the first flood tide of their popularity as the heroes of manassas, gave them the position of military dictators, would also place in his hands information of the army which would be priceless. the confederate congress sat behind closed doors. on the right footing in the barton household he could put himself in possession of every scheme of the southern law-makers from the moment of its conception. the trait of the girl's character which astounded him was the sudden merging of every thought in the cause of the south. even the time she spent laughing and flirting with those soldier boys was a sort of holy service she was rendering to her country. the devotion of these southern women to the confederacy was remarkable. it had already become an obsession. from the moment blood had begun to flow, the soul and body of every southern woman was laid a living offering on the altar of her country. he watched this development with awe and admiration. it was an ominous sign. it meant a reserve power in the south on which statesmen had not counted. it might set at nought the weight of armies. the moment he began to carefully approach the inner citadel of the girl's heart he found the figure of a gray soldier clad in steel on guard. what he said didn't interest her. he was a foreigner. she listened politely and attentively but her real thoughts were not there. he had not believed it possible that patriotism could so obsess the soul of a beautiful girl of nineteen. the devotion of the southern women, young and old, to the cause of the south was fast developing into a mania. they were displaying a wisdom, too, which southern men apparently did not possess. while the hot-headed, fiery masters of men were busy quarreling with one another, criticising and crippling the administration of their government, the women were supporting the president with a unanimity and enthusiasm that was amazing. jennie barton refused to listen to her father's abuse. socola found them in the middle of a family quarrel on the subject so intense he could not help hearing the conversation from the adjoining room before jennie entered. "the president hates johnston, i tell you," stormed the senator. "he doesn't like beauregard either. he's jealous of him!" "father dear, how can you be so absurd!" the girl protested. "a few months ago beauregard was a captain of artillery. the president has made him a general of equal rank with lee and johnston--" "he's doing all he can now to spite him!" "so general beauregard says--the conceit of it! this little general but yesterday a captain to dare to say that the president who had honored him with such high command would sacrifice the country and injure himself just to spite the man he has promoted!" "that will do, jennie," the senator commanded. "women don't understand politics!" "thank god i don't understand that kind. i just know enough to be loyal to my chief, when our life and his may depend on it--" with a stamp of his heavy foot the senator ended the discussion by leaving the room. jennie smiled sweetly as she extended her hand to socola. "i hope you were not alarmed, signor. we never fight--" "the president of the confederacy is a very fortunate leader, miss jennie--" "why?" "he has invincible champions--" the girl blushed. "i'm afraid we don't know much. we just feel things." "i think sometimes we only _know_ that way--" he paused and looked at her hat with a gesture of dismay. "you're not going out?" "i must," she said apologetically. "i've bought a whole carriage load of peaches and grapes. i went to the alabama hospital yesterday with a little basket full and made some poor fellows glad. they gave out too quickly. those who got none looked so wistfully at me as i passed out. i couldn't sleep last night. for hours and hours their deep-sunken eyes followed and haunted me with their pleading. and so i've got a whole load to take to-day. you'll go with me--won't you?" he had come to declare his love and make this beautiful girl his conquest. she was ending the day by making him her lackey and errand boy. it couldn't be helped. there was no mistaking the tones of her voice. she would certainly go. the only way to be with her was to dance attendance on wounded confederate soldiers. it was all in the day's work. many a scout engulfed in the ranks of his enemy must charge his own men to save his life. he would not only make the best of it, he would take advantage of it to press his way a step closer to her heart. "are all of the girls of the south like you, miss jennie?" he asked with a quizzical smile. "you mean insulting to their fathers?" she laughed. "if you care to put it so--i mean, is their loyalty to the confederacy a mania?" "is mine a mania?" "perhaps i should say a divine passion--are all your southern women thus inspired?" "yes." "in the far south and the west?" "everywhere!" "it's wonderful." "perhaps because we can't fight we try to make up for it." he watched her keenly. "it's something bigger than that. somehow it's a prophecy to me of a new future--a new world. maybe after all political wisdom shall not begin and end with man." jennie blushed again under the admiring gaze with which socola held her. the carriage stopped at the door of the alabama hospital. socola leaped to the ground and extended his hand for jennie's. he allowed himself the slightest pressure of the slender fingers as he lifted her out. it was his right in just that moment to press her hand. he put the slightest bit more than was needed to firmly grasp it, and the blood flamed hotly in her cheeks. he hastened to carry her baskets and boxes of peaches and grapes inside. for an hour he followed her with faithful dog step in her ministry of love. his orderly northern mind shuddered at the sight of the confusion incident to the sudden organization of this hospital work. he had heard it was equally bad in the north. two armed mobs had rushed into battle with scarcely a thought of what might be done with the mangled men who would be borne from the field. jennie bent low over the cot of a dying boy from her home county. he clung to her hand piteously. the waters were too swift and deep for speech. before she could slip her hand from his and pass on the man on the next cot died in convulsions. socola watched his agonized face with a strange sense of exaltation. it was the law of progress--this way of death and suffering. the voice within kept repeating the one big faith of his life: "not one drop of human blood shed in defense of truth and right is ever spilled in vain!" through all the scenes of death and suffering beautiful southern women moved with soft tread and eager hands. a pretty girl of sixteen, with wistful blue eyes, approached a rough, wounded soldier. she carried a towel and tin basin of water. "can't i do something for you?" she asked the man in gray. he smiled through his black beard into her sweet young face: "no'm, i reckon not--" "can't i wash your face?" the girl pleaded. the wounded man softly laughed. "waal, hit's been washed fourteen times to-day, but i'll stand it again, if you say so!" the girl laughed and blushed and passed quickly on. when all the grapes and peaches had been distributed save in one basket socola looked at these enquiringly. "and these, miss jennie--they're the finest of the lot?" the girl smiled tenderly. "they're for revenge--" "revenge?" "yes. the next ward is full of yankees. i'm going to heap coals of fire on their heads--come--" the last luscious peach and bunch of grapes had been distributed and the last soldier in blue had murmured: "god bless you, miss!" jennie paused at the door and waved her hand in friendly adieu to the hungry, homesick eyes that still followed her. she brushed a tear from her cheek and whispered: "that's for my big brother. i'll tell him about it some day. he's still in the union--but he's mine!" she drew her lace handkerchief from her belt, dried her tears and looked up with a laugh. "i'm not so loyal after all--am i?" "no. but i've seen something bigger than loyalty," he breathed softly, "something divine--" "come," said the girl lightly. "i wish you to meet the most wonderful woman in richmond. she's in charge of this hospital--" socola laughed skeptically. "i've already seen the most wonderful woman in richmond, miss jennie--" "but she _is_--really--the most wonderful woman in all the south--i think in the world--mrs. arthur hopkins--" "really?" "she has done what no man ever has anyhow--sold all her property for two hundred thousand dollars and given it to the confederacy. and not satisfied with giving all she had--she gave herself." socola followed the girl in silence into the little office of the hospital and found himself gasping with astonishment at the sight of the delicate woman who extended her hand in friendly greeting. she was so perfect an image of his own mother it was uncanny--the same straight, firm mouth, the strong, intellectual forehead with the heavy, straight-lined eyebrows, the waving rich brown hair, with a strand of silver here and there--the somber dress of black, the white lace collar and the dainty white lace cap on the back of her beautiful hair--it took his breath. the more he saw of these southern people, men and women, the more absurd became the stuff he had read so often about the puritan of new england and the cavalier of the south. he was more and more overwhelmed with the conviction that the americans were _one_ people racially and temperamentally. the only difference on earth between them was that some settled in the bleak hills and rock-bound coast of the north and others in the sunlit fields and along the shining shores of the south. he returned with jennie barton to her home with the deepening conviction that he was making no progress. he must use this girl's passionate devotion to her country as the lever by which to break into her heart or he would fail. he paused on the doorstep and spoke with quick decision: "miss jennie, your southern women have fired my imagination. i'm going to resign my commission with the sardinian ministry and enter the service of the south--" "you mean it?" "i was never in more deadly earnest." he looked straight into her brown eyes until she lowered them. "i need not tell you that you have been my inspiration. you understand that without my saying it." before jennie could answer he had turned and gone with quick, firm step. she watched his slender, graceful figure with a new sense of exhilaration and tenderness. chapter xx the anaconda while general joseph e. johnston was devoting his energies to a campaign to change the date of his commission and his friends organizing their opposition to the president at richmond, gideon welles, the quiet, unassuming secretary of the navy at washington, was slowly but surely drawing the mighty coil, the united states navy, about the throat of the south. he made little noise but the work he did was destined to become the determining factor of the war. the first blow was struck at north carolina. on august , , at one o'clock the fleet quietly put to sea from fortress monroe. on tuesday they arrived at hatteras inlet, opened fire on the two forts guarding its entrance and on the twenty-ninth a white flag was raised. seven hundred and fifteen prisoners were surrendered, one thousand stand of arms, and thirty pieces of cannon. at a single blow the whole vast inland water coast of north carolina on her sounds was opened to the enemy with communications from norfolk, virginia, to beaufort. a garrison of a thousand men could hold those forts for all time with the navy in command of the sea. burnside followed with his expedition into the sounds, captured roanoke island and the fall of newbern was inevitable. every river-mouth and inlet of the entire coast of north carolina was now in the hands of the federal government save the single port of wilmington. the moral effect of this blow by the navy was tremendous in the north. it was the first token of renewed power since the defeat at bull run. the navy had not only turned the tide of defeat in the imagination of the people, the achievement was one of vast importance to the north and the most sinister import to the south. the federal government had gained the first important base on the southern coast for her blockading squadron and given a foothold for the military invasion of north carolina. the president at richmond was compelled to watch this tragedy in helpless sorrow. the south had no navy with which to dispute the command of the sea and yet she had three thousand miles of coast line! with swift, remorseless sweep the navy struck port royal, south carolina, and established the second secure base for the blockading squadrons. the beaufort district of south carolina captured by this expedition was one of the richest and most thickly settled of the state, containing fifteen hundred square miles. it produced annually fifty million pounds of rice and fourteen thousand bales of cotton. and in its population were thirty thousand slaves suddenly brought under the power of the federal government. the coast of florida was next pierced. the blockade of the enormous coast line of the south was declared at first an impossibility. within less than a year the united states navy had established bases within striking distance of every port. new ships were being launched, purchased or chartered daily and the giant anaconda was slowly winding its terrible coil about the commerce of the confederacy. jefferson davis was not the man to accept this ominous situation without a desperate struggle. the man who had substituted iron gun carriages for wood in the army consulted his secretary of the navy on the possibility of revolutionizing the naval-warfare of the world by the construction of an iron-clad ship of first-class power. in his report to the confederate naval committee, secretary mallory had developed this possibility two months before the subject had been broached in the report of gideon welles in washington. "i regard the possession of an iron-armored ship," mallory urged, "as a matter of the first necessity. such a vessel at this time could traverse the entire coast of the united states, prevent all blockade, and encounter with a fine prospect of success their entire navy. inequality of numbers may be overcome by invulnerability, and thus not only does economy but naval success dictate the wisdom and expediency of fighting with iron against wood, without regard to first cost." the president of the confederacy gave his hearty endorsement to this plan--and summoned the genius of the south to the task. at the bottom of the harbor of norfolk lay the half-burned hull of the steam frigate _merrimac_ which the government had set on fire and sunk on destroying the navy yard. the _merrimac_ was raised. a board was appointed to draw plans and estimate the cost of the conversion of the vessel into a powerful, floating, iron-clad battery. in the crippled condition of the norfolk navy yard the task was tremendous and the expense would be great. the president ordered the work prosecuted with the utmost vigor. day and night the ring of hammers on heavy iron echoed over the quiet harbor of norfolk. blacksmiths were forging the most terrible ship of war that ever sailed the seas. if the hopes of her builders should be realized, the navy of the north would be swept from the ocean and the proudest ships of the world be reduced to junk in a day. chapter xxi the gathering clouds disaster followed disaster for the south now in swift succession. the united states navy, not content with the supremacy of the high seas, set to work with determination to build a war fleet on the great rivers of the west which could pierce the heart of the lower south. before the south could possibly secure arms and ammunition with which to equip the army of albert sidney johnston, these gunboats were steaming down the ohio and mississippi bearing thousands of troops armed, drilled and led by stark, game-fighting generals from the west. by the end of november the federal troops threatening tennessee numbered fifty thousand and they were rapidly reënforced until they aggregated a hundred thousand. general albert sidney johnston sent the most urgent appeals for arms to the governors of georgia and alabama, to general bragg at pensacola and to the government at richmond. he asked for thirty thousand muskets and got but one thousand. the guns were not in the south. they could not be manufactured. fully one-half his men had no arms at all. whole brigades remained without weapons for months. the entire force at his command never numbered more than twenty-two thousand during this perilous fall. and yet, by the masterly handling of his little army, its frequent and rapid expeditions, he kept his powerful opponents in constant expectations of an attack and produced the impression that he commanded an enormous force. in the meantime the sensational newspapers were loud in their demands. the richmond yellow journal shouted: "let johnston muster his forces, advance into kentucky, capture louisville, push across the ohio and carry the war into africa." swift and terrible the blow fell. and always the navy's smoke on the horizon. from the ohio, the tennessee and cumberland rivers could be navigated for hundreds of miles into tennessee and alabama. but two forts guarded the rivers and protected these states. early in february, , the gunboats under admiral foote slowly steamed up the tennessee and attacked fort henry. the array they covered was commanded by general grant. the federal fleet and army hurled twenty thousand men and fifty-four cannon against the little fort of eleven guns. with but forty men general tilghman fought this host and held them at bay for two hours and ten minutes, until the main body of his garrison of twenty-five hundred troops had marched out and were safely on their way to fort donelson, twelve miles across the country on the banks of the cumberland. fort henry was of small importance. fort donelson commanded the approach to nashville. there was not a moment's delay. grant telegraphed halleck that he would capture fort donelson two days later. admiral foote sent three light gunboats up the tennessee to clear the river into alabama, swept down stream with his heavier craft to the ohio and turned into the cumberland. grant pressed directly across the strip of twelve miles with his army bearing on fort donelson. the commander at fort donelson had at first but six thousand men including the garrison from fort henry which had just arrived. had grant been able to strike on the eighth of february, the day he had wired to halleck he would capture the fort, its fall would have been sure. but high water delayed him, and albert sidney johnston hastened to pour in reënforcements. every available soldier at his command was rushed to the rescue. he determined to fight for nashville at donelson. general buckner's command of kentuckians, general pillow's tennesseeans and general floyd's brigade of virginia troops were all poured into the fort before the thirteenth. this force, approximating twenty thousand men, properly commanded should hold donelson indefinitely. the fortification was magnificently placed on a bluff commanding the river for two miles. its batteries consisted of eight thirty-two-pounders, three thirty-two-pound carronades, one ten-inch columbiad and one thirty-two-pounder rifle. a line of entrenchments stretched for two miles around the fort enclosing it. into these trenches the newly arrived troops were thrown. dick welford, with floyd's virginians, gripped his musket with eager enthusiasm for his first real battle. his separation from jennie had been a bitter trial. in his eagerness to get to the front he had the misfortune to serve in the ill fated campaign in west virginia, which preceded bull run. beauregard and j. e. johnston were in easy touch with richmond. his unlucky brigade had been transferred to albert sidney johnston's command. the men had been in the trenches through the long miserable night expecting an attack at any moment. half waking, half dreaming, he lay on the cold ground wondering what jennie was doing--and always with the nightmare of that foreign snake winding his way into her favor. well, his chance would come in this battle. he would lead his men in a charge. he was a corporal now. he would come out of it with straps on his shoulders, he could see jennie's eyes flash with tears of pride as she read the story of his heroism and his promotion. "i'll show that reptile what a man can do!" he muttered. the tired body relaxed and his big blond head sank on his arms. a sudden crash of thunder and he sprang to his feet, his hand tight on his gun. there they were in the gray light of the chill february morning--the fleet of federal gunboats under foote, their big black funnels pouring clouds of smoke into the sky, darkening the dull red glow of the rising sun. he counted six of them--_carondalet_, _pittsburgh_, _louisville_, _st. louis_, _tyler_ and _conestoga_. a white breath of smoke flashed from the _carondalet's_ bow, and dick watched the shell rise with a shriek and fall short of the fort. the fleet moved closer and another shell screamed through the sky and again fell short. they moved again, found the range, and for four hours the earth trembled beneath the steady roar of their forty-six guns. at eleven o'clock dick saw the long lines of men in blue deploy for an assault on the entrenchments. they moved with quick sure step, these men under grant. he was sorry for them. they were marching to certain death. on the blue waves rolled, pouring volley after volley into the heaps of earth behind which the southerners lay. they were close enough now and the quick command rang along the trenches. "fire!" a storm of death swept the ranks in the open fields. they stood their ground stubbornly, those dogged western fighters. dazed and cut to pieces, they rallied and pressed forward again only to be mowed down in heaps. they gave it up at last and sullenly withdrew, leaving the dead piled high and the wounded slowly freezing to death where they lay. the artillery kept the earth quivering with the steady roar of their guns and the federal sharpshooters harassed the trenches without a moment's respite. it was impossible to move for food or water until nightfall. at dawn next day dick once more gripped his gun and peered over the embankment. the morning passed without attack. what could it mean? they saw at last--another fleet. clouds of black smoke on the river told the story. reënforcements had arrived. at half-past two o'clock the fleet formed in line of battle--threw their big flags to the breeze and dashed squarely on the fort. they swept now within point blank range of three hundred yards, pouring in a storm of shot. but the confederate batteries were too heavy and too well manned. fifty-seven shells struck the flagship and more than a hundred took effect on the five boats leading the assault. the fleet was crushed and put out of commission. every boat was disabled except one and that withdrew beyond the range of the batteries. dick watched the magnificent spectacle with thrilling pride. he could have enjoyed the show but for the bitter cold. it was twenty degrees below the freezing point, and while the battle raged between the fleet and fort it began to sleet and snow. when the crippled boats at last drifted down the yellow tide and out of range, he found to his amazement that a thick coat of ice had formed on the hand in which he held his musket. his clothes were frozen stiff on his body. he leaped to his feet and beat his arms fiercely, and glanced over the embankment toward those ominous-looking piles of blue. the sleet was sheathing their bodies in crystal shrouds now. no flag of truce was allowed and the wounded lay freezing and dying where they fell. he could hear the stronger ones still crying for help. their long piteous moans rang above the howl of the wind through the breaking boughs of the trees. it was hideous. why didn't they rescue those men? why didn't they proclaim a truce to bury the dead and save the wounded? grant must be a fiend! far off on the river another black smudge was seen in the sky. more reënforcements were coming. the three confederate generals suddenly waked with a shock to realize that their foe had landed a second army, cutting their communications with nashville. a council of war was hastily called on the night of the fourteenth. it was a discordant aggregation. floyd, the former secretary of war in buchanan's administration, was the senior officer in command. he was regarded more as a politician than a soldier and his exploits in west virginia had not added to his fame. the men around him had little respect for his capacity as a commander. besides quarreling had become the fashion in the armies of the victorious south since the affair at bull run. the example of joseph e. johnston and beauregard was contagious. there was but one thing to do. the wrangling generals were unanimous on that point. they must make a desperate assault next morning on grant's right wing and reëstablish their communications with nashville at all hazards. under cover of the darkness on the morning of the fifteenth, the men were marched from their trenches and massed on the federal right. but a handful were left to guard the entrenchments on the confederate right. at the first streak of dawn, the concentrated lines of the confederates were hurled on the division of mcclernand. before two o'clock grant's right wing had been crushed into a shapeless mass with the loss of his artillery. the way was open to nashville and the discordant commanding generals of the confederacy paused. buckner ordered up his artillery and reserves to pursue the enemy or hold his newly-won position. pillow flatly refused to allow a single gun to be withdrawn from the entrenchments and sent peremptory orders to his victorious subordinate to return to the trenches on the right. as buckner was reluctantly returning to the old lines he encountered floyd. "where are you going?" the commander-in-chief demanded. "i am ordered back to the entrenchments--" "you think it wise to walk back into the trap we've just escaped from?" "i do not!" was the short answer. "we are outnumbered three to one. we can not hold our connections open in the face of such an army backed by gunboats and transports which can bring reënforcements daily. the road is open, we should save our army by an immediate juncture with albert sidney johnston before nashville." "i agree with you," floyd replied. "hold your troops until i consult with pillow." while floyd and pillow wrangled, grant dashed on the scene. he had not been present during the battle. the wounded commodore had begged him for a consultation on board his flagship five miles below. when grant reached the field he met a sight that should have dismayed him and sent his shattered army to the shelter of the gunboats and a hasty retreat down the cumberland to a place of safety. mcclernand had been crushed and his disorganized troops thrown back in confusion in front of the entrenchments of the confederate right. his troops had been on the field for five days and five nights drenched in snow, sleet, mud, ice and water. the field was strewn with the dead and wounded. great red splotches of frozen blood marked the ground in all directions. beneath the sheltering pines where the white, smooth snow lay unbroken by the tramp of heavy feet and the crush of artillery, crimson streams could be seen everywhere. for two miles the ground was covered with the mangled dead, dying, and freezing. smashed artillery and dead horses lay in heaps. in the retreat the heavy wheels of the artillery had rolled over the bodies of the dead and wounded, crushing and mangling many beyond recognition. no general ever gazed upon a more ghastly scene than that which greeted the eye of u. s. grant in this moment of his life's supreme crisis. the suffering of his wounded who had fought with the desperation of madness to save themselves from the cold, had left its mark on their stark, white faces. the ice had pressed a death mask on the convulsed features and held them in the moment of agony. they looked up into his face now, the shining eyes, gaping mouths, clenched fists, and crooked twisted limbs. mcclernand's raw troops retreating over this field of horrors were largely beyond control. grant knew the enemy had been reënforced. he could reasonably assume from the evidence before him of the terrific slaughter in the open field that his own army was in peril. the transports were in sight ready to move his army to a place of safety where he might re-form his broken ranks. his decision was instantaneous and thoroughly characteristic. he turned to c. f. smith in command of his left wing whose division had been but slightly engaged. "general smith, the enemy does not follow up their advantage. they are probably in a worse condition than i am. mass your men and charge their entrenchments on the right--never let up for a minute--drive--drive--drive them!" the charging hosts swept the thin lines of the half abandoned trenches with the fury of a cyclone. the confederate right was broken and rolled back in confusion, fresh troops were rushed from the federal reserves and a new cordon of death thrown round the fort. on the night of this fatal fifteenth of february dick welford was detailed for guard duty at the door of general floyd's tent. he heard their council of war with sinking heart. general pillow favored a second desperate assault on the enemies' right to re-open the way to nashville. buckner faced him with rage: "it was possible to-day, sir, and we did it. now the enemy has been reënforced for the third time. if you had sent my guns as i ordered the way would still be open--" "we can yet cut our way out," pillow growled. "yes, with the sacrifice of three fourths of our brave men to save one fourth. i'll not be a party to such butchery. we're caught now in a death trap. the only rational thing to do is to surrender." floyd rose nervously. "i'm not going to surrender, gentlemen. the north has accused me of treachery in buchanan's cabinet. i couldn't expect decent treatment from them. a steamer with recruits has just arrived from nashville. i shall make my escape on it with as many men as can be carried." "and i'll accompany you," pillow declared. "go if you like, gentlemen," buckner replied. "i'll stand by my men and share their fate." floyd and pillow hastily began their preparations to go. buckner quietly asked: "am i to consider the command turned over to me?" "certainly," floyd answered. "i turn over the command." "i pass it, too," pillow quickly added. general buckner called for pen, ink and paper and dispatched a courier immediately to general grant. the reply was in two words: "unconditional surrender." pillow crossed the river under cover of the night and made his way into the country. floyd offered to take dick welford on board the little steamer. "no, thank you," the young virginian answered curtly. "you prefer to surrender?" "i'm not going to surrender. i'm going to join col. forrest's cavalry and fight my way out." with a wave of his arm floyd hurried on board the steamer and fled to nashville. dick had seen forrest lead one of his matchless charges of cavalry in their fight that day. with a handful of men he had cut his way through a solid mass of struggling infantry and thrown them into confusion. he had watched this grave, silent, unobtrusive man of humble birth and little education with the keenest interest. he felt instinctively that he was a man of genius. from to-day he knew that as a leader of cavalry he had few equals. he had pointed out to his superiors in their council of war a possible path of escape by a road partially overflowed along the river banks. it was judged impracticable. in the darkness of the freezing night dick rode behind his silent new commander along this road with perfect faith. forrest threw his command into nashville and saved the city from anarchy when the dreaded news of the fall of donelson precipitated a panic. the south had met her first crushing defeat--a defeat more disastrous than the north had suffered at bull ran. grant had lost three thousand men but the confederate garrisons had been practically wiped out with the loss of more than fifteen thousand muskets, every big gun and thirteen thousand prisoners of war. when grant met buckner, the victor and vanquished quietly shook hands. they had been friends at west point. "why didn't you attack me on friday?" the northerner asked. "i was not in command." "if you had, my reënforcements could not possibly have reached me in time." buckner smiled grimly. "in other words a little more promptness on one side, a little less resolute decision on the other--and the tables would have been turned!" "that's just it," was the short answer. it was an ominous day for the south. bigger than the loss of the capital of tennessee which johnston evacuated the next day, bigger than the loss of fifteen thousand men and their guns loomed the figure of a new federal commander. out of the mud, and slush, ice and frozen pools of blood--out of the storm cloud of sleet and snow and black palls of smoke emerged the stolid, bulldog face of ulysses s. grant. lincoln made him a major general. chapter xxii jennie's recruit socola lost no time in applying for a position. the one place of all others he wished was a berth in the war department. it was useless to try for it. no foreigner had ever been admitted to tiny position of trust in this wing of the confederate government. he would try for a position in the department of state. his supposed experience in the diplomatic service and his mastery of two languages besides the english would be in his favor. the struggle for recognition from the powers of europe was the card he could play. once placed in the department of state he would make the acquaintance of every clerk and subordinate who possessed a secret of the slightest value to his cause. he wished to enter the department of state for another reason. he had learned from absolutely reliable sources that judah p. benjamin, the present secretary of war, was slated for secretary of state in the new cabinet which would be named when jefferson davis was inaugurated as permanent president. he knew benjamin to be the ablest man in the cabinet, the one man on whose judgment davis leaned with greatest confidence. it would he of immense value to his cause to be in daily touch with this man. fortunately he had mastered shorthand the last year of his stay in washington. this accomplishment, rare in the south, would be an additional argument with which to secure his appointment. jennie had promised to accompany him to the office of the president and add her voice to his plea. she had quite won the heart of the badgered chieftain of the confederacy by her steady loyalty to his administration. the malignant opposition of senator barton was notorious. this opposition at the moment had become peculiarly vindictive and embarrassing. the fall of fort donelson and the loss of nashville had precipitated a storm of hostile criticism. the fierce junta of malcontents in the confederate congress were eager to seize on any excuse to attack the president. they were now demanding the removal of albert sidney johnston from his command. davis knew that his commanding general in tennessee was the greatest soldier of his time--and that all he needed was a single opportunity to demonstrate his genius. he refused with scorn to sacrifice such a man to public clamor. at the white house reception the night before he had heard jennie barton stoutly defending him against his accusers who demanded the head of general johnston. he had passed her later in the evening, pressed her hand and whispered: "if our men were only as loyal! ask anything you will of me--to the half of my kingdom." jennie wished to put this impulsive promise to the test. she would see that socola secured his appointment. this brilliant young recruit for the south was her gift to her country and she was proud of him. it had all come about too quickly for her to analyze her feelings. she only realized that she felt a sense of tender proprietary interest in him. that he could render valuable service she did not doubt for a moment. she had told him to meet her at the statue of washington in the capitol square. they would wait there for the appearance of the president and follow him. his habits were simple and democratic. he walked daily from the confederate white house to the capitol grounds, crossed the square and at the foot of the hill entered his office in the custom house on main street, unaccompanied by an escort of any kind. anybody on earth could approach and speak to him. the humbler the man or woman, the easier the approach was always made. socola was waiting at the big group of statuary contemplating the lines of its fine workmanship with curious interest. jennie startled him from a reverie: "you like him?" the white teeth gleamed in pleasant surprise. "the father of his country?--yes--i like him. it's going to be my country, too, you know." they strolled through the grounds and watched the squirrels leap from the limbs of a great tree to the swaying boughs of the next. a tall awkward trooper on whose hat was the sign of a north carolina regiment toiled painfully up the hill slightly under the influence of whisky. socola saw that he was navigating the steep with difficulty and turned into a by-path to give him a free passage. it was never pleasant to meet a man under the influence of liquor in the presence of ladies. they had taken but a few steps along the little path when the quick firm military tread of the president was heard. they turned just in time to see him encounter the toiling trooper from north carolina. the soldier's jaw suddenly dropped and his eyes kindled with joy. he stood squarely in the president's way and laughed good naturedly. "say--mister!" "well, sir?" "say--now--ain't yo' name jeff'son davis?" the president nodded in a friendly way. "it is." "i knowed it," the trooper laughed. "by gum, i knowed it, the minute i laid my eyes on ye--" he moved closer with insinuating joy. "i bet ye could never guess how i knowed it--could ye?" "hardly--" "ye want me ter tell ye?" the trooper laughed again. "i knowed ye the very minute i seed ye--'cause ye look thez ezactly like a confederate postage stamp! i know 'em 'cause i've licked 'em!" the president laughed and passed on his way without looking back. they found a crowd of cranks and inventors waiting to see him. he had the same weakness as abraham lincoln for this class of men. he never allowed a clerk to turn one way without his personal attention. his interest in all scientific problems was keen, and he had always maintained the open mind of youth to all inventions. socola and jennie strolled through the city for an hour until the crank levee was over. the president's secretary, burton harrison, promised them an interview at the end of that time. he ushered them into the room under the impression that all the callers had gone. he had overlooked a modest, timid youth who had quietly approached the chief executive's desk. they paused until he was at leisure. the moment was one of illumination for socola. he saw a trait of character in the southern leader whose existence he had not suspected. "my name is ashe--mr. president, s. a. ashe," the youth began. davis bowed gravely. "have a seat, sir." the boy sat down and twiddled his cap nervously. "i've come to ask an appointment of some kind in the regular army of the confederacy. i'm an officer of the north carolina militia. i wish to enter the regular army." the confederate chieftain looked at the peculiarly youthful, beardless face. he couldn't be more than eighteen from appearances. "i'm afraid you're too young, sir," he said slowly, shaking his head. the boy drew himself up with a touch of wounded pride. "why, mr. davis, i voted for you for president last november." instantly the chief executive rose, blushing his apology. he laid his hand on the boy's shoulder and spoke with the utmost deference. "i beg your pardon, sir. i should have been more observant and thoughtful. i was very much like you when i was a boy. it was a long time before i had any whiskers myself." with a friendly smile he touched his thin beard. he sent the young man away happy with his promise of consideration. that he should have asked this beardless boy's pardon in so pointed a manner socola thought remarkable. that the chief executive of nine million people should blush suddenly over such a trifle was the flash that revealed a great soul. the president advanced and gave jennie both his hands in cordial greeting. "i've brought you a recruit, sir," the girl cried with a merry laugh. "indeed?" "i have resigned my commission with the sardinian ministry, mr. president, and wish to offer my services to the south." "we need every true friend the world can send us, signor--i thank you--" "i wish, sir," socola hastened to say, "to render the most efficient service possible. i have no training as a soldier. i have experience as a diplomat. i speak three languages and i am an expert stenographer--" "i'm sorry, signor," the president interrupted, "that i have no vacancy in my office--or i should be pleased to have you here." "perhaps your state department may find me useful?" "no doubt they can. i'll give you a letter to the secretary recommending your appointment." he seated himself at once, wrote the letter and handed it to socola. jennie thanked him and, with a warm pressure of his hand, passed into the hall with socola. at the outer door burton harrison overtook them: "just a moment, miss barton. the president wishes to ask you a question." davis drew her to the window. "i should have been more careful of the credentials of our friend perhaps, miss jennie. you can vouch for his loyalty?" "absolutely." she had scarcely uttered the word in tones of positive conviction before she realized the startling fact that she had spoken under the impulse of some strange intuition and not from her knowledge of the man's character and history. in spite of her effort at self-control she blushed furiously. mr. davis apparently did not observe it. "i have been much impressed with his poise and culture and intelligence. you met him in washington, of course?" "yes--" "you know positively that he was the secretary of the sardinian minister?" "positively, mr. president--" "thank you, my dear. i'll take your word for it." jennie walked home on air. she had made history. how tragic its sequel was destined to be, a kind providence concealed. chapter xxiii the fatal blunder on february , , jefferson davis committed the one irretrievable mistake of his administration. he consented to his inauguration as permanent president of the confederacy under the strict forms of constitutional law. the south was entering the shadows of the darkest hour of her new life. a military dictator clothed with autocratic power could have subdued the discordant elements and marshaled the resources of the country to meet the crisis. a constitutional president would bind himself hand and foot with legal forms. a military dictator might ride to victory and carry his country with him. his two commanding generals had allowed the victorious army of manassas to drift into a rabble while they wrangled for position, precedence and power. the swift and terrible blows which the navy had dealt the south, delivered so silently and yet with such deadly effect that the people had not yet realized their import, had convinced the president that the war would be one of the bloodiest in history. the fall of fort henry and fort donelson with the evacuation of nashville had been a sword thrust into the heart of the lower south. the extent of these disasters had not been realized by the public. the south was yet a sleeping lioness. she could be roused and her powers wielded with certainty by one man. but his hand must be firm. there was one man in the cabinet of the confederacy who clearly saw this from the first dawn of the new year--judah p. benjamin, the astute secretary of war. his keen logical mind had brushed aside the fog of sentiment and saw _one_ thing--the need of success and the way in which to attain it. the morning of february twenty-second was washington's birthday, and for that reason fixed by the south as the day of the inauguration of their president. nothing could have shown more clearly the tenacity with which the southern people were clinging to their old forms. the day slowly dawned through lowering storm clouds. the president went early to his office for a consultation with the members of his new cabinet. judah p. benjamin, his chosen chief counselor as secretary of state, was unusually reticent. the details of the inauguration were quickly agreed on and davis hastened to return to his room at the white house to complete his preparations for the ceremony. benjamin followed his chief thirty minutes later with the most important communication he had ever decided to make. as the most trusted adviser of the president he had long had the freedom of the house. the resolute hebrew features of the secretary were set with resolution. he pushed his way to the door of mr. davis' room, rapped for admission and without waiting for an answer softly and swiftly entered. his mission was too important to admit of delay. he paused at the threshold in surprise. jefferson davis was on his knees in prayer so deep and earnest he had not heard. he waited with head bowed in silent sympathy for five minutes and looked with increasing amazement at the white face of the man who prayed. this agony of soul before the god of his fathers was a revelation to the minister of state. his lips were moving now in audible words. "thou alone art my refuge, o lord! without thee i shall fail. have pity on thy servant--with thy wisdom guide!" the time was swiftly passing. the minister could not wait. "i beg your pardon, mr. president," he began in low tones, "but i have most important communications to make to you--" the voice of prayer softly died away and slowly the look of earth came back to the tired face. he turned his hollow cheeks to benjamin with no attempt to mask the agony of his spirit, slowly rose and motioned him to a chair. the secretary lifted his hand. "i'm restless. if you don't mind, i'll stand. i have marked three editorial attacks on you and your administration in three of the most powerful newspapers in the south--the richmond _examiner_, the raleigh _standard_ and the charleston _mercury_--read them please--and then i have something to say!" the president seated himself and read each marked sentence with care. "the same old thing, benjamin--only a little more virulent this time--what of it?" "this! the success of our cause demands the suppression of these reptile sheets and the imprisonment of their editors--" "would success be worth having if we must buy it at the cost of the liberties of our people?" benjamin stopped short in his tracks. he had been walking back and forth with swift panther-like tread. "we are at war, mr. president--fierce, savage, cruel, it's going to be. you have realized this from the first. the world will demand of us just one thing--success in arms. with this we win all. lose this and we lose all--our liberties and a great deal more. our coast is pierced now at regular intervals to the mouth of the mississippi river--at fortress monroe in virginia--the entire inland waters of north carolina, port royal, south carolina, florida's line has been broken. grant's army is swarming into tennessee. mcclellan is drilling three hundred thousand men in washington to descend on richmond. it's no time to nurse such reptiles in our bosom--" "i can't play the petty tyrant--" "they'll sting you to death--i warn you--no administration on earth can live in times of war and endure such infamous abuse as these conspirators are now heaping on your head. and mark you--they have only begun. the junta of disgruntled generals which they have organized will strangle the cause of the south unless you grip the situation to-day with a hand of steel. they are laying their plans in the new congress to paralyze your work and heap on your head the scorn of the world." the president moved with a gesture of impatience. "i've told you, benjamin, that i will not suppress these papers nor sign your order for the arrest of the editors. i am leading the cause of a great people to preserve constitutional liberty. freedom of speech is one of their rights--" "in times of peace, yes--but not in the crisis of war when the tongue of a fool may betray the lives of millions. i am not here merely to ask you to suppress these three treacherous rags--i'm here to ask a bigger and far more important thing. i want you to stop this inaugural ceremony to-day--" davis rose with a quick excited movement. "what do you mean?" "just what i say. stop in time. we inaugurated a provisional government at montgomery to last one year. why one year? because we believed the war would be over before that year expired. it would have been madness to provide for the establishment of the elaborate and clumsy forms of a constitutional government during the progress of war. why set up a constitution until you have won by the sword the power to maintain it?" "but," davis interrupted, "if we delay the adoption of a constitution we confess to the world our want of confidence in the success of our cause. such a permanent constitution will be to our people the supreme sign of faith--" "with these jackals and hyenas of the press yelping and snarling and snapping at your heels? these men will destroy the faith of our best men and women if you only allow them to repeat their lies often enough. they will believe them at last, themselves. you have the confidence to-day of the whole south. your bitterest enemy could not name a candidate to oppose your election last november. give these traitors time and they will change all--" "not with military success--" "granted. but if these jackals break down the confidence of the people in the administration, volunteering ceases and we have no army." "we must use the conscription. it is inevitable--" "exactly!" the secretary cried triumphantly. "and conscription is the _reductio ad absurdum_ of your dream of constitutional law. why set up a constitution at all to-day?" "congress must pass a conscript law when necessity demands it." "in their own way, yes--with ifs and ands and clauses which defeat its purpose." "they must respond to the demands of our people when their patriotism is aroused." "our people have patriotism to spare if we can only guide it in the right direction. if it goes to seed in the personal quarrels of generals, if it exhausts itself in abuse of the executive, while an overwhelming enemy marches on us--what then?" the president lifted his head. "and you recommend?" "stop this ceremony. refuse the position of permanent president and use your powers as provisional president in a military dictatorship until the south wins--" "never!" was the quick reply. "i'll go down in eternal defeat sooner than win an empire by such betrayal of the trust imposed in me--" "you're not betraying the trust imposed in you by assuming these powers!" benjamin exclaimed with passion. "you're fulfilling that trust. you're doing what the people have called you to do--establishing the independence of the south! the government at washington has been compelled to exercise despotic powers from the first--" "exactly--and that's why we can't afford to do it. we are fighting the battle of the north and the south for constitutional liberty." "even so, if we lose and they win, the cause is lost. seward is now imprisoning thousands of northern men who have dared to sympathize with us--" "an act of infamous tyranny!" "but if he wins--who will dare to criticise the wisdom of his policy fifty years from to-day? if we lose, who will give us credit for our high ideals of civil law in times of war? you have the chance to-day to win. leap into the saddle and command the obedience of every man, woman and child in the south! your congress which assembles to-day is a weak impossible body of men. they have nothing to do except to make foolish speeches and hatch conspiracies against your administration. we have muzzled them behind closed doors. the remedy is worse than the disease. the rumors they circulate through the reptile press do more harm than the record of their vapid talk could possibly accomplish. why tie these millstones around your neck? they came yesterday to demand the head of albert sidney johnston. they are organizing to drive lee out of the army. they allow no opportunity to pass to sneer at his position as your chief military adviser since his return from western virginia. you know and i know that albert sidney johnston and r. e. lee are our greatest generals--" "i'll protect them from the chatter of fools--never fear--" "to what end if you allow them to break down the faith of our people in their government? the strong arm, alone, can save us. it's no time to haggle about the forms of law. your duty is clear. stop this foolish ceremony of inauguration to-day and assume in due time the dictatorship--" davis threw both arms up in a gesture of impatient refusal. "it's a waste of breath, benjamin. i'll die first!" the elastic spirit of the younger man recovered its poise at once and accepted the decision. with a genial smile he slipped one arm around the tall figure. "brave, generous, big-hearted, foolish--my captain! well, i've done my duty as your chief counselor. now i'll obey orders--one thing more i must add in warning. richmond swarms with spies. it will be impossible to defend the capital on the approach of mcclellan's army without a proclamation of martial law." the president looked up sharply. "we'll compromise on that. i'll proclaim martial law and suspend the _writ_ in richmond--" "and a radius of ten miles." "all right--i'll do that." it was the utmost concession the wily minister of state could wring from his chief. but it was important. the secretary had his eye on a certain house on church hill. it might be necessary to expel its owners. "by the way," the president added, as his secretary stood with his hand on the door. "i wrote a recommendation to your new department for the appointment of a young friend of miss barton to a position in your office. he's a man of brilliant talents--a foreigner who has cast his fortunes with us. do what you can for him--" "i'll remember--" the secretary nodded and hurried to his office to issue his proclamation of martial law for the city and district of richmond. at ten o'clock the rain began to pour in torrents. the streets were flooded. rushing rivers of muddy water roared over its cobble stones and leaped down its steep hills into the yellow tide of the james. every flag drooped and flapped in dismal weeping against its staff. the decorations of the houses and windows outside were ruined. the bunting swayed and sagged in deep curves across the streets, pouring a stream of water from the folds. at twelve o'clock, the procession formed in the hall of the virginia legislature and marched through the pouring rain to the platform erected around the statue of washington. in spite of the storm an immense crowd packed the space around the speaker's stand, presenting the curious spectacle of a sea of umbrellas. socola watched this crowd stand patiently in the downpour with a deepening sense of the tragedy it foreshadowed. the people who could set their teeth and go through an inauguration ceremony scheduled in the open air on such a day might be defeated in battle, but the victor would pay his tribute of blood. he had not dared to ask jennie to accept his escort on such a day and yet they drifted to each other's side by some strange power of attraction. the scene was weird in its utter depression of all enthusiasm, and yet the sullen purpose which held the people was sublime in its persistence. an awning covered the speaker's stand and beneath this friendly cover the ceremony was performed down to the last detail. the president rose and faced his audience under the most trying conditions. oratory was beyond human effort. he did not attempt it. he read his frank dignified address in simple, clear, musical tones which rang with strange effect over the crowd of drenched men and women. not a single cheer broke the delivery of his address. he sought in no way to apologize for the disasters which had befallen his people. he faced them bravely and summoned his followers to be equally brave. the close of his address caught the morbid fancy of socola with peculiar fascination. clouds of unusual threatening depths were rolling across the heavens, against which the canopied platform was sharply outlined. the thin form of the president rose white and ghost-like against this black background of clouds. he was extremely pale, his cheeks hollowed deep, his head bared regardless of the chill mists which beat through the canopy. his tall figure stood tense, trembling, deathlike--the emblem of sacrificial offering on the altar of his country. socola whispered to jennie: "where have i witnessed this scene before?" "surely not in america--" "no"--he mused thoughtfully--"i remember now--on a lonely hill outside jerusalem the roman soldiers were crucifying a man on a day like this--that's where i saw it!" he had scarcely spoken the uncanny words in a low undertone when the speaker closed his address with a remarkable prayer. suddenly dropping his manuscript on the table he lifted his eyes into the darkened heavens and cried with deep passion: "with humble gratitude and adoration, to thee, o god, i trustingly commit myself, and prayerfully invoke thy blessing on my country and its cause!" chapter xxiv the sleeping lioness again the smoke of the navy shadowed the southern skies. two expeditions were aiming mortal blows at the lower south. the confederacy had concentrated its forces of the upper waters of the mississippi on island number near new madrid. the work of putting this little gibraltar in a state of perfect defense had been rushed with all possible haste. new madrid had been found indefensible and evacuated on march thirteenth. on the seventeenth, commodore foote's fleet steamed into position and the first shell from his guns shrieked its message of death across the island. the gunboats concentrated their fire on the main battery which was located on low ground, almost submerged by the high water and separated from the others by a wide slough. their gun platforms were covered with water--the men in gray must work their pieces standing half-leg deep in mud and slush. five iron-clad gunboats led the attack. three of them were lashed together in midstream and one lay under the shelter of each shore. their concentrated fire was terrific. for nine hours they poured a stream of shot and shell on the lone battery with its beaver gunmen. at three o'clock captain rucker in charge of the battery called for reënforcements to relieve his exhausted men. volunteers rushed to his assistance and his guns roared until darkness brought them respite. it had been done. a single half-submerged battery exposed to the concentrated fire of a powerful fleet had held them at bay and compelled them to withdraw at nightfall. rucker fired the last shot as twilight gathered over the yellow waters. his battery had mounted five guns at sunrise. three of them were dismantled. two of them still spoke defiance from their mud-soaked beds. on april the sixth, the fleet reënforced succeeded in slipping past the batteries in a heavy fog. a landing was effected above and below the island in large force, and its surrender was a military necessity. foote and pope captured mackall, the commander, two brigadier generals, six colonels, a stand of ten thousand arms, two thousand soldiers, seventy pieces of siege artillery, thirty pieces of field artillery, fifty-six thousand solid shot, six transports and a floating battery of sixteen guns. a cry of anguish came from the heart of the confederate president. the loss of men was insignificant--the loss of this enormous store of heavy guns and ammunition with no factory as yet capable of manufacturing them was irreparable. but the cup of his misery was not yet full. the greatest fleet the united states navy had gathered, was circling the mouth of the mississippi with its guns pointing toward new orleans. gideon welles had selected for command of this important enterprise the man of destiny, davis glasgow farragut, a southerner whose loyalty to the union had never been questioned. eighty-two ships answered farragut's orders in his west gulf squadron at their rendezvous. his ships were wood, but no braver men ever walked the decks of a floating battery. in march he managed to crawl across the bar and push his fleet into the mouth of the mississippi. the _colorado_ was too deep and was left outside. the _pensacola_ and the _mississippi_ he succeeded in dragging through the mud. his ships inside, the commander ordered them stripped for the death grapple. new orleans had been from the first considered absolutely impregnable to attack from the sea. forts jackson and st. phillip, twenty miles below the city, were each fortifications of the first rank mounting powerful guns which swept the narrow channel of the river from shore to shore. the use of steam, however, in naval warfare was as yet an untried element of force in the attacking fleet against shore batteries. that steam in wooden vessels could overcome the enormous advantage of the solidity and power of shore guns had been considered preposterous by military experts. jefferson davis had utilized every shipbuilder in new orleans to hastily construct the beginnings of a southern navy. two powerful iron-clad gunboats, _louisiana_ and _mississippi_, were under way but not ready for service. eight small vessels had been bought and armed. to secure the city against the possibility of any fleet passing the forts at night or through fog, the channel of the river between forts jackson and st. phillip was securely closed. eleven dismasted schooners were moored in line across the river and secured by six heavy chains. these chains formed an unbroken obstruction from shore to shore. this raft was placed immediately below the forts. there was no serious alarm in the city on the appearance of the fleet in the mouth of the river. for months they had been cruising about the gulf of mexico without apparent decision. the people laughed at their enemy. there was but one verdict: "they'll think twice before attempting to repeat the scenes of ." not only were the two great forts impregnable but the shores were lined with batteries. what could wooden ships do with such forts and guns? it was a joke that they should pretend to attack them. their only possible danger was from the new iron-clad gunboats in the upper waters of the river. they were building two of their own kind which would be ready long before the enemy could break through the defenses from the north. when farragut stripped his fleet for action and moved toward the forts on the sixteenth of april, new orleans was the gayest city in america. the spirit of festivity was universal. balls, theaters, operas were the order of the day. gay parties of young people flocked down the river and swarmed the levees to witness the fun of the foolish attempt of a lot of old wooden ships to reduce the great forts. the guns were roaring now their mighty anthem. ships and forts--forts and ships. the batteries of farragut's mortar schooners were hurling their eleven-inch shells with harmless inaccuracy. the people laughed again. for six days the earth trembled beneath the fierce bombardment. the fleet had thrown twenty-five thousand shells and general duncan reported but two guns dismantled, with half a dozen men killed and wounded. the forts stood grim and terrible, their bristling line of black-lipped guns unbroken, their defenses as strong as when the first shot was fired. on the evening of april twenty-third, the fire of the fleet slackened. farragut had given up the foolish attempt, of course. he had undertaken the impossible and at last had accepted the fact. but the people of new orleans had not reckoned on the character of the daring commander of the federal fleet. he coolly decided that since he could not silence the guns of the forts he would run past them with his swift steam craft and take the chances of their batteries sending him to the bottom. once past these forts and the city would be at his mercy. he must first clear the river of the obstruction placed below the forts. farragut ordered two gunboats to steal through the darkness without lights and clear this raft. the work was swiftly done. the task was rendered unexpectedly easy by a break caused by a severe storm. at three o'clock in the morning of the twenty-fourth, the lookout on the ramparts of the forts saw the black hulls of the fleet, swiftly and silently steaming up the river straight for the mouths of their guns. the word was flashed to the little nondescript fleet of the confederacy lying in the smooth waters above and they moved instantly to the support of the forts. the night was one of calm and glorious beauty. the southern skies sparkled with jeweled stars. the waning moon threw its soft, mellow light on the shining waters, revealing the dark hulls of the fleet with striking clearness. the daring column was moving straight for fort jackson. they must pass close under the noses of her guns. they were in for it now. the dim star-lit world with its fading moon suddenly burst into sheets of blinding, roaring flame. the mortar batteries moored in range, opened instantly in response--their eleven-inch shells, glowing with phosphorescent halo, circled and screamed and fell. the black hulls belched their broadsides of yellow flame now. from battlement and casemate of forts rolled the thunder of their batteries, sending their heavy shots smashing into the wooden hulls. through the flaming jaws of hell, the fleet, with lungs throbbing with every pound of steam, dashed and passed the forts! farragut led in the _hartford_. but his work had only begun. he had scarcely reckoned on the little confederate fleet. he found them a serious proposition. suddenly above the flash and roar and the batteries of the forts and over the broadsides of the ships leaped a wall of fire straight into the sky. slowly but surely the flaming heavens moved down on the attacking fleet lighting the yellow waters with unearthly glare. the confederates had loosed a fleet of fire ships loaded with pitch pine cargoes. farragut's lines wavered in the black confusion of rolling clouds of impenetrable smoke, lighted by the glare of leaping flames. the daring little fleet of the confederacy moved down through the blinding vapors of their own fires and boldly attacked the on-coming hosts. friend could scarcely be told from foe. a game little confederate tug stuck her nose into a fire-ship, pushed it squarely against farragut's _hartford_ and slipped between his guns in the smoke and flame unharmed. the flagship ran aground. her sailors bravely stuck to their post and from their pumps threw a deluge of water on the flames and extinguished them. the engines of the _hartford_, working with all their might, pulled her off the shore under her own steam. the _louisiana_, the new gunboat of the confederacy, had been pressed into service with but two of her guns working--but she was of little use and became unmanageable. captain kennon, the gallant confederate commander of the _governor moore_, found that the bow of his ship interfered with the aim of his gunners. "lower your muzzle and blow the bow of your ship away!" the big gun dipped its black mouth and blew the bow of his own ship to splinters and through the opening poured shot after shot into the federal fleet. kennon fired his last shot at point-blank range, turned the broken nose of his ship ashore and blew her up. for an hour and a half the two desperate foes wrestled with each other amid flame and smoke and darkness. as the first blush of dawn mantled the eastern sky the conflict slowly died away. three of farragut's gunboats had been driven back and one sunk, but his fleet had done the immortal deed. battered and riddled with shots, they had passed the forts successfully. as the sun rose on the beautiful spring morning he lifted his battle flags and steamed up the river. new orleans, the commercial capital of the south, the largest export city of the world, lay on the horizon in silent shimmering beauty, a priceless treasure, at his mercy. speechless crowds of thousands thronged the streets. the small garrison had been withdrawn and the city left to its fate. the marines stood statue-like before the city hall, their bayonets glittering in the sunlight. not a breath of wind stirred. in dead, ominous silence the flag of the south was lowered from its staff and the flag of the union raised in its old place. there was one man among the thousands who saw this flag with a cry of joy. judge roger barton, jr., had braved the scorn of his neighbors through good report and evil report, holding their respect by the sheer heroism of his undaunted courage. his aged grandfather was in the city at the moment, having come on a visit from fairview. baton rouge must fall at once. there was nothing to prevent farragut's fleet from steaming up the river now for hundreds of miles. the old colonel was furious when informed that he could not return to fairview. but there was no help for it. "don't worry, grandfather," the judge pleaded; "you can depend on it, senator barton will save fairview if it's within human power--" "but your grandmother is there, sir!" thundered the old man, "helpless on her back. there's no one to protect her from the damned yankees--" the judge smiled. "maybe the yankees will not be so bad after all, grandfather. anyhow there's no help for it. i've got you here with me safe and sound and i'm going to keep you--" the fall of new orleans sent a dagger into the heart of the south. ft. donelson had broken the center. the fall of new orleans had smashed the left wing of the far-flung battle line. the power of the confederacy was crushed in the rich and powerful state of louisiana at a single stroke. the route to texas was cut. the united states navy had established a base from which to send their fleets into the interior by the great rivers and by the gulf from the rio grande to the keys of florida. the sleeping lioness stirred at last. the delusion of bull run had passed. it took six months of disasters to do for the south what bull run did for the north in six days. the south began now to rise in her might and gird her loins for the fight she had foolishly thought won on the plains of manassas. senator barton was in bed so ill from an attack of influenza it was impossible for him to travel. jennie hastily packed her trunk and left on the first train for the south. she must reach her helpless grandmother before the federal army could attack baton rouge. the tenderness with which socola helped her on board the train had brought the one ray of sunlight into her heart. she had expected to go in tears and terror for what the future held in store in the stricken world at home. a smile on the lips of a stranger had set her heart to beating with joy. she was ashamed of herself for being so happy. but it was impossible to make her heart stop beating and laughing. he had not yet spoken a word of love but she knew. she knew with a knowledge sweet and perfect because she had suddenly realized her own secret. she might have gone on for months in richmond without knowing that she cared any more for him than for a dozen other boys who were as attentive. in this hour of parting it had come in a blinding flash as he bent over her hand to say good-by. it made no difference when he should speak. love had come into her own heart full, wonderful, joyous, maddening in its glory. she could wait in silence until in the fullness of time he must speak. it was enough to know that she loved. "may i write to you occasionally, miss jennie?" he asked with a timid, hesitating look. she laughed. "of course, you must write and tell me everything that happens here." socola wondered why she laughed. it was disconcerting. he hadn't faced the question of loving jennie. she was just a charming, beautiful child whose acquaintance he could use for great ends. his depression came from the tremendous nerve strain of his work. the early movement of mcclellan's army had kept him in that darkened attic on church hill continuously every hour of the past night. he was feeling the strain. he would throw it off when he got a good night's rest. it was not until twenty-four hours after jennie's departure that he waked with a dull ache in his heart that refused to go. and so while he dragged himself about his task with a sense of sickening loneliness, a girl was softly singing in the far south. chapter xxv the bombardment baton rouge seethed with excitement on the day of jennie's arrival. every wagon and dray was pressed into service. the people were hauling their cotton to be burned on the commons. negroes swarmed over the bales, cutting them open, piling high the fleecy lint and then applying the torch. the flames leaped upward with a roar and dropped as suddenly into a smoldering and smoking mass. a crowd rushed to the wharf to see them fire an enormous flat-boat piled mountain-high with cotton. a dozen bales had been broken open and the whole floating funeral pyre stood shrouded in spotless white which leaped into flames as it was pushed into the stream. along the levee as far as the eye could reach negroes crawled like black ants rolling the cotton into the river. the ties were smashed, and the white bundle of cotton tumbled into the water and was set on fire. each bale sent up its cloud of smoke until the surface of the whole river seemed alive with a fleet of war crowding its steam to run fresh batteries. another flat-boat was piled high, its bales cut open, soaked with whiskey, and set on fire. the blue flames of burning alcohol gave a touch of weird and sinister color to the scene. the men who owned this cotton stood by cheering and helping in its destruction. the two flat-boats with flames leaping into the smoke pall of the darkened skies led the fleet of fire down the river to greet farragut's men in their way. every saloon was emptied and every gutter flowed with wines and liquors. * * * * * jennie found her grandmother resting serenely in her great rocking chair, apparently indifferent to the uproar of the town. the household with its seventy-odd negro servants was running its usual smooth, careless course. jennie read aloud the announcement in the morning paper of butler's order to new orleans: "all devices, signs, and flags of the confederacy shall be suppressed--" she clenched her fist and sprang to her feet. "good! i'll devote all my red, white and blue silk to the manufacture of confederate flags! when one is confiscated--i'll make another. i'll wear one pinned on my bosom. the man who says, 'take it off,' will have to pull it off himself. the man who does that--well, i've a pistol ready!--" "what are you saying, dear?" the old lady asked with her thin hand behind her ear. "oh, nothing much, grandma dear," was the sweet answer. "i was only wishing i were a man!" she slipped her arms about her thin neck and whispered this in deep, tragic tones. with a bound she was off to the depot to see the last squad of soldiers depart for the front before the gunboats arrived. they waved their hats to the crowds of women and children as the train slowly pulled out. "god bless you, ladies! we're going to fight for you!" jennie drew her handkerchief, waved and sobbed the chorus in reply. "god bless you, soldiers! fight for us!" four hours later the black gunboats swung at their anchors. the proud little conquered city lay at the mercy of their guns. jennie watched them with shining eyes, and that without fear. the union flag was streaming from every peak and halyard. the girl rushed home, made a flag five inches long, pinned it to her shoulder and deliberately walked down town. mattie morgan joined her at the corner and drew one from the folds of her dress, emboldened by the example. they marched straight to the state house terrace to take a good look at the _brooklyn_ lying close inshore. fifteen or twenty federal officers were standing on the first terrace, stared at by the crowd as if they were wild beasts. "oh, mattie," jennie faltered. "we didn't expect to meet these people. what shall we do?" "stand by your colors now. there's nothing else to do." on they marched, hearts thumping painfully with conscious humiliation at their silly bravado. fine, noble-looking, quiet fellows those officers in blue--refinement and gentlemanly bearing in every movement of their stalwart bodies. they had come ashore as friendly sightseers and stood admiring the beauty of the quaint old town. jennie's eyes filled with tears of vexation. "let's go home, mattie--" "i say so, too--" "never again for me! i'll hang my flag on the mantel. i'll not try to wave it in the face of a gentleman again--oof--what silly fools we were!" the federal commander of the fleet had warned the citizens of baton rouge that any hostile demonstration against his ships or men would mean the instant bombardment of the town. jennie had just finished breakfast and helped her grandmother to find her way to the rocker. mandy had been sent to the store for some thread with which to make a new uniform for one of the boys. jennie resolved to turn her energies to practical account now. no more flaunting of tiny flags in the faces of brave, dignified young officers of the navy. the maid rushed through the hall wild with excitement. she had run every step back from the store without the thread. "lowdy, miss jennie," she gasped, "sumfin' awful happened!" "what is it? what's the matter?" mandy stood in dumb terror, the whites of her eyes shining. she was listening apparently for the arch-angel's trumpet to sound. jennie seized her shoulders. "what's the matter? tell me before i murder you!" "yassam!" mandy gasped and again her head was cocked to one side as if straining her ears for the dreaded sound of gabriel. "what's happened?--tell me!" jennie stormed. at last poor mandy's senses slowly returned. she stared into her young mistress' face and gasped: "yassam--mr. castle's killed a yankee ossifer on de ship an' dey gwine ter shell--" "boom!" the deep thunder peal of a great gun shook the world. there was no mistaking the sound of it or its meaning. the fleet had opened fire on the defenseless town. mandy's teeth chattered and her voice failed. and then pandemonium. poor old negroes and helpless pickaninnies swarmed into the house for shelter from the doom of judgment day. "run--run for your lives--get out of the way of those shells!" jennie shouted. her three terror-stricken maids huddled by her side in helpless panic. her grandmother sprang to her feet and asked in subdued tones: "what is it, child?" "the fleet's shelling the town--grandma--you'll be killed--the house'll be smashed--you must run--run for your life--" jennie screamed her warning into the sweet old lady's ears and seized her by the hand. "but they can't shell a town full of helpless women and children, my dear," the grandmother protested gently. "it's impossible--" "boom--boom!" pealed two guns in quick succession. "de lawd save us!" lucy screamed. "you see they're doing it--come--" jennie grasped her grandmother's hand firmly and dragged her from the house. from the servants' quarters came one long wail of prayer and lamentation mingled with shouts and exhortation. an old bed-ridden black woman, a fervent methodist, raised a hymn: "_better days are coming, we'll all go right!_" jennie had reached the gate when she suddenly remembered her canary--a present billy had given her on her eighteenth birthday. she rushed back into the house, snatched the cage up and started on the run again. what was the use? it was impossible to take the bird. he would starve to death. she quickly opened the cage, took him out and kissed his yellow head. "good-by, jimmy darling!" the tears would come in spite of all she could do. "i hope you'll be happy!" with quick decision she tossed him in the air. the bird gave one helpless chirp of surprise and terror at the strange new world, fluttered in a circle, spread his wings at last and was gone. the girl brushed her tears away and returned to her grandmother's side. the gravel was cutting her feet. her shoes were utterly unfit for running. she would rush back and get a pair of the boys' strong ones. she had worn them before. "wait, grandma!" she shouted. "i must change my shoes!" back into the house she plunged and found the shoes. seeing the house still standing, she thought of other things she might need, grasped her tooth brushes and thrust them in her corset. she would certainly need a comb. she added that--a powder bag and lace collar lying on the bureau were also saved. her hair was tumbling down. she thought of hairpins and tucking comb and added them. her grandmother in alarm came back to find her. they decided between them to fill a pillow case with little things they would certainly need. there was a lull in the shelling. jennie's maids rushed back in terror at being left alone. the guns again opened with redoubled fury. still bent on saving something jennie grabbed two soiled underskirts and an old cloak and once more dragged her grandmother to the door. * * * * * five big shells sailed squarely over the house at the same moment. they seemed to swing in circles, spiral-shaped like corkscrews. the dull whiz and swish of their flight made the most blood-curdling unearthly noise. her grandmother fumbled at the door trying to turn the bolt of the unused lock. "don't fool with that door, grandma!" jennie cried--"run--run--you'll be killed." "i won't run!" the old lady said with firm decision. "i'll go down there and tell those cowards what i think of their firing on women and children--" a big shell whizzed past the house and grandma jumped behind a pillar. she was painfully deaf to human speech--but the whiz of that shell found her nerves. they ran now without looking back--ran at least for a hundred yards until the poor old lady could run no more and then walked as rapidly as possible. they were at last on the main country road, leading out of town. hurrying terror-stricken people, young, old, black and white, were passing them every moment now. a mile and a half out her grandmother broke down completely. a gentleman passing in a buggy took pity on her gray hairs and lifted her to the seat by his side while his own little ones crouched at her feet. jennie waved her hand as they drove off: "i'll find you somewhere, grandma dear--don't worry!" another mile she trudged with mandy and lucy clinging to her skirts and then sat down to rest. her nerves were slowly recovering their poise and she began to laugh at the funny sights the terror-stricken people presented at every turn. a cart approached piled high with household goods. "let's ride, mandy!" jennie cried. "yassam, dat's what i says, too," the little black maid eagerly agreed. the cart belonged to a neighbor. it was driven by an old negro man. "let us ride, uncle!" jennie called. the old man pulled his reins quickly and laughed good-naturedly. "dat you shall, honey. de name er gawd, ter see miss jennie barton settin' here in dis dirty road!" he helped them climb to seats on the top of his load. jennie found a berth between a flour barrel and mattress, while mandy sat astride of an enormous bundle of bed clothes. lucy scrambled up beside the driver. the hot sun was pouring its fierce rays down without mercy. the old negro pulled a faded umbrella from beneath his seat, raised it, and handed it to jennie with a grand bow. "thank you, uncle. you certainly are good to us!" "yassam--yassam--i wish i could do mo', honey chile. de ve'y idee er dem slue-footed yankees er shellin' our town an' scerin' all our ladies ter death. dey gwine ter pay fur all dis 'fore dey git through." three miles out they began to overtake the main body of the fugitives who escaped at the first mad rush. hundreds of bedraggled women and children were toiling along the dust-covered road in the blistering sun, some bare-headed, some with hats on, some with street clothes, others with their morning wrappers just as they had fled from their unfinished breakfast. little girls of eight and ten and twelve were wandering along through the suffocating dust alone. jennie called to one she knew: "where's your mother, child?" the girl shook her dust-powdered head. "i don't know, m'am." "where are you going?" "to walk on till i find her." her mother was wandering with distracted cries among the crowds a mile in the rear looking for a nursing baby she had lost in the excitement. jennie's eyes kindled at the sight of faithful negroes everywhere lugging the treasures of their mistresses. she began asking them what they were carrying just to hear the answer that always came with a touch of loyal pride. "dese is my missy's clothes! i sho weren't gwine let dem yankees steal dem!" "didn't you save any of your own things?" "didn't have time ter git mine!" they came to a guerilla camp. men and horses were resting on either side of the road. some of them were carrying water to their horses or to the women who cooked about their camp fires. the scene looked like a monster barbecue. these irregular troops of the south were friends in time of need to-day. they crowded the road, asking for news and commenting freely on the shelling of the city. a rough-looking fellow pushed his way to jennie's cart. "when did they begin firin'?" "just after breakfast." yesterday she would have resented the familiar tones in which this uncouth illiterate countryman spoke without the formality of an introduction. in this hour of common peril he was a knight entering the lists wearing her colors. he didn't mince words in expressing his opinions. "it's your own fault if you've saved nothing. the people in baton rouge must have been damned fools not to know trouble wuz comin' with them gunboats lyin' thar with their big-mouthed cannon gapin' right into the streets. if the men had had any sense women wouldn't a been drove into the woods like this--" "but they had no warning. they began to shell us without a minute's notice--" his rough fist closed and his heavy jaw came together with a grinding sound. "waal, you're ruined--so am i--and my brothers and all our people, too. there's nothin' left now except to die--and i'll do it!" the girl clapped her hands. "i wish i could go with you!" he turned back toward his camp fire with a shake of his unkempt head. "die fighting for us!" jennie cried. he waved his black powder-stained hand: "that i will, little girl!" the rough figure rose in the unconscious dignity with which he waved his arm and pledged his word to fight to the death. war had leveled all ranks. the talk on the road was all of burning homes, buildings demolished, famine, murder, and death. jennie suddenly found herself singing a lot of methodist camp meeting hymns with an utterly foolish happiness surging through her heart. she led off with "_better days are coming._" mandy was still too scared to sing the chorus of this first hymn but she joined softly in the next. it was one of her favorites: "_i hope to die shoutin'--the lord will provide._" the old man driving the cart kept time with a strange undertone of interpolation all his own. the one he loved best he repeated again and again. "i'm a runnin'--a runnin' up ter glory!" how could she be happy amid a scene of such desolation and suffering? she tried to reproach herself and somehow couldn't be sorry. a vision of something more wonderful than houses and land, goods and chattels, slaves and systems of government, had made her heart beat with sudden joy and her eyes sparkle with happiness. it was only the picture of a dark slender young fellow who had never spoken a word of love that flashed before her. and yet the vision had wrought a spell that transformed the world. the guns no longer echoed behind them. a courier came dashing from the city at sunset asking the people to return to their homes. two old men had rowed out to the war ships during the bombardment. they called to the commander of the flagship as they pushed their skiff alongside: "there are no men in town, sir--you're only killing women and children!" the commander leaned over the rail of his gunboat. "i'm sorry, gentlemen. i thought, of course, your town had been evacuated before your men were fools enough to fire on my marines. i've shelled your streets to intimidate them." the firing ceased. the order to shell the city had been caused by four guerillas firing on a yawl which was about to land without a flag of truce. their volley killed and wounded three. "these four men," shouted the elders from the skiff, "were the only soldiers in town!" one woman had been killed and three wounded. twenty houses had been pierced by shells and two little children drowned in their flight. a baby had been born in the woods and died of the exposure. it was three o'clock next day before jennie reached home, her grandmother utterly oblivious of her own discomforts but complaining bitterly because she could hear nothing from the old colonel who had found it impossible to leave new orleans. they had not been separated so long since the mexican war. jennie comforted her as best she could, put her to bed, and took refuge in a tub of cold water. the dusty road had peeled the skin off both her heels but no matter--thank god, she was at home again. orders were issued now from the federal commandant for the government of the town. no person was permitted to leave without a pass. all families were prohibited to leave--except persons separated by the former exodus. cannon were planted in every street. five thousand soldiers had been thrown into the city, general williams commanding. any house unoccupied by its owners would be used by the soldiers. jennie decided to stick to the house at all hazards until forced to go. she walked down town to the post office in the vain hope a letter might have come through from new orleans to her grandmother. soldiers were lounging in the streets in squads of forty and fifty. a crowd was playing cards in the ditch and swearing as they fought the flies. crowds of soldiers relieved from duty were marching aimlessly along the street. some were sleeping on the pavements, others sprawled flat on their backs in the sun, heads pillowed in each other's lap. to her surprise a letter addressed in the familiar handwriting of her brother was handed out at the post office by the young soldier in charge. the seal had been broken. jennie's eyes flashed with rage. "how dare you open and read my letter, sir!" she cried with indignation. "i'm sorry, miss," he answered politely. "we're only soldiers. our business is to obey orders." jennie blushed furiously. "of course, i beg your pardon. i wasn't thinking when i spoke." she read the letter with eager interest: "dearest little sister: "you must bring grandmother to new orleans at the earliest possible opportunity. grandpa can't get out. he is as restless and unhappy as a caged tiger. do come quickly. if you need money let me know. hoping soon to see you. with a heart full of love, "your big brother, "roger." it would be best. her grandmother would be safe there in any event. if our troops again captured new orleans she would be in the house of the south. if the federal army still held it, she was at home in her grandson's house. the wildest rumors were flying thick. no passes would be issued to leave the city on any pretext. beauregard was reported about to move his army from corinth to attack baton rouge. the troops were massing for the defense of the city. the federal cavalry had scoured the country for ten miles in search of guerillas. through all the turmoil and confusion of the wildly disordered house jennie kept repeating the foolish old hymn in soft monotones: "_i hope to die shouting--the lord will provide!_" general williams sent a guard to protect the house. a file of six soldiers marched to the gate and their commander saluted: "madam, the pickets await your orders." general williams had met her brother in new orleans. his loyalty was enough to mark the beautiful old homestead for protection. jennie laughed. it was a funny situation were it not so tragic. her father and three brothers fighting these men with tooth and nail while an officer saluted and put his soldiers at her command. butler's men were arresting the aged citizens of baton rouge now. without charge or warrant they were hustled on the transports, hurried to new orleans and thrown into jail. jennie ground her white teeth with rage: "oh, to be ruled by such a wretch!" from the first day he had set foot on the soil of louisiana butler had made himself thoroughly loathed. his order reflecting on the character of the women of new orleans had not only shocked the south, it had roused the indignation of the civilized world. a proud and sensitive people had no redress. one of the first six citizens sentenced to prison in fort jackson was dr. craven, the methodist minister. a soldier nosing about his house at night had heard the preacher at family prayers. he had asked god's blessing on the cause of the south while kneeling in prayer. when jennie heard of it, she cried through her tears: "show me a dungeon deep enough to keep me from praying for my brothers who are fighting for us!" the speech of butler which had gone farthest and sank deepest into the outraged souls of the people of southern louisiana was his defiant utterance to solomon benjamin on the threat of england to intervene in our struggle: "let england or france dare to try it," butler swore in a towering rage, "and i'll be damned if i don't arm every negro in the south and make them cut the throats of every man, woman and child in it. i'll make them lay this country waste with fire and sword and leave it desolate." that butler was capable of using his enormous power as the military governor of louisiana to accomplish this purpose, no one who had any knowledge of the man or his methods doubted for a moment. on the slightest pretexts he arrested whom he pleased, male and female, and threw them into prison. aged men who had incurred his displeasure were confined at hard labor with ball and chain. men were imprisoned in fort jackson, whose only offense was the giving of medicine to sick confederate soldiers. the wife of a former member of congress was arrested and sent to ship island in the gulf of mexico. her only offense was that she laughed at some foolish thing that marked the progress of a funeral procession through the streets of the city. on his office wall in the st. charles hotel butler had inscribed in huge letters: "there is no difference between a he and a she adder in their venom." his henchmen were allowed to indulge their rapacity at will. the homes of distinguished men and women were seized on any pretext and turned into disreputable establishments which were run for gain. they appropriated the contents of wine cellars, plundered the wardrobes and dining-rooms of ladies and gentlemen to their hearts' content. fines were levied and collected in many cases where it could be secured. those who refused to pay were given the choice of ball and chain. a thriving trade in cotton was opened against the positive orders of the washington government. butler's own brother was the thrifty banker and broker of this corrupt transaction. property was "confiscated" right and left, provisions and military stores were exchanged for cotton. the chief of this régime of organized plunder lived in daily fear of assassination. it was said he wore secret armor. he never ventured out except heavily guarded. in his office several pistols lay beside him and the chair on which his visitor was seated was chained to the wall to prevent someone suddenly rising and smashing his brains out. there were ten thousand soldiers in baton rouge now though the anticipated attack of the confederates had not materialized. perhaps they had heard of the heavy reënforcements in time. the poor fellows from the cool hills and mountains of the north were dying in hundreds in the blistering july sun of the south. they didn't know how to take care of themselves and their officers didn't seem to care. butler was a lawyer and a politician first--a general only when the navy had done his work for him. jennie saw hundreds of these sick and dying men lying on their backs in the broiling sun, waiting for wagons to carry them to the hospital. one had died absolutely alone without a human being near to notice or to care. the girl's heart was sick with anguish at the sight of scores too weak to lift their hands to fight the ravenous flies swarming in their eyes and months. all day and all night baumstark, the little undertaker, was working with half a dozen aides making coffins. day and night they died like dogs with no human help extended. the catholic priest who had not been arrested as yet, passing among them in search of his own, bent for a moment over a dying soldier and spoke in friendly tones. the poor fellow burst into tears and with his last gasp cried: "thank god! i have heard _one_ kind word before i die!" the federal pickets were driven in at last, and the guard around the house withdrawn. general williams insisted that jennie and her grandmother find a place of refuge more secure than the coming battlefield. they thanked the general but decided to brave battle at home to the terrors of another flight. the little band of twenty-five hundred confederates struck the town like a thunderbolt and fought with desperation against the combined fleet and heavy garrison. they drove the federals at first in panic to the water's edge and the shelter of the cannon until a maine regiment barred the way, fighting like demons, and rallied the fleeing mob. when the smoke of battle lifted the gray army had gone with the loss of only sixty-five killed and a hundred and fifty wounded. the worst calamity which befell baton rouge was the death of general williams, the gentlemanly and considerate federal commander. butler's man who took his place lacked both his soldierly training and his fine scruples as a christian gentleman. there were no more guards placed around "rebel" homes. the marauder came with swift sure tread on the heels of victory. a squad of officers and men smashed in the front door at fairview without so much as a knock for signal. to the shivering servant who stood in the hall the leader called: "where are the damned secesh women? we know they've hid in here and we'll make them dance for hiding--" jennie suddenly appeared in the library door, her face white, her hand concealed in the pocket of her dress. "there are but two women here, gentlemen," she began steadily--"my grandmother and i. the house is at your mercy--" the man in front gave a short laugh and advanced on the girl. he stopped short in his tracks at the sight of the glitter of her eye and changed his mind. "all right, look out for the old hen. we'll let you know when it's time to pick up the pieces." jennie returned to the library and slipped her arm about her grandmother's neck standing beside her chair while she set her little jaw firmly and waited for the end. they rushed the dining-room first and split its side-board open with axes--fine old carved mahogany pieces so hardened with age, the ax blades chipped from the blows as if striking marble. the china was smashed chests were laid open with axes, and their contents of silver removed. they rushed the parlors and stripped them of every ornament. jennie's piano they dragged into the center of the floor, smashed its ivory keys and split its rosewood case into splinters. an officer slashed the portrait of mrs. barton into shreds and hurled the frame on the floor. every portrait on the walls shared a similar fate. upstairs the fun grew wild. mrs. barton's beautiful old mahogany armoir whose single door was a fine french mirror was shivered with a blow from a sledge hammer, emptied of every article and the shelves splintered with axes. they broke every bureau and case of drawers, scattered their contents on the floor, selecting what suited their fancy. every rag of the boys' clothes, the old colonel's and senator barton's were tied in bundles. they entered jennie's room, broke every mirror, tore down the rods from the bed and ripped the net into shreds. the desk was split, letters turned out and scattered over the floor. a light sewing machine was sent below for a souvenir. the heavy one was broken with an ax. from jennie's bureau they tore a pink flowered muslin, stuck it on a bayonet and paraded the room, the officers striking it with their swords shouting their dull insults: "i've struck the damned secesh!" "the proud little hellion!" "that's the time i cut her!" one seized her bonnet, put it on, tied the ribbon under his chin and amid the shouts of his half-drunken companions, paraded the house, and wore it into the streets when he left. when the noise had died away and the house was still at last, jennie came forth from the little room in which she had taken refuge, leading her grandmother. hand in hand they viewed the wreck. the thing that hurt the girl most of all was the ruin of her desk--her letters from dick welford, the boys, her father and mother, the diary she had kept with the intimate secrets of her young heart--all had been opened, thumbed and thrown over the floor. the little perfumed notes she had received from her first beaux--invitations to buggy rides, concerts, and parties, and all of them beginning, "compliments of"--had been profaned by dirty greasy fingers. some were torn into little bits and scattered over the room, others were ground into the floor by hobnails in heavy boot heels. her last letter from socola was stolen--to be turned over to the commander for inspection no doubt. and then she broke into a foolish laugh. the strain was over. what did it matter--this clutter of goods and chattels on the floor--she was young--it was the morning of life and she had met her fate! in a sudden rush of emotion she threw her arms around her grandmother's neck and cried: "thank the good lord, grandma, they didn't shoot you!" the sweet old lady was strangely quiet, and her eyes had a queer set look. she bore the strain without a break until they entered the wreck of the stately parlor. she saw the slashed portrait of the colonel lying on the floor and sank in a heap beside it without a word or sound. jennie succeeded at last in obtaining a pass to new orleans, consigning the body to judge roger barton. she stepped on board the little steamer absolutely alone. every servant had gone to the camp of the soldiers or had entered the service of the crowd of marauders who decided to return to fairview and occupy the house. jennie had gone through so much the tired spirit refused to respond to further sensations. she obeyed orders in a dumb mechanical way. the officers at new orleans opened her baggage and searched it without ceremony, or the slightest show of interest on her part. they were administering the "oath" of loyalty to the united states. she would have to turn yankee to do this last duty of love. she covered her face with her hands and prayed breathlessly for the boys and for the confederacy while the words of the oath were mumbled by the officer-- "so help you god?" jennie's only answer was to close her eyes and pray harder. "so help you god?" the officer shouted again. the girl lifted her tear-stained face and nodded, closed her eyes again and prayed. "help them, o god,--my brothers tom and jimmie and billy and dick welford--and--and the man i love--save them and their cause for jesus' sake--i don't know what they made me say--i only did it for poor grandpa's sake--i didn't mean it. forgive me, dear lord, and save my people!" the judge met them with a carriage and hearse. he slipped his strong arm around the girl, drew her close and kissed the waving brown hair again and again. "dear little sis--you're at home now," he said softly. a shiver ran through her figure and she sat bolt upright. "no, big brother," she answered firmly, "i'm not. new orleans is in the hands of the enemy. i'd set it on fire and wipe it from the face of the earth to-morrow if i could sweep old ben butler and his men into the bottomless pit with its ashes--" she paused at the look of pain on his face. "except you--dear--you're my brother, always my dear big brother and i'll love you forever. what you think right is right--for you. you are for the union, because you believe it's right. i honor you for being true to your convictions--" "you can never know what it has cost me--honey--" she drew him down and kissed him tenderly. "yes, i do know--and it's all right--even if you draw your sword and meet us in battle--you're fighting for the right as god shows it to you--but i've just one favor to ask--" "i'll do anything on earth for you i can--you know that--" she looked at him steadily a moment in silence and spoke in hard cold tones. "get me out of new orleans inside the confederate lines--anywhere--a guerilla camp--a swamp--anywhere, you understand. i'll find my way to richmond--" he pressed her hand in silence and then softly answered: "i understand, dear--and i'll arrange it for you. i'll hire a schooner to set you across lake pontchartrain." the old colonel looked on the face of his dead wife and went to bed. he made no complaints. he asked no questions. the book of life was closed. within a week he died as peacefully as a child. ten days later jennie had passed the federal lines and was whirling through the carolinas, her soul aflame with a new deathless courage. chapter xxvi the irreparable loss jefferson davis not only refused to remove albert sidney johnston from his command in answer to the clamor of his critics, he wrote his general letters expressing such unbounded confidence in his genius that he inspired him to begin the most brilliant campaign on which the south had yet entered. grant, flushed with victory, had encamped his army along the banks of the tennessee, then at flood and easily navigable for gunboats and transports. the bulldog fighter of fort donelson had allowed his maxim of war to lead him into a situation which the eye of johnston was quick to see. grant's famous motto was: "never be over anxious about what your enemy is going to do to you; make him anxious about what you are going to do to him." in accordance with this principle the union general was busy preparing his grand army for a triumphant march into the far south. he was drilling and training his men for their attack on the confederates at corinth. his army was not in a position for defense. it was, in fact, strung out into a long line of camps for military instruction, preparing to advance on the foe he had grown to despise. sherman's division occupied a position near shiloh church. a half mile further was b. m. prentiss with newly arrived regiments, one of which still had no ammunition. near the river mcclernand was camped behind sherman and hurlbert still farther back. near them lay w. h. l. wallace's division, and at crump's landing, lew wallace was stationed with six thousand men. grant himself was nine miles down the river at savannah, a point at which he expected to form a junction with buell's army approaching from the east. grant sat at breakfast on a beautiful sunday morning quietly sipping his coffee while he planned his conquest of the vast territory which now lay at the mercy of his army the moment the juncture should be effected. with swift stealthy tread, johnston was moving through the dense forests of the wild region to the south. his army had been rapidly recruited to approximately forty thousand effective men. beauregard had been detached from the east and was second in command. the night before this beautiful spring sabbath morning the confederate army had bivouacked within two miles of the federal front. johnston had so baffled the scouts and reconnoitering parties of grant that his presence was not suspected. in the gray mists of the dawn his divisions silently deployed and formed in line of battle. general leonidas polk on the left, braxton bragg in the center, william j. hardee on the right and john c. breckinridge in reserve. the men were alert and eager to avenge the defeats of forts henry and donelson. with chuckles of exhilaration they had listened that night to the rolling of the drums in grant's camps. a mist from the river valley hung low over the fresh budding trees. with swift elastic tread the gray lines moved forward through the shadows of the dawn. so complete was the surprise that not a picket was encountered. not a single company of cavalry guarded the flanks of the sleeping army. the mists lifted and the sheen of white tents could be seen through the trees. only a few of the blue soldiers had risen. they were washing and cooking their morning meal. some had sat down to eat at generous mess-chests. thousands were yet soundly sleeping in their tents. on prentiss' division from flank to flank with sudden fury the gray host fell. even the camp sentinels were taken completely by surprise and barely had time to discharge their guns. on their heels rushed the confederates cheering madly. officers and men were killed in their beds and many fled in confusion without their arms. hildebrand's brigade of sherman's division was engulfed by the cyclone and swept from existence, appearing no more in the battle. in vain the broken lines of the federal camps were formed and re-formed. charge followed charge in swift and terrible succession. by half past ten o'clock the confederates had captured and demolished three great military encampments and taken three batteries of artillery. storehouses and munitions of war in rich profusion were captured at every turn. the demoralized union army was retreating at every point. when grant reached the field, the lines both of attack and defense were lost in confusion. the battle raged in groups. sometimes mere squads of men surged back and forth over the broken, tangled, blood-soaked arena, now in ravines and swamps, now for a moment emerging into clearings and then buried again in the deep woods. the stolid federal commander sat his horse, keen-eyed, vigilant and imperturbable in the storm of ruin. his early efforts counted for little in the blind confusion and turmoil of his crushed army. lew wallace had been ordered to the field in post haste. the bridge across owl creek, held by sherman in the morning, was now in the hands of the confederates. wallace marched and countermarched his army in a vain effort to reach the field. at two o'clock johnston had brought up his reserves and ordered the entire gray army to charge and sweep the field. his fine face flushed with victory, he rose in his saddle, addressed a few eloquent words to breckinridge's division, placed himself at the head of his army and his sword flashed in the sunlight as he shouted to the line: "charge!" dick welford had been detached from forrest's cavalry on staff duty by his chief's side. forrest had been marked by johnston for promotion for his work at donelson, and dick had grown to worship his gallant commanding general. he had watched his plan of battle grow with boyish pride. he knew his chief was going to crush the two divisions of grant's army in detail before they could be united. and he had done it. such complete and overwhelming victory would lift the south from her slough of despair. with a shout of triumph he spurred his horse neck to neck with his general. at two o'clock the blue lines were still rolling back on the river in hopeless confusion, the gray lines cheering and charging and crushing without mercy. a ball pierced johnston's right leg. dick saw his hand drop the rein for an instant and a look of pain sweep his handsome face. "you're wounded, sir?" he asked. "it's nothing, boy," he answered, "only a flesh cut--drive--drive--drive them!" without pause he rode on and on. he was riding the white horse of death--an artery had been cut and his precious life was slowly but surely ebbing away. he swayed in his saddle and dick dashed forward: "general, your wound must be dressed!" governor harris of tennessee, his aide, observed him at the same moment and spurred his horse to his side. the general turned his dim eyes to the governor and gasped: "i fear i'm mortally wounded--" he reeled in his saddle and would have fallen had not dick caught him and tenderly lowered him to the ground. the brave war governor of tennessee received the falling commander in his arms and helped dick bear him a short distance from the field into a deep ravine. dick took the flask of whiskey from his pocket and pressed it to his lips in vain. a moment and he was dead. in a passion of grief the boy threw his arms around his beloved chief and called through his tears and groans: "my god, general, you can't die--you mustn't die now! don't you hear the boys shouting? they're driving grant's army into the river. they've avenged donelson!--general--for god's sake speak to me--say you won't die--you can't, you can't--oh, lord god, save his precious life!--" no sign or answer came. his breast had ceased to move. the governor tenderly lifted the grief-stricken boy and sent him with his general's last message. "find beauregard and tell him he is in command of the field. not a word of the death of the chief until his victory is complete." dick saluted and sprang into the saddle. "i understand, sir." [illustration: "dick saluted and sprang into the saddle--'i understand, sir'"] it was late in the afternoon before he located general beauregard and delivered the fateful news. the victorious confederate army had furiously pressed its charge. johnston's word had passed from command to command. "forward--forward--let every order be forward!" everything had yielded at last before them. from camp to camp, from rallying point to rallying point the union hosts had been hurled, division piling on division in wild confusion. driven headlong, the broken ranks were thrown in panic on the banks of the river. thousands crouched in ravines and sought shelter under the steep bluffs of the river banks. trampling mobs were struggling in vain to board the transports and cross the river. the federal reserve line had been completely crushed, and the entire army, driven from the field they had held that morning, were huddled in a confused mass of a half mile around the pittsburg landing. the next charge of the confederates would hurl the whole army into the river or they must surrender. the gunboats had opened in vain. they were throwing their shells a mile beyond the confederate lines where they fell harmlessly. the confederate division commanders were gathering their hosts for the last charge at sunset. there was yet an hour of daylight in which to end the struggle with the complete annihilation of the union army. down under the steep banks of the river's edge the demoralized remnants of the shattered divisions were already stacking their arms to surrender. they had made their last stand. general bragg turned to his aide: "tell major stewart of the twenty-first alabama to advance and drive the enemy into the river!" the aide saluted. "and carry that order along the whole line!" the aide put spurs to his horse to execute the command, when a courier dashed up from general beauregard's headquarters. "direct me to general bragg!" the aide pointed to the general and rode back with beauregard's courier. "general beauregard orders that you cease fighting and rest your men to-night." bragg turned his rugged dark face on the messenger with a scowl. "you have promulgated this order to the army?" "i have, sir--" "if you had not, i would not obey it--" he paused and threw one hand high above his head. "our victory has been thrown to the winds!" the sudden and inexplicable abandonment of this complete and overwhelming success was one of the most remarkable events in the history of modern warfare. the men bivouacked on the field. the blunder was fatal and irretrievable. even while the order was being given to cease firing the advance guard of buell's army was already approaching the other bank of the river. twenty-five thousand fresh men under cover of the darkness began to pour their long lines into position to save grant's shattered ranks. as night fell another misfortune was on the way to obscure the star of beauregard. his soldiers, elated with their wonderful victory, broke into disorderly plundering of the captured federal camps. except for a few thousand sternly disciplined troops under bragg's command the whole southern army suddenly degenerated into a mob of roving plunderers, mad with folly. in the rich stores of the federal army thousands of gallons of wines and liquors were found. hundreds of gray soldiers became intoxicated. while scenes of the wildest revelry and disorder were being enacted around the camp fires, buell's army was silently crossing the river under cover of the night and forming in line of battle for to-morrow's baptism of blood. albert sidney johnston's body lay cold in death--and the army of the victorious south had no head. better had there been no second general of full rank in the field. either of johnston's division commanders, bragg, hardee, polk or breckinridge, would have driven grant's panic-stricken mob into the river within an hour if let alone. but the little hero of bull run of the flower-decked tent halted his men to rest for the night at the very hour of the day when napoleon ordered his first charge on one of his immortal battlefields. beauregard gave his foe ample time for breakfast next morning. the sun was an hour high in the heavens before the battle was joined. the genius of johnston had surprised grant and rolled his army back on the river--never pausing for a moment to give him time to rally his broken ranks. but when beauregard leisurely led his disorganized army next morning against grant's new lines, there was no shock, no surprise--the line was ready. his panic-stricken men had been reorganized and massed in strong defensive position and reënforced by the divisions of generals nelson, mccook, crittenden, and thomas of buell's army--twenty-five thousand strong. lew wallace's division had also effected the junction and the federal front presented a solid wall of fifty-three thousand determined men against whom beauregard must now throw his little army of thirty thousand effective fighters. the assault was made with dash and courage. for four hours the battle raged with fury. the shattered regiments that had been surprised and crushed the day before, yielded at one time before the onslaughts of the confederates. by noon beauregard had sent into the shambles his last brigade and reserves and shortly afterwards gave his first order to withdraw his army. breckinridge's division covered the retreat and there was no attempt at pursuit. grant was only too glad to save his army. the first great battle of the war had been fought and won by the genius of the south's commander and its results thrown away by the hero of bull run. never was the wisdom of a great leader more thoroughly vindicated than was jefferson davis in the record albert sidney johnston made at shiloh. the men who had been loudest in demanding his removal stood dumb before the story of his genius. the death list of this battle sent a shiver of horror through the north and the south. all other battles of the war were but skirmishes to this. the confederate losses in killed, wounded and missing were ten thousand six hundred and ninety-nine. at bull run the combined armies of joseph e. johnston and beauregard lost but one thousand nine hundred and sixty-four men. grant's army lost thirteen thousand one hundred and sixty-two in killed, wounded and prisoners. mcdowell at bull run had lost but two thousand seven hundred, and yet was removed from his command. the rage against grant in the north was unbounded. the demand for his removal was so determined, so universal, so persistent, it was necessary for abraham lincoln to bow to it temporarily. lincoln positively refused to sacrifice his fighting general for his first error, but sent halleck into the field as commander-in-chief and left grant in command of his division. the bulldog fighter of the north learned his lesson at shiloh. the south never again caught him napping. great as the losses were to the north they were as nothing to the disaster which this bloody field brought to the confederacy. albert sidney johnston alive was equal to an army of a hundred thousand men--dead; his loss was irreparable. chapter xxvii the light that failed the struggle which jefferson davis was making to parry the force of the mortal blows delivered by the united states navy at last gave promise of startling success. the fight to establish the right of the confederacy to arm its allies under letters of marque and reprisal had been won by the southern president. the first armed vessel sailing under the orders of davis which was captured by the navy had brought the question to sharp issue. the washington government had proclaimed the vessels flying the confederate flag under letters of marque to be pirates and subject to the treatment of felons. the captain and the crew of the _savannah_ when captured had been put in irons and condemned to death as pirates. if the washington government could make good this daring assumption, the power of the confederacy to damage the commerce of the north would be practically destroyed at a blow. davis met the crisis with firmness. he selected an equal number of federal prisoners of war in richmond and threw them into a dungeon below libby prison. he dispatched a letter to washington whose language could not be misunderstood. "dare to execute an officer or sailor of the _savannah_, and i will put to death as felons an equal number of federal officers and men. i have placed them in close confinement and ordered similar treatment to that accorded our prisoners from the captured vessel." socola received a message summoning him to the house on church hill. a courier had arrived from washington. the government must know immediately if this threat were idle or genuine. if jefferson davis should dare to execute these thirteen officers and men, the administration could not resist the storm of indignant protest which would overwhelm it from the north. socola read the cipher dispatch by the dim light of the candle in his attic and turned to miss van lew. "my information in the state department is of the most positive kind. the prisoners have been put in the dungeon set apart for condemned felons and they but wait the word of the execution of the men from the _savannah_, to be led to certain death. it may be talk. we must know. apply for permission to visit the condemned men and minister to their comfort--" "at once," was the prompt response. "i've made friends with captain todd, the commandant of libby prison; i'll succeed." crazy bet appeared at libby prison next morning with a basket of flowers for the condemned men. captain todd humored her mania. poor old abolition fanatic, she could do no harm. she was too frank and outspoken to be dangerous. besides, it was a war of brothers. his own sister was the wife of abraham lincoln. these condemned men were the best blood of the north. it was a pitiful tragedy. miss van lew, with a market basket on her arm, watched for socola's appearance from the office of the secretary of state. the young clerk was walking slowly down main street and turned into an unused narrow road at the foot of the hill. crazy bet, swinging the basket and humming a song, passed him without turning her head. "it's true," she whispered quickly, "all horribly true. thirteen of the finest officers of the union army have been condemned to death the moment the crew of the _savannah_ are executed--among them colonel cochrane of new york and colonel paul revere of massachusetts. the dispatch must go to-night." "to-night," was the short answer. within an hour socola's courier was on his way to washington with a message which unlocked the prison doors of the condemned men on both sides of the line. abraham lincoln stoutly opposed a repetition of the effort to treat confederate prisoners as outlaws, no matter where taken by land or sea. davis had established the legality of his letters of marque and reprisal beyond question. the united states navy in the first flood of its victories made another false step which brought to the south an hour of brilliant hope. captain wilkes overhauled a british steamer carrying the royal mail and took from her decks by force the commissioners mason and slidell whom davis had dispatched to europe to plead for the recognition of the confederacy. the north had gone wild with joy over the act and congress voted wilkes the thanks of the nation as its hero. great britain demanded an apology and the restoration of the prisoners, put her navy on a war footing and dispatched a division of her army to canada to strike the north by land as well as sea. the hard common sense of abraham lincoln rescued the national government from a delicate and dangerous situation. lincoln apologized to great britain, restored the confederate commissioners and returned with redoubled energy to the prosecution of the war. in answer to the shouts of demagogues and the reproaches of both friend and foe, the homely rail-splitter from the west had a simple answer. "one war at a time." jefferson davis watched this threat of british invasion with breathless intensity. he saw the hope of thus breaking the power of the navy fade with sickening disappointment. there was one more hope. the hull of the _merrimac_ had been raised from the bottom of the harbor of norfolk and the work of transforming her into a giant iron-clad ship capable of carrying a fighting crew of three hundred men had been completed, though her engines were slow. but the enthusiastic men set to this task by davis had accomplished wonders. their reports to him had raised high hopes of a sensation. if this new monster of the sea should succeed single handed in destroying the fleet of six vessels lying in hampton roads, the naval warfare of the world would be revolutionized in a day and overtures for peace might be within sight. the norfolk newspapers, under instructions from the confederate commandant, pronounced the experiment of the _merrimac_ a stupid and fearful failure. her engines were useless. her steering gear wouldn't work. her armament was so heavy she couldn't be handled. these papers were easily circulated at newport news and old point comfort among the officers and men of the federal fleet. the men who had built the strange craft knew she was anything but a failure. with eager, excited hands her crew finished the last touch of her preparations and with her guns shotted she slowly steamed out of the harbor of norfolk accompanied by two saucy little improvised gunboats, the _beaufort_ and the _raleigh_. her speed was not more than five knots an hour and she steered so badly the _beaufort_ was compelled to pull her into the main current of the channel more than once. the federal squadron lay off newport news, the _congress_ and the _cumberland_ well out in the stream, the _minnesota_, _roanoke_ and _st. lawrence_ further down toward fortress monroe. the _congress_, _cumberland_ and _st. lawrence_ mounted one hundred and twenty-four guns, twenty-two of them of nine-inch caliber. their crews aggregated more than a thousand men. the new crack steam frigates _minnesota_ and _roanoke_ had crews of six hundred men each and carried more than eighty guns of nine and eleven-inch caliber. that any single craft afloat would dare attack such a squadron was preposterous. it was one o'clock before the strange black looking object swung into the channel and turned her nose up stream toward newport news. the crews of the _congress_ and the _cumberland_ were lounging on deck enjoying the balmy spring air. it was wash day and the clothes were fluttering in the breeze. they couldn't make out the foolish-looking thing at first. it looked like the top of a long-hipped roof house that had been sawed off at the eaves and pushed into the water. the two little river steamers that accompanied the raft seemed to be towing it. "what 'ell, bill, is that thing?" a sailor asked his mate on the _congress_. bill scanned the horizon. "i give it up, sir," he admitted. "i been a sailin' the seas for forty years--but that's one on me!" a battle signal suddenly flashed from the _cumberland_ and down came the wash lines. the _beaufort_ with a single thirty-two-pounder rifle mounted in her bow was steaming alongside the port of the strange craft. a puff of white smoke flared from her single gun and its dull roar waked the still beautiful waters of the virginia harbor. the _merrimac_ flung her big battle flag into the sky and her tiny escorts dropped down stream to give her free play. the _congress_ and the _cumberland_ were surprised, but they slipped their anchors in a jiffy, swung their guns in haste and began pouring a storm of shot on the iron sides of the coming foe. the _merrimac_ moved forward with slow, steady throb as though the shot that rained on her slanting sides were so many pebbles thrown by school boys. she passed the _congress_ and pointed her ugly prow for the _cumberland_. the ship poured her broadside squarely into the face of the merrimac without damage and the bow gun roared an answer that pierced her bulwarks. through the thick cloud of heavy smoke that hung low on the water the throbbing monster bore straight down on the _cumberland_, struck her amidship and sent her to the bottom. as the gallant ship sank in sickening lurches her brave crew cheered her to her grave and continued firing her useless guns until the waves engulfed the decks. when her keel touched the bottom her flag was still flying from her masthead. she rolled over on her beam's end and carried the flag beneath the waves. the confederate mosquito fleet, consisting of the little gunboats _patrick henry_, _teaser_ and _jamestown_, swung down from the river now, ran boldly past the flaming shore batteries and joined in the attack on the federal squadron. the _congress_ had set one of her sails and with the aid of a tug was desperately working to reach shoal water before she could be sunk. her captain succeeded in beaching her directly under the guns of the shore batteries. at four o'clock she gave up the bloody unequal contest and hauled down her colors. the _minnesota_, _roanoke_ and _st. lawrence_, in trying to reach the scene of the battle, had all been grounded. the _minnesota_ was still lying helpless in the mud as the sun set and the new monarch of the seas slowly withdrew to sewell's point to overhaul her machinery and prepare to finish her work next day. the _merrimac_ had lost twenty-one killed and wounded--among the wounded was her gallant flag officer, franklin buchanan. the _patrick henry_ had lost fourteen, the _beaufort_ eight, the _raleigh_ seven, including two officers. the federal squadron had lost two ships and four hundred men. but by far the greatest loss to the united states navy was the supremacy of the seas. the power of her fleets had been smashed at a blow. the ugly, black, powder-stained, iron thing lying under the guns of sewell's point had won the crown of the world's naval supremacy. the fleets of the united states were practically out of commission while she was afloat. the panic at the north which followed the startling news from hampton roads was indescribable. abraham lincoln hastily called a cabinet meeting to consider what action it was necessary to take to meet the now appalling situation. never before had any man in authority at washington realized how absolute was their dependence on the united states navy--how impossible it would be to maintain the government without its power. edwin m. stanton, the indefatigable secretary of war, completely lost his nerve at this cabinet meeting. he paced the floor with quick excited tread, glancing out of the window of the white house toward the waters of the potomac with undisguised fear. "i am sure, gentlemen," he said to the cabinet, "that monster is now on her way to washington. in my opinion we will have a shell from one of her big guns in the white house before we leave this room!" lincoln was profoundly depressed but refused to believe the cause of the union could thus be completely lost at a single blow from a nondescript, iron raft. yet it was only too easy to see that the moral effect of this victory would be crushing on public opinion. the wires to washington were hot with frantic calls for help. new york was ready to surrender at the first demand. so utter was the demoralization at fortress monroe, the one absolutely impregnable fort on the atlantic coast, that the commander had already determined to surrender in answer to the first shot the _merrimac_ should fire. the preparations for moving mcclellan's army to the virginia peninsula for the campaign to capture richmond were suddenly halted. two hundred thousand men must rest on their arms until this crisis should pass. all orders issued to the army of the potomac were now made contingent on the destruction of the iron monster lying in hampton roads. by one of the strangest coincidences in history the united states navy had completed an experiment in floating iron at precisely the same moment. while the guns of the battle were yet echoing over the waters of the harbor, this strange little craft, a floating iron cheese box, was slowly steaming into the virginia capes. at nine o'clock that night ericsson's _monitor_ was beside the panic-stricken _roanoke_. when c. s. bushnell took the model of this strange craft to washington, he was referred to commander c. h. davis by the naval board. when davis had examined it he handed it back to bushnell with a pitying smile: "take the little thing home, and worship it. it would not be idolatry, because it's made in the image of nothing in the heaven above or the earth beneath or in the waters under the earth." wiser councils had prevailed, and the floating cheese box was completed and arrived in hampton roads in time to put its powers to supreme test. the _merrimac's_ crew ate their breakfast at their leisure and prepared to drive their ugly duckling into the battle line again and finish the work of destroying the battered federal squadron. the _merrimac_ had fought the battle of the day before under the constant pounding of more than one hundred guns bearing on her iron sides. her armor was intact. two of her guns were disabled by having their muzzles shot off. her nose had been torn off and sank with the _cumberland_. one anchor, her smoke stacks and steam pipes were shot away. every scrap of her railing, stanchions, and boat davits had been swept clean. her flag staff was gone and a boarding pike had been set up in its place. with stern faces, and absolutely sure of victory, her crew swung her into the stream, crowded on full steam and moved down on the _minnesota_. close under the ship's side they saw for the first time the cheese box. they had heard of the experiment of her building but knew nothing of her arrival. her insignificant size was a surprise and the big _merrimac_ dashed at her with a sullen furious growl of her big guns. the game little bulldog swung out from the _minnesota_ and made straight for the onrushing monster. the flotilla of gunboats had been signaled to retire and watch the duel. from the big eleven-inch guns of the _monitor_ shot after shot was hurled against the slanting armored walls of the _merrimac_. broadside after broadside poured from her guns against the iron-clad tower of the _monitor_. the _merrimac_, drawing twenty feet of water, was slow and difficult to handle. the game little _monitor_ drew but twelve feet and required no maneuvering. her tower revolved. she could stand and fight in one spot all day. the big black hull of the _merrimac_ bore down on the _monitor_ now to ram and sink her at a blow. the nimble craft side stepped the avalanche of iron, turned quickly and attempted to jamb her nose into the steering gear of the southerner--but in vain. for two solid hours the iron-clads pounded and hammered each other. the shots made no impression on either boat. again the _merrimac_ tried to ram her antagonist and run her aground. the nimble foe avoided the blow, though struck a grinding, crushing side-swipe. the little _monitor_ now stuck her nose squarely against the side of the _merrimac_, held it there, and fired both her eleven-inch guns against the walls of the southerner. the charge of powder was not heavy enough. no harm was done. the impact of the shots had merely forced the sloping sides an inch or two. the captain of the _merrimac_ turned to his men in sharp command. "all hands on deck. board and capture her!" the smoke-smeared crew swarmed to the portholes and were just in the act of springing on the decks of the _monitor_, when she backed quickly and dropped down stream. after six hours of thunder in each other's faces the _monitor_ drew away into the shoal waters guarding the _minnesota_. the _merrimac_ could not follow her in the shallows and at two o'clock turned her prow again toward sewell's point. the battle was a drawn conflict. but the plucky little _monitor_ had won a tremendous moral victory. she had rescued the navy in the nick of time. the government at washington once more breathed. from the heights of rejoicing the south sank again to the bitterness of failure. for twenty-four hours her flag had been mistress of the seas. jefferson davis saw the hope of peace fade into the certainty of a struggle for the possession of richmond. the way had been cleared. mcclellan's two hundred thousand men were rushing on their transports for the virginia peninsula. chapter xxviii the snare of the fowler long before jennie barton arrived in richmond socola had waked to the realization of the fact that he had been caught in the trap he had set for another. he had laughed at his growing interest in the slender dark little southerner. he imagined that he had hypnotized himself into the idea that he really liked her. he had kept no account of the number of visits he had made. they were part of his programme. they had grown so swiftly into the habit of his thought and life he had not stopped to question the motive that prompted his zeal in pressing his attentions. in fact his mind had become so evenly adjusted to hers, his happiness had been so quietly perfect, he had lost sight of the fact that he was pressing his attentions at all. the day she was suddenly called south and he said good-by with her brown eyes looking so frankly into his he was brought sharply up against the fact that he was in love. when he took her warm hand in his to press it for the last time, he felt an almost resistless impulse to bend and kiss her. from that moment he realized that he was in love--madly, hopelessly, desperately. he had left the car and hurried back to his post in the state department, his heart beating like a trip hammer. it was a novel experience. he had never taken girls seriously before. the last girl on earth he had ever meant to take seriously was this slip of a southern enthusiast. for a moment he was furious at the certainty of his abject surrender. he lifted his eyes to the big columns of the confederate capitol and laughed: "come, come, man--common sense--this is a joke! forget it all. to your work--your country calls!" somehow the country refused to issue but one call--the old eternal cry of love. wherever he turned, jennie's brown eyes were smiling into his. he looked at the confederate capitol to inspire him to deeds of daring and all he could remember was that she was a glorious little rebel with three brothers fighting for the flag that floated there. all he could get out of the supreme emblem of the "rebellion" was that it was her capitol and _her_ flag and he loved her. and then he laughed for sheer joy that love had come into his heart and made the world beautiful. he surrendered himself body and soul to the madness and wonder of it all. if he could only see his mother and tell her, she could understand. he couldn't talk to the bundle of nerves miss van lew had become. her eyes burned each day with a deeper and deeper light of fanatical patriotism. he had yielded none of his own enthusiasm. but this secret of his heart was too sweet to be shared by a comrade in arms. only god's eye, or the soul of the mother who bore him, could understand what he felt. the realization of his love for jennie brought a new fear into his heart. his nerve was put daily to supreme test in the dangerous work in which he was engaged. a single mistake would start an investigation sure to end with a rope around his neck. love had given life a new meaning. the chatter of the squirrels in the capitol square was all about their homes and babies in the tree tops. the song of birds in the old flower garden on church hill made his heart thump with a joy that was agony. the flowers were just bursting into full bloom and their perfume filled the air with the lazy dreaming of the southern spring. he must speak his love. his heart would burst with its beating. his mate must know. and she had returned to richmond with a bitterness against the north that was something new in the development of her character. the newspapers of richmond had published an elaborate account of the sacking of her father's house, the smashing of its furniture and theft of its valuables. it had created a profound sensation. there was no mistaking the passion with which she had told this story. he had laughed at first over the fun of winning the fairest little rebel in the south and carrying his bride away a prize of war, against the combined efforts of his southern rivals. his love and pride had not doubted for a moment that her heart would yield to the man she loved no matter what uniform he might wear at the end of this war. he couldn't make up his mind to ask her to marry him until she should know his real name and his true principles. what would she do if the truth were revealed? his heart fairly stopped its beating at the thought. the fall of richmond he now regarded as a practical certainty. the _merrimac_ had proven a vain hope to the confederacy. mcclellan was landing his magnificent army on the peninsula and preparing to sweep all before him. mcdowell's forty thousand men were moving on his old line of march straight from washington. their two armies would unite before the city and circle it with an invincible wall of fire and steel. fremont, milroy and banks were sweeping through the valley of the shenandoah. their armies would unite, break the connections of the confederacy at lynchburg and the south would be crushed. that this would all be accomplished within thirty days he had the most positive assurances from washington. so sure was miss van lew of mcclellan's triumphant entry into richmond she had put her house in order for his reception. her parlor had been scrupulously cleaned. its blinds were drawn and the room dark, but a flag staff was ready and a union standard concealed in one of her feather beds. over the old house on church hill the emblem of the nation would first be flung to the breeze in the conquered capital of the confederacy. the certainty of his discovery in the rush of the union army into the city was now the nightmare which haunted his imagination. he could fight the confederate government on even terms. he asked no odds. his life was on the hazard. something more than the life of a union spy was at stake in his affair with jennie. her life and happiness were bound in his. he felt this by an unerring instinct. if this proud, sensitive, embittered girl should stumble on even a suspicion of the truth, she would tear her heart out of her body if necessary to put him out of her life. for a moment he was tempted to give up his work and return to the north. it was the one sure way to avoid discovery when richmond fell. the war over, he would have his even chance with other men when its bitterness had been softened. his work in richmond was practically done. his men could finish it. the number of soldiers in the southern armies had been accurately counted and reported to washington. why should he risk the happiness of the woman he loved and his own happiness for life by remaining another day? the thought had no sooner taken shape than he put it out of his mind. "bah! i've set my hand to a great task. i'm not a quitter. i'll stand by my guns. no true woman ever loved a coward!" he would take his chances and tell her his love. he lifted the old-fashioned brass knocker on senator barton's door and banged it with such force he laughed at his own foolish eagerness: "at least i needn't smash my way in!" he muttered. "yassah, des walk right in de parlor, sah," jennie's maid said, with her teeth shining in a knowing smile. senator barton had recovered from his illness. there could be no doubt about it. he was in the library holding forth in eloquent tones to a group of confederate congressmen who made his house their rendezvous. he was enjoying the martyrdom which the outrage on his home and the death of his aged mother and father had brought. he was using it to inveigh with new bitterness against the imbecility of jefferson davis and his administration. he held davis personally responsible for every defeat of the south. he was the one man who had caused the fall of new orleans, the loss of fort donelson and the failure to reap the victory at shiloh. "but you must remember, senator," one of his henchmen mildly protested, "that davis did save albert sidney johnston to us and that alone made a victory possible." "and what of it, if he threw it away by appointing a fool second in command?" there was a good answer to this--too good for the henchman to dare use it. he had sent beauregard west to join albert sidney johnston's command because barton's junta, supporting joseph e. johnston against the administration, would no longer tolerate beauregard in the same camp with their chief. they had demanded a free field for joseph e. johnston in the conflict with mcclellan or they had threatened his resignation and the disruption of the confederate army. the president, sick unto death over the wrangling of these two generals, had separated them and sent beauregard west where the genius of albert sidney johnston could use his personal popularity, and his own more powerful mind would neutralize in any council of war the little man's feeble generalship. socola listened to barton's fierce, unreasoning invective with a sense of dread. it was impossible to realize that this big-mouthed, bitter, vindictive, ridiculous politician was the father of the gentle girl he loved. there must be something of his power of malignant hatred somewhere in jennie's nature. he had caught just a glimpse of it in the story she had told the richmond papers. she stood in the doorway at last, a smiling vision of modest beauty. her dress of fine old lace seemed woven of the tender smiles that played about the sensitive mouth. he sprang to his feet and took her hand, his heart thumping with joy. she felt it tremble and laughed outright. "so you have returned a fiercer rebel than ever, miss jennie?" he said hesitatingly. he tried to say something purely conventional but it popped out when he opened his mouth--the ugly thought that was gnawing at his happiness. "yes," she answered thoughtfully, "i never realized before what it meant to be with my own people. i could have burned new orleans and laughed at its ruins to have smoked ben butler out of it--" "president davis has proclaimed him an outlaw i see," socola added. "if he can only capture and hang him, the people of louisiana would be perfectly willing to lose all--" "but your brother, the judge, is still loyal to the union--you can't hate him you know?" jennie's eyes flashed into socola's. why had he asked the one question that opened the wound in her heart? perhaps her mind had suggested it. she had scarcely spoken the bitter words before she saw the vision of his serious face and regretted it. "strange you should have mentioned my brother's name at the very moment his image was before me," the girl thoughtfully replied. "clairvoyance perhaps--" "you believe in such things?" jennie asked. "yes. my mother leaped from her bed with a scream one night and told me that she had seen my father's spirit, felt him bend over her and touch her lips. he had died at exactly that moment." "wonderful, isn't it," jennie murmured softly, "the vision of love!" she was dreaming of the moments of her distress in the sacking of her home when the vision of this man's smiling face had suddenly set her to laughing. "yes," socola answered. "i asked you about your older brother because i don't like the idea of you poisoning your beautiful young life with hatred. such thoughts kill--they can't bring health and strength, miss jennie." "of course," the girl responded tenderly, "you can see things more calmly. you can't understand how deep the knife has entered our hearts in the south." "that's just what i do understand. it's that against which i'm warning you. this war can't last always you know. there must be a readjustment--" "between the north and south?" "of course--" "never!" with sudden emotion she leaped to her feet her little fists clinched. she stood trembling in silence for a moment and her face paled. "no, signor," she went on in cold tones. "there can be no readjustment of this war. it's to the death now. i confess myself a rebel body and soul--_confess_? i glory in it! i'm proud of being one. i thought my father extravagant at first. ben butler has changed my views. the south can't look back now. it's forward--forward--always forward to death--or independence!" she paused overcome with emotion. "yes," she went on in quick tones, "i thank god we're two different tribes! i'm proud of the south and her old-fashioned, out-of-date chivalry. the south respects and honors women. god never made the southern white man who could issue butler's orders in new orleans or insult the heart-broken women who are forced to enter his office with the vile motto he has placed over his desk--" socola lifted his hand in gentle smiling protest. "but you must remember, miss jennie, that general butler is a peculiar individual. he probably does not represent the best that's in new england--" "god knows i hope not for their sakes," was the answer. "i only wish i could fight in the ranks with our boys. if i can't fight at least i'm going to help our men in other ways. i'll work with my hands as a slave. i'll sew and knit and nurse. i'll breathe my soul into the souls of our men. i sing dixie when i rise in the morning. i hum it all day. i sing it with my last thoughts as i go to sleep." socola moved uneasily. she looked at him a moment with an expression of sudden tenderness. "i can't tell you how proud and happy i am in the thought that i may have helped you to give your brilliant mind to the service of the south. it's my offering to my country and her cause!" it was impossible to resist the glow of love in her shining face. socola felt his soul dissolve. with a little gesture of resignation she dropped to a seat on the lounge beside the window, her young face outlined against a mass of early roses in full bloom. their perfume poured through the window and filled the room. socola seated himself deliberately by her side and held her gaze with direct purpose. she saw and understood and her heart beat in quick response. "you realize that you _are_ the incarnate cause of the south for me?" she smiled triumphantly. "i have always known it." there was no silly boasting in her tones, no trace of the southern girl's light mood with one of her numerous beaux. her words were spoken with deliberate tenderness. "and yet how deeply and wonderfully you could not know--" "i have guessed perhaps--" he took her hand in his. "i love you, jennie--" her voice was the tenderest whisper. "and i love you, my sweetheart--" he clasped her in his arms and held her in silence. she pushed him at arm's length and looked wistfully into his face. "for the past month my heart has been singing. through all the shame and misery of the sacking of our home, i could laugh and be happy--foolishly happy, because i knew that you loved me--" "how did you know?" "you told me--" "when?" "with the last little touch of your hand when i went south." he pressed it with desperate tenderness. "it shall be forever?" "forever!" "neither life nor death, nor height nor depth can separate us?" "what could separate us, my lover? you are mine. i am yours. you have given your life to our cause--" "i am but a soldier of fortune--" "you are my soldier--you have given your life because i asked it. i give you mine in return--" "swear to me that you'll love me always!" she answered with a kiss. "i swear it." again he clasped her in his arms and hurried from the house. the twilight was falling. artillery wagons were rumbling through the streets. a troop train had arrived from the south. its regiments were rushing across the city to reënforce mcgruder's thin lines on the peninsula. mcclellan's guns were already thundering on the shores. he hurried to the house on church hill, his dark face flushed with happiness, his heart beating a reveille of fear and joy. chapter xxix the panic in richmond richmond now entered the shadows of her darkest hour. three armies were threatening from the west commanded by fremont, milroy, and banks, whose forces were ordered to unite. mcdowell with forty thousand men lay at fredericksburg and threatened a junction with mcclellan, who was moving up the peninsula with an effective army of , . joseph e. johnston had under his command more than fifty thousand with which to oppose mcclellan's advance. it was the opinion of davis and lee that the stand for battle should be made on the narrow neck of the peninsula which lent itself naturally to defense. to retreat toward richmond would not only prove discouraging to the army, and precipitate a panic in the city, it meant the abandonment of norfolk, the loss of the navy yard, the destruction of the famous iron-clad, and the opening of the james river to the gunboats of the enemy to drury's bluff within twelve miles of the confederate capital. in this crisis johnston gave confirmation to the worst fears of the president. he displayed the constitutional timidity and hesitation to fight which marked every step of his military career to its tragic end. with the greatest army under his command which the confederacy had ever brought together--with longstreet, mcgruder and g. w. smith as his lieutenants, he was preparing to retreat without a battle. the president called in council of war general lee, randolph, the secretary of war, and general johnston. johnston asked that longstreet and smith be invited. the president consented. after full consultation, davis decided, with lee's approval to hold the peninsula, save the navy yard and keep command of the james. and johnston received orders accordingly. with characteristic stubbornness the field commander persisted in his determination to retreat without a battle. with aching heart davis sent him a telegram. "richmond, va., may st, . "general joseph e. johnston, "yorktown, va. "accepting your conclusion that you must soon retire, arrangements are commenced for the abandonment of the navy yard and removal of public property from norfolk and the peninsula. "your announcement to-day that you would withdraw to-morrow night, takes us by surprise and must involve enormous losses, including unfinished gunboats. will the safety of your army allow more time? "jefferson davis." johnston had retreated from his base at manassas with absurd haste, burning enormous stores and supplies of which the confederacy was in desperate need. the losses now occasioned by his hasty withdrawal from yorktown were even more serious. the destruction of the iron-clad which had smashed the federal fleet in hampton roads sent a shiver of horror throughout the south. * * * * * the fiery trial through which davis was passing brought out the finest traits of his strong character. he had received ample warning that one of the first places marked for destruction by the federal fleet passing up the mississippi river was his home "briarfield." he refused to send troops to defend it. his house was sacked, his valuable library destroyed, the place swept bare of his fine blooded stock and the negroes deported by force. to his wife he wrote: "you will see the notice of the destruction of our home. if our cause succeeds we shall not mourn our personal deprivation; if it should not, why--'the deluge.' i hope i shall be able to provide for the comfort of the old negroes." uncle bob and aunt rhinah had been roughly handled by butler's men. the foragers utterly refused to believe them when they told of their master's kindness in giving them piles of blankets. they were roughly informed that they had stolen them from the house and their treasures were confiscated amid the lamentations of the aged couple. the two precious rocking chairs were left them but of blankets and linens they were stripped bare. * * * * * with johnston's army in retreat toward richmond, his rear guard of but twelve thousand men under general mcgruder had demonstrated the wisdom of davis' position that the peninsula could be successfully defended. mcgruder's little army held mcclellan at bay for nearly thirty days. he was dislodged from his position with terrible slaughter of the union forces. mcclellan's army lost two thousand two hundred and seventy-five men in this encounter, mcgruder less than a thousand. had johnston concentrated his fifty thousand men on this line mcclellan would never have taken it, and the only iron-clad the south possessed might have been saved. the daring commander of the _merrimac_, while mcclellan was encamped before yorktown, had appeared in hampton roads and challenged the whole federal fleet again to fight. the _monitor_ had taken refuge under the guns of fortress monroe and refused to come out. the ugly duckling of the confederacy, in plain view of the whole federal fleet and witnessed by french and english vessels, captured three schooners and carried them into port as prizes of war. when norfolk was abandoned, the iron-clad drew so much water she could only ascend the james by lightening her until her wooden sides showed above the water line. she was therefore set on fire and blown up on johnston's retreat uncovering the banks of the james to the artillery of mcclellan. the federal fleet could now dash up the james. they did this immediately on the news of the destruction of the confederate iron-clad. on may fifteenth, the _galena_, the _aroostook_, the _monitor_, the _port royal_, and the _stevens_ steamed up the river without opposition to drury's bluff within twelve miles of the capital of the south. a half-finished fort mounting four guns guarded this point. the river was also obstructed by a double row of piles and sunken vessels. if the eleven-inch guns of the _monitor_ could be brought to bear on this fort, it was a problem how long the batteries could be held in action. the wildest alarm swept richmond. the railroads were jammed with frantic people trying to get out. the depots were piled with mountains of baggage it was impossible to move. a mass meeting was held on the night the fleet ascended the river which was addressed by governor letcher and mayor mayo. the governor ended his speech with a sentence that set the crowd wild with enthusiasm. "sooner than see our beloved city conquered to-day by our enemies we will lay it in ashes with our own hands!" the legislature of virginia showed its grit by passing a resolution practically inviting the president of the confederacy to lay the city in ruins if he deemed wise: "_resolved_, that the general assembly hereby expresses its desire that the capital of the state be _defended to the last extremity_, if such defense is in accordance with the views of the president of the confederate states, and that the president be assured that whatever destruction and loss of property of the state or of individuals shall thereby result, will be cheerfully submitted to." when the committee handed this document to jefferson davis, he faced them with a look of resolution: "richmond will not be abandoned, gentlemen, until mcclellan marches over the dead bodies of our army. not for one moment have i considered the idea of surrendering the capital--" "good!" "thank god!" "hurrah for the president!" the committee grasped his hand, convinced that no base surrender of their capital would be tolerated by their leader. "rest assured, gentlemen," he continued earnestly, "if blood must be shed, it shall be here. no soil of the confederacy could drink it more acceptably and none hold it more gratefully. we shall stake all on this one glorious hour for our republic. life, death, and wounds are nothing if we shall be saved from the fate of a captured capital and a humiliated confederacy--" the government and the city had need of grim resolution. the federal fleet moved up into range and opened fire on the batteries at drury's bluff. the little confederate gunboat _patrick henry_ which had won fame in the first engagement of the _merrimac_ steamed down into line and joined her fire with the fort. general lee had planted light batteries on the banks of the river to sweep the decks of the fleet with grape and cannister. the little _monitor_, the _galena_, and the _stevens_ steamed straight up to within six hundred yards of the battery of the fort and opened with their eleven-inch guns. the _galena_ and the _stevens_ were iron-clad steamers with thin armor. for four hours the guns thundered. the batteries poured a hail of shot on the _monitor_. they bounded off her round-tower and her water-washed decks like pebbles. the rifled gun on the _stevens_ burst and disabled her. the _galena_ was pierced by heavy shot and severely crippled, losing thirty-seven of her men. as the _monitor_ was built, it was impossible to make effective her guns at close range against the high bluff on which the confederate battery was placed. at eleven o'clock the crippled fleet slowly moved down the river and richmond was saved. * * * * * when johnston in his retreat up the peninsula reached the high ground near the chickahominy river, he threw out his lines and prepared to give mcclellan battle. he dispatched a messenger to the president at richmond informing him of this fact. the cabinet was in session. a spirited discussion ensued. the secretary of war and the whole council were alarmed at the prospect of battle on such an ill chosen position. his rear would rest on an enormous swamp through which the treacherous river flowed. there were no roads or bridges of sufficient capacity to take his army rapidly if he should be compelled to retreat. "i suggest, mr. president," said the secretary of war, "that you call general johnston's attention to this fact." davis shook his head emphatically. "no, gentlemen. we have entrusted the command to general johnston. it is his business with all the facts before him to know what is best. it would be utterly unfair and very dangerous to attempt to control his operations by advice from the capital." davis was too great a general and too generous and just to deny johnston his opportunity for supreme service to his country. it was the fixed policy of the president to select the best man for the position to which he assigned him and leave the responsibility of action on the field to his judgment. on the following morning instead of a report of battle the president received a dispatch announcing that his general had decided to cross the chickahominy river and use its swamps and dangerous crossings as his line of defense. the cabinet expressed its sense of profound relief and davis watched his commander with an increase of confidence in his judgment. if the narrow roads and weak bridges across the river were guarded, an army of half his size could hold mcclellan for months. the nearest crossing was twenty-five miles from richmond. general reagan of the cabinet rode down that night to see hood at the head of his texas brigade. at noon next day on returning to the city he saw the president coming out of his office. the long arm of the chief was lifted and reagan halted. "wait a minute--" "at your service, mr. president." "get your dinner and ride down to the chickahominy with me. i want to see general johnston." reagan shouted an answer which the president failed to catch: "you won't have to go to the chickahominy to see johnston!" joining reagan after dinner the president rode rapidly through the suburban district called "the rockets," and had reached the high ground beyond. a half mile away stretched a vast field of white tents. "whose camp is that?" davis asked in surprise. "hood's brigade," reagan replied. "why hood's on the chickahominy twenty-odd miles from here--" "i camped here with them last night, sir--" "impossible!" reagan watched the thin face of the confederate chieftain grow deadly pale. "if you wish to see general johnston, mr. president, you'll find him in that red brick house on the right--" reagan pointed in the direction of the house. the president looked at his friend a moment, a quizzical expression relieving his anxiety. "of course--it's a joke, reagan." "it's true, sir!" davis shook his head: "general johnston is on the chickahominy guarding the crossings. i sent my aide with a dispatch to him last night." "he hadn't returned when you left the office--" "no--" "i thought not. there can be no mistake, sir. i saw general johnston and his staff enter that house and establish his headquarters there--" "here in the suburbs of richmond?" "right here, sir--" davis put spurs to his horse, and waved to his aide: "colonel ives--come!" reagan turned and rode again into hood's camp. the president rode straight to johnston's headquarters. he sprang to the ground with a quick decisive leap. the ceremony between the two men was scant. no words were wasted. "you have moved your army into the suburbs of richmond, general johnston?" "i have--" "why?" "i consider this better ground--" "you have left no rear guard to contest mcclellan's crossing?" "no." "may i ask why you chose to give up the defenses of such a river without a blow?" "my army was out of provisions--" "they could have been rushed to you--" "the ground near the chickahominy is low and marshy. the water is bad--" "and you have come to the very gates of the city?" "because the ground is dry, the water good, and we are near our supplies--" the president's lips trembled with rage. "and mcclellan can now plant his guns within six miles and his soldiers hear our church bells on sunday--" "possibly--" the president's eye pierced his general. "richmond is to be surrendered without a battle?" "that depends, sir, upon conditions--" the confederate chief suddenly threw his thin hands above his head and faced his stubborn sulking commander. "if you are not going to give battle, i'll appoint a man in your place who will--" before johnston could reply the president turned on his heel, waved to colonel ives, mounted his horse and dashed into the city. his cabinet was called in hasty consultation with general lee. davis turned to his counselors. "gentlemen, i have just held a most amazing conference with general johnston. you were afraid he would fight beyond the chickahominy. he has crossed the river, left its natural defenses unguarded, and has run all the way to town without pause. i have told him to fight or get out of the saddle. in my judgment he intends to back straight through the city and abandon it without a blow. we must face the situation." he turned to lee. the question he was going to put to the man in whom he had supreme confidence would test both his judgment and his character. on his answer would hang his career. if it should be what the confederate chief believed, lee was the man of destiny and his hour had struck. "in case johnston abandons richmond," the president slowly began, "where in your opinion, general lee, is the next best line of defense?" lee's fine mouth was set for a moment. he spoke at first with deliberation. "as a military engineer, my answer is simple. the next best line of defense would be at staten river--but--" he suddenly leaped to his feet, his eyes streaming with tears. "richmond must not be given up--it shall not be given up!" davis sprang to his side and clasped lee's hand. "so say i, general!" from that moment the president and his chief military adviser lived on johnston's battle line, lee ready at a moment's notice to spring into the saddle and hurl his men against mcclellan the moment johnston should falter. the commander was forced to a decision for battle. he could not allow his arch enemy to remove him without a fight. the retreat across the chickahominy had given mcclellan an enormous advantage which his skillful eye saw at once. he threw two grand divisions of his army across the river and pushed his siege guns up within six miles of richmond. his engineers immediately built substantial bridges across the stream over which he could move in safety his heaviest guns in any emergency, either for reënforcements or retreat. he swung his right wing far to the north in a wide circling movement until he was in easy touch with mcdowell's forty thousand men at fredericksburg. mcclellan was within sight of the consummation of his hopes. when this wide movement of his army had been successfully made without an arm lifted to oppose, he climbed a tall tree within sight of richmond from which he could view the magnificent panorama. a solid wall of living blue with glittering bayonets and black-fanged batteries of artillery, his army spread for ten miles. beyond them here and there only he saw patches of crouching gray in the underbrush or crawling through the marshes. the northern commander came down from his perch and threw his arms around his aide: "we've got them, boy!" he cried enthusiastically. "we've got them!" it was not to be wondered at that the boastful oratorical confederate congress should have taken to their heels. they ran in such haste, the people of richmond began to laugh and in their laughter took fresh courage. a paper printed in double leads on its first page a remarkable account of the stampede: "for fear of accident on the railroad, the stampeded congress left in a number of the strongest and swiftest of our new canal-boats. the boats were drawn by mules of established sweetness of temper. to protect our law-makers from snakes and bullfrogs that infest the line of the canal, general winder detailed a regiment of ladies to march in advance of the mules, and clear the tow-path of these troublesome pirates. the ladies are ordered to accompany the confederate congress to a secluded cave in the mountains of hepsidan, and leave them there in charge of the children of that vicinity until mcclellan thinks proper to let them come forth. the ladies will at once return to the defense of their country." the president for a brief time was free of his critics. on may thirty-first, johnston's army, under the direct eye of davis and lee on the field, gave battle to mcclellan's left wing--comprising the two grand divisions that had been pushed across the chickahominy to the environs of richmond. the opening attack was delayed by the failure of general holmes to strike mcclellan's rear as planned. a terrific rain storm the night before had flooded a stream and it was impossible for him to cross. late in the afternoon longstreet and hill hurled their divisions through the thick woods and marshes on mcclellan. longstreet's men drove before them the clouds of blue skirmishers, plunged into the marshes with water two feet deep and dashed on the fortified lines of the enemy. the southerners crept through the dense underbrush to the very muzzles of the guns in the redoubts, charged, cleared them, grappling hand to hand with the desperate men who fought like demons. line after line was thus carried until at nightfall mcclellan's left wing had been pushed back over two miles through swamp and waters red with blood. the slaughter had been frightful in the few hours in which the battle had raged. on the confederate left where johnston commanded in person the union army held its position until dark, unbroken. johnston fell from his horse wounded and davis on the field immediately appointed general lee to command. the appointment of lee to be commander-in-chief not only intensified the hatred of johnston for the president, it made g. w. smith, the man who was johnston's second, his implacable enemy for life. technically g. w. smith would have succeeded to the command of the army had not davis exercised his power on the field of battle to appoint the man of his choice. in no act of his long, eventful life did davis evince such clearness of vision and quick decision, under trying conditions. lee had failed in western virginia and mcclellan had out-generaled him, the yellow journals had declared. they called lee "old spade." so intense was the opposition to lee that davis had sent him to erect the coast defenses of south carolina. the governor of the state protested against the appointment of so incompetent a man to this important work. davis sent the governor an emphatic message in reply: "if robert e. lee is not a general i have none to send you." davis now called the man whom mcclellan had defeated to the supreme command against mcclellan at the head of his grand army in sight of the housetops of richmond. only a leader of the highest genius could have dared to make such a decision in such a crisis. davis made it without a moment's hesitation and in that act of individual will gave to the world the greatest commander of the age. chapter xxx the deliverance from the moment davis placed lee in the saddle order slowly emerged from chaotic conditions and the first rays of light began to illumine the fortunes of the confederacy. modest and unassuming in his personality, he demonstrated from the first his skill as an organizer and his power in the conception and execution of far-reaching strategy. from the moment he breathed his spirit into the army he made it a rapid, compact, accurate and terrible engine of war. the contemptible assault of the richmond _examiner_ fell harmless from the armor of his genius. davis was bitterly denounced for his favoritism in passing g. w. smith and appointing governor letcher's pet. he was accused of playing a game of low politics to make "a spawn of west point" the next governor of virginia. but events moved with a pace too swift to give the yellow journals or the demagogues time to get their breath. lee had sent jackson into the valley of the shenandoah to make a diversion which might hold the armies moving on the capital from the west and at the same time puzzle mcdowell at fredericksburg. lee, jackson and davis were three men who worked in perfect harmony from the moment they met in their first council of war at the white house of the confederacy. so perfect was lee's confidence in jackson, he was sent into the valley unhampered by instructions which would interfere with the execution of any movement his genius might suggest. left thus to his own initiative, jackson conceived the most brilliant series of engagements in the history of modern war. he determined to use his infantry by forced marches to cover in a day the ground usually made by cavalry and fall on the armies of his opponents one by one before they could form a juncture. on may , by a swift, silent march of his little army of fifteen thousand men, he took banks completely by surprise, crushed and captured his advance guard at fort royal, struck him in the flank and drove him back into strassburg, through winchester, and hurled his shattered army in confusion and panic across the potomac on its washington base. desperate alarm swept the capital of the union. stanton, the secretary of war, issued a frantic appeal to the governors of the northern states for militia to defend washington. panic reigned in the cities of the north. governors and mayors issued the most urgent appeals for enlistments. fremont was ordered to move with all possible haste and form a juncture with a division of mcdowell's army and cut off jackson's line of retreat. the wily confederate general wheeled suddenly and rushed on fremont before shields could reach him. on june , at cross keys, he crushed fremont, turned with sudden eagle swoop and defeated shields at port republic. washington believed that jackson commanded an enormous army, and that the national capital was in danger of his invading host. the defeated armies of milroy, banks, fremont and shields were all drawn in to defend the city. in this campaign of a few weeks jackson had marched his infantry six hundred miles, fought four pitched battles and seven minor engagements. he had defeated four armies, each greater than his own, captured seven pieces of artillery, ten thousand stands of arms, four thousand prisoners and enormous stores of provisions and ammunition. it required a train of wagons twelve miles long to transport his treasures--every pound of which he saved for his government. he was never surprised, never defeated, never lost a train or an organized piece of his army, put out of commission sixty thousand northern soldiers under four distinguished generals and in obedience to lee's command was now sweeping through the mountain passes to the relief of richmond. while jackson was thus moving to join his forces with lee, washington was shivering in fear of his attack. on the day jackson was scheduled to fall on the flank of mcclellan's besieging army lee moved his men to the assault. the first battle which johnston had joined at seven pines had only checked mcclellan's advance. the grand army of the potomac still lay on its original lines, and mcclellan had used every day in strengthening his entrenchments. lee had built defensive works to enable a part of his army to defend the city while he should throw the flower of his gray soldiers on his enemy in a desperate flank assault in coöperation with jackson. on the arrival of his triumphant lieutenant from the shenandoah valley lee suddenly sprang on mcclellan with the leap of a lion. the northern commander fought with terrible courage, amazed and uneasy over the discovery that jackson had suddenly appeared on his flank. within thirty-six hours mcclellan's right wing was crushed and in retreat. within seven days lee drove his grand army of more than a hundred thousand men from the gates of richmond thirty-five miles and hurled them on the banks of the james at harrison's landing under the shelter of the federal gunboats. instead of marching in triumph through the streets of the confederate capital, mcclellan congratulated himself and his government on his good fortune in saving his army from annihilation. his broken columns had reached a place of safety after a series of defeats which had demoralized his command and resulted in the loss of ten thousand prisoners and ten thousand more in killed and wounded. he had been compelled to abandon or burn stores valued at millions. the south had captured thirty-five thousand stand of arms and fifty-two pieces of artillery. lee in his report modestly expressed his disappointment that greater results had not been achieved. "under ordinary circumstances," he wrote, "the federal army should have been destroyed. its escape was due to causes already stated. prominent among them was the want of correct and timely information. the first, attributable chiefly to the character of the country, enabled general mcclellan skillfully to conceal his retreat and to add much to the obstructions with which nature had beset the way of our pursuing column. but regret that more was not accomplished gives way to gratitude to the sovereign ruler of the universe for the results achieved." jackson, the grim soldier, whose habit was to pray all night before battle, wrote with the fervor of the religious enthusiast. "undying gratitude is due to god for this great victory--by which despondency increases in the north, hope brightens in the south and the capital of virginia and the confederacy is saved." a wave of exultation swept the south--while death stalked through the streets of richmond. instead of the tramp of victorious hosts, their bayonets glittering in the sunlight, which socola had confidently expected, he watched from the windows of the department of state the interminable lines of ambulances bearing the wounded from the fields of mcclellan's seven-days' battle. the darkened room on church hill was opened. miss van lew had watched the glass rattle under the thunder of mcclellan's guns, and then with sinking heart heard their roar fade in the distance until only the rumble of the ambulances through the streets told that he had been there. she burned the flag. it was too dangerous a piece of bunting to risk in her house now. it would be many weary months before she would need another. through every hour of the day and night since lee sprang on mcclellan, those never-ending lines of ambulances had wound their way through the streets. every store and every home and every public building had been converted into a hospital. the counters of trade were moved aside and through the plate glass along the crowded streets could be seen the long rows of pallets on which the mangled bodies of the wounded lay. every home set aside at least one room for the wounded boys of the south. the heart-rending cries of the men from the wagons as they jolted over the cobble stones rose day and night--a sad, weird requiem of agony, half-groan, half-chant, to which the ear of pity could never grow indifferent. death was the one figure now with which every man, woman and child was familiar. the rattle of the dead-wagons could be heard at every turn. they piled them high, these uncoffined bodies of the brave, and hurried them under the burning sun to the trenches outside the city. they piled them in long heaps to await the slow work of the tired grave-diggers. the frail board coffins in which they were placed at last would often burst from the swelling corpse. the air was filled with poisonous odors. the hospitals were jammed with swollen, disfigured bodies of the wounded and the dying. gangrene and erysipelas did their work each hour in the weltering heat of mid-summer. but the south received her dead and mangled boys with a majesty of grief that gave no cry to the ear of the world. mothers lifted their eyes from the faces of their dead and firmly spoke the words of resignation: "thy will, o lord, be done!" her houses were filled with the wounded, the dying and the dead, but richmond lifted up her head. the fields about her were covered with imperishable glory. the confederacy had won immortality. the women of the south resolved to wear no mourning for their dead. their boys had laid their lives a joyous offering on their country's altar. they would make no cry. johnston had lost six thousand and eighty-four men, dead, wounded and missing at seven pines, and lee had lost seventeen thousand five hundred and eighty-three in seven days of continuous battle. but the south was thrilled with the joy of a great deliverance. jefferson davis in his address to the army expressed the universal feeling of his people: "richmond, july , . "_to the army of eastern virginia_: "_soldiers_: "i congratulate you upon the series of brilliant victories which, under the favor of divine providence, you have lately won; and as president of the confederate states, hereby tender to you the thanks of the country, whose just cause you have so skillfuly and heroically saved. "ten days ago an invading army, vastly superior to yours in numbers and the material of war, closely beleaguered your capital and vauntingly proclaimed our speedy conquest. you marched to attack the enemy in his entrenchments. with well-directed movements and death-defying valor you charged upon him in his strong positions, drove him from field to field over a distance of more than thirty-five miles, and, despite his reënforcements, compelled him to seek safety under the cover of his gunboats, where he now lies cowering before the army so lately despised and threatened with utter subjugation. "the fortitude with which you have borne trial and privation, the gallantry with which you have entered into each successive battle, must have been witnessed to be fully appreciated. a grateful people will not fail to recognize you and to bear you in loved remembrance. well may it be said of you that you have 'done enough for glory,' but duty to a suffering country and to the cause of constitutional liberty claims for you yet further effort. let it be your pride to relax in nothing which can promote your future efficiency; your one great object being to drive the invader from your soil, and, carrying your standards beyond the outer borders of the confederacy, to wring from an unscrupulous foe the recognition of your birthright and independence." within the year from the fatal victory at bull run the south had through bitterness, tears and defeat at last found herself. under the firm and wise leadership of davis, her disasters had been repaired and her army brought to the highest standard of efficiency. at the head of her armies now stood robert e. lee and stonewall jackson. their fame filled the world. in the west, braxton bragg, a brilliant and efficient commander, was marshaling his army to drive the union lines into kentucky. from the depths of despair the south rose to the heights of daring assurance. for the moment the junta of politicians led by senator barton were compelled to halt in their assaults on the president. the people of the south had forgotten the issue of the date on joseph e. johnston's commission as general. with characteristic foolhardiness, however, barton determined that they should not forget it. he opened a series of bitter attacks on davis for the appalling lack of management which had permitted mcclellan to save what was left of his army. he boldly proclaimed the amazing doctrine that the wounding of johnston at seven pines was an irreparable disaster to the south. "had johnston remained in command," he loudly contended, "there can be no doubt that he would have annihilated or captured mcclellan's whole army and ended the war." on this platform he gave a banquet to general johnston on the occasion of his departure from richmond for his new command in the west. the senator determined to hold his faction together for future assaults. lee's record was yet too recent to permit the politicians to surrender without a fight. the banquet was to be a love feast at which all factions opposed to davis should be united behind the banner of johnston. henry s. foote had quarreled with william l. yancey. these two fire-eaters were enthusiastic partisans of his general. major barbour, johnston's chief quartermaster, presided at the head of the banquet table in old tom griffin's place on main street. foote was seated on his right, governor milledge t. bonham of south carolina next. then came gustavus w. smith, whose hatred of davis was implacable for daring to advance robert e. lee over his head. next sat john u. daniel, the editor of richmond's yellow journal, the _examiner_. daniel's arm was in a sling. he had been by johnston's side when wounded at seven pines. at the other end of the table sat major moore, the assistant quartermaster, and by his side on the left, general joseph e. johnston, full of wounds in the flesh and grievances of soul. on his right was john b. floyd of fort donelson fame whom davis had relieved of his command. and next william l. yancey, the matchless orator of secession, whose hatred of davis was greater than this old hatred of abolition. the feast was such as only tom griffin knew how to prepare. johnston as usual was grave and taciturn, still suffering from his unhealed wound. yancey and foote, the reconciled friends who had shaken hands in a common cause, were the life of the party. daniel, the editor of the organ of the soreheads and irreconcilables, was even more taciturn than his beloved chief. general bonham sang a love song. yancey and foote vied with each other in the brilliancy of their wit. when the banquet had lasted for two hours, yancey turned to old tom griffin and said: "fresh glasses now and bumpers of champagne!" when the glasses were filled the alabama orator lifted his glass. "this toast is to be drunk standing, gentlemen!" every man save johnston sprang to his feet. yancey looked straight into the eye of the general and shouted: "gentlemen! we drink to the health of the only man who can save the southern confederacy--general joseph e. johnston!" the glasses were emptied and a shout of applause rang from every banqueter save one. the general had not yet touched his glass. without rising, johnston lifted his eyes and said in grave tones: "mr. yancey, the man you describe is now in the field--his name is robert e. lee. i drink to his health." yancey's quick wit answered in a flash: "i can only reply to you, sir, as the speaker of the house of burgesses did to general washington--'your modesty is only equaled by your valor!'" johnston's tribute to lee was genuine, and yet nursing his grudge against the president with malignant intensity he left for the west, encouraging his friends to fight the chieftain of the confederacy with tooth and nail and that to the last ditch. chapter xxxi love and war captain richard welford reached richmond from the western army two days after lee had driven mcclellan under the shelter of the navy. he had been wounded in battle, promoted to the rank of captain for gallantry on the field and sent home on furlough for two months. he used his left hand to raise the knocker on jennie's door. his right arm was yet in a sling. his heart was beating a wild march as he rushed from the hotel to the senator's house. he had not heard from jennie in two months but the communications of the western army had been cut more than once and he thought nothing of the long silence. it had only made his hunger to see the girl he loved the more acute. he had fairly shouted his joy when a piece of shell broke his right arm and hurled him from his horse. he never thought of promotion for gallantry. it came as a surprise. the one hope that leaped when he scrambled to his feet and felt the helpless arm hanging by his side was to see the girl he had left behind. "glory to god!" he murmured fervently, "i'll go to her now!" he was just a little proud of that broken arm as he waited for her entrance. the shoulder straps he wore looked well, too. she would be surprised. it had all happened so quickly, no account had yet reached the richmond papers. jennie bounded into the room with a cry of joy. "oh, dick, i'm so glad to see you!" he smiled and extended his left hand. "jennie!" was all he could say. "you are wounded?" she whispered. dick nodded. "yep--a shell toppled me over but i was on my feet in a minute laughing--and i'll bet you couldn't guess what about?" "no--" "laughed because i knew i'd get to see you--" "i'm so proud of you!" she cried through her tears. "are you?" he asked tenderly. "of course i am--don't you think i know what those shoulder straps mean?" "well, i just care because you care, jennie--" "you're a brave southern boy fighting for our rights--you care for that, too." "oh yes, of course, but that's not the big thing after all, little girl--" he paused and seized her hand. she blushed and drew it gently away. "please--not that now--" "why--not now?" he asked the question in tones so low they were almost a gasp. he felt his doom in the way she had withdrawn her hand. "because--" she hesitated just a moment to strike the blow she knew would hurt so pitifully and then went on firmly, "i've met my fate, dick--and pledged him my heart." the captain lifted his shoulders with a little movement of soldierly pride, held himself firmly, mastered the first rush of despair and then spoke with assumed indifference: "socola?" jennie smiled faintly. "yes." he rose awkwardly and started to the door. jennie placed her hand on his wounded arm with a gesture of pathetic protest. "dick!" "i can't help it, i must go--" "not like this!" "i can't smile and lie to you. it means too much. i hate that man. he's a scoundrel, if god ever made one--" jennie's hand slipped from his arm. "that will do now--not another word--" "i beg your pardon, jennie," he stammered. "i didn't think what i was saying, honey. it just popped out because it was inside. you'll forgive me?" the anger died in her eyes and she took his outstretched hand. "of course, i understand--and i'm sorry. i appreciate the love you've given me. i wish in my heart i could have returned it. you deserve it--" the captain lifted his left hand. "no pity, please. i'm man enough to fight--and i'm going to fight. you're not yet _signora_ socola--" the girl laughed. "that's more like a soldier!" "we'll be friends anyhow, jennie?" "always." the captain left the senator's house with a grim smile playing about his strong mouth. he had made up his mind to fight for love and country on the same base. he would ask for his transfer to the secret service of the confederacy. chapter xxxii the path of glory jefferson davis had created the most compact and terrible engine of war set in motion since napoleon founded the empire of france. it had been done under conditions of incredible difficulty, but it had been done. the smashing of mcclellan's army brought to the north the painful realization of this fact. abraham lincoln must call for another half million soldiers and no man could foresee the end. davis had begun in april, , without an arsenal, laboratory or powder mill of any capacity, and with no foundry or rolling mill for iron except the little tredegar works in richmond. he had supplied them. harassed by an army of half a million men in blue led by able generals and throttled by a cable of steel which the navy had drawn about his coast line, he had done this work and at the same time held his own defiantly and successfully. crippled by a depreciated currency, assaulted daily by a powerful conspiracy of sore-head politicians and quarreling generals, strangled by a blockade that deprived him of nearly all means of foreign aid--he had still succeeded in raising the needed money. unable to use the labor of slaves except in the unskilled work of farms, hampered by lack of transportation even of food for the army, with no stock of war material on hand,--steel, copper, leather or iron with which to build his establishments--yet with quiet persistence he set himself to solve these problems and succeeded. he had created, apparently out of nothing, foundries and rolling mills at selma, richmond, atlanta and macon, smelting works at petersburg, a chemical laboratory at charlotte, a powder mill superior to any of the united states and unsurpassed by any in europe,--a mighty chain of arsenals, armories, and laboratories equal in their capacity and appointments to the best of those in the north, stretching link by link from virginia to alabama. he established artificial niter beds at richmond, columbus, charleston, savannah, mobile and selma of sufficient capacity to supply the niter needed in the powder mills. mines for iron, lead and copper were opened and operated. manufactories for the production of sulphuric and nitric acid were established and successfully operated. minor articles were supplied by devices hitherto unheard of in the equipment of armies. leather was scarce and its supply impossible in the quantities demanded. knapsacks were abolished and haversacks of cloth made by patriotic women with their needles took their places. the scant supply of leather was divided between the makers of shoes for the soldiers and saddles and harness for the horses. shoes for the soldiers were the prime necessity. to save leather the waist and cartridge-box belts were made of heavy cotton cloth stitched in three or four thicknesses. bridle reins were made of cotton in the same way. cartridge boxes were finally made thus--with a single piece of leather for the flap. even saddle skirts for the cavalry were made of heavy cotton strongly stitched. men to work the meager tanneries were exempt from military services and transportation for hides and leather supplies was free. a fishery was established on the cape fear river in north carolina from which oil was manufactured. every wayside blacksmith shop was utilized as a government factory for the production of horseshoes for the cavalry. to meet the demands for articles of prime necessity which could not be made in the south, a line of blockade runners was established between the port of wilmington, north carolina, and bermuda. vessels capable of storing in their hold six hundred bales of cotton were purchased in england and put into this service. they were long, low, narrow craft built for speed. they could show their heels to any ship of the united states navy. painted a pale grayish-blue color, and lying low on the water they were sighted with difficulty in the day and they carried no lights at night. the moment one was trapped and sunk by the blockading fleet, another was ready to take her place. depots and stores were established and drawn on by these fleet ships both at nassau and havana. by the fall of , through the port of wilmington, from the arsenals at richmond and fayetteville, and from the victorious fields of manassas and the seven days' battle around richmond, sufficient arms had been obtained to equip two hundred thousand soldiers and supply their batteries with serviceable artillery. on april , , davis asked of his congress that every white man in the south between the ages of and be called to the colors and all short term volunteer contracts annulled. the law was promptly passed in spite of the conspirators who fought him at every turn. camps of instruction were established in every state, and a commandant sent from richmond to take charge of the new levies. solidity was thus given to the military system of the confederacy and its organization centralized and freed from the bickerings of state politicians. with her loins thus girded for the conflict the south entered the second phase of the war--the path of glory from the shattered army of mcclellan on the james to hooker's crushed and bleeding lines at chancellorsville. the fiercest clamor for the removal of mcclellan from his command swept the north. the position of the northern general was one of peculiar weakness politically. he was an avowed democrat. his head had been turned by flattery and he had at one time dallied with the idea of deposing abraham lincoln by the assumption of a military dictatorship. lincoln knew this. the demand for his removal would have swayed a president of less balance. lincoln refused to deprive mcclellan of his command but yielded sufficiently to the clamor of the radicals of his own party to appoint john pope of the western army to the command of a new division of troops designed to advance on richmond. the generals under mcclellan who did not agree with his slow methods were detached with their men and assigned to service under pope. mcclellan did not hesitate to denounce pope as an upstart and a braggart who had won his position by the lowest tricks of the demagogue. he declared that the new commander was a military impostor, a tool of the radical wing of the republican party, a man who mistook brutality in warfare for power and sought to increase the horrors of war by arming slaves, legalizing plunder and making the people of the south irreconcilable to a restored union by atrocities whose memory could never be effaced. pope's first acts on assuming command did much to justify mcclellan's savage criticism. he issued a bombastic address to his army which brought tears to lincoln's eyes and roars of laughter from little mac's loyal friends. he issued a series of silly general orders making war on the noncombatant population of virginia within his line. if citizens refused to take an oath of allegiance which he prescribed they were to be driven from their homes and if they dared to return, were to be arrested and treated as spies. his soldiers were given license to plunder. houses were robbed and cattle shot in the fields. against these practices mcclellan had set his face with grim resolution. he fought only organized armies. he protected the aged, and all noncombatants. it was not surprising, therefore, when lincoln ordered him to march his army to the support of pope, mcclellan was in no hurry to get there. pope had boldly advanced across the rappahannock and a portion of his army had reached culpeper court house. he had determined to make good the proclamation with which he had assumed command. in this remarkable document he said: "by special assignment of the president of the united states, i have assumed command of this army. i have come to you from the west where we have always seen the backs of our enemies--from an army whose business it has been to seek the adversary and to beat him when found, whose policy has been attack not defense. let us study the probable lines of retreat of our opponents and leave ours to take care of themselves. let us look before us and not behind." while his eyes were steadily fixed before him jackson, moving with the stealthy tread of a tiger, slipped in behind his advance guard, sprang on it and tore his lines to pieces before he could move reënforcements to their rescue. when his reënforcements reached the ground jackson had just finished burying the dead, picking up the valuable arms left on the field and sending his prisoners to the rear. before pope could lead his fresh men to an attack the vanguard of lee's army was in sight and the general who had just issued his flaming proclamation took to his heels and fled across the rappahannock where he called frantically for the divisions of mcclellan's army which had not yet joined him. while lee threatened pope's front by repeated feints at different points along the river, he dispatched jackson's corps of twenty-five thousand "foot cavalry" on a wide flanking movement through the blue ridge to turn the federal right, destroy his stores at manassas junction and attack him in the rear before his reënforcements could arrive. with swiftness jackson executed the brilliant movement. within twenty-four hours his men had made the wide swing through the low mountain ranges and crouched between pope's army and the federal capital. to a man of less courage and coolness this position would have been one of tragic danger. should pope suddenly turn from lee's pretended attacks and spring on jackson he might be crushed between two columns. franklin and sumner's corps were at alexandria to reënforce his lines. jackson had marched into the jaws of death and yet he not only showed no fear, he made a complete circuit of pope's army, struck his storehouses at manassas junction and captured them before the federal commander dreamed that an army was in his rear. eight pieces of artillery and three hundred prisoners were among the spoils. fifty thousand pounds of bacon, a thousand barrels of beef, two thousand barrels of pork, two thousand barrels of flour, and vast quantities of quartermaster's stores also fell into his hands. jackson took what he could transport and burned the rest. pope rushed now in frantic haste to destroy jackson before lee's army could reach him. jackson was too quick for the eloquent commander. he slipped past his opponent and took a strong position west of the turnpike from warrenton where he could easily unite with longstreet's advancing corps. pope attempted to turn jackson's left with a division of his army and the wily southerner fell on his moving columns with sudden savage energy, fought until nine o'clock at night and drove him back with heavy loss. when pope moved to the attack next day at two o'clock longstreet had reached jackson's side. the attack failed and his men fell back through pools of blood. the federal commander was still sending pompous messages to washington announcing his marvelous achievements while his army had steadily retreated from culpeper court house beyond the rappahannock, back to manassas where the first battle of the war was fought. at dawn on august , the high spirited troops of the south were under arms standing with clinched muskets within a few hundred yards of the pickets of pope. their far flung battle line stretched for five miles from sudley springs on the left to the warrenton road and on obliquely to the southwest. the artillery opened the action and for eight hours the heavens shook with its roar. at three o'clock in the afternoon pope determined to hurl the flower of his army against jackson's corps and smash it. his first division pressed forward and engaged the confederates at close quarters. a fierce and bloody conflict followed, jackson's troops refusing to yield an inch. the federal commander brought up two reserve lines to support the first but before they could be of any use, longstreet's artillery was planted to rake them with a murderous fire and they fell back in confusion. as the reserves retreated jackson ordered his men to charge and at the same moment longstreet hurled his division against the federal center, and the whole confederate army with piercing yell leaped forward and swept the field as far as the eye could reach. no sublimer pageant of blood and flame and smoke and shrouded death ever moved across the earth than that which lee now witnessed from the hilltop on which he stood. for five miles across the manassas plains the gray waves rolled, their polished bayonets gleaming in the blazing sun. they swept through the open fields, now lost a moment in the woods, now flashing again in the open. they paused and the artillery dashed to the front, spread their guns in line and roared their call of death to the struggling, fleeing, demoralized army. another shout and the charging hosts swept on again to a new point of vantage from which to fire. through clouds of smoke and dust the red tongues of flame from a hundred big-mouthed guns flashed and faded and flashed again. the charging men slipped on the wet grass where the dead lay thickest. waves of white curling smoke rose above the tree-tops and hung in dense clouds over the field lighted by the red glare of the sinking sun. the relief corps could be seen dashing on, with stretchers and ambulances following in the wake of the victorious army. the hum and roar of the vast field of carnage came now on the ears of the listener--the groans of the wounded and the despairing cry of the dying. and still the living waves of gray-tipped steel rolled on in relentless sweep. again the fleeing federal soldiers choked the waters of bull run. masses of struggling fugitives were pushed from the banks into the water and pressed down. here and there a wounded man clung to the branch of an overhanging tree until exhausted and sank to rise no more. the meadows were trampled and red. hundreds of weak and tired men were ridden down by cavalry and crushed by artillery. on and on rushed the remorseless machine of the confederacy, crushing, killing, scarring, piling the dead in heaps. it was ten o'clock that night before the army of lee halted and pope's exhausted lines fell into the trenches around centreville for a few hours' respite. at dawn jackson was struggling with his tired victorious division to again turn pope's flank, get into his rear and cut off his retreat. a cold and drenching rainstorm delayed his march and the rabble that was once pope's army succeeded in getting into the defenses of washington. davis' army took seven thousand prisoners and picked up more than two thousand wounded soldiers whom their boastful commander had left on the field to die. thirty pieces of artillery and twenty thousand small arms fell into lee's hands. pope's losses since jackson first struck his advance guard at culpeper court house had been more than twenty thousand men and his army had been driven into washington so utterly demoralized it was unfit for further service until reorganized under an abler man. for the moment the north was stunned by the blow. deceived by pope's loud dispatches claiming victory for the first two days it was impossible to realize that his shattered and broken army was cowering and bleeding under the shadow of the federal capitol. even on the night of august thirtieth, with his men lying exhausted at centreville where they had dropped at ten o'clock when lee's army had mercifully halted, poor pope continued to send his marvelous messages to the war department. he reported to halleck: "the enemy is badly whipped, and we shall do well enough. do not be uneasy. we will hold our own here. we have delayed the enemy as long as possible without losing the army. we have damaged him heavily, and i think the army entitled to the gratitude of the country." to this childish twaddle halleck replied: "my dear general, you have done nobly!" abraham lincoln, however, realized the truth quickly. he removed pope and in spite of the threat of his cabinet to resign called mcclellan to reorganize the dispirited army. the north was in no mood to listen to the bombastic defense of general pope. they were stunned by the sudden sweep of the confederate army from the gates of richmond on june first, to the defenses at washington within sixty days with the loss of twenty thousand men under mcclellan and twenty thousand more under pope. the armies of the union had now been driven back to the point from which they had started on july , . it had been necessary to withdraw burnside's army from eastern north carolina and the forces of the union from western virginia. the war had been transferred to the suburbs of washington and the northern people who had confidently expected mcclellan to be in richmond in june were now trembling for the safety of pennsylvania and maryland, to say nothing of the possibility of confederate occupation of the capital. an aggressive movement of all the forces of the south under lee in the east and bragg and johnston in the west was ordered. in spite of the fact that lee's army could not be properly shod--the supply of army shoes being inadequate and the lack of shoe factories a defect the confederacy had yet been unable to remedy, the southern commander threw his army of barefooted veterans across the potomac and boldly invaded maryland on september the fifth. the appearance of stonewall jackson on his entrance into frederick city, maryland, was described by a northern war correspondent in graphic terms: "old stonewall was the observed of all observers. he was dressed in the coarsest kind of homespun, seedy, and dirty at that. he wore an old hat which any northern beggar would consider an insult to have offered him. in his general appearance he was in no respect to be distinguished from the mongrel barefoot crew who followed his fortunes. i had heard much of the decayed appearance of rebel soldiers,--but such a looking crowd! ireland in her worst straits could present no parallel, and yet they glory in their shame!" lee's army was now fifty miles north of washington, within striking distance of baltimore. his strategy had completely puzzled the war department of the federal government. mcclellan was equally puzzled. lincoln and his cabinet believed lee's movement into maryland a feint to draw the army from the defense of the capital, and, when this was accomplished, by a sudden swoop the southern commander would turn and capture the city. while mcclellan was thus halting in tragic indecision one of the unforeseen accidents of war occurred which put him in possession of lee's plan of campaign and should have led to the annihilation of the southern army. a copy of the order directing the movement of the confederates from frederick, maryland, was thrown to the ground by a petulant officer to whom it was directed. it fell into the hands of a federal soldier who hurried to mcclellan's headquarters with the fateful document. jackson's corps had been sent on one of his famous "foot cavalry" expeditions to sweep the federal garrison from martinsburg, surround and capture harper's ferry. mcclellan at once moved a division of his army to crush the small command lee had stationed at south mountain to guard jackson's movement. mcclellan threw his men against this little division of the confederates and attempted to force his way to the relief of harper's ferry. the battle raged with fury until nine o'clock at night. their purpose accomplished lee withdrew them to his new position at sharpsburg to await the advent of jackson. the "foot cavalry" had surrounded harper's ferry, assaulted it at dawn and in two hours the garrison surrendered. thirteen thousand prisoners with their rifles and seventy-three pieces of artillery fell into jackson's hands. leaving general a. p. hill to receive the final surrender of the troops jackson set out at once for sharpsburg to join his army with lee's. the southern commander had but forty thousand men with which to meet mcclellan's ninety thousand, but at sunrise on september seventeenth, his batteries opened fire and the bloodiest struggle of the civil war began. through the long hours of this eventful day the lines of blue and gray charged and counter-charged across the scarlet field. when darkness fell neither side had yielded. the dead lay in ghastly heaps and the long pitiful wail of the wounded rose to heaven. lee had lost two thousand killed and six thousand wounded. mcclellan had lost more than twelve thousand. his army was so terribly shattered by the bloody work, he did not renew the struggle on the following day. lee waited until night for his assault and learning that reënforcements were on the way to join mcclellan's command withdrew across the potomac. it was a day later before lee's movements were sufficiently clear for mcclellan to claim a victory. on september nineteenth, he telegraphed washington: "i do not know if the enemy is falling back or recrossing the river. we may safely claim the victory as ours." abraham lincoln hastened to take advantage of mcclellan's claim to issue his emancipation proclamation. and yet so utter had been the failure of his general to cope with lee and jackson, the president of the united states relieved mcclellan of his command. while lee's invasion had failed of the larger purpose, its moral effect on the north had been tremendous. he carried back into virginia fourteen thousand prisoners, eighty pieces of artillery and invaluable equipment for his army. in the meantime the western army under bragg had invaded kentucky, sweeping to the gates of cincinnati and louisville and retiring with more than five thousand prisoners, five thousand small arms and ten pieces of artillery. the gain in territory by the invasion of maryland and kentucky had been nothing but the moral effect of these movements had been far reaching. the daring valor of the small confederate armies fighting against overwhelming odds had stirred the imagination of the world. in the west they had carried their triumphant battle flag from chattanooga to cincinnati, and although forced to retire, had shown the world that the conquest at the southwestern territory was a gigantic task which was yet to be seriously undertaken. the london _times_, commenting on these campaigns, declared: "whatever may be the fate of the new nationality or its subsequent claims to the respect of mankind, it will assuredly begin its career with a reputation for genius and valor which the most famous nations may envy." on mcclellan's fall he was succeeded by general burnside who found a magnificently trained army of veteran soldiers at his command. it was now divided into three grand divisions of two corps each, commanded by three generals of tried and proven ability, sumner, hooker and franklin. burnside quickly formed and began the execution of an advance against richmond. he moved his army rapidly down the left bank of the rappahannock river to fredericksburg, and ordered pontoon bridges to cross the stream. his army could thus defend washington while moving in force on the confederate capital. when burnside led his one hundred and thirteen thousand men across the river and occupied the town of fredericksburg, lee and jackson were ready to receive him. lee had entrenched on the line of crescent-shaped hills behind the town. when the new northern commander threw his army, with its bands playing and its thousand flags flying, against these hills on the morning of december , , he plunged headlong and blindfolded into a death trap. charge after charge was repulsed with unparalleled slaughter. lee's guns were planted to cross fire on each charging line of blue. burnside's men were mowed down in thousands until their sublime valor won the praise and the pity of their foe. when night at last drew the veil over the awful scene the shattered masses of the charging army were huddled under the shelter of the houses in fredericksburg leaving the field piled high with the dead and the wounded. the wounded were freezing to death in the pitiless cold. burnside had lost thirteen thousand men--the flower of his troops--the bravest men the north had ever sent into battle. jackson's keen eye was quick to see the shambles into which this demoralized army had been pushed. the river behind them could be crossed only on a narrow pontoon bridge. a swift and merciless night attack would either drive the bleeding lines into the freezing river, annihilate or capture the whole army. he urged lee to this attack. lee demurred. he could not know the extent of the enemy's losses. it was inconceivable to the southern commander that burnside with his one hundred and thirteen thousand picked soldiers, could be repulsed with such slight losses to the south. only a small part of the army under his command had been active in the battle and their losses were insignificant in comparison with the records of former struggles. burnside would renew the attack with redoubled vigor. he refused to move his men from their entrenchments into the open field where they would be exposed to the batteries beyond the river. jackson turned his somber blue eyes on lee: "send my corps into fredericksburg alone to-night. hold the hills with the rest of the army. i'll do the work." "you cannot distinguish friend from foe, general jackson--" "i'll strip my men to the waist and tie white bands around their right arms." "in this freezing cold?" "they'll obey my orders, general lee--" "it's too horrible--" "it's war, sir," was jackson's reply. "war means fighting--fighting to kill, to destroy--fighting with tooth and nail--" lee shook his head. he refused to take the risk. jackson returned to his headquarters with heavy heart. his chief of medical staff was busy preparing bandages for his men. he had been sure of lee's consent. he countermanded the order and burnside's army was saved from annihilation. when the sun rose next morning half his men were safely across the river--and the remainder quickly followed. again the north was stunned. another wave of horror swept its homes as the lists of the dead and wounded were printed. burnside resigned his command and "fighting" joe hooker was placed at the head of the northern troops. since june first, lee and jackson had destroyed four blue armies and driven their commanders from the field,--mcclellan twice, john pope and now burnside. the political effects of these brilliant achievements of davis' army had been paralyzing on the administration of lincoln. the proclamation of emancipation which he had issued immediately after the bloody battle in maryland had not only fallen flat in the north, it had created a reaction against his policies and the conduct of the war. the november elections had gone against him and his party had been all but wiped out. the democrats in new york had reversed a majority of one hundred and seven thousand against them in and swept the state, electing their entire ticket. the administration was defeated in new jersey, pennsylvania, ohio, indiana and illinois. the voters of the north not only condemned the administration for declaring the slaves free, but they assaulted the war policy of their government with savage fury. they condemned the wholesale arrest of thousands of citizens for their political opinions and arraigned the government for its incompetence in conducting the military operations of an army of more than twice the numbers of the triumphant south. the emancipation proclamation and the victories of davis' army had not only divided and demoralized the north, they had solidified southern opinion. even alexander h. stephens, the vice-president of the confederacy, who had been a thorn in the flesh of davis from the beginning in his advocacy of foolish and impossible measures of compromise now took his position for war to the death. in a fiery speech in north carolina following lincoln's proclamation stephens said: "as for any reconstruction of the union--such a thing is impossible--such an idea must not be tolerated for an instant. reconstruction would not end the war, but would produce a more horrible war than that in which we are now engaged. the only terms on which we can obtain permanent peace is final and complete separation from the north. rather than submit to anything short of that, let us resolve to die as men worthy of freedom." a few days after the defeat of burnside's army at fredericksburg the south was thrilled by the feat of general mcgruder in galveston harbor. the daring confederate commander had seized two little steamers and fitted them up as gun boats by piling cotton on their sides for bulwarks. with these two rafts of cotton coöperating on the water, his infantry waded out into the waters of galveston bay and attacked the federal fleet with their bare hands. when the smoke of battle lifted the city of galveston was in confederate hands, the fleet had been smashed and scattered and the port opened to commerce. commodore renshaw had blown up his flag ship to prevent her falling into mcgruder's hands and gone down with her. the garrison surrendered. jackson had invented a "foot cavalry." mcgruder had supplemented it by a "foot navy." at murfreesboro, tennessee, on the same day general bragg had engaged the army of rosecrans and fought one of the bloodiest engagements of the war. its net results were in favor of the confederacy in spite of the fact that he permitted rosecrans to move into murfreesboro. the northern army had lost nine thousand men, killed and wounded, and bragg carried from the field six thousand federal prisoners, thirty pieces of artillery, sixty thousand stand of small arms, ambulances, mules, horses and an enormous amount of valuable stores. his own losses had been great but far less than those he inflicted on rosecrans. he had lost one thousand two hundred and ninety-two killed, seven thousand nine hundred and forty-five wounded and one thousand twenty-seven missing. at charleston a fleet of iron-clads on the model of the _monitor_ had been crushed by the batteries and driven back to sea with heavy loss. the _keokuk_ was left a stranded wreck in the harbor. a second attack on vicksburg had failed under sherman. a third attack by grant had been repulsed. farragut's attack on port hudson had failed with the loss of the _richmond_. the federal government now put forth its grandest effort to crush at a blow the apparently invincible army of davis' still lying in its trenches on the heights behind fredericksburg. hooker's army was raised to an effective force of one hundred and thirty thousand and his artillery increased to four hundred guns. lee had been compelled to detach longstreet's corps, comprising nearly a third of his army for service in north carolina. the force under his command was barely fifty thousand. so great was the superiority of the northern army hooker divided his forces for an enveloping movement, each wing of his being still greater than the whole force under lee. sedgwick's corps crossed the river below fredericksburg and began a flanking movement from the south while hooker threw the main body across the rappahannock at three fords seven miles above. on april thirtieth, he issued an address to his men. his forces were all safely across the river without firing a shot. he had lee's little army caught in a trap between his two grand divisions. in his proclamation he boldly announced: "the operations of the last three days have determined that our enemy must ingloriously fly, or come out from behind their defenses and give us battle on our own ground, where certain destruction awaits him." his enemy was not slow in coming out from behind his defenses. with quick decision lee divided his little army by planting ten thousand men under early on marye's heights to stop sedgwick's division and moved swiftly with the remainder to meet hooker in the dense woods of the wilderness near chancellorsville. with consummate daring and the strategy of genius he again divided his army. he detached jackson's corps and sent his "foot cavalry" on a swift wide detour of twenty-odd miles to swing around hooker's right and strike him in the flank while he pretended an attack in force on his front. it was nearly sundown when jackson's tired but eager men saw from the hill top their unsuspecting foe quietly cooking their evening meal. when the battle clouds lifted at the end of three days of carnage, hooker's army of one hundred and thirty thousand men had been cut to pieces and flung back across the rappahannock, leaving seventeen thousand killed and wounded on the field. in the face of his crushing defeat hooker issued another address to his army. he boldly announced from his safe retreat beyond the banks of the river: "the major-general commanding tenders to the army his congratulations on its achievements of the last seven days. if it has not accomplished all that was expected the reasons are well known to the army. it is sufficient to say, that they were of a character not to be foreseen or prevented by human sagacity or resources. "in withdrawing from the south bank of the rappahannock before delivering a general battle to our adversaries, the army has given renewed evidence of its confidence in itself and its fidelity to the principles it represents. "profoundly loyal and conscious of its strength, the army of the potomac will give or decline battle whenever its interests or honor may command it. "by the celerity and secrecy of our movements, our advance and passage of the river was undisputed, and on our withdrawal not a rebel dared to follow us. the events of the last week may well cause the heart of every officer and soldier of the army to swell with pride!" the heart of the north quickly swelled with such pride that the president was forced to remove general hooker and appoint general george meade to his command. while the south was celebrating the wonderful achievement of their now invincible army, lee's greatest general lay dying at a little farm house a few miles from the scene of his immortal achievement. jackson had been accidentally wounded by a volley from his own men fired by his orders. his wound was not supposed to be fatal and arrangements were made for his removal to richmond when he was suddenly stricken with pneumonia and rapidly sank. he lifted his eyes to his physician and calmly said: "if i live, it will be for the best--and if i die, it will be for the best; god knows and directs all things for the best." his last moments were marked with expressions of his abiding faith in the wisdom and love of the god he had faithfully served. yet his spirit was still on the field of battle. in the delirium which preceded death his voice rang in sharp command: "tell major hawkes to send forward provisions to the men!" his head sank and a smile lighted his rugged face. in low tender tones be gasped his last words on earth: "let us cross over the river and rest under the shade of the trees." so passed the greatest military genius our race has produced--the man who never met defeat. his loss was mourned not only by the south but by the world. his death extinguished a light on the shores of time. the leading london paper said of him: "that mixture of daring and judgment which is the mark of heaven-born generals distinguished him beyond any man of his age. the blows he struck at the enemy were as terrible and decisive as those of bonaparte himself." thousands followed him in sorrow to the grave. the south was bathed in tears. lee realized that he had lost his right arm and yet, undaunted, he marshaled his legions and girded his loins for an invasion of northern soil. chapter xxxiii the accusation captain welford had entered the secret service of the confederacy believing firmly that socola was a federal spy. he would not make known his suspicions until he had secured evidence on which to demand his arrest. this evidence he found most difficult to secure. for months he had watched the handsome foreigner with the patience of a hound. he had taken particular pains to hold jennie's friendship in order to be thrown with socola on every possible occasion. his men from the secret service department had followed socola's every movement day and night with no results. he pretended the most philosophic acceptance of the situation and bantered the lovers with expressions of his surprise that an early marriage had not been announced. socola received the captain's professions of friendship with no sign of suspicion. he read dick's mind as an open book. he saw through his pretentions and the tragic purpose which underlay his good-natured banter. he knew instinctively that his movements were watched and moved with the utmost caution. for a time he found it impossible to visit the house on church hill. detectives were on his heels the moment he turned his steps to that hill. the boarding house in which he lived was watched day and night. and yet so carefully had he executed his work the men who were hounding him were completely puzzled. they could not know, of course, that socola had chosen as his secretary a man in the department of state. this man he had involved in his conspiracy so completely and hopelessly from the first interview that there was no retreat. he had risked his own life on his judgment of character the day he made his first proposition. but his estimate had proven correct. the fellow blustered and then accepted the bribe and entered with enthusiasm into his service. through this clerk the wily director of the federal bureau of information was compelled now to communicate with miss van lew. socola had secured his services in the nick of time. he had been an old friend of the van lew family before the war, their people were distantly related and no suspicion could attach to his visits to her house unless made at an unusual hour. it was nearly a year from the day he began his watch before captain welford succeeded in connecting the stenographer in the department of state with the woman on church hill. he had been quietly studying "crazy bet" for months. from the first he had accused this woman of being a spy. the older men in the department laughed. miss van lew was the standard joke of the amateurs who entered the service. the older men all knew that she was a harmless fool whose mind had been unbalanced by her love for negroes and her abolition ideas. with characteristic stubbornness dick refused to accept their decision and set about in his own way to watch her. she was in the habit now of making more and more frequent trips to libby prison, carrying flowers and delicacies to the northern prisoners. dick had observed the use of an old fashioned french platter with an extremely thick bottom. he called the attention of the guard to this platter. the keen ears of the woman had heard it mentioned. the double bottom at that moment was harmless. the messages she had carried to the prisoners had all been taken from their hiding place and the platter returned to her through the bars. she hurried home before the guard could make up his mind to examine the contrivance. the next day dick was on the watch. the captain whispered to the guard who halted "crazy bet" at the door. "i'll have to examine that thing," he said sharply. "take it then!" she said with a foolish laugh. she slipped the old shawl from around it and suddenly plumped the platter squarely into the guard's hands. the double bottom that day was filled with boiling water. "hell fire!" the guard yelled, dropping the platter with a crash. he blew on his fingers and let her pick it up and pass on. the woman had fooled the guard completely, but she had not been so successful with dick. the trick was _too_ smoothly done. no woman with an unbalanced mind would have been capable of it. with extraordinary care the captain followed her through the crowded streets and saw her pass socola in front of the custom house. no sign of recognition was made by either, but he saw the stenographer stoop and pick up something from the edge of the sidewalk. he would have thought nothing of such an act had he not been following this woman on whom his suspicions had been fixed. he leaped at once to the truth. miss van lew had dropped a cypher message and socola had taken it. he watched her again the next day, and, suddenly turning the corner of an obscure street, saw socola speak to her in low quick tones, raising his voice on his appearance to an idle conventional greeting. he passed them without apparently noticing anything unusual and hurried to his office with his suspicions now a burning certainty. he had only to wait his opportunity to trap his quarry in the possession of a dispatch that would send him to the gallows. his evidence was not yet sufficient to ask for his arrest. it was sufficient to convince jennie barton whose loyalty to the south was so intense she would not walk on the same side of the street with miss van lew. he rushed to the barton house. jennie saw before he spoke that he bore a message of tragic import. "what is it, dick?" she asked under her breath. "why do you look at me so?" "jennie," he began seriously, "you are sure that you love the south?" "don't ask me idiotic questions," she answered sternly; "what are you driving at?" "if i prove to you that the man to whom you have pledged your love is an impostor--" she lifted her head in a gesture of cold protest. "i thought we had settled that question." "but you must listen to me," he went on with calm persistence. "if i prove to you that this man is a federal spy--" jennie broke into a laugh. "i can't get mad at you--you're such a big clumsy goose--" "i said if i _prove_ it--" there was no mistaking the fact that he was in dead earnest. the girl's face went white and her eyes took on a hard glitter. "now, dick welford, that you've said it--you've _got_ to prove it--" the captain lifted his hand solemnly. "i'll prove it. you know miss van lew, the old abolitionist on church hill?--" "i don't know that such a creature walks the earth." "you've heard of her?" "yes." "you know that she is a traitor to her own people?" "i've heard it." the captain paused and looked straight at her with searching gaze. "i just ran into socola talking to this woman--" "is that all?" "no." "what else?" "yesterday i saw them pass each other on main street. socola stooped and picked up something from the pavement--" "something she dropped?" "i'm sure of it--" "but you didn't see her drop it?" "no--" "how can you be so absurd!" "you don't believe what i tell you?" "but it proves nothing--" "to me, it's as plain as day--" "because you hate him. i'm ashamed of you, dick." "mark my words, i'll prove it before i'm through." "i'll give you the chance now--that's his knock on the front door--" "i'd rather not make my accusation to-day--" "you've made it to me." "you're a loyal southern girl. i had the right to make it to you." the girl laughed. "and i'll demand of him an explanation--" before he could protest socola walked into the room and grasped jennie's hand. "captain welford," she laughed, "has just accused you of hobnobbing with the enemy on the streets--what explanation can you offer?" "need i explain?" he asked lightly. "miss van lew _is_ a suspicious character." "that's my excuse, i fear. she is a character. i've been curious to know if she is really sane. i stopped her on the street and asked her a question. is it forbidden in richmond?" he spoke with easy convincing carelessness. jennie smiled. "captain welford evidently thinks so--" "and you?" "i am quite satisfied with your explanation--" dick took a step closer and faced his enemy. "well, i'm not signor socola--if that's your name--" "dick!" jennie interrupted angrily. the captain ignored the interruption, holding the eye of the man he hated. "you spoke to that woman in low quick tones--" "your imagination is vivid, captain--" dick squared his jaw into socola's face. "it's vivid enough to see through you. i'm going to wring your neck before we're through with this thing--" jennie thrust her trembling figure between the two men and confronted dick. [illustration: "jennie thrust her trembling little figure between the two men and confronted dick."] "how dare you insult the man i love in my presence, dick welford?" "because i love the south better than my life and you do, too, jennie barton--" the girl's eyes flashed with rage. "leave this room, sir!" dick still faced socola. "get out of this town to-night--or i'll wring your neck, you damned spy!" "leave this room, dick welford!" jennie repeated. the captain turned and left without even a glance over his broad shoulders. "i couldn't strike him in your presence, dear," socola apologized. "you behaved splendidly. i'm proud of your perfect poise and mastery of yourself. our southern men splutter easily." socola took her hand and pressed it. "you don't believe this?" "i'd sooner doubt my own heart--i'd sooner doubt god--" "i'll prove to you that i'm worthy of your love," he murmured gently. he knelt that night and tried to ask god to show him the way. his heart was rising in fierce rebellion at the deception into which he had entrapped himself. and yet never had his country's need been so bitter and the service he was rendering so priceless. he rose at last with face stern and pale. he would fight to the end. chapter xxxiv the turn of the tide the death of jackson was to jefferson davis an appalling disaster. he had never seriously believed the southern people could win their unequal struggle against the millions of the north backed by their inexhaustible resources until the achievements of lee and jackson had introduced a new element into the conflict. so resistless and terrible had become the effective war power of southern soldiers led by these two men whose minds moved in such harmony with each other and with their chief in richmond that the south at last was in sight of success. the impossible had been accomplished. anything now seemed possible. jackson's death had destroyed this new equation of war. davis' faith in jackson was in every way equal to lee's and lee but once refused to follow jackson's lead in his veto on his lieutenant's plan to annihilate burnside's army at fredericksburg. when the report reached richmond that jackson was dying davis was inconsolable. the whole evening the president of the confederacy shut himself in his room--unable to think of anything save the impending calamity. when the end was sure he sent with his own hand the handsomest flag in richmond in which to wrap his body. when davis gazed on the white, cold, rugged features, the tears were streaming down his hollow checks. he bent low and the tears fell on the face of the dead. when an officer of the government came to the president's mansion where the body lay in state to consult him on a matter of importance, the confederate chieftain stared at his questioner in a dazed sort of way and remained silent. lifting his haggard face at last he said in pathetic tones: "you must excuse me, my friend, i am staggering from a dreadful blow--i cannot think--" three days and nights the endless procession passed the bier and paid their tribute of adoration and love. and when he was borne to his last resting place through the streets of the city, the sidewalks, the windows and the housetops were a throbbing mass of weeping women and men. jefferson davis was perhaps the only man in the south in a position to realize the enormous loss which the confederacy had sustained in the death of lee's great lieutenant. the southern people who gloried in jackson's deeds had as yet no real appreciation of the services he had rendered. they could not realize their loss until events should prove that no man could be found to take his place. the brilliant victory of chancellorsville, following so closely on fredericksburg, had lifted the confederacy to the heights. in the west the army had held its own. the safety of vicksburg was not seriously questioned. general bragg confronted rosecrans with an army so strong he dared not attack it and yet not strong enough to drive rosecrans from tennessee. two campaigns were discussed with davis. the members of his cabinet, who regarded the possession of vicksburg and the continued grip on the mississippi river vital to the life of the confederacy, were alarmed at grant's purpose to fight his way to this stronghold and take it. they urged that lee's army be divided and half of it sent immediately to reënforce bragg. with this force in the west rosecrans could be crushed and grant driven from his design of opening the mississippi. lee, flushed with his victories, naturally objected to the weakening of his army by such a division. he proposed a more daring and effective way of relieving vicksburg. he would raise his army to eighty-five thousand men, clear virginia of the enemy and sweep into pennsylvania, carry the war into the north, forage on its rich fields, capture harrisburg and march on washington. davis did not wish to risk this invasion of northern soil. but his situation was peculiar. his relations with lee had been remarkable for their perfect accord. they had never differed on an essential point of political or military strategy. davis' pride in lee's genius was unbounded, his confidence in his judgment perfect. lee was absolutely sure that his army raised to eighty-five thousand effective men could go anywhere on the continent and do anything within human power. he had crushed mcclellan's army of two hundred thousand with seventy-five thousand men, and driven him from his entrenchments at richmond down the peninsula. with sixty thousand he had crushed pope and hurled his army into the entrenchments at washington, a bleeding, disorganized mob. with sixty-two thousand he had cut to pieces burnside's hundred and thirteen thousand. with fifty thousand he had rolled up hooker's host of one hundred and thirty thousand in a scroll of flame and death and flung them across the rappahannock. his fame filled the world. his soldiers worshiped him. at his command they would charge the gates of hell with their bare hands. his soldiers were seasoned veterans in whose prowess he had implicit faith. his faith was not a guess. it was founded on achievements so brilliant there was scarcely room for a doubt. lee succeeded in convincing davis that he could invade the north, live on its rich fields and win a battle which would open the way, not only to save vicksburg from capture, but secure the peace and independence of the south. a single great victory on northern soil with his army threatening washington would make peace a certainty. davis was quick to see the logic of lee's plan. it was reasonable. it was a fair risk. and yet the dangers were so enormous he consented with reluctance. reagan, the western member of his cabinet, urged with all the eloquence of his loyal soul the importance of holding intact the communications with the territory beyond the mississippi. he begged and pleaded for the plan to reënforce bragg and play the safe game with vicksburg. davis listened to his advice with the utmost respect and weighed each point with solemn sense of his responsibility. the one point he made last he tried to drive home in a sharp personal appeal. "you cannot afford, mr. president," he urged with vehemence, "to further expose your own people of mississippi to the ravages of such men as now control the invading army. they have laid your own home waste. the people of vicksburg are your neighbors. they know you personally. the people of this territory have sent their sons and brothers into virginia by thousands. there are no soldiers left to defend them--" the president lifted his thin hand in protest. "i can't let the personal argument sway me, reagan. our own people must endure what is best for the cause. all i wish to know is what _is_ best--your plan or general lee's." lee persuaded him against his personal judgment to consent to the daring scheme of northern invasion. so intent was reagan on the plan of direct relief to vicksburg that after lee had begun his preparations for the advance, davis called a cabinet meeting and reconsidered the whole question. reagan pleaded with tears at last for what he knew his chief felt to be best. davis weighed for the second time each point with care and again decided that lee's plan promised the greater end--peace. the moment his final decision was made davis at once commissioned vice president alexander h. stephens, who knew lincoln personally, to go to washington to make the proposition for an armistice and begin the negotiations for a permanent peace on the day lee should make good his promise. the letter with which stephens started to washington asked on its face that the president of the united states arrange for an exchange of prisoners which would be prompt and effective and prevent all suffering by northern men in southern climates and southern men in northern prisons. davis had asked again and again that all prisoners be exchanged. the federal war department had obstructed this exchange until thousands of northern soldiers crowded the prisons of the south and it was impossible for the confederate authorities to properly care for them. medicine had been made contraband of war by the north and the simplest remedies could not be had for the confederate soldiers or their prisoners. behind this humane purpose of stephens' mission lay the bigger proposition, which was a verbal one, to propose peace on lee's victory on northern soil. lee's army lay on the plains of culpeper during the beautiful month of may. the vast field was astir with the feverish breath of preparations for the grand march. trains rushed to the front loaded with munitions of war. new batteries of artillery with the finest equipment ever known were added to his army. the ordnance trains were packed to their capacity. his troops were better equipped than ever before in the history of the war. every department of the huge, pitiless machine was running like clockwork. fifteen thousand cavalry were reviewed at brandy station led by stuart's waving plume--stuart, the matchless leader who had twice ridden round a hostile army of a hundred thousand men. crowds of cheering women watched this wonderful pageant and waved their handkerchiefs to the handsome young cavalier as he passed on his magnificent horse draped with garlands of flowers. it required an entire week to review the cavalry, infantry, and artillery. on june the first, the advance began. ewell's corps, once commanded by jackson, led the way. they swung rapidly through the blue ridge mountains, into the valley and suddenly pounced on general milroy at winchester. milroy with a few of his officers escaped through the confederate lines at night and succeeded in crossing the potomac at harper's ferry. ewell captured three thousand prisoners, thirty pieces of artillery, a hundred wagons and great stores. seven hundred more men were taken at martinsburg. on june twenty-seventh, the whole of lee's army was encamped at chambersburg in pennsylvania in striking distance of the capital of the state. the execution of this march had been a remarkable piece of strategy. he had completely baffled the northern commanders, spread terror through the north and precipitated the wildest panic in washington. within twenty-odd days the southern general had brought his forces from fredericksburg, virginia, confronted by an army of one hundred thousand men, through the blue ridge, and the shenandoah valley into pennsylvania. he had done this in the face of one of the most powerful and best equipped armies the north had put into the field. he had swept the hostile garrisons at winchester, martinsburg and harper's ferry into his prisons and camped in pennsylvania without his progress being once arrested or a serious battle forced upon him. he had cleared virginia of the army which threatened richmond and they were rushing breathlessly after him in a desperate effort to save the capital of pennsylvania. so far lee had made good every prediction on which he had based his plan of campaign. davis felt so sure that he would make good his promised victory that he hurriedly dispatched stephens to fortress monroe under a flag of truce and asked for a safe conduct for his commissioner to washington. in alarm the governors of ohio, pennsylvania, new york, maryland, and west virginia called out their militia. lee was not deterred by their panic. he knew that those raw troops would cut no figure in the swift and terrible drama which was being staged among the ragged crags around gettysburg. the veteran armies of the north and south would decide the issue. if he won, he would brush aside the militia as so many school boys and march into washington. meade was rushing his army after his antagonist with feverish haste. his advance guard struck lee before the town of gettysburg on july first, . a desperate struggle ensued. neither meade nor lee had yet reached the field. within a mile of the town the confederates made a sudden and united charge and smashed the federal line into atoms. general reynolds, their commander, was killed and his army driven headlong into the streets of gettysburg. ewell, charging through the town, swept all before him and took five thousand prisoners. the crowded masses of fugitives, fleeing for their lives, passed out of the town and rushed up the slopes of the hills beyond. at five o'clock lee halted his men until the rest of his army should reach the field. during the night general meade rallied his disorganized men, poured his fresh troops among them and entrenched his army on the heights where his defeated advance guard had taken refuge. had lee withdrawn the next morning when he scanned those hills which looked down on him through bristling brows of brass and iron the history of the confederacy might have been longer. it could not have been more illustrious. his reasons for assault were sound. to his council of war he was explicit. "i had not intended, gentlemen," he said, "to fight a general battle at such distance from our base, unless attacked by the enemy. we find ourselves confronted by the federal army. it is difficult to withdraw through the mountains with our large trains. the country is unfavorable for collecting supplies while in the presence of the main body of the enemy as he can restrain our foraging parties by occupying the mountain passes. the battle is in a measure unavoidable. we have won a great victory to-day. we can defeat meade's army in spite of these hills." when lee surveyed the heights of gettysburg again on the morning of the second of july, he saw that the northerners held a position of extraordinary power. yet his men were flushed with victory after victory. they had swept their foe before them in the first encounter as chaff before a storm. they were equal to anything short of a miracle. he ordered longstreet to hurl his corps against cemetery ridge and drive the enemy from his key position before the entrenchments could be completed. longstreet was slow. jackson would have struck with the rapidity of lightning. on this swift action lee had counted. the blow should have been delivered before eight o'clock. it was two o'clock in the afternoon before longstreet made the attack and meade's position had been made stronger each hour. from two o'clock until dark the long lines of gray rolled and dashed against the heights and broke in red pools of blood on their rocky slopes. three hundred pieces of artillery thundered their message in an oratorio of death. the earth shook. hills and rocks danced and reeled before the excited vision of the onrushing men. for two hours the guns roared and thundered without pause. the shriek of shell, the crash of falling trees, the showers of flying rocks ripped from cliffs by solid shot, the shouts of charging hosts, the splash of bursting shrapnel, the neighing of torn and mangled horses, transformed the green hills of pennsylvania into a smoke-wreathed, flaming hell. the living lay down that night to sleep with their heads pillowed on the dead. on this second day lee's men had gained a slight advantage. they had taken round top and held it for two hours. they had at least proven that it could be done. they had driven in the lines on the federal left. the southern commander still believed his men could do the impossible. longstreet begged his chief that night to withdraw and choose another field. lee ordered the third day's fight. on his gray horse he watched pickett lead his immortal charge and fall back down the hill. he rode quietly to the front, rallying the broken lines. he made no speech. he uttered no bombast. he calmly lifted his hand and cried: "never mind--boys!" to his officers he said: "it's all my fault. we'll talk it over afterward. let every good man rally now." his army had never known a panic. the men quietly fell into line and cheered their commander. to an english officer on the field lee quietly said: "this has been a sad day for us, colonel--a sad day; but we can't expect always to gain victories." lee had lost twenty thousand men and fourteen generals. meade had lost twenty-three thousand men and seventeen generals. lee withdrew his army across the swollen potomac, carrying away his guns and all the prisoners he had taken. general meade had saved the north, but lee's army was still intact, on its old invincible lines in virginia, sixty-five thousand strong. the news from gettysburg crushed the soul of davis. he had hoped with this battle to end the war, and stop the frightful slaughter of our noblest men, north and south. his commissioner, alexander h. stephens, was halted at fortress monroe and sent back to richmond with an insulting answer. so bitter was lee's disappointment that he offered his resignation to davis. the president at once wrote a generous letter in which he renewed the expressions of his confidence in the genius of his commanding general and begged him to guard his precious life from undue exposure. gettysburg was but one of the appalling calamities which crushed the hopes of the confederate chieftain on this memorable fourth of july, . on the recovery of joseph e. johnston from his wound at seven pines he was assigned to the old command of albert sidney johnston in the west. his department included the states of tennessee, mississippi, alabama, georgia and north carolina. he entered on the duties of his new and important field--complaining, peevish, sulking. on the day before his departure mrs. davis visited his wife and expressed to general johnston the earnest wish of her heart for her husband's success. "i sincerely hope, general," she said cordially, "that your campaign will be brilliant and successful." the general pursed the hard lines of his mouth. "i might succeed if i had lee's chances with the army of northern virginia." from the moment johnston reached his field he began to quarrel with his generals and complain to the government at richmond. he made no serious effort to unite his forces for the defense of vicksburg and continuously wrote and telegraphed to the war department that his authority was inadequate to really command so extended a territory. he made no effort to throw the twenty-four thousand men he commanded into a juncture with pemberton who was struggling valiantly against grant's fifty thousand closing in on the doomed city. on may eighteenth, johnston sent a courier to pemberton and advised him to evacuate vicksburg without a fight! pemberton held a council of war and refused to give up the mississippi river without a struggle. johnston sat down in his tent and left him to his fate. grant closed in on vicksburg and the struggle began. pemberton could not believe that johnston would not march to his relief. women and children stood by their homes amid the roar of guns and the bursting of shells. caves were dug in the hills and they took refuge under the ground. a shell burst before a group of children hurrying from their homes to the hills. the dirt thrown up from the explosion knocked three little fellows down, but luckily no bones were broken. they jumped up, brushed their clothes, wiped the dirt from their eyes, and hurried on without a whimper. when the dark days of starvation came, the women nursed the sick and wounded, lived on mule and horse meat and parched corn. johnston continued to send telegrams to the war department saying he needed more troops and didn't know where to get them. yet he was in absolute command of all the troops in his department and could order them to march at a moment's notice in any direction he wished. he hesitated and continued to send telegrams and write letters for more explicit instructions. he got them finally in a direct peremptory order from the war department. on june fifteenth, he telegraphed his government: "i consider saving vicksburg hopeless." davis ordered his secretary of war to reply immediately in unmistakable language: "your telegram grieves and alarms us, vicksburg must not be lost without a struggle. the interest and honor of the confederacy forbid it. i rely on you to avert this loss. if better resource does not offer you must hazard attack. it may be made in concert with the garrison, if practicable, but otherwise without. by day or night as you think best." the secretary of war, brooding in anxiety over the possibility of johnston's timidity in the crisis, again telegraphed him six days later: "only my convictions of almost imperative necessity for action induced the official dispatch i have sent you. on every ground i have great deference to your judgment and military genius, but i feel it right to share, if need be to take the responsibility and leave you free to follow the most desperate course the occasion may demand. rely upon it, the eyes and hopes of the whole confederacy are upon you, with the full confidence that you will act, and with the sentiment that it were better to fail nobly daring, than through prudence even to be inactive. i rely on you for all possible to save vicksburg." on june twenty-seventh, grant telegraphed washington: "joe johnston has postponed his attack until he can receive ten thousand reënforcements from bragg's army. they are expected early next week. i feel strong enough against this increase and do not despair of having vicksburg before they arrive." pemberton's army held vicksburg practically without food for forty-seven days. his brave men were exposed to blistering suns and drenching rains and confined to their trenches through every hour of the night. they had reached the limit of human endurance and were now physically too weak to attempt a sortie. johnston still sat in his tent writing letters and telegrams to richmond. pemberton surrendered his garrison to general grant on july fourth, and the mississippi was opened to the federal fleet from its mouth to its source. grant telegraphed to washington: "the enemy surrendered this morning, general sherman will face immediately on johnston and drive him from the state." but the great letter writer did not wait for sherman to face him. he immediately abandoned the capital of mississippi and retreated into the interior. in the fall of vicksburg, the confederacy had suffered a most appalling calamity--not only had the mississippi river been opened to the federal gunboats, but grant had captured twenty-four thousand prisoners of war, including three major generals and nine brigadiers, ninety pieces of artillery and forty thousand small arms. the johnston clique at richmond made this disaster the occasion of fierce assaults on jefferson davis and fresh complaints of the treatment of their favorite general. the dogged persistence with which this group of soreheads proclaimed the infallibility of the genius of the weakest and most ineffective general of the confederacy was phenomenal. the more miserable johnston's failures the louder these men shouted his praises. the yellow journals of the south continued to praise this sulking old man until half the people of the confederacy were hoodwinked into believing in his greatness. the results of this johnston delusion were destined to bear fatal fruit in the hour of the south's supreme trial. chapter xxxv suspicion jennie barton had refused to listen to captain welford's accusation of treachery against her lover but the seed of suspicion had been planted. it grew with such rapidity her peace of mind was utterly destroyed. in vain she put the ugly thought aside. "it's impossible!" she murmured a hundred times only to come back to the idea that would not down. night after night she tossed on her pillow unable to sleep. the longer she faced the problem of socola's character and antecedents the more probable became the truth of dick's suspicions. she had made his present position in the state department possible. again her love rose in rebellion. "it's a lie--a lie!" she sobbed. "i won't believe it. dick's crazy jealousy's at the bottom of it all--" why had socola buried himself in the department of state so completely since the scene with dick? his calls had been brief. their relations had been strained in spite of her honest effort to put them back on the old footing. he gave as his excuse for not calling oftener the enormous pressure of work which the crisis of the invasion of pennsylvania had brought to his office. the excuse was valid. but perfect love would find a way. it should need no excuse. there was something wrong. she realized it now with increasing agony. unable to endure the strain she sent for socola. their meeting was awkward. she made no effort to apologize or smooth things over. her attitude was instinctive. she gave her feelings full rein. she fixed on him a steady searching gaze. "it's useless for me to try to pretend, my love. there's something wrong between us." "your mind has been poisoned," was the quick, serious answer. "thoughts are things. they have the power to kill or give life. a poisonous idea has been planted in your soul. it's killing your love for me. i feel it--and i'm helpless." "you can cast it out," she answered tenderly. "how?" "tell me frankly and honestly the whole story of your life--" "you believe me an impostor?" "i love you--" "and that is not enough?" "no. make suspicion impossible. you can do this--if you are innocent as i believe you are--" she paused and a sob caught her voice. "oh, my love, it's killing me--i can neither eat nor sleep. show me that such a thing is impossible--" he took her hand. "how foolish, my own, to ask this of me--we love right or wrong. love is the fulfillment of the law. you call me here to cross-examine me--" "no--no--dear heart--just to have you soothe my fears and make me laugh again--" "but how is it possible--once this thought has found its way into your mind? if i am a spy, as your captain welford says, it is my business to deceive the enemy. i couldn't tell the truth and live in richmond. i would swing from the nearest limb if i should be discovered--" jennie covered her face with her hands: "don't--don't--please--" "can't you see how useless such a question?" "you can't convince me?" she asked pathetically. "i won't try," he said firmly. "you must trust me because you love me. nothing i could say could convince you--" he paused and held her hands in a desperate clasp-- "trust me, dear--i promise in good time to convince you that i am all your heart has told you--" "you must convince me now--or i'll die," she sobbed. "you're asking the impossible--" he stroked her hand with tender touch, rose and led her to the door. "you'll try to trust me?" there was an unreal sound in her voice as jennie slowly replied: "yes--i'll try." socola hurried to the house on church hill and dispatched a courier on a mission of tragic importance. kilpatrick and dahlgren were preparing to capture richmond by a daring raid of three thousand cavalrymen. jennie watched him go with the determination to know the truth at all hazards. chapter xxxvi the fatal deed the battle of gettysburg and the disaster of the fall of vicksburg once more gave to the johnston junta in the confederate congress their opportunity to harass the president. their power for evil had been greatly diminished by the pressure of the swiftly moving tragedy of the war. the appearance of this congress was curiously plain and uninteresting. with the exception of j. l. m. curry of alabama and barksdale of mississippi there was not a man among them of constructive ability as a statesman. foote of tennessee was noted for his high-flown english, his endless harangues and his elaborate historical illustrations. had his ability been equal to the intensity of his hatred for davis he would have been a dangerous man to the administration. james lyons of virginia stood six feet three in his stockings, had fine, even, white teeth, and was considered the handsomest man in the assembly. yancey, the fierce, uncompromising agitator of secession, was too violent to command the influence to which his genius entitled him. senator barton, fierce, impatient, bombastic, had long ago exhausted the vocabulary of invective and could only repeat himself in descending anti-climax. hill of georgia was a young man of ability who gave promise of greater things under more favorable conditions. the real business of this congress was transacted in secret executive sessions. when the public was admitted, the people of richmond generally looked on with contempt. they sneeringly referred to them as "the college debating society, on capitol hill." the surroundings of their halls added to the impression of inefficiency--dingy, dirty and utterly lacking in the luxuries which the mind associates with the exercise of sovereign power. the senate was forced to find quarters in the third story of the "state house." there was no gallery and the spectators were separated from the members by an improvised railing. the only difference noticeable between the senators and the spectators was that the members had seats and the listeners and loafers had standing room only behind the rail. the house of representatives had a better chamber. but its walls were bare of ornament or paintings, its chairs were uncushioned, its desks dingy and slashed with pocket knives. its members sat with their heels in the air and their bodies sprawled in every conceivable attitude of ugly indifference. the heart and brains of the south were on the field of battle--her noblest sons destined to sleep in unmarked graves. the scenes of personal violence which disgraced the sittings of this nondescript body of law makers did much to relieve the president of the burden of their hostility. foote of tennessee provoked an encounter with judge dargan of alabama which came near a tragic ending. the judge was an old man of eccentric dress, much given to talking to himself--particularly as he wandered about the streets of richmond. the gallery of the house loved him from the first for his funny habit of scratching his arm when the itch of eloquence attacked him. and he always addressed the speaker as "mr. cheerman." they loved him particularly for that. the eccentric judge had a peculiarly fierce antipathy to foote. words of defiance had passed between them on more than one occasion. the house was in secret night session. the judge was speaking. foote sitting near, glanced up at his enemy and muttered: "damned old scoundrel--" the judge's gray head suddenly lifted, he snatched a bowie knife from his pocket and dashed for the man who had insulted him. from every direction rose the shouts and cries of the excited house. "stop him!" "hold him!" "great god!" "judge--judge!" the wildest uproar followed. half a dozen members threw themselves on the old man, dragged him to the floor, pinned him down and wrested the knife from his grasp. when the eloquent gentleman from tennessee saw that his assailant was disarmed and safely guarded by six stalwart men he struck an attitude, expanded his chest, smote it with both hands and exclaimed with melodramatic gusto: "i defy the steel of the assassin!" the house burst into shouts of uncontrollable laughter, and adjourned for the night. another scene of more tragic violence occurred in the senate--a hand to hand fight between william l. yancey and ben hill. the senator from georgia threw his antagonist across a desk, held him there in a grip of steel and pounded his face until dragged away by friends. yancey's spine was wrenched in the struggle, and it was rumored that this injury caused his death. it possibly hastened the end already sure from age, disease and careless living. committees from this assembly of law makers who attempted to instruct the conscientious, hard-working man of genius the southern people had made their president found little comfort in their efforts. davis received them with punctilious ceremony. his manners were always those of a gentleman--but he never allowed them to return to their onerous work in the debating society without a clear idea of his views. they were never expressed with violence. but the ice sometimes formed on the window panes if he stood near while talking. a congressional committee were demanding the restoration of beauregard to command. "general beauregard asked me to relieve him, gentlemen--" "only on furlough for illness," interrupted the chairman. "and you have forced him into retirement!" added a member. the president rose, walked to the window, gazed out on the crowded street for a moment and turned, suddenly confronting his tormentors. he spoke with quiet dignity, weighing each word with cold precision: "if the whole world asked me to restore general beauregard to the command which i have given to braxton bragg, i would refuse." he resumed his seat and the committee retired to senator barton's house where they found a sympathetic ear. bragg was preparing to fight one of the greatest battles of the war. at chickamauga, the "river of death," he encountered rosecrans. at the end of two days of carnage the union army was totally routed, right, left, and center and hurled back from georgia into chattanooga. polk's wing captured twenty-eight pieces of artillery and longstreet's twenty-one. eight thousand prisoners of war were taken, fifteen thousand stand of arms and forty regimental colors. rosecrans' army of eighty thousand men was literally cut to pieces by bragg's fifty thousand southerners. no more brilliant achievement of military genius illumines history. chickamauga was in every way as desperate a battle as arcola--and in all napoleon's italian campaigns nothing more daring and wonderful was accomplished by the man of destiny. bragg had justified the faith of davis. rosecrans was hemmed in in chattanooga, his supplies cut off and his army facing starvation when he was relieved of his command, thomas succeeding him. grant was hurried to chattanooga with two army corps to raise the siege. with his reënforcements grant raised the siege, surprised and defeated bragg's army which had been weakened by the detachment of longstreet's corps for a movement on knoxville. bragg withdrew his army again into georgia and resigned his command. the stern, irritable confederate fighter was disgusted with the constant attacks on him by peanut politicians and refused to hear davis' plea that he remain at the head of the western army. the president called him to richmond and made him his chief of staff. the disaster to the confederacy at chattanooga which gave general grant supreme command of the union forces, brought to the johnston junta at richmond its opportunity to once more press their favorite to the front. since his vicksburg fiasco the president had isolated him. davis resisted this appointment with deep foreboding of its possible disaster to the south. in the midst of this bitter struggle over the selection of a western field commander, the president of the confederacy received the first and only recognition of his government accorded by any european power. his early education at the st. thomas monastery had given the southern leader a lofty opinion of the roman catholic church. davis had always seen in the members of this faith in america friends who could not be alienated from the oppressed. failing to receive recognition from the great powers of europe, he dispatched his diplomatic representative to rome with a carefully worded letter to the pope in which he expressed his gratitude to pius ix for his efforts in behalf of peace. the pope had urged his bishops in new orleans and new york to strive to end the war. the vatican received the confederate diplomat with every mark of courtesy and every expression of respect accorded the most powerful nations of the world. the dominican friars had not forgotten the wistful, eager boy they had taught, and loved in kentucky. the pope replied to this communication in an official letter which virtually recognized the confederacy--both in his capacity as a temporal sovereign and as the head of the roman catholic church. the president read this letter with renewed hope of favorable action abroad. "illustrious and honorable president: "salutation: "we have just received with all suitable welcome the persons sent by you to place in our hands your letter dated twenty-third of september last. "not slight was the pleasure we experienced when we learned from those persons and the letter, with what feelings of joy and gratitude you were animated, illustrious and honorable president, as soon as you were informed of our letters to our venerable brother john, archbishop of new york, and john, archbishop of new orleans, dated the eighteenth of october of last year, and in which we have with all our strength excited and exhorted these venerable brothers, that in their episcopal piety and solicitude, they should endeavor, with the most ardent zeal, and in our name, to bring about the end of the fatal civil war which has broken out in those countries, in order that the american people may obtain peace and concord, and dwell charitably together. "it is particularly agreeable to us to see that you, illustrious and honorable president, and your good people, are animated with the same desire of peace and tranquillity which we have in our letters inculcated upon our venerable brothers. may it please god at the same time to make the other people of america and their ruler, reflecting seriously how terrible is civil war, and what calamities it engenders, listen to the inspiration of a calm spirit, and adopt resolutely the part of peace. "as for us, we shall not cease to offer up the most fervent prayers to god almighty that he may pour out upon all the people of america the spirit and peace and charity, and that he will stop the great evils which afflict them. we at the same time beseech the god of pity to shed abroad upon you the light of his countenance and attach you to us by a perfect friendship. "given at rome, at st. peter's, the third of december, , of our pontificate . "(signed) pius ix." the dark hour was swiftly approaching when the south and her leader would need the prayers of all god's saints. failing to persuade bragg to reconsider his resignation, davis appointed general hardee as his successor to command the western army. hardee declared the responsibility was more than he could assume. under the urgent necessity of driving the union army back from its position at chattanooga and heartsick with eternal wrangling of the opposition, davis reluctantly ordered joseph e. johnston personally to assume command of the army of tennessee--and the fatal deed was done. chapter xxxvii the raiders in february, , both north and south were straining every nerve for the last act of the grand drama of blood and tears. the presidential election would be held in november to choose a successor to abraham lincoln. at this moment lincoln was the most unpopular, the most reviled, the most misunderstood and the most abused man who had ever served as president of the united states. the opposition to him inside his own party was fierce, malignant, vindictive and would stop short of nothing to encompass his defeat in their nominating convention. they had not hesitated even to accuse his wife of treason. military success and military success alone could save the administration at washington. george b. mcclellan, the most popular general of the union army, was already slated to oppose lincoln on a platform demanding peace. if the south could hold her own until the first monday in november, the opposition to the war in the north would crush the administration and peace would be had at the price of southern independence. no man in america understood the tense situation more clearly than jefferson davis. his agents in the north kept him personally informed of every movement of the political chess board. personally he had never believed in the possibility of the south winning in a conflict of arms since the death of jackson had been given its full significance in the battle of gettysburg. he had however believed in the possibility of the party of the north which stood for the old constitution winning an election on the issue of a bloody and unsuccessful war and, on their winning, that he could open negotiations for peace and gain every point for which the war had been fought. it all depended on the battles of the coming spring and summer. grant, the new commander-in-chief of the armies of the union, had been given a free hand with unlimited resources of men and money. he was now directing the movements of nearly a million soldiers in blue. sherman was drilling under his orders an army of a hundred thousand with which to march into georgia--while grant himself would direct the movement of a quarter of a million men in his invasion of virginia. the confederate president saw at once that lee's army must be raised to its highest point of efficiency and that it was of equal importance that joseph e. johnston should be given as many or more men with which to oppose sherman. to allow for johnston's feeble strategy, davis sent him , soldiers to dalton, georgia, to meet sherman's , and gave lee , with which to oppose grant's , threatening to cross the rapidan and move directly on richmond. socola had informed the war department at washington that the confederate capital had been stripped of any semblance of an effective garrison to fill the ranks of lee and johnston. general judson kilpatrick was authorized to select three thousand picked cavalry, dash suddenly on richmond, capture it and release the , union prisoners confined in its walls and stockades. these prisoners grant steadily refused to receive in exchange. in vain davis besought the federal government to take them home in return for an equal number of confederate prisoners who were freezing and dying in the north. grant's logic was inexorable. every confederate prisoner exchanged and sent back home meant a recruit to lee's army. it was cruel to leave his men to languish in beleaguered richmond whose citizens were rioting in the streets for bread, but he figured these prisoners as soldiers dying in battle. the confederate government had no medicine for them. the blockade was drawn so tight scarcely an ounce of medicine could be obtained for the confederate army. davis offered the washington government to let their own surgeons come to richmond and carry medicine and food to their prisoners. his request was refused. the only thing grant conceded was his consent to kilpatrick's attempt to free and arm these , prisoners and loose them with fire and sword in the streets of the confederate capital. little did the men, women and children of richmond dream that they were lying down each night to sleep on the thin crust of a volcano. captain welford in the pursuit of socola and miss van lew had found that the woman on church hill persisted in her visits to the prisons. libby, which contained a number of union officers of rank, was her favorite. on the last day of february his patient watch was rewarded. he had placed a spy in libby disguised as a captive union soldier. this man had sent the captain an urgent message to communicate with him at once. within thirty minutes welford confronted him in the guardroom of the prison. the captain spoke in sharp nervous tones: "well?" "i've something big--" he paused and glanced about the room. "go on!" "there's a plot on foot inside to escape--" "of course. they're always plotting to escape--we've no real prison system--no discipline. hundreds have escaped already. it's nothing new--" "this _is_ new," the spy went on eagerly, "they let me into their councils last night. there's going to be a big raid on richmond--the men inside are going to fight their way out, arm themselves and burn the city. when they get the signal from the outside they'll batter down the walls and rush through--" "batter down the walls?" "yes, sir--" "how?" "they've loosed two big rafters and have them ready to use as battering rams--" "you're sure of this?" "sure's god's in heaven. go in and see for yourself--" captain welford gave a low whistle. "this is big news. there are enough prisoners in richmond to make an army corps--eleven hundred in here--twenty-five hundred at crew and pemberton's--at belle isle and the other stockades at least fifteen thousand in all. they are guarded by a handful of men. if they realize their power, they can batter their way out in five minutes and sweep the city with blood and fire--" he stopped suddenly, drew a deep breath and turned again to the man. "that'll do for you here. take a little rest. you'd as well go back into a lion's den when they find out that i know. they'd spot you sure and tear you limb from limb." the spy saluted. "report to me a week from to-day at the office. you've earned a vacation." the man saluted again and passed quickly out. captain welford asked the superintendent to call his prisoners together. "i have something to say to them." a thousand silent men in blue were gathered in the assembly room of the old warehouse. captain welford boldly entered the place carrying a box in his hand. he placed it on the floor, sprang on it and lifted his hand over the crowd: "i've an announcement to make, gentlemen," he began quietly amid a silence that was death like. "the department which i represent has learned that you are planning to batter down the walls and join a force of raiders who are on the way to capture richmond--" he paused and a murmur of smothered despair, inarticulate, bitter, crept through the crowd. "to forestall this little scheme, i have planted a thousand pounds of powder under this building. i have mined every other prison. the first one of you that lifts his finger to escape gives the signal that will blow you into eternity--" dick stepped from the box and made his way out without another word. he could feel the wild heart beat of baffled hope as they followed him to the door with despairing eyes. a murmur of sickening rage swept the prison. an ominous silence fell where hope had beat high. the same strategic announcement was made in every prison in richmond. no mines had been laid. but the story served its purpose. fifteen thousand men were bound hand and foot by fear. three hundred soldiers guarded them successfully. not a finger was lifted to help their bold rescuers who were already dashing toward the city. colonel ulric dahlgren was crossing the james above richmond to strike from the south side, while general kilpatrick led the attack direct from the north, dahlgren crossed the river at ely's ford, passed in the rear of lee's army, captured a confederate court martial in session, but missed a park of sixty-eight pieces of artillery which had been left unguarded. when they again reached the james at davis' mill, where a ford was supposed to be, none could be found. stanton had sent from washington a negro guide. they accused the negro of treachery and hung him from the nearest limb without the formality of a drumhead court martial. at dawn on march first, bradley johnson's cavalry, guarding lee's flank, struck one of kilpatrick's parties and drove them in on the main body. they pursued kilpatrick's men through ashland and down to the outer defenses of richmond. hero the raiders dismounted their twenty-five hundred men and prepared to attack the entrenchments. wade hampton immediately moved out to meet him. bradley johnson's marylanders drew up in kilpatrick's rear at the same moment, and captured five men bearing dispatches from dahlgren. he would attack on the rear at sunset. he asked kilpatrick to strike at the same moment. johnson boldly charged kilpatrick's rear with his handful of men and drove him headlong down the peninsula to the york river. the confederate leader had but seventy-five men and two pieces of artillery but he hung on kilpatrick's division of twenty-five hundred and captured a hundred and forty prisoners. dahlgren at night with but four hundred men boldly attacked the defenses on the north side of the city. he was met by a company of richmond boys under eighteen years of age. the youngsters gave such good account of themselves that he withdrew from the field, leaving forty of his men dead and wounded. in his retreat down the peninsula, he failed to find kilpatrick's division. his command was cut to pieces and captured and dahlgren himself killed. the part which socola had played in this raid was successfully accomplished without a hitch. he was compelled to answer the drum which called every clerk of his department to arms for the defense of the city. in the darkness he succeeded in pressing into dahlgren's lines and on his retreat made his way back to his place in the ranks of the confederates. it was a little thing which betrayed him after the real danger was past and brought him face to face with jennie barton. chapter xxxviii the discovery from the moment captain welford had discovered the plot of the prisoners to coöperate with kilpatrick and dahlgren he was morally sure that miss van lew had been their messenger. he was equally sure that socola had been one of her accomplices. on the day of the announcement of his powder plant to the prisoners he set a guard to watch the house on church hill, and report to him the moment "crazy bet" should emerge. within two hours he received the message that she was on her way down town with her market basket swinging on her arm. dick knew that this woman could not recognize him personally. he was only distantly related to the welfords of richmond. miss van lew was in a nervous agony to deliver her dispatch to kilpatrick, warning him that the purpose of the raid had been discovered and that he must act with the utmost caution. she had no scout at hand and kilpatrick's was expected every moment at her rendezvous near the market. dick turned the corner, circled a block, and met her. she was childishly swinging the basket on her arm and humming a song. she smiled vacantly into his face. he caught the look of shrewd intelligence and saw through her masquerade. a single word from her lips now would send her to the gallows and certainly lead to socola's arrest. the captain was certain that she carried dispatches on her person at that moment. if he could only induce her to drop them, the trick would be turned. he turned, retraced his steps, overtook her and whispered as he passed: "your trusted messenger--" she paid no attention. there was not the slightest recognition--no surprise--no inquiry. her thin face was a mask of death. was this man kilpatrick's scout? or was he a secret service man on her trail? the questions seethed through her excited soul. her life hung on the answer. it was a question of judgment of character and personality. the man was a stranger. but the need was terrible. should she take the chance? she quickened her pace and passed dick. again she heard him whisper: "your messenger is here. i am going through to-night." in her hand clasped tight was her dispatch torn into strips and each strip rolled into a tiny ball. should she commence to drop them one by one? perplexed, she stopped and glanced back suddenly into dick's face. her decision was instantaneous. the subtle sixth sense had revealed in a flash of his eager eyes her mortal danger. she turned into a side street and hurried home. the captain was again baffled by a woman's wit. his disappointment was keen. he had hoped to prove his accusation to jennie barton before the sun set. she had ceased to fight his suspicions of socola. his name was not mentioned. she was watching her lover with more desperate earnestness even than he. the captain had failed to entrap the wily little woman with her market basket, but through her he struck the trail of the big quarry he had sought for two years. socola was imperiled by a woman's sentimental whim--this woman with nerves of steel and a heart whose very throb she could control by an indomitable will. heartsick over her failure to get through the lines her warning to kilpatrick, she had felt the responsibility of young dahlgren's tragic death. woman-like she determined, at the risk of her life and the life of every man she knew, to send the body of this boy back to his father in the north. in vain socola pleaded against this mad undertaking. the woman's soul had been roused by the pathetic figure of the daring young raider whose crutches were found strapped to his saddle. he had lost a leg but a few months before. he had been buried at the cross-roads where he fell--the roads from stevensville and mantua ferry. in pity for the sorrow of his distinguished father davis had ordered the body disinterred and brought into richmond. it was buried at night in a spot unknown to anyone save the confederate authorities. feeling had run so high on the discovery of the purpose of the raiders to burn the city that the confederate president feared some shocking indignity might be offered the body. the night miss van lew selected for her enterprise was cold and dark and the rain fell in dismal, continuous drizzle. the grave had been discovered by a negro who saw the soldiers bury the body. it was identified by the missing right leg. the work was done without interruption or discovery. socola placed the body in rowley's wagon which was filled with young peach trees concealing the casket. the pickets would be deceived by the simple device. should one of them thrust his bayonet into the depths of those young trees more than one neck would pay the penalty. but they wouldn't. he was sure of it. at the picket post rowley sat in stolid indifference while he heard the order to search his wagon. he engaged the guard in conversation. wagons entered and passed and still he talked lazily to his chosen friend. the lieutenant looked from his tent and yelled at last: "what 'ell's the matter with you--search that man and let him go--" "it would be a pity to tear up all those fruit trees!" the guard said with a yawn. "i didn't think you'd bother 'em," rowley answered indifferently, "but i know a soldier's duty--" another wagon dashed up in a hurry. the guard examined him and he passed on. again the lieutenant called: "search that man and let him go!" rowley's face was a mask of lazy indifference. the guard glanced at him and spoke in low tones: "your face is guarantee enough, partner--go on--" socola flanked the picket and joined rowley. near hungary, on the farm of orrick the german, a grave was hurriedly dug and the casket placed in it. the women helped to heap the dirt in and plant over it one of the peach trees. three days later in response to a pitiful appeal from dahlgren's father, davis ordered the boy's body sent to washington. the grave had been robbed. the sensation this created was second only to the raid itself. it was only too evident to the secret service of the confederate government that an organization of federal spies honeycombed the city. the most desperate and determined efforts were put forth to unearth these conspirators. captain welford had made the discovery that the conspirators who had stolen dahlgren's body had cut his curling blond hair and dispatched it to washington. the bearer of this dispatch was a negro. he had been thoroughly searched, but no incriminating papers were found. the captain had removed a lock of this peculiarly beautiful hair and allowed the messenger of love to go on his way determined to follow him on his return to richmond and locate his accomplices. dick's report of this affair to jennie had started a train of ideas which again centered her suspicions on socola. the night this body had been stolen she had sent for her lover in a fit of depression. the rain was pouring in cold, drizzling monotony. her loneliness had become unbearable. he was not at home and could not be found. alarmed and still more depressed she sent her messenger three times. the last call he made was long past midnight. her suspicion of his connection with the service of the enemy had become unendurable. she had not seen or heard from him since the effort to find him that night. he was at his desk at work as usual next morning. she wrote him a note and begged that he call at once. he came within half an hour, a wistful smile lighting his face as he extended his hand: "i am forgiven for having been born abroad?" "i have sent for you--" "i've waited long." "it's not the first time i've asked you to call," she cried in strained tones. "no?" she held his gaze with steady intensity. "i sent for you the night young dahlgren's body was stolen--" "really?" "it was raining. i was horribly depressed. i couldn't endure the strain. i meant to surrender utterly and trust you--" "i didn't get your message--" "i know that you didn't--where were you?" "engaged on important business for the government--" "what government?" "how can you ask such a question?" "i do ask it. i sent for you three times--the third time after midnight. it wasn't very modest, perhaps, i was so miserable i didn't care. i just wanted to put my arms around your neck and tell you to love me always--that nothing else mattered--" "nothing else does matter, dearest--" "yes--it does. it matters whether you have used me to betray my people. where were you at twelve o'clock night before last?" "i'd rather not tell you--" "i demand it--" a quizzical smile played about socola's handsome mouth as he faced her frankly. "i was in a gambling establishment--" "whose?" "johnnie worsham's--" "what were you doing there? you neither drink nor gamble." again the dark face smiled. "i was asked by my chief to report on the habits of every man in my department--particularly to report every man who frequents the gambling hells of richmond--" jennie watched him nervously, her hands trembling. "it's possible of course--" her eyes suddenly filled with tears and she threw herself into his arms. and then it happened--the little thing, trivial and insignificant, that makes and unmakes life. for a long while no words were spoken. with gentle touch he soothed her trembling body, bending to kiss the waves of rich brown hair. she pushed him at arm's length at last and looked up smiling. "i can't help it--i love you!" "when will you learn that we must trust where we love--" he stopped suddenly. her brown eyes were fixed with terror on a single strand of curling blond hair caught on the button of his waistcoat. "what is it?" he asked in alarm. she drew the hair from his coat carefully and held it to the light in silence. "you can't be jealous?" she looked at him curiously. "yes. i have a rival--" "a rival?" her eyes pierced him. "your love for the union! i've suspected you before. you've evaded my questions. our love has been so big and sweet a thing that you have always stammered and hesitated to tell me a deliberate lie. it's not necessary now. i know. ulrich dahlgren is the age of my brother billy. they used to play together in washington at commodore dahlgren's home and at ours. he had the most peculiarly beautiful blond hair i ever saw on a man. i'd know it anywhere on earth. that strand is his, poor boy! besides, dick welford captured your messenger with that pathetic little bundle on his way to washington--" socola started in spite of his desperate effort at self-control and was about to speak when jennie lifted her hand. "don't, please. it's useless to quibble and argue with me longer. we face each other with souls bare. i don't ask you why you have deceived me. your business as a federal spy is to deceive the enemy--" "you are not my enemy," he interrupted in a sudden burst of passion. "you are my mate! you are mine by all the laws of god and nature. i love you. i worship you. we are _not_ enemies. we never have been--we never shall be. with the last breath i breathe your name shall be on my lips--" "you may speak your last word soon--" "what do you mean?" "i am going to surrender you to the authorities--" "and you have just been sobbing in my arms--the man you have sworn to love forever?" "it's the only atonement i can make. through you i have betrayed my country and my people. i would gladly die in your place. the hard thing will be to do my duty and give you up to the death you have earned." "you can deliver me to execution?" "yes--" was the firm answer. "listen to this--" she seized a copy of the morning paper. "colonel dahlgren's instructions to his men. this document was found on his person when shot. there is no question of its genuineness--" she paused and read in cold hard tones: "guides, pioneers (with oakum, turpentine and torpedoes), signal officer, quarter master, commissary, scouts, and picket men in rebel uniform--remain on the north bank and move down with the force on the south bank. if communications can be kept up without giving an alarm it must be done. everything depends upon a surprise, and no one must be allowed to pass ahead of this column. all mills must be burned and the canal destroyed. keep the force on the southern side posted of any important movement of the enemy, and in case of danger some of the scouts must swim the river and bring us information. we must try to secure the bridge to the city (one mile below belle isle) and release the prisoners at the same time. if we do not succeed they must then dash down, and we will try to carry the bridge from each side. the bridges once secured, and the prisoners loosed and over the river, the bridges will be secured and the city destroyed--" jennie paused and lifted her eyes burning with feverish light. "merciful god! how? with oakum and turpentine. a city of one hundred thousand inhabitants, under the cover of darkness--men, women and children, the aged, the poor, the helpless!" socola made no answer. a thoughtful dreamy look masked his handsome features. jennie read the next sentence from the dahlgren paper in high quivering tones: "the men must be kept together and well in hand, and once in the city, it must be destroyed and _jeff davis and his cabinet_ killed--" the girl paused and fixed her gaze on socola. "the man who planned that raid came with the willful and deliberate murder of unarmed men in his soul. the man who helped him inside is equally guilty of his crime--" she resumed her reading without waiting for reply. "prisoners will go along with combustible material. the officer must use his discretion about the time of assisting us. pioneers must be prepared to construct a bridge or destroy one. they must have plenty of oakum and turpentine for burning, which will be rolled in soaked balls, and given to the men to burn when we get into the city--" socola lifted his hand. "please, dear--these instructions are not mine. i do not excuse or palliate them. the daring youngster who conceived this paid the penalty with his life. it's all that any of us can give for his country. there's something that interests me now far more than this sensation--far more than the mere fact that my true business here has been discovered by you and my life forfeited to your government--" "and that is?" "that the woman i love can deliver me to death--" "you doubt it?" "i had not believed it possible." "i'll show you." jennie stepped to the door and pulled the old-fashioned bell-cord. a servant appeared. in strained tones the girl said: "go to captain welford's office and ask him to come here immediately with two soldiers--" "yassam--" the negro bowed and hurried from the house, and jennie sat down in silence beside the door. socola confronted her, his hands gripped in nervous agony behind his back, his slender figure erect, his breath coming in deep excited draughts. "you think that i'll submit to my fate without a fight?" "you've got to submit. your escape from richmond is a physical impossibility--" he searched the depths of her heart. "i was not thinking of my body just then. i have no desire to live if you can hand me to my executioner--" he paused and a sob came from the girl's distracted soul. he moved a step closer. "i'm not afraid to die--you must know that--i'm not a coward--" "no. i couldn't have loved a coward!" "the thing i can't endure is that you, the woman to whom i have surrendered my soul, should judge me worthy of death. come, my own, this is madness. we must see each other as god sees now. you must realize that only the highest and noblest motive could have sent a man of my character and training on such a mission. we differ in our political views for the moment--even as you differ from the older brother whom you love and respect--" "i am not responsible for my brother's acts. i am for yours--" "nonsense, dear heart. my work was ordained of god from the beginning. it was fate. nothing could have stopped me. i came under a mighty impulse of love for my country--bigger than the north or the south. god sent me. you have helped me. but if you had not i would still have succeeded. can't you forget for the moment the details of this blood-stained struggle--the maimed lad with his crutches strapped to his saddle, lost in the black storm night in the country of his enemies and shot to pieces--the mad scheme his impulsive brain had dreamed of wiping your capital from the earth and leading fifteen thousand shouting prisoners back into freedom and life--surely he paid for his madness. forget that i have deceived you, and see the vision of which i dream--a purified and redeemed nation--united forever--no north, no south--no east, no west--the inheritance of our children and all the children of the world's oppressed! i am fighting for you and yours as well as my own. the south is mine. i love its beautiful mountains and plains--its rivers and shining seas--oh, my love, can't you see this divine vision of the future? the union must be saved. the stars in their courses fight its battles. nothing is surer in the calendar of time than that the day is swiftly coming when the old flag your fathers first flung to the breeze will be again lifted from your capitol building. you can't put me out of your life as a criminal worthy of death! i won't have it. i am yours and you are mine. i am not pleading for my life. i'm pleading for something bigger and sweeter than life. i'm pleading for my love. i can laugh at death. i can't endure that you put me out of your heart--" jennie rose with determination, walked to the window and laughed hysterically. "well, i'm going to put you out. captain welford and his men are coming. they've just turned the corner!" the man's figure slowly straightened, and his eyes closed in resignation. "then it's god's will and my work is done." with a sudden cry jennie threw herself in his arms. "forgive me, dear lord. i can't do this hideous thing! it's my duly, but i can't. my darling--my own! you shall not die. i was mad. forgive me! forgive me! my own--" "halt!" the sharp command of the captain rang outside the door. "get into this room--quick--" the girl cried, pushing socola into the adjoining room and slamming the door as dick entered the hall. she faced the captain with a smile. "it's all right, now, dick. i thought i had discovered an important secret. it was a mistake--" the captain smiled. "you don't mind my looking about the house?" "_searching_ the house?" "just the lower floor?" "i do mind it. how dare you suggest such a thing, sir--" "because i've made a guess at the truth. you discovered important evidence incriminating socola. your first impulse was to do your duty--you weakened at the last moment--" "absurd!" she gasped. "i happened to hear a door slam as i entered. i'll have to look around a little." he started to the door behind which socola had taken refuge. jennie confronted him. "you can't go in there--" "it's no use, jennie--i'm going to search that room--the whole house if necessary." "why?" "i know that socola is here--" "and if he is?" "i'll arrest him--" "on what charge?" "he is a federal spy and you know it--" "you can't prove it." "i've found the evidence. i have searched his rooms--" "searched his _rooms_?" "your servant told me that he was here. i leaped to a conclusion, forced his door and found this--" he thrust a well-thumbed copy of the cipher code of the federal secret service into her hand. "you--you--can't execute him, dick," jennie sobbed. "i will." "you can't. i love him. he can do no more harm here." "he's done enough. his life belongs to the south--" she placed her trembling hand on his arm. "you are sure that deep down in your heart there's not another motive?" "no matter how many motives--one is enough. i have the evidence on which to send him to the gallows--" the girl's head drooped. "and i gave it to you--god have mercy!" the tears began to stream down her checks. dick moved uneasily and looked the other way. "i've got to do it," he repeated stubbornly. her voice was the merest whisper when she spoke. "you're not going to arrest him, dick. he will leave richmond never to enter the south again. i'll pledge my life on his promise. his death can do us no good. it can do you no good--i--i--couldn't live and know that i had killed the man i love--" "you haven't killed him. he has forfeited his life a thousand times in his work as a spy." "i sent for you. i caused his betrayal. i shall be responsible if he dies--" again the little head drooped in pitiful suffering. she lifted it at last with a smile. "dick, you're too big and generous for low revenge. you hate this man. but you love me. i know that. i'm proud and grateful for it. i appeal to the best that's in you. save my life and his--" "you couldn't live if he should die, jennie?" the man asked tenderly. "not if he should die in this way--" the captain struggled and hesitated. again her hand touched his arm. "i ask the big divine thing of you, dick?" "it's hard. i've won and you take my triumph from me. for two years i've given body and soul to the task of unmasking this man." "i'm asking his life--and mine--" the pleading voice repeated. "i'll give him up on one condition--" "what?" the captain held her gaze in silence a moment. "that you send him back to the north and put him out of your life forever!" jennie laughed softly through her tears. "you big, generous, foolish boy--you might have left that to me--" "all right," he hastened to agree. "i'll leave it to you. forgive me. i can't deny you anything--" "you're a glorious lover, dick!" she cried tenderly. "why didn't i love you?" "i don't know, honey," he replied chokingly. "we just love because we must--there's no rhyme or reason to it--" he paused and laughed. "well, it's all over now, jennie. i've given him back to you--good-by--" she grasped his hand and held it firmly. "don't you dare say good-by to me, sir--you've got to love me, too--as long as i live--my first sweetheart--brave, generous, kind--" she drew his blond head low and kissed him. he looked at her through dimmed eyes and slowly said: "that makes life worth living, jennie." he turned and quickly left the house. she heard his low orders to his men and watched them pass up the street with their rifles on their shoulders. she opened the door and socola entered, his face deathlike in its pallor. "why did he stay so long?" "he has searched your room and found your cipher code--" "and you have saved my life?" "it was i who put it in peril--" "no--i gave my life in willing sacrifice when the war began--" "you are to leave," jennie went on evenly--"leave at once--" "of course--" "and give me your solemn parole--never again during this war to fight the south--" "it is your right to demand it. i agree." she gently took his hand. "i know that i can trust you now--" she paused and looked wistfully into his face. "one last long look into your dear eyes--" "not the last--" "one last kiss--" she drew his lips down to hers. "one last moment in your arms." she clung to him desperately and freed herself with quick resolution. "and now you must go--from richmond--from the south and out of my life forever--" "you can't mean this!" he protested bitterly. "i do," was the firm answer. "good-by." he pressed her hand and shook his head. "i refuse to say it--" "you must." "no--" "it is the end--" "it is only the beginning." with a look of tenderness he left her standing in the doorway, the hunger of eternity in her brown eyes. chapter xxxix the conspirators the raid of dahlgren and kilpatrick had sent a thrill of horror through richmond. the people had suddenly waked to the realization of what it meant to hold fifteen thousand desperate prisoners in their city with a handful of soldiers to guard them. the discovery on the young leader's body of the remarkable papers of instructions to burn the city and murder the confederate president and his cabinet produced a sharp discussion between jefferson davis and his councilors. not only did the people of richmond demand that such methods of warfare be met by retaliation of the most drastic kind but the cabinet now joined in this demand. hundreds of prisoners had been captured both from dahlgren's and kilpatrick's division. it was urged on davis with the most dogged determination that these prisoners--in view of the character of their instructions to burn a city crowded with unarmed men, women and children and murder in cold blood the civil officers of the confederate government--should be treated as felons and executed by hanging. the president had refused on every occasion to lend his power to brutal measures of retaliation. this time his cabinet was persistent and in dead earnest in their purpose to force his hand. davis faced his angry council with unruffled spirit. "i understand your feelings, gentlemen," he said evenly. "you have had a narrow escape. the south does not use such methods of warfare. nor will i permit our government to fall to such level by an act of retaliation. the prisoners we hold are soldiers of the enemy's army. their business is to obey orders--not plan campaigns--" "we have captured officers also," benjamin interrupted. "subordinate officers are not morally responsible for the plans of their superiors." no argument could move the confederate chieftain. he was adamant to all appeals for harsh treatment. even lee had at last found it impossible to maintain discipline in his army unless he prevented the review of his court martial by davis. the president was never known to sign the death warrant of a confederate soldier. lincoln was a man of equally tender heart and yet the northern president did sign the death warrants of more than two hundred union soldiers during his administration. the only action davis would permit was the removal of the fifteen thousand prisoners further south to places of safety where such raids would be impossible. the prisons of richmond were emptied and the stockades at salisbury and andersonville over-crowded with these men. davis renewed his urgent appeal to the federal government for the exchange of these men. his request was treated with discourtesy and steadily refused. when the hot climate of georgia caused the high death rate at andersonville he released thousands of those men without exchange and notified the washington government to send transportation for them to savannah. lincoln had given grant a free hand in assuming the command of all the armies of the union. but he watched his cruel policy of refusal to exchange prisoners with increasing anguish. in every way possible, without directly opposing his commanding general, the big-hearted president at washington managed to smuggle southern prisoners back into the south unknown to grant and take an equal number of union soldiers home. a crowd of southern boys from the prison at elmira, new york, were announced to arrive in richmond on the morning train from fredericksburg. among them jennie expected her brother jimmie who had been captured in battle six months ago. she hurried to the station to meet them. a great crowd had gathered. a row of coffins was placed on the ground at the end of the long platform awaiting the train going south. a dozen men were sitting on those rude caskets smoking, talking, laughing, their feet drawn up tailor-fashion to keep them out of the mud. with a shiver the girl hurried to the other gate. her eager eyes searched in vain among the ragged wretches who shambled from the cars. a man from baton rouge, whom she failed to recognize, lifted his faded hat and handed her a letter. she read it through her tears and hurried to the confederate white house to show it to the president. davis scanned the scrawl with indignant sympathy: "_dear little sis_: "this is the last message i shall ever send. before it can reach you i shall be dead--for which i'll thank god. i'm sorry now i didn't take my chances with the other fellows, bribe the guard and escape from camp douglas in chicago. a lot of the boys did it. somehow i couldn't stoop. maybe the fear of the degrading punishment they gave mcgoffin, the son of the governor of kentucky, when he failed, influenced me, weak and despondent as i was. they hung him by the thumbs to make him confess the name of his accomplices. he refused to speak and they left him hanging until the balls of his thumbs both burst open and he fainted. "the last month at camp douglas was noted for scant rations. hunger was the prevailing epidemic. at one end of our barracks was the kitchen, and by the door stood a barrel into which was thrown beef bones and slops. i saw a starving boy fish out one of these bones and begin to gnaw it. a guard discovered him. he snatched the bone from the prisoner's hand, cocked his pistol, pressed it to his head and ordered him to his all-fours and made him bark for the bone he held above him-- "we expected better treatment when transferred to elmira. but i've lost hope. i'm too weak to ever pull up again. i've made friends with a guard who has given me the list of the men who have died here in the five months since we came. in the first four months out of five thousand and twenty-seven men held here, one thousand three hundred and eleven died--six and one-half per cent a month--" davis paused and shook his head-- "the highest rate we have ever known at salisbury or andersonville during those spring months was three per cent!" he finished the last line in quivering tones. "there's not a chance on earth that i'll live to see you again. see the president and beg him for god's sake to save as many of the boys as he can. with a heart full of love. "jimmie." the president took both of jennie's hands in his. "i need not tell you, my dear, that i have done and am doing my level best. the policy of the new federal commander is to refuse all offers of exchange. you understand my position?" "perfectly," was the sorrowful answer. "i only came as a duty to bear his dying message--" "express to your father and mother my deepest sympathy." with a gentle pressure of the chieftain's hand the girl answered: "i need not tell you i appreciate it--" the president watched her go with a look of helpless anguish. his troubles for the moment had only begun. the returned prisoners had marched in a body to his office to thank their chief for his sympathy and help and asked him to say something to them. jennie paused and stared in a dazed way into the poor shrunken faces. when the president appeared every ragged hat was in the air and they cheered with all the might of the strength that was left in them. the girl burst into tears. these men, so forlorn, so dried up with a strange, half-animal, hunted look in their eyes--others restless and wild-looking--others calmly vacant in their stare as if they had been dead for years! a poor mother was rushing in and out among them hunting for her son. "he was coming with you boys, you know!" she cried. she stopped suddenly and laughed at her own anxiety and confusion. "he's here somewhere--i just can't find him--help me, men!" she hadn't spoken his name, in her eager search for his loved face. she kept lifting the cloth from a basket of provisions which she had cooked that morning. "i've got his breakfast here--poor boy--i expect he's hungry." she had lost all consciousness of the crowd now. she was talking to herself, trying to keep her courage up. the president looked into the emaciated faces before him and lifted his long arm in solemn salutation. "_soldiers of the south_: "i thank you from the bottom of my heart for this tribute of your loyalty. you were offered your freedom in prison at any moment if you would take the oath and forswear your allegiance to the south. you deliberately chose the living death to the betrayal of your faith. i stand with uncovered head before you. i am proud to be the chief executive of such men!" again they cheered. the old mother with her basket was searching again for her boy. jennie slipped an arm gently around her and led her away. on the day lee left richmond for the front to meet grant's invading host, the confederate president was in agony over a letter from general winder portraying the want and suffering among the prisoners confined at andersonville. "if we could only get them across the mississippi," davis cried, "where beef and supplies of all kind are abundant--but what can we do for them here?" "our men are in the same fix," lee answered quickly, "except that they're free. these sufferings are the result of our necessity, not of our policy. do not distress yourself." the south was entering now the darkest hours of her want. the market price of food was beyond the reach of the poor or even the moderately well-to-do. turkeys sold for $ each. flour was $ a barrel, corn meal $ a bushel. boots were $ a pair. a man's coat cost $ --his trousers $ . he could get along without a vest. wood was $ a cord. it took $ , to buy $ in gold. in the midst of this universal suffering the yellow journals of the south, led by the richmond _examiner_, made the most bitter and determined assaults on davis to force him to a policy of retaliation on northern prisoners. "hoist the black flag!" shrieked the _examiner_. "retaliate on these yankee prisoners for the starvation and abuse of our men in the north--a land teeming with plenty." the president was held up to the scorn and curses of the southern people because with quiet dignity he refused to lower the standard of his government to a policy of revenge on helpless soldiers in his power. to a committee of the confederate congress who waited on him with these insane demands he answered with scorn: "you dare ask me to torture helpless prisoners of war! i will resign my office at the call of my country. but no people have the right to demand such deeds at my hands!" in answer to this brave, humane stand of the southern president the _examiner_ had the unspeakable effrontery to accuse him of clemency to his captives that he might curry favor with the north and shield himself if the south should fail. no characteristic of davis was more marked than his regard for the weak, the helpless and the captive. his final answer to his assailants was to repeat with emphasis his orders to general winder to see to it that the same rations issued to confederate soldiers in the field should be given to all prisoners of war, though taken from a starving army and people. enraged by the defeat of their mad schemes, the conspirators drew together now to depose davis and set up a military dictatorship. chapter xl in sight of victory when grant crossed the rapidan with his army of one hundred forty-one thousand one hundred and sixty men lee faced him with sixty-four thousand. the problem of saving richmond from the tremendous force under the personal command of the most successful general of the north was not the only danger which threatened the confederate capital. butler was pressing from the peninsula with forty thousand men along the line of mcclellan's old march, supported again by the navy. jefferson davis knew the task before lee to be a gigantic one yet he did not believe that grant would succeed in reaching richmond. the moment the federal general crossed the rapidan and threw his army into the tangled forest of the wilderness, lee sprang from the jungles at his throat. battle followed battle in swift and terrible succession. at cold harbor thirty days later the climax came. grant lost ten thousand men in twenty minutes. the northern general had set out to hammer lee to death by steady, remorseless pounding. at the end of a month he had lost more than sixty thousand men and lee's army was as strong as when the fight began. grant's campaign to take richmond was the bloodiest and most tragic failure in the history of war. the north in bitter anguish demanded his removal from command. lincoln stubbornly refused to interfere with his bulldog fighter. he sent him word to hold on and chew and choke. as grant in his whirl of blood approached the old battle grounds of mcclellan, davis rode out daily to confer with lee. he was never more cheerful--never surer of the safety of his capital. his faith in god and the certainty that he would in the end give victory to a cause so just and holy grew in strength with the report from each glorious field. no doubt of the right or justice of his cause ever entered his mind. day and night he repeated the lines of his favorite hymn: "i'll strengthen thee, help thee and cause thee to stand, upheld by my righteous omnipotent hand." again and again he said to his wife half in soliloquy, half in exalted prayer: "we can conquer a peace against the world in arms and keep the rights of freemen if we are worthy of the privilege!" the spirit which animated the patriotic soldiers who followed their commander in this bloody campaign was in every way as high as that which inspired their president. jennie spent an hour each day ministering to the sick prisoners who had returned from the north and were unable to go further than richmond. it was her service of love for jimmie's friends and comrades. a poor fellow was dying of the want he had endured in prison. he lifted his dimmed eyes to hers: "will you write to my wife for me, miss?" "yes--yes--i will." "and give her my love--" he paused for breath and fumbled in his pocket. "i've a letter from her here--read it before you write. our little girl had malaria. she tried willow tea and everything she could think of for the chills. the doctor said nothin' but quinine could save her. she couldn't get it, the blockade was too tight, and so our baby died--and now i'm dyin' and my poor starvin' girl will have nothin' to comfort her--but--" he gasped and lifted himself on his elbow. "if our folks can just quit free men, it's all right. it's all right!" the women and children of richmond were suffering now for food. the thirteenth virginia regiment sent billy barton into the city with a contribution for their relief. billy delivered it to jennie with more than a boy's pride. there was something bigger in the quiet announcement he made. "here's one day's rations from the regiment, sis," he said--"all our flour, pork, bacon and meal. the boys are fasting to-day. it's their love offering to those we've left at home--" jennie kissed him. "it's beautiful of you and your men, boy. give my love to them all and tell them i'm proud to be their countrywoman--" "and they're proud of their country and their general, too--maybe you wouldn't believe it--but every regiment in lee's army has reënlisted for the war." she seized billy's hand. "come with me--i want you to see the president and tell him what your regiment has done. it'll help him." as they approached the white house a long, piercing scream came through the open windows. "what on earth?" jennie exclaimed. "an accident of some kind," the boy answered, seizing her arm and hurrying forward. every window and door of the big lonely house set apart on its hill swung wide open, the lights streaming through them, the wind blowing the curtains through the windows. the lights blazed even in the third story. mrs. burton harrison, the wife of the president's secretary, met them at the door, her eyes red with weeping. she pressed jennie's hand. "little joe has been killed--" "mrs. davis' beautiful boy--impossible!" "he climbed over the bannisters and fell to the brick pavement and died a few minutes after his mother reached his side--" the girl could make no answer. she had come on a sudden impulse to cheer the lonely leader of her people. perhaps his need in this dark hour had called her. she thought of socola's story of his mother's vision and wondered with a sudden pang of self-pity where the man she loved was to-night. this beautiful child, named in honor of his favorite brother, was the greatest joy of the badgered soul of the confederate leader. suddenly his white face appeared at the head of the stairs. a courier had come from the battlefield with an important dispatch. grant and lee were locked in their death grapple in the wilderness. he would try even in this solemn hour to do his whole duty. he passed the sympathetic group murmuring a sentence whose pathos brought the tears again to jennie's eyes. "not my will, o lord, but thine--thine--thine!" he took the dispatch from the courier's hand and held it open for some time, staring at it with fixed gaze. he searched the courier's face and asked pathetically: "will you tell me, my friend, what is in it--i--i--cannot read--" the courier read the message in low tones. a great battle was joined. the fate of a nation hung on its issue. the stricken man drew from his pocket a tiny gold pencil and tried to write an answer--stopped suddenly and pressed his hand on his heart. billy sprang to his side and seized the dispatch: "i'll take the message to general cooper--mr. president--" the white face turned to the young soldier and looked at him pitifully: "thank you, my son--thank you--it is best--i must have this hour with our little boy--leave me with my dead!" jennie stayed to help the stricken home. she took little jeff in her arms to rock him to sleep. he drew her head down and whispered: "miss jennie, i got to joe first after he fell. i knelt down beside him and said all the prayers i know--but god wouldn't wake him!" the girl drew the child close and kissed the reddened eyes. over her head beat the steady tramp of the father's feet, back and forth, back and forth, a wounded lion in his cage. the windows and doors were still wide open, the curtains waving wan and ghost-like from their hangings. two days later she followed the funeral procession to the cemetery--thousands of children, each child with a green bough or bunch of flowers to pile on the red mound. a beautiful girl pushed her way to jennie's side and lifted a handful of snowdrops. "please put these on little joe," she said wistfully. "i knew him so well." with a sob the child turned and fled. jennie never learned her name. she turned to the grave again, her gaze fixed on the striking figure of the grief-stricken father, bare-headed, straight as an arrow, his fine face silhouetted against the shining southern sky. the mother stood back amid the shadows, in her somber wrappings, her tall figure drooped in pitiful grief. the leader turned quickly from his personal sorrows to those of his country, his indomitable courage rising to greater heights as dangers thickened. two weeks later general sheridan attempted what dahlgren tried and failed to accomplish. the president hurried from his office to his home, seized his pistols, mounted his horse and rode out to join generals gracie and ransom who were placing their skeleton brigades to repulse the attack. the crack of rifles could be distinctly heard from the executive mansion. the mother called her children to prayers. as little jeff knelt he raised his chubby face and said with solemn earnestness: "you had better have my pony saddled, and let me go out and help father--we can pray afterwards!" in driving sheridan's cavalry back from richmond general stuart fell at yellow tavern mortally wounded--the bravest of the brave--a full major general who had won immortal fame at thirty-one years of age. his beautiful wife, the daughter of a union general, philip st. george cooke, could not reach his bedside before he breathed his last. the president reverently entered the death chamber and stood for fifteen minutes holding the hand of his brilliant young commander. they told him that he could not live to see his wife. "i should have liked to have seen her," he said gently, "but god's will be done." the doctor felt his fast fading pulse. "doctor, i suppose i'm going fast now," stuart said. "it will soon be over. i hope i have fulfilled my duty to my country and my god--" "your end is near, general stuart," the doctor responded softly. "all right," was the even answer. "i'll end my little affairs down here. to mrs. robert e. lee i give my gold spurs, in eternal memory of the love i bear my glorious chief. to my staff, my horses--" he paused and turned to the heavier officer who stood with bowed head. "you take the larger one--he'll carry you better. to my son i leave my sword--" he was silent a moment and then said with an effort: "now i want you to sing for me the song i love best: "'rock of ages cleft for me let me hide myself in thee'"-- with his fast-failing breath he joined in the song, turned and murmured: "i'm going fast now--god's will be done--" so passed the greatest cavalry leader our country has produced--a man whose joyous life was one long feast of good will toward his fellow men. * * * * * in spite of all losses, in spite of four years of frightful carnage, in spite of the loss of the mississippi, the states of louisiana and tennessee, the confederacy was in sight of victory. lee had baffled grant's great army at every turn and now held him securely at bay before petersburg. the north was mortally tired of the bloody struggle. the party which demanded peace was greater than any political division--it included thousands of the best men in the party of abraham lincoln. the nomination of general mcclellan for president on a platform declaring the war a failure and demanding that it end was a foregone conclusion. jefferson davis knew this from inside information his friends had sent from every section of the north. the confederacy had only to hold its lines intact until the first monday in november and the northern voters would end the war. the one point of mortal danger to the south lay in the mental structure of joseph e. johnston, the man whom davis had been persuaded, against his better judgment, to appoint to the command of one of the greatest armies the confederacy had ever put into the field. johnston had been sent to dalton, georgia, and placed in command of sixty-eight thousand picked confederate soldiers with which to attack and drive sherman out of the lower south. lee with sixty-four thousand had defeated grant's one hundred and forty thousand. richmond was safe, and the north was besieging washington with an army of heart-broken mothers and fathers who demanded grant's removal. no effort was spared by davis to enable johnston to stay sherman's advance and assume the offensive. the whole military strength of the south and west was pressed forward to him. his commissary and ordnance departments were the best in the confederacy. his troops were eager to advance and retrieve the disaster at missionary ridge--the first and only case of panic and cowardice that had marred the brilliant record of the confederacy. the position of johnston's army was one of commanding strength. long mountain ranges, with few and difficult passes, made it next to impossible for sherman to turn his flank or dislodge him by direct attack. sherman depended for his supplies on a single line of railroad from nashville. davis confidently believed that johnston could crush sherman in the first pitched battle and render his position untenable. and then began the most remarkable series of retreats recorded in the history of war. without a blow and without waiting for an attack, johnston suddenly withdrew from his trenches at dalton and ran eighteen miles into the interior of georgia. he stopped at resaca in a strong position on a peninsula formed by the junction of two rivers fortified by rifle pits and earthworks. he gave this up and ran thirteen miles further into georgia to adairsville. not liking the looks of adairsville he struck camp and ran to cassville seventeen miles. he then declared he would fight sherman at kingston. sherman failing to divide his army, as johnston had supposed he would, he changed his mind and ran beyond etowah. he next retreated to alatoona. here sherman spread out his army, threatened marietta and johnston ran again. on july fifth he ran from kenesaw mountain and took refuge behind the chattahoochee river. from dalton to resaca, from resaca to adairsville, from adairsville to alatoona (involving the loss of kingston and rome with their mills, foundries and military stores), from alatoona to kenesaw, from kenesaw to the chattahoochee and then tumbled into the trenches before atlanta. retreat had followed retreat for two months and a half over one hundred and fifty miles to the gates of atlanta without a single pitched battle! davis watched this tragedy unfold its appalling scenes with increasing bitterness, disappointment and alarm. the demand for johnston's removal was overwhelming in the state of georgia whose gate city was now besieged by sherman. the people of the whole south had watched this retreat of a hundred and fifty miles into their territory with sickening hearts. again johnston began his nagging and complaining to the richmond authorities. his most important message was an accusation of disloyalty against joseph e. brown. he telegraphed in blunt plain english: "the governor of georgia refuses me provisions and the use of his roads." brown answered: "the roads are open to him and in capital condition. i have furnished him abundantly with provisions." the president of the confederacy now faced the most dangerous and tragic decision of his entire administration. the removal of johnston from his command before sherman's victorious army in the heart of georgia could be justified only on the grounds of the sternest necessity. the commanding general not only had the backing of his powerful junta in richmond who were now busy with their conspiracy to establish a dictatorship and oust the president from his office, but he was immensely popular with his army. his care for his soldiers was fatherly. his painful efforts to save their lives, even at the cost of the loss of his country, were duly appreciated by the leaders of opinion in the army. johnston had the power to draw and hold the good will of the men who surrounded him. he had the power, too, of infecting his men with his likes and dislikes. his hatred of davis had been for three years the one mania of his sulking mind. to remove him from command in such a crisis was to challenge a mutiny in his army which might lead to serious results. yet if he should continue to retreat, and back out of atlanta without a fight as he had backed out of every position for the one hundred and fifty miles from dalton, the results would be still more appalling. the loss of atlanta at this moment meant the defeat of the peace party of the north, and the reëlection of lincoln. if lincoln should be elected it was inconceivable that the south could continue the unequal struggle for four years more. if johnston would only hold his trenches and save atlanta for a few days the south would win. lee could hold grant indefinitely. the thought which appalled davis was the suspicion which now amounted to a practical certainty that his retreating general would evacuate atlanta as he had threatened to abandon richmond when confronted by mcclellan, and had abandoned vicksburg without a blow. he must know this with absolute certainty before yielding to the demand for his removal. that no possible mistake could be made, he dispatched his chief of staff, general braxton bragg, to atlanta for conference with johnston and make a personal report. bragg reported that johnston was arranging to abandon atlanta without a battle and the president promptly removed him from command and appointed hood in his place. when hood assumed command of the disgruntled army, it was too late to save atlanta. had johnston delivered battle with his full force at dalton, sherman might have been crushed as rosecrans was overwhelmed at chickamauga. hood's army was driven back into their trenches. sherman threw his hosts under cover of night on a wide flanking movement and atlanta fell. under the mighty impulse of this news lincoln was reëlected, the peace party of the north defeated and the doom of the confederacy sealed. chapter xli the fall of richmond the conspirators who had complained most bitterly of davis for the appointment of lee to the command of the army before richmond when mcclellan was thundering at its gates, now succeeded in passing through the confederate congress a bill to create a military dictatorship which they offered to the man for whose promotion they had condemned the president. lee treated this attempt to strike the confederate chieftain over his head with the contempt it deserved. davis laughed at his enemies by the most complete acceptance of their plans. his answer to senator barton's committee was explicit. "i have absolute confidence in general lee's patriotism and military genius. i will gladly coöperate with congress in any plan to place him in supreme command." lee refused to accept the responsibility except with the advice and direction of the president, and the conspiracy ended in a fiasco. from the moment sherman's army pierced the heart of the south the confederate president saw with clear vision that the cause of southern independence was lost. lee's army must slowly starve. his one supreme purpose now was to fight to the last ditch for better terms than unconditional surrender which would mean the loss of billions in property and the possible enfranchisement of a million slaves. that lincoln was intensely anxious to stop the shedding of blood he knew from more than one authentic source. it was rumored that the northern president was willing to consider compensation for the slaves. an army of a hundred thousand determined southern soldiers led by an indomitable general could fight indefinitely. that it was of the utmost importance to the life of the south to secure a surrender which would forbid the enfranchisement of the slaves and the degradation of an electorate to their level, davis saw with clear vision. from the north now came overtures of peace. francis p. blair asked for permission to visit richmond. blair proposed to end the war by uniting the armies of the north and south for an advance on mexico to maintain the monroe doctrine against the new emperor whom europe had set upon a throne in the western hemisphere. the confederate president received his proposals with courtesy. "i have tried in vain, mr. blair," he said gravely, "to open negotiations with washington. how can the first step be taken?" "mr. lincoln, i am sure, will receive commissioners--though he would give me no assurance on that point. we must stop this deluge of blood. i cherish the hope that the pride and honor of the southern states will suffer no shock in the adjustment." the result of this meeting was the appointment by davis of three commissioners to meet the representatives of the united states. alexander h. stephens, r. m. t. hunter and judge john a. campbell were sent to this important conference. for some unknown reason they were halted at fortress monroe and not allowed to proceed to washington. a change had been suddenly produced in the attitude of the national government. whether it was due to the talk of the men in richmond who were trying to depose davis or whether it was due to the fall of fort fisher and the closing of the port of wilmington, the last artery which connected the confederacy with the outside world, could not be known. the confederate commissioners were met by abraham lincoln himself and his secretary of state, william h. seward, in hampton roads. the national government demanded in effect, unconditional surrender. davis used the indignant surprise with which this startling announcement was received in richmond and the south to rouse the people to a last desperate effort to save the country from the deluge which the radical wing of the northern congress had now threatened--the confiscation of the property of the whites and the enfranchisement of the negro race. in his judgment this could only be done by forcing the national government through a prolongation of the war to pledge the south some measure of protection before they should lay down their arms. mass meetings were held and the people called to defend their cause with their last drop of blood. the president made a speech that night to a crowd in the metropolitan hall on franklin street in richmond which swept them into a frenzy of patriotic passion. even his bitterest enemy, the editor of the _examiner_, was spellbound by his eloquence. when he first appeared on the speakers' stand and lifted his tall thin figure, gazing over the crowd with glittering eye, a tremendous cheer swept the assembly. in that moment, he was the incarnate soul of the south. the chieftain of the men who wore the gray in this hour of solemn trial, stood before them with countenance like the lightning. cheer on cheer rose and fell with throbbing passion. a smile of strange prophetic sweetness lighted his pale haggard face. the ovation he received was the sure promise to his tired soul that when the passions and prejudices, the agony and madness of war had passed the people would understand all he had tried to do in their service. in that moment of divine illumination he saw his place in the hearts of his countrymen and was content. he spoke with even restrained flow of words, with a mastery of himself and his audience that is the mark of the orator of the highest genius. his gestures were few. his low, vibrant, musical voice found the heart of his farthest listener. he swayed them with indescribable passion. into the faces of the foe who had demanded unconditional surrender he hurled the defiance of an unconquered and unconquerable soul. he closed with an historical illustration which lifted his audience to the highest reach of emotion. kossuth had abandoned hungary with an army of thirty thousand men in the field. the friends of liberty had never forgiven nor could forgive this betrayal. "what shall we say," he cried, "of the disgrace beneath which we should be buried if we surrender with an army in the field more numerous than that with which napoleon achieved the glory of france, an army standing among its homesteads, an army in which each individual is superior in warlike quality to the individual who opposes him!" when the tumult and applause had died away did he realize in the secret places of his heart that the spirit of the south had been broken by the terrible experiences of four years of blood and fire and death? his iron will gave no sign. to him the manhood of the southern soldier was unconquerable, his courage dauntless forever. six months after sherman's sword had pierced the heart of the south from atlanta, lee's army in the trenches before petersburg had reached the end of their endurance. lee wired davis that his thin line could hold back grant's hosts but a few days and that richmond must fall. his men were living on parched corn. the president hurried to the white house and slipped his arm around his wife. "you must leave the city, my dear." "please let me stay with you," she pleaded. "impossible," he answered firmly. "my headquarters must be in the saddle. your presence here could only grieve and distress me. you can take care of our babies. i know you wish to help and comfort me. you can do this in but one way--go and take the children to a place of safety--" he paused, overcome with emotion. "if i live," he continued slowly, "you can come to me when the struggle is over, but i do not expect to survive the destruction of our liberties." he drew his small hoard of gold from his pocket, removed a five-dollar piece for himself, and gave it all to his wife together with the confederate money he had on hand. "you must take only your clothing," he said after a moment's silence. "the flour and supplies in your pantry must be left. the people are in want." he had arranged for his family to settle in north carolina. the day before his wife left, he gave her a pistol and taught her trembling hands to load, aim and fire it. "the danger will be," he warned, "that you may full into the hands of lawless bands of deserters from both armies who are even now pillaging and burning. you can at least, if you must, force your assailants to kill you. if you cannot remain undisturbed in your own land make for the coast of florida and take a ship for a foreign country." their hearts dumb with despair, his wife and children boarded the train--or the thing that once had been a train--the roof of the cars leaked and the engine wheezed and moved with great distress. the stern face of the southern leader was set in his hour of trial. he felt that he might never again look on the faces of those he loved. his little girl clung convulsively to his neck in agonizing prayer that she might stay. the boy begged and pleaded with tears raining down his chubby face. just outside of richmond the engine broke down and the heartsick family sat in the dismal day-coach all night. sleepers had not been invented. they were twelve hours getting to danville--a week on the way to charlotte. the reign of terror had already begun. the president's wife avoided seeing people lest they should be compromised when the invading army should sweep over the state. they found everything packed up in the house that had been rented, but weill, the big-hearted jew who was the agent, sent their meals from his house for a week, refusing every suggestion of pay. he offered his own purse or any other service he could render. when burton harrison had seen them safely established in charlotte he returned at once to his duties with the president in richmond. on the beautiful sunday morning of april , , a messenger hurriedly entered st. paul's church, walked to the president's pew and handed him a slip of paper. he rose and quietly left. not a rumor had reached the city of lee's broken lines. in fact a false rumor had been published of a great victory which his starving army had achieved the day before. the report of the evacuation of richmond fell on incredulous ears. the streets were unusually quiet. beyond the james the fresh green of the spring clothed the fields in radiant beauty. the rumble of no artillery disturbed the quiet. scarcely a vehicle of any kind could be seen. the church bells were still ringing their call to the house of god. the straight military figure entered the executive office. a wagon dashed down main street and backed up in front of the custom house door. boxes were hurried from the president's office and loaded into it. a low hum and clatter began to rise from the streets. the news of disaster and evacuation spread like lightning and disorder grew. the streets were crowded with fugitives making their way to the depot--pale women with disheveled hair and tear-stained faces leading barefooted children who were crying in vague terror of something they could not understand. wagons were backed to the doors of every department of the confederate government. as fast as they could be loaded they were driven to the danville depot. all was confusion and turmoil. important officers were not to be seen and when they were found would answer no questions. here and there groups of mean-visaged loafers began to gather with ominous looks toward the houses of the better class. the halls of the silent capitol building were deserted--a single footfall echoed with hollow sound. the municipal council gathered in a dingy little room to consider the surrender of the city. mayor mayo dashed in and out with the latest information he could get from the war department. he was slightly incoherent in his excitement, but he was full of pluck and chewed tobacco defiantly. he announced that the last hope was gone and that he would maintain order with two regiments of militia. he gave orders to destroy every drop of liquor in the stores, saloons and warehouses and establish a patrol. the militia slipped through the fingers of their officers and in a few hours the city was without a government. disorder, pillage, shouts, revelry and confusion were the order of the night. black masses of men swayed and surged through the dimly-lighted streets, smashing into stores and warehouses at will. some of them were carrying out the mayor's orders to destroy the liquor. others decided that the best way to destroy it was to drink it. the gutters ran with liquor and the fumes filled the air. to the rear guard of lee's army under ewell was left the task of blowing up the vessels in the james, and destroying the bridges across the river. the thunder of exploding mines and torpedoes now shook the earth. the ships were blown to atoms and the wharves fired. in vain the mayor protested against the firing of the great warehouses. orders were orders, and the soldiers obeyed. the warehouses were fired, the sparks leaped to the surrounding buildings and the city was in flames. as day dawned a black pall of smoke obscured the heavens. the sun's rays lighted the banks of rolling smoke with lurid glare. the roar of the conflagration now drowned all other sounds. the upper part of main street was choked with pillagers--men with drays, some with bags, some rolling their stolen barrels painfully up the hills. a small squadron of federal cavalry rode calmly into the wild scene. general weitzel, in command of the two divisions of grant's army on the north side, had sent in forty massachusetts troopers to investigate conditions. at the corner of eleventh street they broke into a trot for the square and planted their guidons on the capitol of the confederacy. long before this advance guard could be seen in the distance the old flag of the union had been flung from the top of the house on church hill. foreseeing the fall of the city miss van lew had sent to the federal commander for a flag. through his scouts he had sent it. as weitzel's two grand divisions swung into main street this piece of bunting eighteen feet long and nine feet wide waved from the van lew mansion on the hill above them. stretching from the exchange hotel to the slopes of church hill, down the hill, through the valley, and up the ascent swept this gorgeous array of the triumphant army, its bayonets gleaming in the sunlight, every standard, battle flag and guidon streaming in the sky, every band playing, swords flashing, and shout after shout rolling from end to end of the line. to the roar of the flames, the throb of drum, the scream of fife, the crash of martial music, and the shouts of marching hosts, was added now the deep thunder of exploding shells in the burning arsenals. a regiment of negro cavalry swept by the exchange hotel and as they turned the corner drew their sabers with a savage shout. an old virginian with white locks standing in the doorway of the hotel gazed on these negro troops a moment, threw his hands on high, and solemnly cried: "blow, gabriel! blow your trumpet--for god's sake blow!" for hours the fire raged unchecked--burned until the entire business section of the city lay a smoldering heap of ashes. crowds of men, women and children crowded the capitol square fighting with smoke and flying cinders for a breath of fresh air. piles of furniture lay heaped on its greensward. terror-stricken, weeping women had dragged it from their homes. in improvised tents made of broken tables and chairs covered with sheets and bedding hundreds of homeless women and children huddled. as night fell the pitiful reaction came from the turmoil and excitement of the day. the quiet of a great desolation brooded over the smoking ruins. in the rich and powerful north millions were mad with joy. in new york twenty thousand people gathered in union square and sang the doxology. jennie barton was in richmond through it all and yet the tragedy made no impression on her heart or mind. a greater event absorbed her. dick welford had hurried to lee's army on the day following socola's departure from richmond. he wanted to fight once more. through all the whirlwind of death and blood from the first crash with grant in the wilderness to his vain assaults on petersburg he had fought without a scratch. his life was charmed. and then in the first day of the final struggle which broke the lines of lee's starving army he fell, leading his men in a glorious charge. he reached the hospital in richmond the day before the city's evacuation. jennie had watched by his bedside every hour since his arrival. but few words passed between them. she let him hold her hand for hours in silence, always looking, looking and smiling his deathless love. he had not spoken socola's name nor had she. "it's funny, jennie," he said at last, "i don't hate him any more--" the girl's head drooped and the tears streamed down her checks. "please, dick--don't--" "yes," he insisted, "i want to talk about it and you must hear me--won't you?" "of course, if you wish it," she answered tenderly. "you see i don't hate these yankee soldiers any more--anyhow. i saw too many of them die from the wilderness to petersburg--brave manly fellows. the fire of battle has burned the hate out of me. now i just want you to be happy, jennie dear, that's all--good-by--" his hand slipped from hers and in a moment his spirit had passed. chapter xlii the capture at midnight on the day of the evacuation the president and his cabinet left richmond for danville. he still believed that lee might cut his way through grant's lines and join his army with johnston's in north carolina. lee had restored johnston to command of the small army that yet survived in opposition to sherman. he had hopes that johnston's personal popularity with the soldiers might in a measure restore their spirits. the president established his temporary capital at danville. g. w. sutherlin placed his beautiful home at his disposal. communications with lee had been cut and the wildest rumors were afloat. davis wrote his last proclamation urging his people to maintain their courage. in this remarkable document he said: "i announce to you, my fellow countrymen, that it is my purpose to maintain your cause with my whole heart and soul. i will never consent to abandon to the enemy one foot of the soil of any of the states of the confederacy. "if by stress of numbers, we should be compelled to a temporary withdrawal from the limits of virginia or any other border state, we will return until the baffled and exhausted enemy shall abandon in despair his endless and impossible task of making slaves of a people resolved to be free. "let us, then, not despair, my countrymen, but, relying on god, meet the foe with fresh defiance, and with unconquered and unconquerable hearts." so washington spoke to his starving, freezing little army at valley forge in the darkest hour of our struggle for independence against great britain. with the help of france washington succeeded at last. davis was destined to fail. no friendly foreign power came to his aid. his courage was none the less sublime for this reason. lee's skeleton army surrendered to grant at appomattox, and davis hurried to greensboro where johnston and beauregard were encamped with twenty-eight thousand men. two hundred school girls marched to the house in danville and cheered him as he left. mrs. sutherlin in the last hour of his stay asked for a moment of his time. he ushered her into his room with grave courtesy. "dear madam," he began smilingly, "you have risked your home and the safety of your husband to honor me and the south. i thank you for myself and the people. is there anything i can do to show how much i appreciate it?" "you have greatly honored us by accepting our hospitality," was the quick cheerful answer. "we shall always be rich in its memory. i have but one favor to ask of you--" "name it--" she drew a bag from a basket and handed it to him. "accept this little gift we have saved. it will help you on your journey. it's only a thousand dollars in gold--i wish it were more." the president's eyes grew dim and he shook his head. "no--no--dear, dear mrs. sutherlin. your needs will be greater than mine. besides, i have asked all for the cause--nothing for myself--nothing!" he left danville with heart warmed by the smiles and cheers of two hundred beautiful girls and the offer of every dollar a patriotic woman possessed. he had need of its memory to cheer him at greensboro. here he felt for the first time the results of the malignant campaign which holden's raleigh _standard_ had waged against him and his administration. so great was the panic and so bitter the feeling which holden's sheet had roused that it was impossible for the president and his cabinet to find accommodations in any hotel or house. he was compelled to camp in a freight car. it remained for a brave southern woman to resent this insult to the chieftain. when mrs. c. a. l'hommedieu learned that the president was in town, housed in a freight car and shunned by the citizens, she sent him a note and begged him to make her house his home and to honor her by commanding anything in it and all that she possessed. the leader was at this moment preparing to leave for charlotte and had to decline her generous and brave offer. but he was deeply moved. he stopped his work to write her a beautiful letter of thanks. his interview with johnston and beauregard was strained and formal. johnston's army in its present position in the hands of a resolute and daring commander could have formed a light column of ten thousand cavalry and cut its way through all opposition to the mississippi river. knowing the character of his general so well he had small hopes. after receiving the report of the condition of the army the president called his cabinet to consider what should be done. johnston sat at as great a distance from davis as the room would permit. the president reviewed briefly the situation and turned calmly to johnston: "general, we should like now to hear your views." the reply was given with brutal brevity and in tones of unconcealed defiance and hatred. "sir," the great retreater blurted out, "my views are that our people are tired of war, feel themselves whipped and will not fight." a dead silence followed. the president turned in quiet dignity to beauregard: "and what do you say, general beauregard?" "i agree with what general johnston has said," he replied. there was no appeal from the decision of these two commanders in such an hour. the president dictated a letter to general sherman suggesting their surrender and outlining the advantageous terms which the northern commander accepted. and then the confederate chieftain received a message so amazing he could not at first credit its authority. a courier from sherman conveyed the announcement to johnston that davis might leave the country on a united states vessel and take whoever and whatever he pleased with him. the answer of jefferson davis was characteristic. "please thank general sherman for his offer and say that i can do no act which will put me under obligations to the federal government." sherman had asked lincoln at their last interview whether he should capture davis or let him go. a sunny smile overspread the rugged features of the national president: "that reminds me," he said, "of a temperance lecturer in illinois. wet and cold he stopped for the night at a wayside inn. the landlord, noting his condition, asked if he would have a glass of brandy. "'no--no--' came the quick reply. 'i am a temperance lecturer and do not drink--' he paused and his voice dropped to a whisper--'i would like some water however--and if you should of _your own_ accord, put a little brandy in it _unbeknownst_ to me--why, it will be all right.'" sherman was trying to carry out the wishes of the man with the loving heart. at charlotte davis was handed a telegram announcing the assassination of abraham lincoln. his thin fate went death white. handing the telegram to his secretary, he quietly said: "i am sorry. we have lost our noblest and best friend in the court of the enemy." he immediately telegraphed the news to his wife who had fled further south to abbeville, south carolina. mrs. davis burst into tears on reading the fatal message. her woman's intuition saw the vision of horror which the tragedy meant to her and to her stricken people. the president left charlotte with an escort of a thousand cavalrymen for abbeville. his journey was slow. the wagons were carrying all that remained of the confederate treasury with the money in currency from the richmond banks which had been entrusted to the care of the secretary of the treasury. davis stopped at a little cabin on the roadside and asked the lady who stood in the doorway for a drink of water. she turned to comply with his request. while he was drinking a baby barely able to walk crawled down the steps and toddled to him. the mother smiled. "is this not president davis?" she asked tremblingly. "it is, madam," he answered with a bow. she pointed proudly to the child: "he's named for you!" the president drew a gold coin from his pocket and handed it to the mother. "please keep it for my little namesake and tell him when he is old enough to know." as he rode away with reagan, his faithful postmaster general, he said: "the last coin i had on earth, reagan. i wouldn't have had that but for the fact i'd never seen one like it and kept it for luck." "i reckon the war's about finished us," the general replied. "yes," davis cheerfully answered. "my home is a wreck. benjamin's and breckinridge's are in federal hands. mallory's fine residence at pensacola has been burned by the enemy. your home in texas has been wrecked and burned--" he paused and drew from his pocketbook a few confederate bills. "that is my estate at the present moment." he received next day a letter from his wife which greatly cheered him: "_abbeville, s. c._, april , . "_my dear old husband_: "your very sweet letter reached me safely by mr. harrison and was a great relief. i leave here in the morning at o'clock for the wagon train going to georgia. washington will be the first place i shall unload at. from there we shall probably go on to atlanta or thereabouts, and wait a little until we hear something of you. let me beseech you not to calculate upon seeing me unless i happen to cross your shortest path toward your bourne, be that what it may. "it is surely not the fate to which you invited me in the _brighter_ days. but you must remember that you did not invite me to a great hero's home but to that of a plain farmer. i have shared all your triumphs, been the only beneficiary of them, now i am claiming the privilege for the first time of being all to you, since these pleasures have passed for me. "my plans are these, subject to your approval. i think i shall be able to procure funds enough to enable me to put the two eldest to school. i shall go to florida if possible and from thence go over to bermuda or nassau, from thence to england, unless a good school offers elsewhere, and put them to the best school i can find, and then with the two youngest join you in texas--and that is the prospect which bears me up, to be once more with you if need be--but god loves those who obey him and i know there is a future for you. "here they are all your friends and have the most unbounded confidence in you. mr. burt and his wife have urged me to live with them--offered to take the chances of the yankees with us--begged to have little maggie--done everything in fact that relatives could do. i shall never forget all their generous devotion to you. "i have seen a great many men who have gone through--not one has talked fight. a stand cannot be made in this country! do not be induced to try it. as to the trans-mississippi, i doubt if at first things will be straight, but the spirit is there, and the daily accretions will be great when the deluded of this side are crushed between the upper and nether millstones. but you have not tried the 'strict construction' fallacy. if we are to require a constitution, it must be much stretched during our hours of outside pressure if it covers us at all. "be careful how you go to augusta. i get rumors that brown is going to seize all government property, and the people are averse and mean to resist with pistols. they are a set of wretches together, and i wish you were safe out of their land. god bless you, keep you. i have wrestled with him for you. i believe he will restore us to happiness. "devotedly, "your wife." "kindest regards to robert, and thanks for faithful conduct. love to johnson and john wood. maggie sends you her best love." the president and his party reached abbeville on may first, only to find that his wife had left for washington, georgia. at abbeville, in the home of armistead burt, davis called his last cabinet meeting and council of war. there were present five brigade commanders, general braxton bragg, his chief-of-staff, breckinridge, benjamin and reagan of his cabinet. the indomitable spirit made the last appeal for courage and the continuance of the fight until better terms could be made that might save the south from utter ruin and the shame of possible negro rule. he faced them with firm resolution, his piercing eye undimmed by calamity. "the south, gentlemen," he declared, "is in a panic for the moment. we have resources to continue the war. let those who remain with arms in their hands set the example and others will rally. let the brave men yet with me renew their determination to fight. around you reënforcements will gather." the replies of his discouraged commanders were given in voices that sank to whispers. each man was called on for his individual opinion. slowly and painfully each gave his answer in the negative. the war was hopeless, but they would not disband their men until they had guarded the president to a place of safety. "no!" davis answered passionately. "i will listen to no proposition for my safety. i appeal to you for the cause of my country. stand by it, men--stand by it!" his appeal was received in silence. his councilors could not agree with him. the proud old man drew his slender body to its full height, lifted his hands and cried pathetically: "the friends of the south consent to her degradation!" he attempted to pass from the meeting, his emaciated face white with anger. his step tottered and his body swayed and would have sunk to the floor had not general breckinridge caught him in his arms and led him from the room. benjamin parted from the president when they crossed the savannah river and he had dropped the seal of the confederate government in the depths of its still, beautiful waters. "where are you going?" reagan asked. "to the farthest place from the united states," was the quick reply, "if it takes me to china." he made his way successfully to england and won fame and fortune in the old world. on hearing that the federal cavalry were scouring the country, breckinridge and reagan proposed that davis disguise himself in a soldier's clothes, a wool hat and brogan shoes, take one man with him and go to the coast of florida, ship to cuba. his reply was firm: "i shall not leave southern soil while a confederate regiment is on it. kirby smith has an army of , men. he has not surrendered. general hampton will cut his way across the mississippi. we can lead an army of , men on the plains of texas and fight until we get better terms than unconditional surrender." breckinridge was left at washington to dispose of the small sum yet left in the treasury and turn over to their agent the money of the richmond banks. robert toombs lived in washington. general reagan called on the distinguished leader. he invited his guest into his library and closed the door. "you have money, reagan?" "enough to take me west of the mississippi--" "you are well mounted?" "one of the best horses in the country." "i am at home," he added generously. "i can command what i want, and if you need anything, i can supply you--" "thank you, general," reagan responded heartily. toombs hesitated a moment, and then asked suddenly: "has president davis money?" "no, but i have enough to take us both across the mississippi." "is mr. davis well mounted?" "he has his fine bay, 'kentucky,' and general lee sent him at greensboro by his son robert, his gray war horse 'traveler,' as a present. he has two first class horses." again toombs was silent. "mr. davis and i," he went on thoughtfully, "have had our quarrels. we have none now. i want you to say to him that my men are around me here, and if he desires it i will call them together and see him safely across the chattahoochee river at the risk of my life--" "i'll tell him, general toombs," reagan cordially responded. "and i appreciate your noble offer. it differs from others who have pretended to be his best friends. they are getting away from him as fast as they can. some are base enough to malign him to curry favor with the enemy. i've known jefferson davis intimately for ten years. the past four years of war i've been with him daily under every condition of victory and defeat, and i swear to you that he's the truest, gentlest, bravest, tenderest, manliest man i have ever known--" "let me know," toombs urged, "if i can serve him in any possible way." when reagan delivered the message to the president he responded warmly: "that's like toombs. he was always a whole souled man. if it were necessary i should not hesitate to accept his offer." he was slowly reading his wife's last letters which had been delivered to him by scouts who were still faithful. they were riding in a wagon with picked mississippi teamsters twenty miles below washington: "all well, with winnie sweet and smiling. billy plenty of laughter and talk with the teamsters keeps quiet. jeff is happy beyond expression. maggie one and two quite well. "i have $ , , something to sell, and have heart and a hopeful one, but above all, my precious only love, a heartful of prayer. may god keep you and have his sword and buckler over you. do not try to make a stand on this side. it is not in the people. leave your escort and take another road often. alabama is full of cavalry, fresh and earnest in pursuit. may god keep you and bring you safe to the arms of "your devoted, "winnie." he opened and read another: "_my own precious banny_: "may god give us both patience against this heavy trial. the soldiers are very unruly and have taken almost all the mules and horses from the camp. do not try to meet me. i dread the yankees getting news of you so much. you are the country's only hope and the very best intentions do not advise a stand this side of the river. why not cut loose from your escort? go swiftly and alone with the exception of two or three. "oh, may god in his goodness keep you safe, my own. maggie says she has your prayer book safe. may god keep you, my old and only love, as ever, devotedly, "your own, "winnie." he had not seen his wife and babies since they left richmond. the conduct of the soldiers determined his course. he turned to reagan: "this move will probably cause me to be captured or killed. you are not bound to go with me--but i must protect my family." "i go with you, sir--" was the prompt response. the soldiers were dismissed and the money still remaining in the treasury divided among them. a picked guard of ten men rode with the fallen chieftain in search of his loved ones. they joined mrs. davis after a hard ride and found her camp threatened by marauders. he traveled with her two days and, apparently out of danger, she begged him to leave her and make good his escape. he finally agreed to do this and with reagan, the members of his staff and burton harrison, his secretary, started for the florida coast. the day was one of dismal fog and rain and the party lost the way, turning in a circle, and at sunset met mrs. davis and her company at the fork of the road near the ocmulgee river. the president and staff traveled with his wife next day and made twenty-eight miles. at irwinsville their presence was betrayed to the federal cavalry, his camp surrounded by colonel pritchard, and the confederate president and party arrested. the soldiers plundered his baggage, tore open his wife's trunks and scattered her dresses. in one of these trunks they found a pair of new hoopskirts which mrs. davis had bought but never worn. an enterprising newspaper man immediately invented and sent broadcast the story that he had been captured trying to escape in his wife's hoopskirts. his enemies refused to hear any contradiction of this invention. it was too good not to be true. they clung to it long after colonel pritchard and every man present had given it the lie. they had traveled a day's journey toward macon, the headquarters of general wilson, when an excited man galloped into the camp waving over his head a printed slip of paper. "what is it?" davis asked of his guard. the guard seized and read the slip and turned to the confederate chieftain and his wife. "andrew johnson's proclamation offering a reward of $ , for the capture of jefferson davis as the murderer of abraham lincoln!" a cry of anguish came from the faithful wife. the leader touched her shoulder gently. "hush, my dear. the miserable scoundrel who wrote that proclamation knew that it is false. he is the one man in the united states who knows that i preferred abraham lincoln in the white house to him or any other man the north might elect. such an accusation must fail--" the wife was not comforted. "these men may assassinate you!" the soldiers crowded about their defenseless prisoner and heaped on him the vilest curses and insults. he made no answer. the far-away look in his eagle eye told them only too plainly that he did not hear. colonel pritchard in his manly way made every effort to protect him from insult. within a short distance of macon, the prisoners were halted and their escort drawn up in line on either side of the road. colonel pritchard had ridden into macon for a brigade to escort his captives through the streets of the city. the soldiers again cursed and jeered. the children climbed into their father's arms, kissed and hugged him tenderly and put their little hands over his ears that he should not hear what they said. he soothed their fears and comforted them with beautiful lines from the psalms which he quoted in tones of marvelous sweetness. general wilson received his distinguished prisoner with the deference due his rank and character. his guard in silence opened their lines and presented arms as davis entered the building. chapter xliii the victor socola hurried into richmond three days after its fall in the desperate hope that he might be of service to jennie. he was two days finding her. she had offered her services to mrs. hopkins in the alabama hospital. he sent in his card and she refused to see him. he asked an interview with mrs. hopkins and begged her to help. her motherly heart went out to him in sympathy. his utter misery was so plainly written in his drawn face. "you're so like my own mother, madame," he pleaded. "i'm an orphan to-day. our army has conquered, but i have lost. i find myself repeating the old question, what shall it profit a man if he gain the whole world and forfeit his life? she is my life--i can't--i won't give her up. tell her she must see me. i will not leave richmond until i see her. if she leaves, i'll follow her to the ends of the world. tell her this." the gentle hand pressed his. "i'll tell her." "and try to help me?" he begged. "all the world loves a lover," the fine thin lips slowly repeated--"yes, i'll try." at the end of ten minutes she returned alone. her face gave no hope. "i'm afraid it's useless. she positively refuses." "you gave her my message?" "yes." "i'll wait a day and try again--" "you knew of captain welford's death, i suppose?" socola started and turned pale. "no--" "he died and was buried two days ago near the spot where general stuart sleeps." the lover was stunned for a moment. the hidden thought flashed through his mind that she might have married welford in the reaction over her discovery of his deception. he opened his lips to ask the question and held his peace. it was impossible. she couldn't have done such a thing. he put the idea out of his heart. "thank you for the information, dear madame," he answered gravely, turned and left the building. he walked quickly to his hotel, hired a negro to get him a wreath of roses and meet him at the cemetery gate. he had just placed them on welford's grave as jennie suddenly appeared. she stopped, transfixed in astonishment--her eyes wide with excitement. he walked slowly to meet her and stood looking into her soul, searching its depths. "you here?" she gasped-- "yes. i brought my tribute to a brave and generous foe. he hated me, perhaps--but for your sake he gave me my life--i never hated him--" "with his last breath he told me that he no longer hated you," she answered dreamily. "and you cannot forgive?" "no. our lives are far apart now. the gulf between us can never be passed." he smiled tenderly and spoke with vibrant passion. "i'm going to show you that it can be passed. i'm going to love you with such devotion i'll draw you at last with resistless power--" "never--" she turned quickly and left him gazing wistfully at her slender figure silhouetted against the glow of the sunset. chapter xliv prison bars the ship which bore the distinguished prisoner from savannah did not proceed to washington, but anchored in hampton roads at fortress monroe. a little tug puffed up and drew alongside the steamer. she took off alexander h. stephens, general joseph wheeler and burton harrison. stephens and wheeler were sent to fort warren in boston harbor. the next, day the tug returned. little jeff ran to his mother trembling and sobbing: "they say they've come for father--beg them to let us go with him!" davis stepped quickly forward and returned with an officer. "it's true," he whispered. "they have come for clay and me. try not to weep. these people will gloat over your grief." mrs. davis and mrs. clay stood close holding each other's hands in silent sympathy and grim determination to control their emotions. they parted with their husbands in dumb anguish. as the tug bore the fallen chieftain from the ship, he bared his head, drew his tall figure to its full height, and, standing between the files of soldiers, gazed on his wife and weeping children until the mists drew their curtain over the solemn scene. mrs. davis' stateroom was entered now by a raiding party headed by captain hudson. her trunks were again forced open and everything taken which the captain or his men desired--among them all her children's clothes. jeff seized his little soldier uniform of confederate gray and ran with it. he managed to hide and save it. captain hudson then demanded the shawl which davis had thrown over his shoulders on the damp morning when he was captured. "you have no right to steal my property," his wife replied indignantly. "peace has been declared. the war is over. this is plain robbery." hudson called in another file of soldiers. "hand out that shawl or i'll take the last rag you have on earth. i'll pay you for it, if you wish. but i'm going to have it." mrs. davis took the shawl from mrs. clay's shoulders and handed it to the brute. "at least i may get rid of your odious presence," she cried, "by complying with your demand." hudson took the shawl with a grin and led his men away. two of his officers returned in a few minutes and thrust their heads in the stateroom of mrs. davis' sister with whom mrs. clay was sitting. "gentlemen, this is a ladies' stateroom," said the senator's wife. one of them threw the door open violently and growled: "there are no ladies here!" "i am quite sure," was the sweet reply, "that there are no gentlemen present!" with an oath they passed on. little tugs filled with vulgar sightseers steamed around the ship and shouted a continuous stream of insults when one of the davis party could be seen. general nelson a. miles, the young officer who had been appointed jailer of jefferson davis and clement c. clay boarded the ship and proceeded without ceremony to give his orders to their wives. "will you tell me, general," mrs. davis asked, "where my husband is imprisoned and what his treatment is to be?" "not a word," was the short reply. his manner was so abrupt and boorish she did not press for further news. miles ventured some on his own account. "jeff davis announced the assassination of abraham lincoln the day before it happened. i guess he knew all about it--" the wife bit her lips and suppressed a sharp answer. her husband's life was now in this man's hands. "you are forbidden to buy or read a newspaper," he added curtly, "and your ship will leave this port under sealed orders." in vain davis pleaded that his wife and children might be allowed to go to washington or richmond where they had acquaintances and friends. "they will return to savannah," miles answered, "by the same ship in which they came and remain in savannah under military guard." jefferson davis was imprisoned in a casemate of fortress monroe, the embrasure of which was closed with a heavy iron grating. the two doors which communicated with the gunner's room were closed with heavy double shutters fastened with crossbars and padlocks. the side openings were sealed with fresh masonry. two sentinels with loaded muskets paced the floor without a moment's pause day or night. two other sentinels and a commissioned officer occupied the gunner's room, the door and window of which were securely fastened. sentinels were stationed on the parapet overhead whose steady tramp day and night made sleep impossible. the embrasure opened on the big ditch which surrounds the fort--sixty feet wide and ten feet deep in salt water. beyond the ditch, on the glacis, was a double line of sentinels and in the casemate rooms on either side of his prison were quartered that part of the guard which was not on post. to render rest or comfort impossible a lighted lamp was placed within three feet of the prisoner's eyes and kept burning brightly all night. his jailer knew he had but one eye whose sight remained and that he was a chronic sufferer from neuralgia. his escape from fortress monroe was a physical impossibility without one of the extraordinary precautions taken. the purpose of these arrangements could have only been to inflict pain, humiliation and possibly to take his life. he had never been robust since the breakdown of his health on the western plains. worn by privation and exposure, approaching sixty years of age, he was in no condition physically to resist disease. the damp walls, the coarse food, the loss of sleep caused by the tramp of sentinels inside his room, outside and on the roof over his head and the steady blaze of a lamp in his eyes at night within forty-eight hours had completed his prostration. but his jailers were not content. on may twenty-third, captain titlow entered his cell with two blacksmiths bearing a pair of heavy leg irons coupled together by a ponderous chain. "i am sorry to inform you, sir," the polite young officer began, "that i have been ordered to put you in irons." "has general miles given that order?" "he has." "i wish to see him at once, please." "general miles has just left the fort, sir." "you can postpone the execution of your order until i see him?" "i have been warned against delay." "no soldier ever gave such an order," was the stern reply; "no soldier should receive or execute it--" "his orders are from washington--mine are from him." "but he can telegraph--there must be some mistake--no such outrage is on record in the history of nations--" "my orders are peremptory." "you shall not inflict on me and on my people through me this insult worse than death. i will not submit to it!" "i sincerely trust, sir," the captain urged kindly, "that you will not compel me to use force." "i am a gentleman and a soldier, captain titlow," was the stern answer. "i know how to die--" he paused and pointed to the sentinel who stood ready. "let your men shoot me at once--i will not submit to this outrage!" the prisoner backed away with his hand on a chair and stood waiting. the captain turned to his blacksmiths: "do your duty--put them on him!" [illustration: "'do your duty--put them on him'"] as the workman bent with his chain davis hurled him to the other side of the cell and lifted his chair. the sentinel cocked and lowered his musket advancing on the prisoner who met him defiantly with bared breast. the captain sprang between them: "put down your gun. i'll give you orders to fire when necessary." he turned to the officer at the door: "bring in four of your strongest men--unarmed--you understand?" "yes, sir--" the men entered, sprang on their helpless victim, bore him to the floor, pinned him down with their heavy bodies and held him securely while the blacksmiths riveted the chains on one leg and fastened the clasp on the other with a heavy padlock. he had resented this cowardly insult for himself and his people. he had resisted with the hope that he might be killed before it was accomplished. he saw now with clear vision that the purpose of his jailer was to torture him to death. his proud spirit rose in fierce rebellion. he would cheat them of their prey. they might take his life but it should be done under the forms of law in open day. he would live. his will would defy death. he would learn to sleep with the tramp of three sets of sentinels in his ears. he would eat their coarse food at whatever cost to his feelings. he would learn to bury his face in his bedding to avoid the rays of the lamp with which they were trying to blind him. he had need of all his fierce resolution. he had resolved to ask no favors, but his suffering had been so acute, his determination melted at the doctor's kind expressions. the physician found him stretched on his pallet, horribly emaciated and breathing with difficulty, his whole body a mere fascine of raw and tremulous nerves, his eyes restless and fevered, his head continually shifting from side to side searching instinctively for a cool spot on the hot coarse hair pillow. "tell me," dr. craven said kindly, "what i can do to add to your comfort?" the question was asked with such genuine sympathy it was impossible to resist it. a smile flickered about his thin mouth, "this camp mattress, doctor," he slowly replied, "i find a little thin. the slats beneath chafe my poor bones. i've a frail body--though in my youth and young manhood, while soldiering in the west, i have done some rough camping and campaigning. there was flesh then to cover my nerves and bones." the doctor called an attendant: "bring this prisoner another mattress and a softer pillow." "thank you," davis responded cordially. "you are a smoker?" the doctor asked. "i have been all my life, until general miles took my pipe and tobacco." the doctor wrote to the adjutant general and asked that his patient be given the use of his pipe. on his visit two days later the doctor said: "you must spend as little time in bed as possible. exercise will be your best medicine." the prisoner drew back the cover and showed the lacerated ankles. "impossible you see--the pain is so intense i can't stand erect. these shackles are very heavy. if i stand, the weight of them cuts into my flesh--they have already torn broad patches of skin from the places they touch. if you can pad a cushion there, i will gladly try to drag them about--" dr. craven sought the jailer: "general miles," he began respectfully, "in my opinion the condition of state-prisoner davis requires the removal of those shackles until such time as his health shall be established on a firmer basis. exercise he must have." "you believe that is a medical necessity?" "i do, most earnestly." about the same time general miles had heard from the country. the incident had already aroused sharp criticism of the government. stanton had come down to fortress monroe and peeped through the bars at the victim he was torturing, and had extracted all the comfort possible from the incident. the shackles were removed. his jailer persisted in denying him the most innocent books to read. he asked the doctor to get for him if possible the geology or the botany of the south. general miles thought them dangerous subjects. at least the names sounded treasonable. he denied the request. the prisoner asked for his trunk and clothes. miles decided to keep them in his own office and dole out the linen by his own standards of need. davis turned to his physician with a flash of anger. "it's contemptible that they should thus dole out my clothes as if i were a convict in some penitentiary. they mean to degrade me. it can't be done. no man can be degraded by unmerited insult heaped upon the helpless. such acts can only degrade their perpetrators. the day will come when the people will blush at the memory of such treatment--" at last the loss of sleep proved beyond his endurance. he had tried to fight it out but gave up in a burst of passionate protest to dr. craven. the sight of his eye was failing. the horror of blindness chilled his soul. "my treatment here," he began with an effort at restraint, "is killing me by inches. let them make shorter work of it. i can't sleep. no man can live without sleep. my jailers know this. i am never alone a moment--always the eye of a guard staring at me day and night. if i doze a feverish moment the noise of the relieving guard each two hours wakes me and the blazing lamp pours its glare into my aching throbbing eyes. there must be a change or i shall go mad or blind or both." he paused a moment and lifted his hollow face to the physician pathetically. "have you ever been conscious of being watched? of having an eye fixed on you every moment, scrutinizing your smallest act, the change of the muscles of your face or the pose of your body? to have a human eye riveted on you every moment, waking, sleeping, sitting, walking, is a refinement of torture never dreamed of by a comanche indian--it is the eye of a spy or an enemy gloating over the pain and humiliation which it creates. the lamp burning in my eyes is a form of torment devised by someone who knew my habit of life never to sleep except in total darkness. when i took old black hawk the indian chief a captive to our barracks at st. louis i shielded him from the vulgar gaze of the curious. i have lived too long in the woods to be frightened by an owl and i've seen death too often to flinch at any form of pain--but this torture of being forever watched is beginning to prey on my reason." the doctor's report that day was written in plain english: "i find mr. davis in a very critical state, his nervous debility extreme, his mind despondent, his appetite gone, complexion livid, and pulse denoting deep prostration of all vital energies. i am alarmed and anxious over the responsibility of my position. if he should die in prison without trial, subject to such severities as have been inflicted on his attenuated frame the world will form conclusions and with enough color to pass them into history." dr. craven was getting too troublesome. general miles dismissed him, and called in dr. george cooper, a physician whose political opinions were supposed to be sounder. chapter xlv the master mind socola read the story of the chaining of the confederate chieftain with indignation. his intimate association with jefferson davis had convinced him of his singular purity of character and loftiness of soul. that he was capable of conspiring to murder abraham lincoln was inconceivable. that the charge should be made and pressed seriously by the national government was a disgrace to the country. charles o'connor, the greatest lawyer in america, indignant at the outrage, had offered his services to the prisoner. socola hastened to a conference with o'connor and placed himself at his command. the lawyer sent him to washington to find out the master mind at the bottom of these remarkable proceedings. "johnson the president," he warned, "is only a tool in the hands of a _stronger_ man. find that man. stanton, the secretary of war, is vindictive enough, but he lacks the cunning. stevens, the leader of the house, is the real ruler of the nation at this moment. yet i have the most positive information that stevens sneers at the attempt to accuse davis of the assassination of lincoln. stevens hated lincoln only a degree less than he hates davis. he is blunt, outspoken, brutal in his views. there can be no question of the honesty of his position. sumner, the leader of the senate, is incapable of such low intrigue. find the man and report to me." socola found him within six hours after his arrival in washington. he was morally sure of him from the moment he left o'connor's office. immediately on his arrival at the capital he sought an interview with joseph holt, now the judge advocate general of the united states army. he was therefore in charge of the prosecution of the cases of clay and davis. for five minutes he watched the crooked poisonous mouth of the ex-secretary of war and knew the truth. this vindictive venomous old man, ambitious, avaricious, implacable in his hatreds, had organized a board of assassination, which he called "the bureau of military justice." this remarkable bureau had already murdered mrs. surratt on perjured testimony. socola had given his ex-chief no intimation of his personal feelings and no hint of his association with o'connor. "i've a little favor to ask of you, young man," holt said suavely. socola bowed. "at your service, chief--" "i need a man of intelligence and skill to convey a proposition to wirz, the keeper of andersonville prison. he has been sentenced to death by the bureau of military justice. i'm going to offer him his life on one condition--" "and that is?" "if he will confess under oath that davis ordered the starving and torturing of prisoners at andersonville i'll commute his sentence--" "i see--" "i'll give you an order to interview wirz. he has never seen you. report to me his answer." when socola explained to wirz in sympathetic tones the offer of the government to spare his life for the implication of davis in direct orders from richmond commanding cruelties at andersonville, the condemned man lifted his wounded body and stared at his visitor. his answer closed the interview. "tell the scoundrel who sent you that i am a soldier. i was a soldier in germany before i cast my fortunes with the south. i bear in my body the wounds of honorable warfare. if i hadn't time to learn the meaning of honor from my friends in the south, my mother taught me in the old world. you ask me to save my life from these assassins by swearing away the life of another. tell my executioner that i never saw the president of the confederacy. i never received an order of any kind from him. i did the best i could for the men in my charge at andersonville and tried honestly to improve their conditions. i am not a perjurer, even to save my own life. a soldier's business is to die. i am ready." socola extended his hand through the bars and grasped the prisoner's. the deeper he dived into the seething mass of corruption and blind passion which had engulfed washington the more desperate he saw the situation of davis at fortress monroe. after two weeks of careful work he hurried to new york and reported the situation to o'connor. "the master mind," he began slowly, "i found at once. his name is holt--" "the judge advocate general?" "yes." "that accounts for my inability to obtain a copy of the charges against davis. holt drew those charges. they are in his hands and he has determined to press his prisoner to trial before his board of assassins without allowing me to know the substance of his accusations. it's infamous." "there are complications which may increase our dangers or suddenly lift them--" "complications--what do you mean?" "the president, who has been intensely hostile to davis, realizes that his own term of office and possibly his life are now at stake. he has broken with the radicals who control congress, old thaddeus stevens's at their head. stevens lives in washington in brazen defiance of conventionalities with a negro woman whom he separated from her husband thirty odd years ago. under the influence of this negress he has introduced a bill into the house of representatives to confiscate the remaining property of the white people of the south and give it to the negroes--dividing the land into plots of forty acres each. he proposes also to disfranchise the whites of the southern states, enfranchise the negroes, destroy the state lines and erect on their ruins territories ruled by negroes whom his faction can control. "johnson the president, a southern born white man, has already informed the radicals that he will fight this programme to the last ditch. stevens' answer was characteristic of the imperious old leader. 'let him dare! i'll impeach andrew johnson, remove him from office and hang him from the balcony of the white house.' "the president realizes that the bureau of military justice which he allowed holt to create may be used as the engine of his own destruction. they have already taken the first steps to impeach him--" "then he'll never dare allow another case to be tried before that bureau--" o'connor interrupted. "it remains to be seen. he is afraid of both stanton and holt. the bureau of military justice is their hobby." o'connor sprang to his feet. "we must smash it by an appeal to the people. their sense of justice is yet the salt that will save the nation. the key to the situation is in the character of the remarkable witnesses whom holt has produced before this tribunal of assassination. in my judgment they are a gang of hired perjurers. their leader is a fellow named conover. there are five men associated with him. they used these witnesses against mrs. surratt. they used them against wirz. they are preparing to use them against davis. it is inconceivable that these plugs from the gutters of new york could have really stumbled on the facts to which they have sworn. find who these men are. get their records to the last hour of the day you track them--and report to me." socola organized a force of detectives and set them to work. the task was a difficult one. he found that conover and his pals were protected by the unlimited power of the national government. chapter xlvi the torture while the prisoner fought to save his reason in the dungeon at fortress monroe, his wife was denied the right to lift her hand in his defense. no communication was allowed between them except through his jailer. on arrival in savannah mrs. davis and her children were compelled to walk through the blazing heat the long distance from the wharf uptown, the whole party trudging immigrant fashion through the streets. her sister carried the baby. mrs. davis and the two little boys and maggie followed with parcels, and robert, her faithful black man, brought up the rear with the baggage. the people of savannah, on learning of their arrival, treated their prisoners with the utmost kindness. every home in the city was thrown open to them. her children had been robbed of all their clothing except what they wore. the neighbors hurried in with clothes. the newspaper of savannah of the new régime, _the republican_, published and republished with gleeful comments the most sensational accounts of the brutal scene of the shackling of davis. maggie composed a prayer and taught her little brothers to repeat it in concert for their grace at the table morning, noon and night: "dear lord, give our father something he can eat, and keep him strong, and bring him back to us with eyes that can see and in his good senses, to his little children, for jesus' sake." nearly every day the child who composed the prayer was so moved by its recital she would run from the table and dry her tears in the next room before she could eat. hourly scenes of violence increased between the whites and the inflamed blacks. a negro sentinel leveled his gun at little jeff and threatened to shoot him for calling him "uncle." with prayers and tears the mother sent her children away to the home of a friend in montreal. a year passed before president johnson in answer to the wife's desperate pleading permitted her to visit her husband in prison. she arrived from montreal on the cold raw morning of may , , at four o'clock before day. there was no hotel at the fort at that time and the mother was compelled to sit in the desolate little waiting room with her baby without a fire until ten o'clock. general miles called. his references to her husband were made in a manner which brutally expressed his hatred and contempt. she had been informed that his health was in so dangerous a condition that physicians had despaired of his life. miles hastened to say: "'davis' is in good health--" "i can see him at once?" she begged. "yes. you understand the terms of your parole that you are to take no deadly weapons into the prison?" suppressing a smile at the unique use of the language which a man of the rank of miles could make she replied quickly: "i understand. please arrange that i can see him at once." without answering the jailer turned and left the room. in a few minutes an officer appeared who conducted her to the room in carroll hall to which dr. cooper had forced miles to remove the prisoner. dr. cooper proved as troublesome to the general as dr. craven. in fact a little more so. he had a way of swearing when angered which made the general nervous. american physicians don't make good politicians when the life of a patient is involved. they were challenged by three lines of sentries, each requiring a password, ascended a stairway, turned to the right and entered a guard room where three young officers were sitting. through the bars of the inner room the wife gazed at her husband with streaming eyes. his body had shrunk to a skeleton, his eyes set and glassy, his cheek bones pressing against the shining skin. he rose and tottered across the room, his breath coming in short gasps, his voice scarcely audible. mrs. davis was locked in with him. she sent the baby back to her quarters by frederick, another faithful negro servant who had followed their fortunes through good report and evil. his room had a horse bucket for water, a basin and pitcher on an old chair whose back had been sawed off, a little iron bedstead with hard mattress, one pillow, a wooden table, and a wooden chair with one leg shorter than the others which might be used as an improvised rocker. his bed was so thick with bugs the room was filled with their odor. he was so innocent of such things he couldn't imagine what distressed him so at night--insisting that he had contracted some sort of skin disease. his dinner was brought slopped from one dish to another and covered by a gray hospital towel sogged with the liquids. the man of fastidious taste glanced at the platter and saw that the good doctor's wife had added oysters to his menu that day and ate one. his vitality was so low even this gave him intense pain. he was not bitter, but expressed his quiet contempt for the systematic petty insults which his jailer was now heaping on him daily. his physician had demanded that he take exercise in the open air. miles always walked with him and never permitted an occasion of this kind to pass without directing at his helpless prisoner personal insults so offensive that davis always cut his walks short to be rid of his tormentor. on one occasion the general was so brutal in his conversation after he had locked his prisoner in his room that he suddenly sprang at the bars, grasped them with his trembling, skeleton hands and cried: "but for these you should answer to me--here and now!" a favorite pastime of his jailer was to admit crowds of vulgar sightseers and permit them to gaze at his prisoner. a woman inquired of frederick, who was on his way to his room: "where's jeff?" the negro bowed gravely and drew his stalwart figure erect: "i am sorry, madame, not to be able to tell you. i do not know any such person." "yes, you do--aren't you his servant?" "no, madame, you are mistaken. i have the honor to serve ex-president davis." only a great soul can command the love and respect of servants as did this quiet grave statesman of the old régime. never during the long hours of these weeks and months of torture did he lose his dignity or his lofty bearing quail before his tormentor. he was too refined and dignified to be abusive, and too proud in general miles' delicate phraseology to "beg." the loving wife began now her desperate fight to nurse him back into life again. the new commandant of the fort, general burton, who replaced miles, proved himself a gentleman and a soldier of the old school. he immediately gave to the prisoner every courtesy possible and to his wife sympathy and help. the bishop of montreal sent him a case of green chartreuse from his own stores. this powerful digestive stimulant helped his feeble appetite to take the nourishment needed to sustain life and slowly build his strength. he could sleep only when read to, and many a day dawned on the worn figure of his wife still droning her voice into his sensitive ears, with one hand on his pulse praying god it might still beat. at times it stopped, and then she roused the sleeper, gave him the stimulant and made him eat something which she always kept ready. dr. cooper had warned that the walls of his heart were so weak even a sound sleep might prove his death if too long continued. chapter xlvii vindication when socola had finished his work developing the history and character of conover and his crew of professional perjurers there was a sudden collapse in the machinery of the bureau of military justice. holt was compelled not only to repudiate the wretches by whose hired testimony he had committed more than one murder through the forms of military law, but also to issue a long document defending himself as judge advocate general of the united states from the charge of subornation of perjury--the vilest accusation that can be brought against a sworn officer of any court. his weak defense served its purpose for the moment. he managed to cling to his office and his salary for a brief season. with the advent of restored law he sank into merited oblivion. the charge of murder having collapsed, the government now pressed against davis an indictment for treason. salmon p. chase, the chief justice of the united states, warned the president and his cabinet that no such charge could be sustained. and still malice held the confederate chieftain a prisoner. every other leader of the south had long since been released. on the public exposure of holt and his perjurers the conscience of the north, led by horace greeley and gerrit smith, demanded the speedy trial or release of davis. the radical conspirators at washington, under the leadership of stevens inspired by his dusky companion, were now pressing with feverish haste their programme of revolution. they passed each measure over the veto of the president amid jeers, groans and curses. they disfranchised one-third of the whites of the south, gave the ballot to a million ignorant negroes but yesterday taken from the jungles of africa, blotted out the civil governments of the southern states, and sent the army back to enforce their decrees. stevens introduced his bill to confiscate the property of the whites and give it to the negroes. this measure was his pet. it was the only one of his schemes which would be defeated on a two-thirds vote if johnson should veto it. stevens and butler at once drew their bill of indictment against the president and set in motion the machinery to remove him from office--the grim old leader still swearing that he would hang him. in this auspicious moment charles o'connor marshaled his forces and demanded the release of davis on bail. andrew johnson had seen a new light. he was now in a life and death struggle with the newly enthroned mob to save the republic from a dictatorship. the conspirators had already selected the man they proposed to set up on his removal from office. the president issued an order to general burton at fortress monroe to produce his prisoner in the united states district court of richmond. on may fourth, , the little steamer from the fort touched the wharf at richmond and jefferson davis and his wife once more appeared in the capital of the confederacy. the south had come to greet them. all differences of opinion were stilled before the white face of the man who had been put in irons for their sins. they came from the four corners of the country for which he had tolled and suffered. senator barton, his wife and daughter and all his surviving sons had come from fairview to do him honor. a vast crowd assembled at the wharf. no king ever entered his palace with grander welcome. the road from the wharf to the spotswood hotel was a living sea of humanity. his carriage couldn't move until the way was forced open by the mounted police. the windows and roofs of every house were crowded. men and women everywhere were in tears. as the carriage turned into main street a man shouted: "hats off, virginians!" every head was bared in the vast throng which stretched a mile along the thoroughfare. as he passed in triumph, the people for whom he had worked and suffered crowded to his carriage, stretched out their hands in silence and touched his garments while the tears rolled down their cheeks. they arraigned him for trial on a charge of high treason. the indictment had also named robert e. lee as guilty of the same crime. grant lifted his mailed fist and told the government he would fight if necessary to protect the man who had surrendered in good faith to his army. the peanut politicians dropped lee's name. when the tall, emaciated leader of the south stood erect before his accusers in court he faced a scene which proclaimed the advent of the new democracy in america which must yet make good its right to live. on the judge's bench sat john c. underwood, a crawling, shambling, shuffling, ignorant demagogue who had set a new standard of judicial honor and dignity. he had selected one of the handsomest homes in virginia, ordered it confiscated as a federal judge, and made his wife buy it in and convey it to him after warning other bidders to keep off the scene. the thief was living in his stolen mansion on the day he sat down beside the chief justice of the united states in this trial. when chase had warned the government that no charge of treason could stand against davis, underwood assured the attorney general that he would fix a negro jury in richmond which could be relied on to give the verdict necessary. he had impaneled the first grand jury ever assembled in america composed of negroes and whites. a negro petit jury now sat in the box grinning at the judge, their thick lips, flat noses and omnipotent african odor proclaiming the dawn of a new era in the history of america. salmon p. chase with quiet dignity voted to quash the indictment. underwood with a vulgar stump speech to the crowd of negroes voted to hold the indictment good. the case was sent to the supreme court on this disagreement and the defendant admitted to bail. horace greeley and gerrit smith, cornelius vanderbilt and augustus schell, representing the noblest spirit in the north were among the men who signed his bail bond. when he was released and walked out of the court room cheer after cheer swept the struggling crowd that greeted him. senator barton took the driver's place on the box while thousands followed to the hotel shouting themselves hoarse. for three hours he stood shaking the hands of weeping men and women. no sublimer tribute was ever paid to human worth. it came with healing to his wounded soul. the anguish of the past was as if it had never been. jennie barton gazed with astonishment when socola grasped his outstretched hand. she was standing near enough to hear his voice. "i want to thank you, young man," he said gratefully, "for all you've done for me and mine. mr. o'connor tells me that your services have been invaluable. for myself, my wife and babies and my people, i thank you again. i wish i might do something to repay you--" "i've only done my duty," was the modest response. "but i think you might help me a little--" "if it's within my power--" "you remember miss barton?" "i've just shaken hands with her--she is here!" "would you mind putting in a word--" "i'll do more, sir--i'm in command to-day. i'll issue positive orders--" jennie moved, he saw her and beckoned. she came, blushing. "what's this, my little comrade?" he whispered, seizing her hands. "the war is over. i've shaken hands with horace greeley and gerrit smith to-day. there can be no stragglers in our camp, i owe my life to this young man." he took jennie's hand, placed it on socola's arm, and he led her silent and blushing from the crowd to an alcove in the far corner of the hall. she looked up into his face with tenderness. "you've done a noble and beautiful thing in the gift of your life to our chief for these two miserable years--" "they've been miserable to you?" she smiled. "but i knew you would come--" "you'll not send me away again?" she slowly slipped her arms around his neck and kissed him. they stood on the balcony hand in hand and watched the crowds surging about the carriage as the tall chieftain left the hotel to take the train to greet his children. socola uncovered his head and spoke reverently. "he belongs to the race of giants who have made our nation what it is to-day. we owe a debt to the unflinching dignity and honesty of his mind. he made hedging, trimming and compromise impossible--the issues which divided us of life and death. a weaker man would have wavered and we should have had to fight our battles over again. they have been settled for all time." jennie lifted her eyes to his: "what's your name, my sweetheart?" he laughed softly. "does it matter now? our country's one--my name is love." the snow image by nathaniel hawthorne contents the snow image: a childish miracle the great stone face ethan brand the canterbury pilgrims the devil in manuscript my kinsman, major molineux the snow-image: a childish miracle one afternoon of a cold winter's day, when the sun shone forth with chilly brightness, after a long storm, two children asked leave of their mother to run out and play in the new-fallen snow. the elder child was a little girl, whom, because she was of a tender and modest disposition, and was thought to be very beautiful, her parents, and other people who were familiar with her, used to call violet. but her brother was known by the style and title of peony, on account of the ruddiness of his broad and round little phiz, which made everybody think of sunshine and great scarlet flowers. the father of these two children, a certain mr. lindsey, it is important to say, was an excellent but exceedingly matter-of-fact sort of man, a dealer in hardware, and was sturdily accustomed to take what is called the common-sense view of all matters that came under his consideration. with a heart about as tender as other people's, he had a head as hard and impenetrable, and therefore, perhaps, as empty, as one of the iron pots which it was a part of his business to sell. the mother's character, on the other hand, had a strain of poetry in it, a trait of unworldly beauty,--a delicate and dewy flower, as it were, that had survived out of her imaginative youth, and still kept itself alive amid the dusty realities of matrimony and motherhood. so, violet and peony, as i began with saying, besought their mother to let them run out and play in the new snow; for, though it had looked so dreary and dismal, drifting downward out of the gray sky, it had a very cheerful aspect, now that the sun was shining on it. the children dwelt in a city, and had no wider play-place than a little garden before the house, divided by a white fence from the street, and with a pear-tree and two or three plum-trees overshadowing it, and some rose-bushes just in front of the parlor-windows. the trees and shrubs, however, were now leafless, and their twigs were enveloped in the light snow, which thus made a kind of wintry foliage, with here and there a pendent icicle for the fruit. "yes, violet,--yes, my little peony," said their kind mother, "you may go out and play in the new snow." accordingly, the good lady bundled up her darlings in woollen jackets and wadded sacks, and put comforters round their necks, and a pair of striped gaiters on each little pair of legs, and worsted mittens on their hands, and gave them a kiss apiece, by way of a spell to keep away jack frost. forth sallied the two children, with a hop-skip-and-jump, that carried them at once into the very heart of a huge snow-drift, whence violet emerged like a snow-bunting, while little peony floundered out with his round face in full bloom. then what a merry time had they! to look at them, frolicking in the wintry garden, you would have thought that the dark and pitiless storm had been sent for no other purpose but to provide a new plaything for violet and peony; and that they themselves had beer created, as the snow-birds were, to take delight only in the tempest, and in the white mantle which it spread over the earth. at last, when they had frosted one another all over with handfuls of snow, violet, after laughing heartily at little peony's figure, was struck with a new idea. "you look exactly like a snow-image, peony," said she, "if your cheeks were not so red. and that puts me in mind! let us make an image out of snow,--an image of a little girl,--and it shall be our sister, and shall run about and play with us all winter long. won't it be nice?" "oh yes!" cried peony, as plainly as he could speak, for he was but a little boy. "that will be nice! and mamma shall see it!" "yes," answered violet; "mamma shall see the new little girl. but she must not make her come into the warm parlor; for, you know, our little snow-sister will not love the warmth." and forthwith the children began this great business of making a snow-image that should run about; while their mother, who was sitting at the window and overheard some of their talk, could not help smiling at the gravity with which they set about it. they really seemed to imagine that there would be no difficulty whatever in creating a live little girl out of the snow. and, to say the truth, if miracles are ever to be wrought, it will be by putting our hands to the work in precisely such a simple and undoubting frame of mind as that in which violet and peony now undertook to perform one, without so much as knowing that it was a miracle. so thought the mother; and thought, likewise, that the new snow, just fallen from heaven, would be excellent material to make new beings of, if it were not so very cold. she gazed at the children a moment longer, delighting to watch their little figures,--the girl, tall for her age, graceful and agile, and so delicately colored that she looked like a cheerful thought more than a physical reality; while peony expanded in breadth rather than height, and rolled along on his short and sturdy legs as substantial as an elephant, though not quite so big. then the mother resumed her work. what it was i forget; but she was either trimming a silken bonnet for violet, or darning a pair of stockings for little peony's short legs. again, however, and again, and yet other agains, she could not help turning her head to the window to see how the children got on with their snow-image. indeed, it was an exceedingly pleasant sight, those bright little souls at their task! moreover, it was really wonderful to observe how knowingly and skilfully they managed the matter. violet assumed the chief direction, and told peony what to do, while, with her own delicate fingers, she shaped out all the nicer parts of the snow-figure. it seemed, in fact, not so much to be made by the children, as to grow up under their hands, while they were playing and prattling about it. their mother was quite surprised at this; and the longer she looked, the more and more surprised she grew. "what remarkable children mine are!" thought she, smiling with a mother's pride; and, smiling at herself, too, for being so proud of them. "what other children could have made anything so like a little girl's figure out of snow at the first trial? well; but now i must finish peony's new frock, for his grandfather is coming to-morrow, and i want the little fellow to look handsome." so she took up the frock, and was soon as busily at work again with her needle as the two children with their snow-image. but still, as the needle travelled hither and thither through the seams of the dress, the mother made her toil light and happy by listening to the airy voices of violet and peony. they kept talking to one another all the time, their tongues being quite as active as their feet and hands. except at intervals, she could not distinctly hear what was said, but had merely a sweet impression that they were in a most loving mood, and were enjoying themselves highly, and that the business of making the snow-image went prosperously on. now and then, however, when violet and peony happened to raise their voices, the words were as audible as if they had been spoken in the very parlor where the mother sat. oh how delightfully those words echoed in her heart, even though they meant nothing so very wise or wonderful, after all! but you must know a mother listens with her heart much more than with her ears; and thus she is often delighted with the trills of celestial music, when other people can hear nothing of the kind. "peony, peony!" cried violet to her brother, who had gone to another part of the garden, "bring me some of that fresh snow, peony, from the very farthest corner, where we have not been trampling. i want it to shape our little snow-sister's bosom with. you know that part must be quite pure, just as it came out of the sky!" "here it is, violet!" answered peony, in his bluff tone,--but a very sweet tone, too,--as he came floundering through the half-trodden drifts. "here is the snow for her little bosom. o violet, how beau-ti-ful she begins to look!" "yes," said violet, thoughtfully and quietly; "our snow-sister does look very lovely. i did not quite know, peony, that we could make such a sweet little girl as this." the mother, as she listened, thought how fit and delightful an incident it would be, if fairies, or still better, if angel-children were to come from paradise, and play invisibly with her own darlings, and help them to make their snow-image, giving it the features of celestial babyhood! violet and peony would not be aware of their immortal playmates,--only they would see that the image grew very beautiful while they worked at it, and would think that they themselves had done it all. "my little girl and boy deserve such playmates, if mortal children ever did!" said the mother to herself; and then she smiled again at her own motherly pride. nevertheless, the idea seized upon her imagination; and, ever and anon, she took a glimpse out of the window, half dreaming that she might see the golden-haired children of paradise sporting with her own golden-haired violet and bright-cheeked peony. now, for a few moments, there was a busy and earnest, but indistinct hum of the two children's voices, as violet and peony wrought together with one happy consent. violet still seemed to be the guiding spirit, while peony acted rather as a laborer, and brought her the snow from far and near. and yet the little urchin evidently had a proper understanding of the matter, too! "peony, peony!" cried violet; for her brother was again at the other side of the garden. "bring me those light wreaths of snow that have rested on the lower branches of the pear-tree. you can clamber on the snowdrift, peony, and reach them easily. i must have them to make some ringlets for our snow-sister's head!" "here they are, violet!" answered the little boy. "take care you do not break them. well done! well done! how pretty!" "does she not look sweetly?" said violet, with a very satisfied tone; "and now we must have some little shining bits of ice, to make the brightness of her eyes. she is not finished yet. mamma will see how very beautiful she is; but papa will say, 'tush! nonsense!--come in out of the cold!'" "let us call mamma to look out," said peony; and then he shouted lustily, "mamma! mamma!! mamma!!! look out, and see what a nice 'ittle girl we are making!" the mother put down her work for an instant, and looked out of the window. but it so happened that the sun--for this was one of the shortest days of the whole year--had sunken so nearly to the edge of the world that his setting shine came obliquely into the lady's eyes. so she was dazzled, you must understand, and could not very distinctly observe what was in the garden. still, however, through all that bright, blinding dazzle of the sun and the new snow, she beheld a small white figure in the garden, that seemed to have a wonderful deal of human likeness about it. and she saw violet and peony,--indeed, she looked more at them than at the image,--she saw the two children still at work; peony bringing fresh snow, and violet applying it to the figure as scientifically as a sculptor adds clay to his model. indistinctly as she discerned the snow-child, the mother thought to herself that never before was there a snow-figure so cunningly made, nor ever such a dear little girl and boy to make it. "they do everything better than other children," said she, very complacently. "no wonder they make better snow-images!" she sat down again to her work, and made as much haste with it as possible; because twilight would soon come, and peony's frock was not yet finished, and grandfather was expected, by railroad, pretty early in the morning. faster and faster, therefore, went her flying fingers. the children, likewise, kept busily at work in the garden, and still the mother listened, whenever she could catch a word. she was amused to observe how their little imaginations had got mixed up with what they were doing, and carried away by it. they seemed positively to think that the snow-child would run about and play with them. "what a nice playmate she will be for us, all winter long!" said violet. "i hope papa will not be afraid of her giving us a cold! sha'n't you love her dearly, peony?" "oh yes!" cried peony. "and i will hug her, and she shall sit down close by me and drink some of my warm milk!" "oh no, peony!" answered violet, with grave wisdom. "that will not do at all. warm milk will not be wholesome for our little snow-sister. little snow people, like her, eat nothing but icicles. no, no, peony; we must not give her anything warm to drink!" there was a minute or two of silence; for peony, whose short legs were never weary, had gone on a pilgrimage again to the other side of the garden. all of a sudden, violet cried out, loudly and joyfully,--"look here, peony! come quickly! a light has been shining on her cheek out of that rose-colored cloud! and the color does not go away! is not that beautiful!" "yes; it is beau-ti-ful," answered peony, pronouncing the three syllables with deliberate accuracy. "o violet, only look at her hair! it is all like gold!" "oh certainly," said violet, with tranquillity, as if it were very much a matter of course. "that color, you know, comes from the golden clouds, that we see up there in the sky. she is almost finished now. but her lips must be made very red,--redder than her cheeks. perhaps, peony, it will make them red if we both kiss them!" accordingly, the mother heard two smart little smacks, as if both her children were kissing the snow-image on its frozen mouth. but, as this did not seem to make the lips quite red enough, violet next proposed that the snow-child should be invited to kiss peony's scarlet cheek. "come, 'ittle snow-sister, kiss me!" cried peony. "there! she has kissed you," added violet, "and now her lips are very red. and she blushed a little, too!" "oh, what a cold kiss!" cried peony. just then, there came a breeze of the pure west-wind, sweeping through the garden and rattling the parlor-windows. it sounded so wintry cold, that the mother was about to tap on the window-pane with her thimbled finger, to summon the two children in, when they both cried out to her with one voice. the tone was not a tone of surprise, although they were evidently a good deal excited; it appeared rather as if they were very much rejoiced at some event that had now happened, but which they had been looking for, and had reckoned upon all along. "mamma! mamma! we have finished our little snow-sister, and she is running about the garden with us!" "what imaginative little beings my children are!" thought the mother, putting the last few stitches into peony's frock. "and it is strange, too that they make me almost as much a child as they themselves are! i can hardly help believing, now, that the snow-image has really come to life!" "dear mamma!" cried violet, "pray look out and see what a sweet playmate we have!" the mother, being thus entreated, could no longer delay to look forth from the window. the sun was now gone out of the sky, leaving, however, a rich inheritance of his brightness among those purple and golden clouds which make the sunsets of winter so magnificent. but there was not the slightest gleam or dazzle, either on the window or on the snow; so that the good lady could look all over the garden, and see everything and everybody in it. and what do you think she saw there? violet and peony, of course, her own two darling children. ah, but whom or what did she see besides? why, if you will believe me, there was a small figure of a girl, dressed all in white, with rose-tinged cheeks and ringlets of golden hue, playing about the garden with the two children! a stranger though she was, the child seemed to be on as familiar terms with violet and peony, and they with her, as if all the three had been playmates during the whole of their little lives. the mother thought to herself that it must certainly be the daughter of one of the neighbors, and that, seeing violet and peony in the garden, the child had run across the street to play with them. so this kind lady went to the door, intending to invite the little runaway into her comfortable parlor; for, now that the sunshine was withdrawn, the atmosphere, out of doors, was already growing very cold. but, after opening the house-door, she stood an instant on the threshold, hesitating whether she ought to ask the child to come in, or whether she should even speak to her. indeed, she almost doubted whether it were a real child after all, or only a light wreath of the new-fallen snow, blown hither and thither about the garden by the intensely cold west-wind. there was certainly something very singular in the aspect of the little stranger. among all the children of the neighborhood, the lady could remember no such face, with its pure white, and delicate rose-color, and the golden ringlets tossing about the forehead and cheeks. and as for her dress, which was entirely of white, and fluttering in the breeze, it was such as no reasonable woman would put upon a little girl, when sending her out to play, in the depth of winter. it made this kind and careful mother shiver only to look at those small feet, with nothing in the world on them, except a very thin pair of white slippers. nevertheless, airily as she was clad, the child seemed to feel not the slightest inconvenience from the cold, but danced so lightly over the snow that the tips of her toes left hardly a print in its surface; while violet could but just keep pace with her, and peony's short legs compelled him to lag behind. once, in the course of their play, the strange child placed herself between violet and peony, and taking a hand of each, skipped merrily forward, and they along with her. almost immediately, however, peony pulled away his little fist, and began to rub it as if the fingers were tingling with cold; while violet also released herself, though with less abruptness, gravely remarking that it was better not to take hold of hands. the white-robed damsel said not a word, but danced about, just as merrily as before. if violet and peony did not choose to play with her, she could make just as good a playmate of the brisk and cold west-wind, which kept blowing her all about the garden, and took such liberties with her, that they seemed to have been friends for a long time. all this while, the mother stood on the threshold, wondering how a little girl could look so much like a flying snow-drift, or how a snow-drift could look so very like a little girl. she called violet, and whispered to her. "violet my darling, what is this child's name?" asked she. "does she live near us?" "why, dearest mamma," answered violet, laughing to think that her mother did not comprehend so very plain an affair, "this is our little snow-sister whom we have just been making!" "yes, dear mamma," cried peony, running to his mother, and looking up simply into her face. "this is our snow-image! is it not a nice 'ittle child?" at this instant a flock of snow-birds came flitting through the air. as was very natural, they avoided violet and peony. but--and this looked strange--they flew at once to the white-robed child, fluttered eagerly about her head, alighted on her shoulders, and seemed to claim her as an old acquaintance. she, on her part, was evidently as glad to see these little birds, old winter's grandchildren, as they were to see her, and welcomed them by holding out both her hands. hereupon, they each and all tried to alight on her two palms and ten small fingers and thumbs, crowding one another off, with an immense fluttering of their tiny wings. one dear little bird nestled tenderly in her bosom; another put its bill to her lips. they were as joyous, all the while, and seemed as much in their element, as you may have seen them when sporting with a snow-storm. violet and peony stood laughing at this pretty sight; for they enjoyed the merry time which their new playmate was having with these small-winged visitants, almost as much as if they themselves took part in it. "violet," said her mother, greatly perplexed, "tell me the truth, without any jest. who is this little girl?" "my darling mamma," answered violet, looking seriously into her mother's face, and apparently surprised that she should need any further explanation, "i have told you truly who she is. it is our little snow-image, which peony and i have been making. peony will tell you so, as well as i." "yes, mamma," asseverated peony, with much gravity in his crimson little phiz; "this is 'ittle snow-child. is not she a nice one? but, mamma, her hand is, oh, so very cold!" while mamma still hesitated what to think and what to do, the street-gate was thrown open, and the father of violet and peony appeared, wrapped in a pilot-cloth sack, with a fur cap drawn down over his ears, and the thickest of gloves upon his hands. mr. lindsey was a middle-aged man, with a weary and yet a happy look in his wind-flushed and frost-pinched face, as if he had been busy all the day long, and was glad to get back to his quiet home. his eyes brightened at the sight of his wife and children, although he could not help uttering a word or two of surprise, at finding the whole family in the open air, on so bleak a day, and after sunset too. he soon perceived the little white stranger sporting to and fro in the garden, like a dancing snow-wreath, and the flock of snow-birds fluttering about her head. "pray, what little girl may that be?" inquired this very sensible man. "surely her mother must be crazy to let her go out in such bitter weather as it has been to-day, with only that flimsy white gown and those thin slippers!" "my dear husband," said his wife, "i know no more about the little thing than you do. some neighbor's child, i suppose. our violet and peony," she added, laughing at herself for repeating so absurd a story, "insist that she is nothing but a snow-image, which they have been busy about in the garden, almost all the afternoon." as she said this, the mother glanced her eyes toward the spot where the children's snow-image had been made. what was her surprise, on perceiving that there was not the slightest trace of so much labor!--no image at all!--no piled up heap of snow!--nothing whatever, save the prints of little footsteps around a vacant space! "this is very strange!" said she. "what is strange, dear mother?" asked violet. "dear father, do not you see how it is? this is our snow-image, which peony and i have made, because we wanted another playmate. did not we, peony?" "yes, papa," said crimson peony. "this be our 'ittle snow-sister. is she not beau-ti-ful? but she gave me such a cold kiss!" "poh, nonsense, children!" cried their good, honest father, who, as we have already intimated, had an exceedingly common-sensible way of looking at matters. "do not tell me of making live figures out of snow. come, wife; this little stranger must not stay out in the bleak air a moment longer. we will bring her into the parlor; and you shall give her a supper of warm bread and milk, and make her as comfortable as you can. meanwhile, i will inquire among the neighbors; or, if necessary, send the city-crier about the streets, to give notice of a lost child." so saying, this honest and very kind-hearted man was going toward the little white damsel, with the best intentions in the world. but violet and peony, each seizing their father by the hand, earnestly besought him not to make her come in. "dear father," cried violet, putting herself before him, "it is true what i have been telling you! this is our little snow-girl, and she cannot live any longer than while she breathes the cold west-wind. do not make her come into the hot room!" "yes, father," shouted peony, stamping his little foot, so mightily was he in earnest, "this be nothing but our 'ittle snow-child! she will not love the hot fire!" "nonsense, children, nonsense, nonsense!" cried the father, half vexed, half laughing at what he considered their foolish obstinacy. "run into the house, this moment! it is too late to play any longer, now. i must take care of this little girl immediately, or she will catch her death-a-cold!" "husband! dear husband!" said his wife, in a low voice,--for she had been looking narrowly at the snow-child, and was more perplexed than ever,--"there is something very singular in all this. you will think me foolish,--but--but--may it not be that some invisible angel has been attracted by the simplicity and good faith with which our children set about their undertaking? may he not have spent an hour of his immortality in playing with those dear little souls? and so the result is what we call a miracle. no, no! do not laugh at me; i see what a foolish thought it is!" "my dear wife," replied the husband, laughing heartily, "you are as much a child as violet and peony." and in one sense so she was, for all through life she had kept her heart full of childlike simplicity and faith, which was as pure and clear as crystal; and, looking at all matters through this transparent medium, she sometimes saw truths so profound that other people laughed at them as nonsense and absurdity. but now kind mr. lindsey had entered the garden, breaking away from his two children, who still sent their shrill voices after him, beseeching him to let the snow-child stay and enjoy herself in the cold west-wind. as he approached, the snow-birds took to flight. the little white damsel, also, fled backward, shaking her head, as if to say, "pray, do not touch me!" and roguishly, as it appeared, leading him through the deepest of the snow. once, the good man stumbled, and floundered down upon his face, so that, gathering himself up again, with the snow sticking to his rough pilot-cloth sack, he looked as white and wintry as a snow-image of the largest size. some of the neighbors, meanwhile, seeing him from their windows, wondered what could possess poor mr. lindsey to be running about his garden in pursuit of a snow-drift, which the west-wind was driving hither and thither! at length, after a vast deal of trouble, he chased the little stranger into a corner, where she could not possibly escape him. his wife had been looking on, and, it being nearly twilight, was wonder-struck to observe how the snow-child gleamed and sparkled, and how she seemed to shed a glow all round about her; and when driven into the corner, she positively glistened like a star! it was a frosty kind of brightness, too, like that of an icicle in the moonlight. the wife thought it strange that good mr. lindsey should see nothing remarkable in the snow-child's appearance. "come, you odd little thing!" cried the honest man, seizing her by the hand, "i have caught you at last, and will make you comfortable in spite of yourself. we will put a nice warm pair of worsted stockings on your frozen little feet, and you shall have a good thick shawl to wrap yourself in. your poor white nose, i am afraid, is actually frost-bitten. but we will make it all right. come along in." and so, with a most benevolent smile on his sagacious visage, all purple as it was with the cold, this very well-meaning gentleman took the snow-child by the hand and led her towards the house. she followed him, droopingly and reluctant; for all the glow and sparkle was gone out of her figure; and whereas just before she had resembled a bright, frosty, star-gemmed evening, with a crimson gleam on the cold horizon, she now looked as dull and languid as a thaw. as kind mr. lindsey led her up the steps of the door, violet and peony looked into his face,--their eyes full of tears, which froze before they could run down their cheeks,--and again entreated him not to bring their snow-image into the house. "not bring her in!" exclaimed the kind-hearted man. "why, you are crazy, my little violet!--quite crazy, my small peony! she is so cold, already, that her hand has almost frozen mine, in spite of my thick gloves. would you have her freeze to death?" his wife, as he came up the steps, had been taking another long, earnest, almost awe-stricken gaze at the little white stranger. she hardly knew whether it was a dream or no; but she could not help fancying that she saw the delicate print of violet's fingers on the child's neck. it looked just as if, while violet was shaping out the image, she had given it a gentle pat with her hand, and had neglected to smooth the impression quite away. "after all, husband," said the mother, recurring to her idea that the angels would be as much delighted to play with violet and peony as she herself was,--"after all, she does look strangely like a snow-image! i do believe she is made of snow!" a puff of the west-wind blew against the snow-child, and again she sparkled like a star. "snow!" repeated good mr. lindsey, drawing the reluctant guest over his hospitable threshold. "no wonder she looks like snow. she is half frozen, poor little thing! but a good fire will put everything to rights!" without further talk, and always with the same best intentions, this highly benevolent and common-sensible individual led the little white damsel--drooping, drooping, drooping, more and more out of the frosty air, and into his comfortable parlor. a heidenberg stove, filled to the brim with intensely burning anthracite, was sending a bright gleam through the isinglass of its iron door, and causing the vase of water on its top to fume and bubble with excitement. a warm, sultry smell was diffused throughout the room. a thermometer on the wall farthest from the stove stood at eighty degrees. the parlor was hung with red curtains, and covered with a red carpet, and looked just as warm as it felt. the difference betwixt the atmosphere here and the cold, wintry twilight out of doors, was like stepping at once from nova zembla to the hottest part of india, or from the north pole into an oven. oh, this was a fine place for the little white stranger! the common-sensible man placed the snow-child on the hearth-rug, right in front of the hissing and fuming stove. "now she will be comfortable!" cried mr. lindsey, rubbing his hands and looking about him, with the pleasantest smile you ever saw. "make yourself at home, my child." sad, sad and drooping, looked the little white maiden, as she stood on the hearth-rug, with the hot blast of the stove striking through her like a pestilence. once, she threw a glance wistfully toward the windows, and caught a glimpse, through its red curtains, of the snow-covered roofs, and the stars glimmering frostily, and all the delicious intensity of the cold night. the bleak wind rattled the window-panes, as if it were summoning her to come forth. but there stood the snow-child, drooping, before the hot stove! but the common-sensible man saw nothing amiss. "come wife," said he, "let her have a pair of thick stockings and a woollen shawl or blanket directly; and tell dora to give her some warm supper as soon as the milk boils. you, violet and peony, amuse your little friend. she is out of spirits, you see, at finding herself in a strange place. for my part, i will go around among the neighbors, and find out where she belongs." the mother, meanwhile, had gone in search of the shawl and stockings; for her own view of the matter, however subtle and delicate, had given way, as it always did, to the stubborn materialism of her husband. without heeding the remonstrances of his two children, who still kept murmuring that their little snow-sister did not love the warmth, good mr. lindsey took his departure, shutting the parlor-door carefully behind him. turning up the collar of his sack over his ears, he emerged from the house, and had barely reached the street-gate, when he was recalled by the screams of violet and peony, and the rapping of a thimbled finger against the parlor window. "husband! husband!" cried his wife, showing her horror-stricken face through the window-panes. "there is no need of going for the child's parents!" "we told you so, father!" screamed violet and peony, as he re-entered the parlor. "you would bring her in; and now our poor--dear-beau-ti-ful little snow-sister is thawed!" and their own sweet little faces were already dissolved in tears; so that their father, seeing what strange things occasionally happen in this every-day world, felt not a little anxious lest his children might be going to thaw too! in the utmost perplexity, he demanded an explanation of his wife. she could only reply, that, being summoned to the parlor by the cries of violet and peony, she found no trace of the little white maiden, unless it were the remains of a heap of snow, which, while she was gazing at it, melted quite away upon the hearth-rug. "and there you see all that is left of it!" added she, pointing to a pool of water in front of the stove. "yes, father," said violet looking reproachfully at him, through her tears, "there is all that is left of our dear little snow-sister!" "naughty father!" cried peony, stamping his foot, and--i shudder to say--shaking his little fist at the common-sensible man. "we told you how it would be! what for did you bring her in?" and the heidenberg stove, through the isinglass of its door, seemed to glare at good mr. lindsey, like a red-eyed demon, triumphing in the mischief which it had done! this, you will observe, was one of those rare cases, which yet will occasionally happen, where common-sense finds itself at fault. the remarkable story of the snow-image, though to that sagacious class of people to whom good mr. lindsey belongs it may seem but a childish affair, is, nevertheless, capable of being moralized in various methods, greatly for their edification. one of its lessons, for instance, might be, that it behooves men, and especially men of benevolence, to consider well what they are about, and, before acting on their philanthropic purposes, to be quite sure that they comprehend the nature and all the relations of the business in hand. what has been established as an element of good to one being may prove absolute mischief to another; even as the warmth of the parlor was proper enough for children of flesh and blood, like violet and peony,--though by no means very wholesome, even for them,--but involved nothing short of annihilation to the unfortunate snow-image. but, after all, there is no teaching anything to wise men of good mr. lindsey's stamp. they know everything,--oh, to be sure!--everything that has been, and everything that is, and everything that, by any future possibility, can be. and, should some phenomenon of nature or providence transcend their system, they will not recognize it, even if it come to pass under their very noses. "wife," said mr. lindsey, after a fit of silence, "see what a quantity of snow the children have brought in on their feet! it has made quite a puddle here before the stove. pray tell dora to bring some towels and mop it up!" the great stone face one afternoon, when the sun was going down, a mother and her little boy sat at the door of their cottage, talking about the great stone face. they had but to lift their eyes, and there it was plainly to be seen, though miles away, with the sunshine brightening all its features. and what was the great stone face? embosomed amongst a family of lofty mountains, there was a valley so spacious that it contained many thousand inhabitants. some of these good people dwelt in log-huts, with the black forest all around them, on the steep and difficult hill-sides. others had their homes in comfortable farm-houses, and cultivated the rich soil on the gentle slopes or level surfaces of the valley. others, again, were congregated into populous villages, where some wild, highland rivulet, tumbling down from its birthplace in the upper mountain region, had been caught and tamed by human cunning, and compelled to turn the machinery of cotton-factories. the inhabitants of this valley, in short, were numerous, and of many modes of life. but all of them, grown people and children, had a kind of familiarity with the great stone face, although some possessed the gift of distinguishing this grand natural phenomenon more perfectly than many of their neighbors. the great stone face, then, was a work of nature in her mood of majestic playfulness, formed on the perpendicular side of a mountain by some immense rocks, which had been thrown together in such a position as, when viewed at a proper distance, precisely to resemble the features of the human countenance. it seemed as if an enormous giant, or a titan, had sculptured his own likeness on the precipice. there was the broad arch of the forehead, a hundred feet in height; the nose, with its long bridge; and the vast lips, which, if they could have spoken, would have rolled their thunder accents from one end of the valley to the other. true it is, that if the spectator approached too near, he lost the outline of the gigantic visage, and could discern only a heap of ponderous and gigantic rocks, piled in chaotic ruin one upon another. retracing his steps, however, the wondrous features would again be seen; and the farther he withdrew from them, the more like a human face, with all its original divinity intact, did they appear; until, as it grew dim in the distance, with the clouds and glorified vapor of the mountains clustering about it, the great stone face seemed positively to be alive. it was a happy lot for children to grow up to manhood or womanhood with the great stone face before their eyes, for all the features were noble, and the expression was at once grand and sweet, as if it were the glow of a vast, warm heart, that embraced all mankind in its affections, and had room for more. it was an education only to look at it. according to the belief of many people, the valley owed much of its fertility to this benign aspect that was continually beaming over it, illuminating the clouds, and infusing its tenderness into the sunshine. as we began with saying, a mother and her little boy sat at their cottage-door, gazing at the great stone face, and talking about it. the child's name was ernest. "mother," said he, while the titanic visage smiled on him, "i wish that it could speak, for it looks so very kindly that its voice must needs be pleasant. if i were to see a man with such a face, i should love him dearly." "if an old prophecy should come to pass," answered his mother, "we may see a man, some time or other, with exactly such a face as that." "what prophecy do you mean, dear mother?" eagerly inquired ernest. "pray tell me about it!" so his mother told him a story that her own mother had told to her, when she herself was younger than little ernest; a story, not of things that were past, but of what was yet to come; a story, nevertheless, so very old, that even the indians, who formerly inhabited this valley, had heard it from their forefathers, to whom, as they affirmed, it had been murmured by the mountain streams, and whispered by the wind among the tree-tops. the purport was, that, at some future day, a child should be born hereabouts, who was destined to become the greatest and noblest personage of his time, and whose countenance, in manhood, should bear an exact resemblance to the great stone face. not a few old-fashioned people, and young ones likewise, in the ardor of their hopes, still cherished an enduring faith in this old prophecy. but others, who had seen more of the world, had watched and waited till they were weary, and had beheld no man with such a face, nor any man that proved to be much greater or nobler than his neighbors, concluded it to be nothing but an idle tale. at all events, the great man of the prophecy had not yet appeared. "o mother, dear mother!" cried ernest, clapping his hands above his head, "i do hope that i shall live to see him!" his mother was an affectionate and thoughtful woman, and felt that it was wisest not to discourage the generous hopes of her little boy. so she only said to him, "perhaps you may." and ernest never forgot the story that his mother told him. it was always in his mind, whenever he looked upon the great stone face. he spent his childhood in the log-cottage where he was born, and was dutiful to his mother, and helpful to her in many things, assisting her much with his little hands, and more with his loving heart. in this manner, from a happy yet often pensive child, he grew up to be a mild, quiet, unobtrusive boy, and sun-browned with labor in the fields, but with more intelligence brightening his aspect than is seen in many lads who have been taught at famous schools. yet ernest had had no teacher, save only that the great stone face became one to him. when the toil of the day was over, he would gaze at it for hours, until he began to imagine that those vast features recognized him, and gave him a smile of kindness and encouragement, responsive to his own look of veneration. we must not take upon us to affirm that this was a mistake, although the face may have looked no more kindly at ernest than at all the world besides. but the secret was that the boy's tender and confiding simplicity discerned what other people could not see; and thus the love, which was meant for all, became his peculiar portion. about this time there went a rumor throughout the valley, that the great man, foretold from ages long ago, who was to bear a resemblance to the great stone face, had appeared at last. it seems that, many years before, a young man had migrated from the valley and settled at a distant seaport, where, after getting together a little money, he had set up as a shopkeeper. his name--but i could never learn whether it was his real one, or a nickname that had grown out of his habits and success in life--was gathergold. being shrewd and active, and endowed by providence with that inscrutable faculty which develops itself in what the world calls luck, he became an exceedingly rich merchant, and owner of a whole fleet of bulky-bottomed ships. all the countries of the globe appeared to join hands for the mere purpose of adding heap after heap to the mountainous accumulation of this one man's wealth. the cold regions of the north, almost within the gloom and shadow of the arctic circle, sent him their tribute in the shape of furs; hot africa sifted for him the golden sands of her rivers, and gathered up the ivory tusks of her great elephants out of the forests; the east came bringing him the rich shawls, and spices, and teas, and the effulgence of diamonds, and the gleaming purity of large pearls. the ocean, not to be behindhand with the earth, yielded up her mighty whales, that mr. gathergold might sell their oil, and make a profit of it. be the original commodity what it might, it was gold within his grasp. it might be said of him, as of midas in the fable, that whatever he touched with his finger immediately glistened, and grew yellow, and was changed at once into sterling metal, or, which suited him still better, into piles of coin. and, when mr. gathergold had become so very rich that it would have taken him a hundred years only to count his wealth, he bethought himself of his native valley, and resolved to go back thither, and end his days where he was born. with this purpose in view, he sent a skilful architect to build him such a palace as should be fit for a man of his vast wealth to live in. as i have said above, it had already been rumored in the valley that mr. gathergold had turned out to be the prophetic personage so long and vainly looked for, and that his visage was the perfect and undeniable similitude of the great stone face. people were the more ready to believe that this must needs be the fact, when they beheld the splendid edifice that rose, as if by enchantment, on the site of his father's old weatherbeaten farm-house. the exterior was of marble, so dazzlingly white that it seemed as though the whole structure might melt away in the sunshine, like those humbler ones which mr. gathergold, in his young play-days, before his fingers were gifted with the touch of transmutation, had been accustomed to build of snow. it had a richly ornamented portico, supported by tall pillars, beneath which was a lofty door, studded with silver knobs, and made of a kind of variegated wood that had been brought from beyond the sea. the windows, from the floor to the ceiling of each stately apartment, were composed, respectively, of but one enormous pane of glass, so transparently pure that it was said to be a finer medium than even the vacant atmosphere. hardly anybody had been permitted to see the interior of this palace; but it was reported, and with good semblance of truth, to be far more gorgeous than the outside, insomuch that whatever was iron or brass in other houses was silver or gold in this; and mr. gathergold's bedchamber, especially, made such a glittering appearance that no ordinary man would have been able to close his eyes there. but, on the other hand, mr. gathergold was now so inured to wealth, that perhaps he could not have closed his eyes unless where the gleam of it was certain to find its way beneath his eyelids. in due time, the mansion was finished; next came the upholsterers, with magnificent furniture; then, a whole troop of black and white servants, the harbingers of mr. gathergold, who, in his own majestic person, was expected to arrive at sunset. our friend ernest, meanwhile, had been deeply stirred by the idea that the great man, the noble man, the man of prophecy, after so many ages of delay, was at length to be made manifest to his native valley. he knew, boy as he was, that there were a thousand ways in which mr. gathergold, with his vast wealth, might transform himself into an angel of beneficence, and assume a control over human affairs as wide and benignant as the smile of the great stone face. full of faith and hope, ernest doubted not that what the people said was true, and that now he was to behold the living likeness of those wondrous features on the mountain-side. while the boy was still gazing up the valley, and fancying, as he always did, that the great stone face returned his gaze and looked kindly at him, the rumbling of wheels was heard, approaching swiftly along the winding road. "here he comes!" cried a group of people who were assembled to witness the arrival. "here comes the great mr. gathergold!" a carriage, drawn by four horses, dashed round the turn of the road. within it, thrust partly out of the window, appeared the physiognomy of the old man, with a skin as yellow as if his own midas-hand had transmuted it. he had a low forehead, small, sharp eyes, puckered about with innumerable wrinkles, and very thin lips, which he made still thinner by pressing them forcibly together. "the very image of the great stone face!" shouted the people. "sure enough, the old prophecy is true; and here we have the great man come, at last!" and, what greatly perplexed ernest, they seemed actually to believe that here was the likeness which they spoke of. by the roadside there chanced to be an old beggar-woman and two little beggar-children, stragglers from some far-off region, who, as the carriage rolled onward, held out their hands and lifted up their doleful voices, most piteously beseeching charity. a yellow claw--the very same that had clawed together so much wealth--poked itself out of the coach-window, and dropt some copper coins upon the ground; so that, though the great man's name seems to have been gathergold, he might just as suitably have been nicknamed scattercopper. still, nevertheless, with an earnest shout, and evidently with as much good faith as ever, the people bellowed, "he is the very image of the great stone face!" but ernest turned sadly from the wrinkled shrewdness of that sordid visage, and gazed up the valley, where, amid a gathering mist, gilded by the last sunbeams, he could still distinguish those glorious features which had impressed themselves into his soul. their aspect cheered him. what did the benign lips seem to say? "he will come! fear not, ernest; the man will come!" the years went on, and ernest ceased to be a boy. he had grown to be a young man now. he attracted little notice from the other inhabitants of the valley; for they saw nothing remarkable in his way of life save that, when the labor of the day was over, he still loved to go apart and gaze and meditate upon the great stone face. according to their idea of the matter, it was a folly, indeed, but pardonable, inasmuch as ernest was industrious, kind, and neighborly, and neglected no duty for the sake of indulging this idle habit. they knew not that the great stone face had become a teacher to him, and that the sentiment which was expressed in it would enlarge the young man's heart, and fill it with wider and deeper sympathies than other hearts. they knew not that thence would come a better wisdom than could be learned from books, and a better life than could be moulded on the defaced example of other human lives. neither did ernest know that the thoughts and affections which came to him so naturally, in the fields and at the fireside, and wherever he communed with himself, were of a higher tone than those which all men shared with him. a simple soul,--simple as when his mother first taught him the old prophecy,--he beheld the marvellous features beaming adown the valley, and still wondered that their human counterpart was so long in making his appearance. by this time poor mr. gathergold was dead and buried; and the oddest part of the matter was, that his wealth, which was the body and spirit of his existence, had disappeared before his death, leaving nothing of him but a living skeleton, covered over with a wrinkled yellow skin. since the melting away of his gold, it had been very generally conceded that there was no such striking resemblance, after all, betwixt the ignoble features of the ruined merchant and that majestic face upon the mountain-side. so the people ceased to honor him during his lifetime, and quietly consigned him to forgetfulness after his decease. once in a while, it is true, his memory was brought up in connection with the magnificent palace which he had built, and which had long ago been turned into a hotel for the accommodation of strangers, multitudes of whom came, every summer, to visit that famous natural curiosity, the great stone face. thus, mr. gathergold being discredited and thrown into the shade, the man of prophecy was yet to come. it so happened that a native-born son of the valley, many years before, had enlisted as a soldier, and, after a great deal of hard fighting, had now become an illustrious commander. whatever he may be called in history, he was known in camps and on the battle-field under the nickname of old blood-and-thunder. this war-worn veteran being now infirm with age and wounds, and weary of the turmoil of a military life, and of the roll of the drum and the clangor of the trumpet, that had so long been ringing in his ears, had lately signified a purpose of returning to his native valley, hoping to find repose where he remembered to have left it. the inhabitants, his old neighbors and their grown-up children, were resolved to welcome the renowned warrior with a salute of cannon and a public dinner; and all the more enthusiastically, it being affirmed that now, at last, the likeness of the great stone face had actually appeared. an aid-de-camp of old blood-and-thunder, travelling through the valley, was said to have been struck with the resemblance. moreover the schoolmates and early acquaintances of the general were ready to testify, on oath, that, to the best of their recollection, the aforesaid general had been exceedingly like the majestic image, even when a boy, only the idea had never occurred to them at that period. great, therefore, was the excitement throughout the valley; and many people, who had never once thought of glancing at the great stone face for years before, now spent their time in gazing at it, for the sake of knowing exactly how general blood-and-thunder looked. on the day of the great festival, ernest, with all the other people of the valley, left their work, and proceeded to the spot where the sylvan banquet was prepared. as he approached, the loud voice of the rev. dr. battleblast was heard, beseeching a blessing on the good things set before them, and on the distinguished friend of peace in whose honor they were assembled. the tables were arranged in a cleared space of the woods, shut in by the surrounding trees, except where a vista opened eastward, and afforded a distant view of the great stone face. over the general's chair, which was a relic from the home of washington, there was an arch of verdant boughs, with the laurel profusely intermixed, and surmounted by his country's banner, beneath which he had won his victories. our friend ernest raised himself on his tiptoes, in hopes to get a glimpse of the celebrated guest; but there was a mighty crowd about the tables anxious to hear the toasts and speeches, and to catch any word that might fall from the general in reply; and a volunteer company, doing duty as a guard, pricked ruthlessly with their bayonets at any particularly quiet person among the throng. so ernest, being of an unobtrusive character, was thrust quite into the background, where he could see no more of old blood-and-thunder's physiognomy than if it had been still blazing on the battle-field. to console himself, he turned towards the great stone face, which, like a faithful and long remembered friend, looked back and smiled upon him through the vista of the forest. meantime, however, he could overhear the remarks of various individuals, who were comparing the features of the hero with the face on the distant mountain-side. "'tis the same face, to a hair!" cried one man, cutting a caper for joy. "wonderfully like, that's a fact!" responded another. "like! why, i call it old blood-and-thunder himself, in a monstrous looking-glass!" cried a third. "and why not? he's the greatest man of this or any other age, beyond a doubt." and then all three of the speakers gave a great shout, which communicated electricity to the crowd, and called forth a roar from a thousand voices, that went reverberating for miles among the mountains, until you might have supposed that the great stone face had poured its thunderbreath into the cry. all these comments, and this vast enthusiasm, served the more to interest our friend; nor did he think of questioning that now, at length, the mountain-visage had found its human counterpart. it is true, ernest had imagined that this long-looked-for personage would appear in the character of a man of peace, uttering wisdom, and doing good, and making people happy. but, taking an habitual breadth of view, with all his simplicity, he contended that providence should choose its own method of blessing mankind, and could conceive that this great end might be effected even by a warrior and a bloody sword, should inscrutable wisdom see fit to order matters so. "the general! the general!" was now the cry. "hush! silence! old blood-and-thunder's going to make a speech." even so; for, the cloth being removed, the general's health had been drunk, amid shouts of applause, and he now stood upon his feet to thank the company. ernest saw him. there he was, over the shoulders of the crowd, from the two glittering epaulets and embroidered collar upward, beneath the arch of green boughs with intertwined laurel, and the banner drooping as if to shade his brow! and there, too, visible in the same glance, through the vista of the forest, appeared the great stone face! and was there, indeed, such a resemblance as the crowd had testified? alas, ernest could not recognize it! he beheld a war-worn and weatherbeaten countenance, full of energy, and expressive of an iron will; but the gentle wisdom, the deep, broad, tender sympathies, were altogether wanting in old blood-and-thunder's visage; and even if the great stone face had assumed his look of stern command, the milder traits would still have tempered it. "this is not the man of prophecy," sighed ernest to himself, as he made his way out of the throng. "and must the world wait longer yet?" the mists had congregated about the distant mountain-side, and there were seen the grand and awful features of the great stone face, awful but benignant, as if a mighty angel were sitting among the hills, and enrobing himself in a cloud-vesture of gold and purple. as he looked, ernest could hardly believe but that a smile beamed over the whole visage, with a radiance still brightening, although without motion of the lips. it was probably the effect of the western sunshine, melting through the thinly diffused vapors that had swept between him and the object that he gazed at. but--as it always did--the aspect of his marvellous friend made ernest as hopeful as if he had never hoped in vain. "fear not, ernest," said his heart, even as if the great face were whispering him,--"fear not, ernest; he will come." more years sped swiftly and tranquilly away. ernest still dwelt in his native valley, and was now a man of middle age. by imperceptible degrees, he had become known among the people. now, as heretofore, he labored for his bread, and was the same simple-hearted man that he had always been. but he had thought and felt so much, he had given so many of the best hours of his life to unworldly hopes for some great good to mankind, that it seemed as though he had been talking with the angels, and had imbibed a portion of their wisdom unawares. it was visible in the calm and well-considered beneficence of his daily life, the quiet stream of which had made a wide green margin all along its course. not a day passed by, that the world was not the better because this man, humble as he was, had lived. he never stepped aside from his own path, yet would always reach a blessing to his neighbor. almost involuntarily too, he had become a preacher. the pure and high simplicity of his thought, which, as one of its manifestations, took shape in the good deeds that dropped silently from his hand, flowed also forth in speech. he uttered truths that wrought upon and moulded the lives of those who heard him. his auditors, it may be, never suspected that ernest, their own neighbor and familiar friend, was more than an ordinary man; least of all did ernest himself suspect it; but, inevitably as the murmur of a rivulet, came thoughts out of his mouth that no other human lips had spoken. when the people's minds had had a little time to cool, they were ready enough to acknowledge their mistake in imagining a similarity between general blood-and-thunder's truculent physiognomy and the benign visage on the mountain-side. but now, again, there were reports and many paragraphs in the newspapers, affirming that the likeness of the great stone face had appeared upon the broad shoulders of a certain eminent statesman. he, like mr. gathergold and old blood-and-thunder, was a native of the valley, but had left it in his early days, and taken up the trades of law and politics. instead of the rich man's wealth and the warrior's sword, he had but a tongue, and it was mightier than both together. so wonderfully eloquent was he, that whatever he might choose to say, his auditors had no choice but to believe him; wrong looked like right, and right like wrong; for when it pleased him, he could make a kind of illuminated fog with his mere breath, and obscure the natural daylight with it. his tongue, indeed, was a magic instrument: sometimes it rumbled like the thunder; sometimes it warbled like the sweetest music. it was the blast of war, the song of peace; and it seemed to have a heart in it, when there was no such matter. in good truth, he was a wondrous man; and when his tongue had acquired him all other imaginable success,--when it had been heard in halls of state, and in the courts of princes and potentates,--after it had made him known all over the world, even as a voice crying from shore to shore,--it finally persuaded his countrymen to select him for the presidency. before this time,--indeed, as soon as he began to grow celebrated,--his admirers had found out the resemblance between him and the great stone face; and so much were they struck by it, that throughout the country this distinguished gentleman was known by the name of old stony phiz. the phrase was considered as giving a highly favorable aspect to his political prospects; for, as is likewise the case with the popedom, nobody ever becomes president without taking a name other than his own. while his friends were doing their best to make him president, old stony phiz, as he was called, set out on a visit to the valley where he was born. of course, he had no other object than to shake hands with his fellow-citizens and neither thought nor cared about any effect which his progress through the country might have upon the election. magnificent preparations were made to receive the illustrious statesman; a cavalcade of horsemen set forth to meet him at the boundary line of the state, and all the people left their business and gathered along the wayside to see him pass. among these was ernest. though more than once disappointed, as we have seen, he had such a hopeful and confiding nature, that he was always ready to believe in whatever seemed beautiful and good. he kept his heart continually open, and thus was sure to catch the blessing from on high when it should come. so now again, as buoyantly as ever, he went forth to behold the likeness of the great stone face. the cavalcade came prancing along the road, with a great clattering of hoofs and a mighty cloud of dust, which rose up so dense and high that the visage of the mountain-side was completely hidden from ernest's eyes. all the great men of the neighborhood were there on horseback; militia officers, in uniform; the member of congress; the sheriff of the county; the editors of newspapers; and many a farmer, too, had mounted his patient steed, with his sunday coat upon his back. it really was a very brilliant spectacle, especially as there were numerous banners flaunting over the cavalcade, on some of which were gorgeous portraits of the illustrious statesman and the great stone face, smiling familiarly at one another, like two brothers. if the pictures were to be trusted, the mutual resemblance, it must be confessed, was marvellous. we must not forget to mention that there was a band of music, which made the echoes of the mountains ring and reverberate with the loud triumph of its strains; so that airy and soul-thrilling melodies broke out among all the heights and hollows, as if every nook of his native valley had found a voice, to welcome the distinguished guest. but the grandest effect was when the far-off mountain precipice flung back the music; for then the great stone face itself seemed to be swelling the triumphant chorus, in acknowledgment that, at length, the man of prophecy was come. all this while the people were throwing up their hats and shouting with enthusiasm so contagious that the heart of ernest kindled up, and he likewise threw up his hat, and shouted, as loudly as the loudest, "huzza for the great man! huzza for old stony phiz!" but as yet he had not seen him. "here he is, now!" cried those who stood near ernest. "there! there! look at old stony phiz and then at the old man of the mountain, and see if they are not as like as two twin-brothers!" in the midst of all this gallant array came an open barouche, drawn by four white horses; and in the barouche, with his massive head uncovered, sat the illustrious statesman, old stony phiz himself. "confess it," said one of ernest's neighbors to him, "the great stone face has met its match at last!" now, it must be owned that, at his first glimpse of the countenance which was bowing and smiling from the barouche, ernest did fancy that there was a resemblance between it and the old familiar face upon the mountain-side. the brow, with its massive depth and loftiness, and all the other features, indeed, were boldly and strongly hewn, as if in emulation of a more than heroic, of a titanic model. but the sublimity and stateliness, the grand expression of a divine sympathy, that illuminated the mountain visage and etherealized its ponderous granite substance into spirit, might here be sought in vain. something had been originally left out, or had departed. and therefore the marvellously gifted statesman had always a weary gloom in the deep caverns of his eyes, as of a child that has outgrown its playthings or a man of mighty faculties and little aims, whose life, with all its high performances, was vague and empty, because no high purpose had endowed it with reality. still, ernest's neighbor was thrusting his elbow into his side, and pressing him for an answer. "confess! confess! is not he the very picture of your old man of the mountain?" "no!" said ernest bluntly, "i see little or no likeness." "then so much the worse for the great stone face!" answered his neighbor; and again he set up a shout for old stony phiz. but ernest turned away, melancholy, and almost despondent: for this was the saddest of his disappointments, to behold a man who might have fulfilled the prophecy, and had not willed to do so. meantime, the cavalcade, the banners, the music, and the barouches swept past him, with the vociferous crowd in the rear, leaving the dust to settle down, and the great stone face to be revealed again, with the grandeur that it had worn for untold centuries. "lo, here i am, ernest!" the benign lips seemed to say. "i have waited longer than thou, and am not yet weary. fear not; the man will come." the years hurried onward, treading in their haste on one another's heels. and now they began to bring white hairs, and scatter them over the head of ernest; they made reverend wrinkles across his forehead, and furrows in his cheeks. he was an aged man. but not in vain had he grown old: more than the white hairs on his head were the sage thoughts in his mind; his wrinkles and furrows were inscriptions that time had graved, and in which he had written legends of wisdom that had been tested by the tenor of a life. and ernest had ceased to be obscure. unsought for, undesired, had come the fame which so many seek, and made him known in the great world, beyond the limits of the valley in which he had dwelt so quietly. college professors, and even the active men of cities, came from far to see and converse with ernest; for the report had gone abroad that this simple husbandman had ideas unlike those of other men, not gained from books, but of a higher tone,--a tranquil and familiar majesty, as if he had been talking with the angels as his daily friends. whether it were sage, statesman, or philanthropist, ernest received these visitors with the gentle sincerity that had characterized him from boyhood, and spoke freely with them of whatever came uppermost, or lay deepest in his heart or their own. while they talked together, his face would kindle, unawares, and shine upon them, as with a mild evening light. pensive with the fulness of such discourse, his guests took leave and went their way; and passing up the valley, paused to look at the great stone face, imagining that they had seen its likeness in a human countenance, but could not remember where. while ernest had been growing up and growing old, a bountiful providence had granted a new poet to this earth. he likewise, was a native of the valley, but had spent the greater part of his life at a distance from that romantic region, pouring out his sweet music amid the bustle and din of cities. often, however, did the mountains which had been familiar to him in his childhood lift their snowy peaks into the clear atmosphere of his poetry. neither was the great stone face forgotten, for the poet had celebrated it in an ode, which was grand enough to have been uttered by its own majestic lips. this man of genius, we may say, had come down from heaven with wonderful endowments. if he sang of a mountain, the eyes of all mankind beheld a mightier grandeur reposing on its breast, or soaring to its summit, than had before been seen there. if his theme were a lovely lake, a celestial smile had now been thrown over it, to gleam forever on its surface. if it were the vast old sea, even the deep immensity of its dread bosom seemed to swell the higher, as if moved by the emotions of the song. thus the world assumed another and a better aspect from the hour that the poet blessed it with his happy eyes. the creator had bestowed him, as the last best touch to his own handiwork. creation was not finished till the poet came to interpret, and so complete it. the effect was no less high and beautiful, when his human brethren were the subject of his verse. the man or woman, sordid with the common dust of life, who crossed his daily path, and the little child who played in it, were glorified if he beheld them in his mood of poetic faith. he showed the golden links of the great chain that intertwined them with an angelic kindred; he brought out the hidden traits of a celestial birth that made them worthy of such kin. some, indeed, there were, who thought to show the soundness of their judgment by affirming that all the beauty and dignity of the natural world existed only in the poet's fancy. let such men speak for themselves, who undoubtedly appear to have been spawned forth by nature with a contemptuous bitterness; she having plastered them up out of her refuse stuff, after all the swine were made. as respects all things else, the poet's ideal was the truest truth. the songs of this poet found their way to ernest. he read them after his customary toil, seated on the bench before his cottage-door, where for such a length of time he had filled his repose with thought, by gazing at the great stone face. and now as he read stanzas that caused the soul to thrill within him, he lifted his eyes to the vast countenance beaming on him so benignantly. "o majestic friend," he murmured, addressing the great stone face, "is not this man worthy to resemble thee?" the face seemed to smile, but answered not a word. now it happened that the poet, though he dwelt so far away, had not only heard of ernest, but had meditated much upon his character, until he deemed nothing so desirable as to meet this man, whose untaught wisdom walked hand in hand with the noble simplicity of his life. one summer morning, therefore, he took passage by the railroad, and, in the decline of the afternoon, alighted from the cars at no great distance from ernest's cottage. the great hotel, which had formerly been the palace of mr. gathergold, was close at hand, but the poet, with his carpet-bag on his arm, inquired at once where ernest dwelt, and was resolved to be accepted as his guest. approaching the door, he there found the good old man, holding a volume in his hand, which alternately he read, and then, with a finger between the leaves, looked lovingly at the great stone face. "good evening," said the poet. "can you give a traveller a night's lodging?" "willingly," answered ernest; and then he added, smiling, "methinks i never saw the great stone face look so hospitably at a stranger." the poet sat down on the bench beside him, and he and ernest talked together. often had the poet held intercourse with the wittiest and the wisest, but never before with a man like ernest, whose thoughts and feelings gushed up with such a natural freedom, and who made great truths so familiar by his simple utterance of them. angels, as had been so often said, seemed to have wrought with him at his labor in the fields; angels seemed to have sat with him by the fireside; and, dwelling with angels as friend with friends, he had imbibed the sublimity of their ideas, and imbued it with the sweet and lowly charm of household words. so thought the poet. and ernest, on the other hand, was moved and agitated by the living images which the poet flung out of his mind, and which peopled all the air about the cottage-door with shapes of beauty, both gay and pensive. the sympathies of these two men instructed them with a profounder sense than either could have attained alone. their minds accorded into one strain, and made delightful music which neither of them could have claimed as all his own, nor distinguished his own share from the other's. they led one another, as it were, into a high pavilion of their thoughts, so remote, and hitherto so dim, that they had never entered it before, and so beautiful that they desired to be there always. as ernest listened to the poet, he imagined that the great stone face was bending forward to listen too. he gazed earnestly into the poet's glowing eyes. "who are you, my strangely gifted guest?" he said. the poet laid his finger on the volume that ernest had been reading. "you have read these poems," said he. "you know me, then,--for i wrote them." again, and still more earnestly than before, ernest examined the poet's features; then turned towards the great stone face; then back, with an uncertain aspect, to his guest. but his countenance fell; he shook his head, and sighed. "wherefore are you sad?" inquired the poet. "because," replied ernest, "all through life i have awaited the fulfilment of a prophecy; and, when i read these poems, i hoped that it might be fulfilled in you." "you hoped," answered the poet, faintly smiling, "to find in me the likeness of the great stone face. and you are disappointed, as formerly with mr. gathergold, and old blood-and-thunder, and old stony phiz. yes, ernest, it is my doom. you must add my name to the illustrious three, and record another failure of your hopes. for--in shame and sadness do i speak it, ernest--i am not worthy to be typified by yonder benign and majestic image." "and why?" asked ernest. he pointed to the volume. "are not those thoughts divine?" "they have a strain of the divinity," replied the poet. "you can hear in them the far-off echo of a heavenly song. but my life, dear ernest, has not corresponded with my thought. i have had grand dreams, but they have been only dreams, because i have lived--and that, too, by my own choice--among poor and mean realities. sometimes even--shall i dare to say it?--i lack faith in the grandeur, the beauty, and the goodness, which my own words are said to have made more evident in nature and in human life. why, then, pure seeker of the good and true, shouldst thou hope to find me, in yonder image of the divine?" the poet spoke sadly, and his eyes were dim with tears. so, likewise, were those of ernest. at the hour of sunset, as had long been his frequent custom, ernest was to discourse to an assemblage of the neighboring inhabitants in the open air. he and the poet, arm in arm, still talking together as they went along, proceeded to the spot. it was a small nook among the hills, with a gray precipice behind, the stern front of which was relieved by the pleasant foliage of many creeping plants that made a tapestry for the naked rock, by hanging their festoons from all its rugged angles. at a small elevation above the ground, set in a rich framework of verdure, there appeared a niche, spacious enough to admit a human figure, with freedom for such gestures as spontaneously accompany earnest thought and genuine emotion. into this natural pulpit ernest ascended, and threw a look of familiar kindness around upon his audience. they stood, or sat, or reclined upon the grass, as seemed good to each, with the departing sunshine falling obliquely over them, and mingling its subdued cheerfulness with the solemnity of a grove of ancient trees, beneath and amid the boughs of which the golden rays were constrained to pass. in another direction was seen the great stone face, with the same cheer, combined with the same solemnity, in its benignant aspect. ernest began to speak, giving to the people of what was in his heart and mind. his words had power, because they accorded with his thoughts; and his thoughts had reality and depth, because they harmonized with the life which he had always lived. it was not mere breath that this preacher uttered; they were the words of life, because a life of good deeds and holy love was melted into them. pearls, pure and rich, had been dissolved into this precious draught. the poet, as he listened, felt that the being and character of ernest were a nobler strain of poetry than he had ever written. his eyes glistening with tears, he gazed reverentially at the venerable man, and said within himself that never was there an aspect so worthy of a prophet and a sage as that mild, sweet, thoughtful countenance, with the glory of white hair diffused about it. at a distance, but distinctly to be seen, high up in the golden light of the setting sun, appeared the great stone face, with hoary mists around it, like the white hairs around the brow of ernest. its look of grand beneficence seemed to embrace the world. at that moment, in sympathy with a thought which he was about to utter, the face of ernest assumed a grandeur of expression, so imbued with benevolence, that the poet, by an irresistible impulse, threw his arms aloft and shouted, "behold! behold! ernest is himself the likeness of the great stone face!" then all the people looked, and saw that what the deep-sighted poet said was true. the prophecy was fulfilled. but ernest, having finished what he had to say, took the poet's arm, and walked slowly homeward, still hoping that some wiser and better man than himself would by and by appear, bearing a resemblance to the great stone face. ethan brand a chapter from an abortive romance bartram the lime-burner, a rough, heavy-looking man, begrimed with charcoal, sat watching his kiln at nightfall, while his little son played at building houses with the scattered fragments of marble, when, on the hill-side below them, they heard a roar of laughter, not mirthful, but slow, and even solemn, like a wind shaking the boughs of the forest. "father, what is that?" asked the little boy, leaving his play, and pressing betwixt his father's knees. "oh, some drunken man, i suppose," answered the lime-burner; "some merry fellow from the bar-room in the village, who dared not laugh loud enough within doors lest he should blow the roof of the house off. so here he is, shaking his jolly sides at the foot of graylock." "but, father," said the child, more sensitive than the obtuse, middle-aged clown, "he does not laugh like a man that is glad. so the noise frightens me!" "don't be a fool, child!" cried his father, gruffly. "you will never make a man, i do believe; there is too much of your mother in you. i have known the rustling of a leaf startle you. hark! here comes the merry fellow now. you shall see that there is no harm in him." bartram and his little son, while they were talking thus, sat watching the same lime-kiln that had been the scene of ethan brand's solitary and meditative life, before he began his search for the unpardonable sin. many years, as we have seen, had now elapsed, since that portentous night when the idea was first developed. the kiln, however, on the mountain-side, stood unimpaired, and was in nothing changed since he had thrown his dark thoughts into the intense glow of its furnace, and melted them, as it were, into the one thought that took possession of his life. it was a rude, round, tower-like structure about twenty feet high, heavily built of rough stones, and with a hillock of earth heaped about the larger part of its circumference; so that the blocks and fragments of marble might be drawn by cart-loads, and thrown in at the top. there was an opening at the bottom of the tower, like an over-mouth, but large enough to admit a man in a stooping posture, and provided with a massive iron door. with the smoke and jets of flame issuing from the chinks and crevices of this door, which seemed to give admittance into the hill-side, it resembled nothing so much as the private entrance to the infernal regions, which the shepherds of the delectable mountains were accustomed to show to pilgrims. there are many such lime-kilns in that tract of country, for the purpose of burning the white marble which composes a large part of the substance of the hills. some of them, built years ago, and long deserted, with weeds growing in the vacant round of the interior, which is open to the sky, and grass and wild-flowers rooting themselves into the chinks of the stones, look already like relics of antiquity, and may yet be overspread with the lichens of centuries to come. others, where the limeburner still feeds his daily and night-long fire, afford points of interest to the wanderer among the hills, who seats himself on a log of wood or a fragment of marble, to hold a chat with the solitary man. it is a lonesome, and, when the character is inclined to thought, may be an intensely thoughtful occupation; as it proved in the case of ethan brand, who had mused to such strange purpose, in days gone by, while the fire in this very kiln was burning. the man who now watched the fire was of a different order, and troubled himself with no thoughts save the very few that were requisite to his business. at frequent intervals, he flung back the clashing weight of the iron door, and, turning his face from the insufferable glare, thrust in huge logs of oak, or stirred the immense brands with a long pole. within the furnace were seen the curling and riotous flames, and the burning marble, almost molten with the intensity of heat; while without, the reflection of the fire quivered on the dark intricacy of the surrounding forest, and showed in the foreground a bright and ruddy little picture of the hut, the spring beside its door, the athletic and coal-begrimed figure of the lime-burner, and the half-frightened child, shrinking into the protection of his father's shadow. and when, again, the iron door was closed, then reappeared the tender light of the half-full moon, which vainly strove to trace out the indistinct shapes of the neighboring mountains; and, in the upper sky, there was a flitting congregation of clouds, still faintly tinged with the rosy sunset, though thus far down into the valley the sunshine had vanished long and long ago. the little boy now crept still closer to his father, as footsteps were heard ascending the hill-side, and a human form thrust aside the bushes that clustered beneath the trees. "halloo! who is it?" cried the lime-burner, vexed at his son's timidity, yet half infected by it. "come forward, and show yourself, like a man, or i'll fling this chunk of marble at your head!" "you offer me a rough welcome," said a gloomy voice, as the unknown man drew nigh. "yet i neither claim nor desire a kinder one, even at my own fireside." to obtain a distincter view, bartram threw open the iron door of the kiln, whence immediately issued a gush of fierce light, that smote full upon the stranger's face and figure. to a careless eye there appeared nothing very remarkable in his aspect, which was that of a man in a coarse brown, country-made suit of clothes, tall and thin, with the staff and heavy shoes of a wayfarer. as he advanced, he fixed his eyes--which were very bright--intently upon the brightness of the furnace, as if he beheld, or expected to behold, some object worthy of note within it. "good evening, stranger," said the lime-burner; "whence come you, so late in the day?" "i come from my search," answered the wayfarer; "for, at last, it is finished." "drunk!--or crazy!" muttered bartram to himself. "i shall have trouble with the fellow. the sooner i drive him away, the better." the little boy, all in a tremble, whispered to his father, and begged him to shut the door of the kiln, so that there might not be so much light; for that there was something in the man's face which he was afraid to look at, yet could not look away from. and, indeed, even the lime-burner's dull and torpid sense began to be impressed by an indescribable something in that thin, rugged, thoughtful visage, with the grizzled hair hanging wildly about it, and those deeply sunken eyes, which gleamed like fires within the entrance of a mysterious cavern. but, as he closed the door, the stranger turned towards him, and spoke in a quiet, familiar way, that made bartram feel as if he were a sane and sensible man, after all. "your task draws to an end, i see," said he. "this marble has already been burning three days. a few hours more will convert the stone to lime." "why, who are you?" exclaimed the lime-burner. "you seem as well acquainted with my business as i am myself." "and well i may be," said the stranger; "for i followed the same craft many a long year, and here, too, on this very spot. but you are a newcomer in these parts. did you never hear of ethan brand?" "the man that went in search of the unpardonable sin?" asked bartram, with a laugh. "the same," answered the stranger. "he has found what he sought, and therefore he comes back again." "what! then you are ethan brand himself?" cried the lime-burner, in amazement. "i am a new-comer here, as you say, and they call it eighteen years since you left the foot of graylock. but, i can tell you, the good folks still talk about ethan brand, in the village yonder, and what a strange errand took him away from his lime-kiln. well, and so you have found the unpardonable sin?" "even so!" said the stranger, calmly. "if the question is a fair one," proceeded bartram, "where might it be?" ethan brand laid his finger on his own heart. "here!" replied he. and then, without mirth in his countenance, but as if moved by an involuntary recognition of the infinite absurdity of seeking throughout the world for what was the closest of all things to himself, and looking into every heart, save his own, for what was hidden in no other breast, he broke into a laugh of scorn. it was the same slow, heavy laugh, that had almost appalled the lime-burner when it heralded the wayfarer's approach. the solitary mountain-side was made dismal by it. laughter, when out of place, mistimed, or bursting forth from a disordered state of feeling, may be the most terrible modulation of the human voice. the laughter of one asleep, even if it be a little child,--the madman's laugh,--the wild, screaming laugh of a born idiot,--are sounds that we sometimes tremble to hear, and would always willingly forget. poets have imagined no utterance of fiends or hobgoblins so fearfully appropriate as a laugh. and even the obtuse lime-burner felt his nerves shaken, as this strange man looked inward at his own heart, and burst into laughter that rolled away into the night, and was indistinctly reverberated among the hills. "joe," said he to his little son, "scamper down to the tavern in the village, and tell the jolly fellows there that ethan brand has come back, and that he has found the unpardonable sin!" the boy darted away on his errand, to which ethan brand made no objection, nor seemed hardly to notice it. he sat on a log of wood, looking steadfastly at the iron door of the kiln. when the child was out of sight, and his swift and light footsteps ceased to be heard treading first on the fallen leaves and then on the rocky mountain-path, the lime-burner began to regret his departure. he felt that the little fellow's presence had been a barrier between his guest and himself, and that he must now deal, heart to heart, with a man who, on his own confession, had committed the one only crime for which heaven could afford no mercy. that crime, in its indistinct blackness, seemed to overshadow him, and made his memory riotous with a throng of evil shapes that asserted their kindred with the master sin, whatever it might be, which it was within the scope of man's corrupted nature to conceive and cherish. they were all of one family; they went to and fro between his breast and ethan brand's, and carried dark greetings from one to the other. then bartram remembered the stories which had grown traditionary in reference to this strange man, who had come upon him like a shadow of the night, and was making himself at home in his old place, after so long absence, that the dead people, dead and buried for years, would have had more right to be at home, in any familiar spot, than he. ethan brand, it was said, had conversed with satan himself in the lurid blaze of this very kiln. the legend had been matter of mirth heretofore, but looked grisly now. according to this tale, before ethan brand departed on his search, he had been accustomed to evoke a fiend from the hot furnace of the lime-kiln, night after night, in order to confer with him about the unpardonable sin; the man and the fiend each laboring to frame the image of some mode of guilt which could neither be atoned for nor forgiven. and, with the first gleam of light upon the mountain-top, the fiend crept in at the iron door, there to abide the intensest element of fire until again summoned forth to share in the dreadful task of extending man's possible guilt beyond the scope of heaven's else infinite mercy. while the lime-burner was struggling with the horror of these thoughts, ethan brand rose from the log, and flung open the door of the kiln. the action was in such accordance with the idea in bartram's mind, that he almost expected to see the evil one issue forth, red-hot, from the raging furnace. "hold! hold!" cried he, with a tremulous attempt to laugh; for he was ashamed of his fears, although they overmastered him. "don't, for mercy's sake, bring out your devil now!" "man!" sternly replied ethan brand, "what need have i of the devil? i have left him behind me, on my track. it is with such half-way sinners as you that he busies himself. fear not, because i open the door. i do but act by old custom, and am going to trim your fire, like a lime-burner, as i was once." he stirred the vast coals, thrust in more wood, and bent forward to gaze into the hollow prison-house of the fire, regardless of the fierce glow that reddened upon his face. the lime-burner sat watching him, and half suspected this strange guest of a purpose, if not to evoke a fiend, at least to plunge into the flames, and thus vanish from the sight of man. ethan brand, however, drew quietly back, and closed the door of the kiln. "i have looked," said he, "into many a human heart that was seven times hotter with sinful passions than yonder furnace is with fire. but i found not there what i sought. no, not the unpardonable sin!" "what is the unpardonable sin?" asked the lime-burner; and then he shrank farther from his companion, trembling lest his question should be answered. "it is a sin that grew within my own breast," replied ethan brand, standing erect with a pride that distinguishes all enthusiasts of his stamp. "a sin that grew nowhere else! the sin of an intellect that triumphed over the sense of brotherhood with man and reverence for god, and sacrificed everything to its own mighty claims! the only sin that deserves a recompense of immortal agony! freely, were it to do again, would i incur the guilt. unshrinkingly i accept the retribution!" "the man's head is turned," muttered the lime-burner to himself. "he may be a sinner like the rest of us,--nothing more likely,--but, i'll be sworn, he is a madman too." nevertheless, he felt uncomfortable at his situation, alone with ethan brand on the wild mountain-side, and was right glad to hear the rough murmur of tongues, and the footsteps of what seemed a pretty numerous party, stumbling over the stones and rustling through the underbrush. soon appeared the whole lazy regiment that was wont to infest the village tavern, comprehending three or four individuals who had drunk flip beside the bar-room fire through all the winters, and smoked their pipes beneath the stoop through all the summers, since ethan brand's departure. laughing boisterously, and mingling all their voices together in unceremonious talk, they now burst into the moonshine and narrow streaks of firelight that illuminated the open space before the lime-kiln. bartram set the door ajar again, flooding the spot with light, that the whole company might get a fair view of ethan brand, and he of them. there, among other old acquaintances, was a once ubiquitous man, now almost extinct, but whom we were formerly sure to encounter at the hotel of every thriving village throughout the country. it was the stage-agent. the present specimen of the genus was a wilted and smoke-dried man, wrinkled and red-nosed, in a smartly cut, brown, bobtailed coat, with brass buttons, who, for a length of time unknown, had kept his desk and corner in the bar-room, and was still puffing what seemed to be the same cigar that he had lighted twenty years before. he had great fame as a dry joker, though, perhaps, less on account of any intrinsic humor than from a certain flavor of brandy-toddy and tobacco-smoke, which impregnated all his ideas and expressions, as well as his person. another well-remembered, though strangely altered, face was that of lawyer giles, as people still called him in courtesy; an elderly ragamuffin, in his soiled shirtsleeves and tow-cloth trousers. this poor fellow had been an attorney, in what he called his better days, a sharp practitioner, and in great vogue among the village litigants; but flip, and sling, and toddy, and cocktails, imbibed at all hours, morning, noon, and night, had caused him to slide from intellectual to various kinds and degrees of bodily labor, till at last, to adopt his own phrase, he slid into a soap-vat. in other words, giles was now a soap-boiler, in a small way. he had come to be but the fragment of a human being, a part of one foot having been chopped off by an axe, and an entire hand torn away by the devilish grip of a steam-engine. yet, though the corporeal hand was gone, a spiritual member remained; for, stretching forth the stump, giles steadfastly averred that he felt an invisible thumb and fingers with as vivid a sensation as before the real ones were amputated. a maimed and miserable wretch he was; but one, nevertheless, whom the world could not trample on, and had no right to scorn, either in this or any previous stage of his misfortunes, since he had still kept up the courage and spirit of a man, asked nothing in charity, and with his one hand--and that the left one--fought a stern battle against want and hostile circumstances. among the throng, too, came another personage, who, with certain points of similarity to lawyer giles, had many more of difference. it was the village doctor; a man of some fifty years, whom, at an earlier period of his life, we introduced as paying a professional visit to ethan brand during the latter's supposed insanity. he was now a purple-visaged, rude, and brutal, yet half-gentlemanly figure, with something wild, ruined, and desperate in his talk, and in all the details of his gesture and manners. brandy possessed this man like an evil spirit, and made him as surly and savage as a wild beast, and as miserable as a lost soul; but there was supposed to be in him such wonderful skill, such native gifts of healing, beyond any which medical science could impart, that society caught hold of him, and would not let him sink out of its reach. so, swaying to and fro upon his horse, and grumbling thick accents at the bedside, he visited all the sick-chambers for miles about among the mountain towns, and sometimes raised a dying man, as it were, by miracle, or quite as often, no doubt, sent his patient to a grave that was dug many a year too soon. the doctor had an everlasting pipe in his mouth, and, as somebody said, in allusion to his habit of swearing, it was always alight with hell-fire. these three worthies pressed forward, and greeted ethan brand each after his own fashion, earnestly inviting him to partake of the contents of a certain black bottle, in which, as they averred, he would find something far better worth seeking than the unpardonable sin. no mind, which has wrought itself by intense and solitary meditation into a high state of enthusiasm, can endure the kind of contact with low and vulgar modes of thought and feeling to which ethan brand was now subjected. it made him doubt--and, strange to say, it was a painful doubt--whether he had indeed found the unpardonable sin, and found it within himself. the whole question on which he had exhausted life, and more than life, looked like a delusion. "leave me," he said bitterly, "ye brute beasts, that have made yourselves so, shrivelling up your souls with fiery liquors! i have done with you. years and years ago, i groped into your hearts and found nothing there for my purpose. get ye gone!" "why, you uncivil scoundrel," cried the fierce doctor, "is that the way you respond to the kindness of your best friends? then let me tell you the truth. you have no more found the unpardonable sin than yonder boy joe has. you are but a crazy fellow,--i told you so twenty years ago,-neither better nor worse than a crazy fellow, and the fit companion of old humphrey, here!" he pointed to an old man, shabbily dressed, with long white hair, thin visage, and unsteady eyes. for some years past this aged person had been wandering about among the hills, inquiring of all travellers whom he met for his daughter. the girl, it seemed, had gone off with a company of circus-performers, and occasionally tidings of her came to the village, and fine stories were told of her glittering appearance as she rode on horseback in the ring, or performed marvellous feats on the tight-rope. the white-haired father now approached ethan brand, and gazed unsteadily into his face. "they tell me you have been all over the earth," said he, wringing his hands with earnestness. "you must have seen my daughter, for she makes a grand figure in the world, and everybody goes to see her. did she send any word to her old father, or say when she was coming back?" ethan brand's eye quailed beneath the old man's. that daughter, from whom he so earnestly desired a word of greeting, was the esther of our tale, the very girl whom, with such cold and remorseless purpose, ethan brand had made the subject of a psychological experiment, and wasted, absorbed, and perhaps annihilated her soul, in the process. "yes," he murmured, turning away from the hoary wanderer, "it is no delusion. there is an unpardonable sin!" while these things were passing, a merry scene was going forward in the area of cheerful light, beside the spring and before the door of the hut. a number of the youth of the village, young men and girls, had hurried up the hill-side, impelled by curiosity to see ethan brand, the hero of so many a legend familiar to their childhood. finding nothing, however, very remarkable in his aspect,--nothing but a sunburnt wayfarer, in plain garb and dusty shoes, who sat looking into the fire as if he fancied pictures among the coals,--these young people speedily grew tired of observing him. as it happened, there was other amusement at hand. an old german jew travelling with a diorama on his back, was passing down the mountain-road towards the village just as the party turned aside from it, and, in hopes of eking out the profits of the day, the showman had kept them company to the lime-kiln. "come, old dutchman," cried one of the young men, "let us see your pictures, if you can swear they are worth looking at!" "oh yes, captain," answered the jew,--whether as a matter of courtesy or craft, he styled everybody captain,--"i shall show you, indeed, some very superb pictures!" so, placing his box in a proper position, he invited the young men and girls to look through the glass orifices of the machine, and proceeded to exhibit a series of the most outrageous scratchings and daubings, as specimens of the fine arts, that ever an itinerant showman had the face to impose upon his circle of spectators. the pictures were worn out, moreover, tattered, full of cracks and wrinkles, dingy with tobacco-smoke, and otherwise in a most pitiable condition. some purported to be cities, public edifices, and ruined castles in europe; others represented napoleon's battles and nelson's sea-fights; and in the midst of these would be seen a gigantic, brown, hairy hand,--which might have been mistaken for the hand of destiny, though, in truth, it was only the showman's,--pointing its forefinger to various scenes of the conflict, while its owner gave historical illustrations. when, with much merriment at its abominable deficiency of merit, the exhibition was concluded, the german bade little joe put his head into the box. viewed through the magnifying-glasses, the boy's round, rosy visage assumed the strangest imaginable aspect of an immense titanic child, the mouth grinning broadly, and the eyes and every other feature overflowing with fun at the joke. suddenly, however, that merry face turned pale, and its expression changed to horror, for this easily impressed and excitable child had become sensible that the eye of ethan brand was fixed upon him through the glass. "you make the little man to be afraid, captain," said the german jew, turning up the dark and strong outline of his visage from his stooping posture. "but look again, and, by chance, i shall cause you to see somewhat that is very fine, upon my word!" ethan brand gazed into the box for an instant, and then starting back, looked fixedly at the german. what had he seen? nothing, apparently; for a curious youth, who had peeped in almost at the same moment, beheld only a vacant space of canvas. "i remember you now," muttered ethan brand to the showman. "ah, captain," whispered the jew of nuremberg, with a dark smile, "i find it to be a heavy matter in my show-box,--this unpardonable sin! by my faith, captain, it has wearied my shoulders, this long day, to carry it over the mountain." "peace," answered ethan brand, sternly, "or get thee into the furnace yonder!" the jew's exhibition had scarcely concluded, when a great, elderly dog--who seemed to be his own master, as no person in the company laid claim to him--saw fit to render himself the object of public notice. hitherto, he had shown himself a very quiet, well-disposed old dog, going round from one to another, and, by way of being sociable, offering his rough head to be patted by any kindly hand that would take so much trouble. but now, all of a sudden, this grave and venerable quadruped, of his own mere motion, and without the slightest suggestion from anybody else, began to run round after his tail, which, to heighten the absurdity of the proceeding, was a great deal shorter than it should have been. never was seen such headlong eagerness in pursuit of an object that could not possibly be attained; never was heard such a tremendous outbreak of growling, snarling, barking, and snapping,--as if one end of the ridiculous brute's body were at deadly and most unforgivable enmity with the other. faster and faster, round about went the cur; and faster and still faster fled the unapproachable brevity of his tail; and louder and fiercer grew his yells of rage and animosity; until, utterly exhausted, and as far from the goal as ever, the foolish old dog ceased his performance as suddenly as he had begun it. the next moment he was as mild, quiet, sensible, and respectable in his deportment, as when he first scraped acquaintance with the company. as may be supposed, the exhibition was greeted with universal laughter, clapping of hands, and shouts of encore, to which the canine performer responded by wagging all that there was to wag of his tail, but appeared totally unable to repeat his very successful effort to amuse the spectators. meanwhile, ethan brand had resumed his seat upon the log, and moved, as it might be, by a perception of some remote analogy between his own case and that of this self-pursuing cur, he broke into the awful laugh, which, more than any other token, expressed the condition of his inward being. from that moment, the merriment of the party was at an end; they stood aghast, dreading lest the inauspicious sound should be reverberated around the horizon, and that mountain would thunder it to mountain, and so the horror be prolonged upon their ears. then, whispering one to another that it was late,--that the moon was almost down,-that the august night was growing chill,--they hurried homewards, leaving the lime-burner and little joe to deal as they might with their unwelcome guest. save for these three human beings, the open space on the hill-side was a solitude, set in a vast gloom of forest. beyond that darksome verge, the firelight glimmered on the stately trunks and almost black foliage of pines, intermixed with the lighter verdure of sapling oaks, maples, and poplars, while here and there lay the gigantic corpses of dead trees, decaying on the leaf-strewn soil. and it seemed to little joe--a timorous and imaginative child--that the silent forest was holding its breath until some fearful thing should happen. ethan brand thrust more wood into the fire, and closed the door of the kiln; then looking over his shoulder at the lime-burner and his son, he bade, rather than advised, them to retire to rest. "for myself, i cannot sleep," said he. "i have matters that it concerns me to meditate upon. i will watch the fire, as i used to do in the old time." "and call the devil out of the furnace to keep you company, i suppose," muttered bartram, who had been making intimate acquaintance with the black bottle above mentioned. "but watch, if you like, and call as many devils as you like! for my part, i shall be all the better for a snooze. come, joe!" as the boy followed his father into the hut, he looked back at the wayfarer, and the tears came into his eyes, for his tender spirit had an intuition of the bleak and terrible loneliness in which this man had enveloped himself. when they had gone, ethan brand sat listening to the crackling of the kindled wood, and looking at the little spirts of fire that issued through the chinks of the door. these trifles, however, once so familiar, had but the slightest hold of his attention, while deep within his mind he was reviewing the gradual but marvellous change that had been wrought upon him by the search to which he had devoted himself. he remembered how the night dew had fallen upon him,--how the dark forest had whispered to him,--how the stars had gleamed upon him,--a simple and loving man, watching his fire in the years gone by, and ever musing as it burned. he remembered with what tenderness, with what love and sympathy for mankind and what pity for human guilt and woe, he had first begun to contemplate those ideas which afterwards became the inspiration of his life; with what reverence he had then looked into the heart of man, viewing it as a temple originally divine, and, however desecrated, still to be held sacred by a brother; with what awful fear he had deprecated the success of his pursuit, and prayed that the unpardonable sin might never be revealed to him. then ensued that vast intellectual development, which, in its progress, disturbed the counterpoise between his mind and heart. the idea that possessed his life had operated as a means of education; it had gone on cultivating his powers to the highest point of which they were susceptible; it had raised him from the level of an unlettered laborer to stand on a star-lit eminence, whither the philosophers of the earth, laden with the lore of universities, might vainly strive to clamber after him. so much for the intellect! but where was the heart? that, indeed, had withered,--had contracted,--had hardened,--had perished! it had ceased to partake of the universal throb. he had lost his hold of the magnetic chain of humanity. he was no longer a brother-man, opening the chambers or the dungeons of our common nature by the key of holy sympathy, which gave him a right to share in all its secrets; he was now a cold observer, looking on mankind as the subject of his experiment, and, at length, converting man and woman to be his puppets, and pulling the wires that moved them to such degrees of crime as were demanded for his study. thus ethan brand became a fiend. he began to be so from the moment that his moral nature had ceased to keep the pace of improvement with his intellect. and now, as his highest effort and inevitable development,--as the bright and gorgeous flower, and rich, delicious fruit of his life's labor,--he had produced the unpardonable sin! "what more have i to seek? what more to achieve?" said ethan brand to himself. "my task is done, and well done!" starting from the log with a certain alacrity in his gait and ascending the hillock of earth that was raised against the stone circumference of the lime-kiln, he thus reached the top of the structure. it was a space of perhaps ten feet across, from edge to edge, presenting a view of the upper surface of the immense mass of broken marble with which the kiln was heaped. all these innumerable blocks and fragments of marble were redhot and vividly on fire, sending up great spouts of blue flame, which quivered aloft and danced madly, as within a magic circle, and sank and rose again, with continual and multitudinous activity. as the lonely man bent forward over this terrible body of fire, the blasting heat smote up against his person with a breath that, it might be supposed, would have scorched and shrivelled him up in a moment. ethan brand stood erect, and raised his arms on high. the blue flames played upon his face, and imparted the wild and ghastly light which alone could have suited its expression; it was that of a fiend on the verge of plunging into his gulf of intensest torment. "o mother earth," cried he, "who art no more my mother, and into whose bosom this frame shall never be resolved! o mankind, whose brotherhood i have cast off, and trampled thy great heart beneath my feet! o stars of heaven, that shone on me of old, as if to light me onward and upward!--farewell all, and forever. come, deadly element of fire,-henceforth my familiar friend! embrace me, as i do thee!" that night the sound of a fearful peal of laughter rolled heavily through the sleep of the lime-burner and his little son; dim shapes of horror and anguish haunted their dreams, and seemed still present in the rude hovel, when they opened their eyes to the daylight. "up, boy, up!" cried the lime-burner, staring about him. "thank heaven, the night is gone, at last; and rather than pass such another, i would watch my lime-kiln, wide awake, for a twelvemonth. this ethan brand, with his humbug of an unpardonable sin, has done me no such mighty favor, in taking my place!" he issued from the hut, followed by little joe, who kept fast hold of his father's hand. the early sunshine was already pouring its gold upon the mountain-tops, and though the valleys were still in shadow, they smiled cheerfully in the promise of the bright day that was hastening onward. the village, completely shut in by hills, which swelled away gently about it, looked as if it had rested peacefully in the hollow of the great hand of providence. every dwelling was distinctly visible; the little spires of the two churches pointed upwards, and caught a fore-glimmering of brightness from the sun-gilt skies upon their gilded weather-cocks. the tavern was astir, and the figure of the old, smoke-dried stage-agent, cigar in mouth, was seen beneath the stoop. old graylock was glorified with a golden cloud upon his head. scattered likewise over the breasts of the surrounding mountains, there were heaps of hoary mist, in fantastic shapes, some of them far down into the valley, others high up towards the summits, and still others, of the same family of mist or cloud, hovering in the gold radiance of the upper atmosphere. stepping from one to another of the clouds that rested on the hills, and thence to the loftier brotherhood that sailed in air, it seemed almost as if a mortal man might thus ascend into the heavenly regions. earth was so mingled with sky that it was a day-dream to look at it. to supply that charm of the familiar and homely, which nature so readily adopts into a scene like this, the stage-coach was rattling down the mountain-road, and the driver sounded his horn, while echo caught up the notes, and intertwined them into a rich and varied and elaborate harmony, of which the original performer could lay claim to little share. the great hills played a concert among themselves, each contributing a strain of airy sweetness. little joe's face brightened at once. "dear father," cried he, skipping cheerily to and fro, "that strange man is gone, and the sky and the mountains all seem glad of it!" "yes," growled the lime-burner, with an oath, "but he has let the fire go down, and no thanks to him if five hundred bushels of lime are not spoiled. if i catch the fellow hereabouts again, i shall feel like tossing him into the furnace!" with his long pole in his hand, he ascended to the top of the kiln. after a moment's pause, he called to his son. "come up here, joe!" said he. so little joe ran up the hillock, and stood by his father's side. the marble was all burnt into perfect, snow-white lime. but on its surface, in the midst of the circle,--snow-white too, and thoroughly converted into lime,--lay a human skeleton, in the attitude of a person who, after long toil, lies down to long repose. within the ribs--strange to say--was the shape of a human heart. "was the fellow's heart made of marble?" cried bartram, in some perplexity at this phenomenon. "at any rate, it is burnt into what looks like special good lime; and, taking all the bones together, my kiln is half a bushel the richer for him." so saying, the rude lime-burner lifted his pole, and, letting it fall upon the skeleton, the relics of ethan brand were crumbled into fragments. the canterbury pilgrims the summer moon, which shines in so many a tale, was beaming over a broad extent of uneven country. some of its brightest rays were flung into a spring of water, where no traveller, toiling, as the writer has, up the hilly road beside which it gushes, ever failed to quench his thirst. the work of neat hands and considerate art was visible about this blessed fountain. an open cistern, hewn and hollowed out of solid stone, was placed above the waters, which filled it to the brim, but by some invisible outlet were conveyed away without dripping down its sides. though the basin had not room for another drop, and the continual gush of water made a tremor on the surface, there was a secret charm that forbade it to overflow. i remember, that when i had slaked my summer thirst, and sat panting by the cistern, it was my fanciful theory that nature could not afford to lavish so pure a liquid, as she does the waters of all meaner fountains. while the moon was hanging almost perpendicularly over this spot, two figures appeared on the summit of the hill, and came with noiseless footsteps down towards the spring. they were then in the first freshness of youth; nor is there a wrinkle now on either of their brows, and yet they wore a strange, old-fashioned garb. one, a young man with ruddy cheeks, walked beneath the canopy of a broad-brimmed gray hat; he seemed to have inherited his great-grandsire's square-skirted coat, and a waistcoat that extended its immense flaps to his knees; his brown locks, also, hung down behind, in a mode unknown to our times. by his side was a sweet young damsel, her fair features sheltered by a prim little bonnet, within which appeared the vestal muslin of a cap; her close, long-waisted gown, and indeed her whole attire, might have been worn by some rustic beauty who had faded half a century before. but that there was something too warm and life-like in them, i would here have compared this couple to the ghosts of two young lovers who had died long since in the glow of passion, and now were straying out of their graves, to renew the old vows, and shadow forth the unforgotten kiss of their earthly lips, beside the moonlit spring. "thee and i will rest here a moment, miriam," said the young man, as they drew near the stone cistern, "for there is no fear that the elders know what we have done; and this may be the last time we shall ever taste this water." thus speaking, with a little sadness in his face, which was also visible in that of his companion, he made her sit down on a stone, and was about to place himself very close to her side; she, however, repelled him, though not unkindly. "nay, josiah," said she, giving him a timid push with her maiden hand, "thee must sit farther off, on that other stone, with the spring between us. what would the sisters say, if thee were to sit so close to me?" "but we are of the world's people now, miriam," answered josiah. the girl persisted in her prudery, nor did the youth, in fact, seem altogether free from a similar sort of shyness; so they sat apart from each other, gazing up the hill, where the moonlight discovered the tops of a group of buildings. while their attention was thus occupied, a party of travellers, who had come wearily up the long ascent, made a halt to refresh themselves at the spring. there were three men, a woman, and a little girl and boy. their attire was mean, covered with the dust of the summer's day, and damp with the night-dew; they all looked woebegone, as if the cares and sorrows of the world had made their steps heavier as they climbed the hill; even the two little children appeared older in evil days than the young man and maiden who had first approached the spring. "good evening to you, young folks," was the salutation of the travellers; and "good evening, friends," replied the youth and damsel. "is that white building the shaker meeting-house?" asked one of the strangers. "and are those the red roofs of the shaker village?" "friend, it is the shaker village," answered josiah, after some hesitation. the travellers, who, from the first, had looked suspiciously at the garb of these young people, now taxed them with an intention which all the circumstances, indeed, rendered too obvious to be mistaken. "it is true, friends," replied the young man, summoning up his courage. "miriam and i have a gift to love each other, and we are going among the world's people, to live after their fashion. and ye know that we do not transgress the law of the land; and neither ye, nor the elders themselves, have a right to hinder us." "yet you think it expedient to depart without leave-taking," remarked one of the travellers. "yea, ye-a," said josiah, reluctantly, "because father job is a very awful man to speak with; and being aged himself, he has but little charity for what he calls the iniquities of the flesh." "well," said the stranger, "we will neither use force to bring you back to the village, nor will we betray you to the elders. but sit you here awhile, and when you have heard what we shall tell you of the world which we have left, and into which you are going, perhaps you will turn back with us of your own accord. what say you?" added he, turning to his companions. "we have travelled thus far without becoming known to each other. shall we tell our stories, here by this pleasant spring, for our own pastime, and the benefit of these misguided young lovers?" in accordance with this proposal, the whole party stationed themselves round the stone cistern; the two children, being very weary, fell asleep upon the damp earth, and the pretty shaker girl, whose feelings were those of a nun or a turkish lady, crept as close as possible to the female traveller, and as far as she well could from the unknown men. the same person who had hitherto been the chief spokesman now stood up, waving his hat in his hand, and suffered the moonlight to fall full upon his front. "in me," said he, with a certain majesty of utterance,--"in me, you behold a poet." though a lithographic print of this gentleman is extant, it may be well to notice that he was now nearly forty, a thin and stooping figure, in a black coat, out at elbows; notwithstanding the ill condition of his attire, there were about him several tokens of a peculiar sort of foppery, unworthy of a mature man, particularly in the arrangement of his hair which was so disposed as to give all possible loftiness and breadth to his forehead. however, he had an intelligent eye, and, on the whole, a marked countenance. "a poet!" repeated the young shaker, a little puzzled how to understand such a designation, seldom heard in the utilitarian community where he had spent his life. "oh, ay, miriam, he means a varse-maker, thee must know." this remark jarred upon the susceptible nerves of the poet; nor could he help wondering what strange fatality had put into this young man's mouth an epithet, which ill-natured people had affirmed to be more proper to his merit than the one assumed by himself. "true, i am a verse-maker," he resumed, "but my verse is no more than the material body into which i breathe the celestial soul of thought. alas! how many a pang has it cost me, this same insensibility to the ethereal essence of poetry, with which you have here tortured me again, at the moment when i am to relinquish my profession forever! o fate! why hast thou warred with nature, turning all her higher and more perfect gifts to the ruin of me, their possessor? what is the voice of song, when the world lacks the ear of taste? how can i rejoice in my strength and delicacy of feeling, when they have but made great sorrows out of little ones? have i dreaded scorn like death, and yearned for fame as others pant for vital air, only to find myself in a middle state between obscurity and infamy? but i have my revenge! i could have given existence to a thousand bright creations. i crush them into my heart, and there let them putrefy! i shake off the dust of my feet against my countrymen! but posterity, tracing my footsteps up this weary hill, will cry shame upon the unworthy age that drove one of the fathers of american song to end his days in a shaker village!" during this harangue, the speaker gesticulated with great energy, and, as poetry is the natural language of passion, there appeared reason to apprehend his final explosion into an ode extempore. the reader must understand that, for all these bitter words, he was a kind, gentle, harmless, poor fellow enough, whom nature, tossing her ingredients together without looking at her recipe, had sent into the world with too much of one sort of brain, and hardly any of another. "friend," said the young shaker, in some perplexity, "thee seemest to have met with great troubles; and, doubtless, i should pity them, if--if i could but understand what they were." "happy in your ignorance!" replied the poet, with an air of sublime superiority. "to your coarser mind, perhaps, i may seem to speak of more important griefs when i add, what i had well-nigh forgotten, that i am out at elbows, and almost starved to death. at any rate, you have the advice and example of one individual to warn you back; for i am come hither, a disappointed man, flinging aside the fragments of my hopes, and seeking shelter in the calm retreat which you are so anxious to leave." "i thank thee, friend," rejoined the youth, "but i do not mean to be a poet, nor, heaven be praised! do i think miriam ever made a varse in her life. so we need not fear thy disappointments. but, miriam," he added, with real concern, "thee knowest that the elders admit nobody that has not a gift to be useful. now, what under the sun can they do with this poor varse-maker?" "nay, josiah, do not thee discourage the poor man," said the girl, in all simplicity and kindness. "our hymns are very rough, and perhaps they may trust him to smooth them." without noticing this hint of professional employment, the poet turned away, and gave himself up to a sort of vague reverie, which he called thought. sometimes he watched the moon, pouring a silvery liquid on the clouds, through which it slowly melted till they became all bright; then he saw the same sweet radiance dancing on the leafy trees which rustled as if to shake it off, or sleeping on the high tops of hills, or hovering down in distant valleys, like the material of unshaped dreams; lastly, he looked into the spring, and there the light was mingling with the water. in its crystal bosom, too, beholding all heaven reflected there, he found an emblem of a pure and tranquil breast. he listened to that most ethereal of all sounds, the song of crickets, coming in full choir upon the wind, and fancied that, if moonlight could be heard, it would sound just like that. finally, he took a draught at the shaker spring, and, as if it were the true castalia, was forthwith moved to compose a lyric, a farewell to his harp, which he swore should be its closing strain, the last verse that an ungrateful world should have from him. this effusion, with two or three other little pieces, subsequently written, he took the first opportunity to send, by one of the shaker brethren, to concord, where they were published in the new hampshire patriot. meantime, another of the canterbury pilgrims, one so different from the poet that the delicate fancy of the latter could hardly have conceived of him, began to relate his sad experience. he was a small man, of quick and unquiet gestures, about fifty years old, with a narrow forehead, all wrinkled and drawn together. he held in his hand a pencil, and a card of some commission-merchant in foreign parts, on the back of which, for there was light enough to read or write by, he seemed ready to figure out a calculation. "young man," said he, abruptly, "what quantity of land do the shakers own here, in canterbury?" "that is more than i can tell thee, friend," answered josiah, "but it is a very rich establishment, and for a long way by the roadside thee may guess the land to be ours, by the neatness of the fences." "and what may be the value of the whole," continued the stranger, "with all the buildings and improvements, pretty nearly, in round numbers?" "oh, a monstrous sum,--more than i can reckon," replied the young shaker. "well, sir," said the pilgrim, "there was a day, and not very long ago, neither, when i stood at my counting-room window, and watched the signal flags of three of my own ships entering the harbor, from the east indies, from liverpool, and from up the straits, and i would not have given the invoice of the least of them for the title-deeds of this whole shaker settlement. you stare. perhaps, now, you won't believe that i could have put more value on a little piece of paper, no bigger than the palm of your hand, than all these solid acres of grain, grass, and pasture-land would sell for?" "i won't dispute it, friend," answered josiah, "but i know i had rather have fifty acres of this good land than a whole sheet of thy paper." "you may say so now," said the ruined merchant, bitterly, "for my name would not be worth the paper i should write it on. of course, you must have heard of my failure?" and the stranger mentioned his name, which, however mighty it might have been in the commercial world, the young shaker had never heard of among the canterbury hills. "not heard of my failure!" exclaimed the merchant, considerably piqued. "why, it was spoken of on 'change in london, and from boston to new orleans men trembled in their shoes. at all events, i did fail, and you see me here on my road to the shaker village, where, doubtless (for the shakers are a shrewd sect), they will have a due respect for my experience, and give me the management of the trading part of the concern, in which case i think i can pledge myself to double their capital in four or five years. turn back with me, young man; for though you will never meet with my good luck, you can hardly escape my bad." "i will not turn back for this," replied josiah, calmly, "any more than for the advice of the varse-maker, between whom and thee, friend, i see a sort of likeness, though i can't justly say where it lies. but miriam and i can earn our daily bread among the world's people as well as in the shaker village. and do we want anything more, miriam?" "nothing more, josiah," said the girl, quietly. "yea, miriam, and daily bread for some other little mouths, if god send them," observed the simple shaker lad. miriam did not reply, but looked down into the spring, where she encountered the image of her own pretty face, blushing within the prim little bonnet. the third pilgrim now took up the conversation. he was a sunburnt countryman, of tall frame and bony strength, on whose rude and manly face there appeared a darker, more sullen and obstinate despondency, than on those of either the poet or the merchant. "well, now, youngster," he began, "these folks have had their say, so i'll take my turn. my story will cut but a poor figure by the side of theirs; for i never supposed that i could have a right to meat and drink, and great praise besides, only for tagging rhymes together, as it seems this man does; nor ever tried to get the substance of hundreds into my own hands, like the trader there. when i was about of your years, i married me a wife,--just such a neat and pretty young woman as miriam, if that's her name,--and all i asked of providence was an ordinary blessing on the sweat of my brow, so that we might be decent and comfortable, and have daily bread for ourselves, and for some other little mouths that we soon had to feed. we had no very great prospects before us; but i never wanted to be idle; and i thought it a matter of course that the lord would help me, because i was willing to help myself." "and didn't he help thee, friend?" demanded josiah, with some eagerness. "no," said the yeoman, sullenly; "for then you would not have seen me here. i have labored hard for years; and my means have been growing narrower, and my living poorer, and my heart colder and heavier, all the time; till at last i could bear it no longer. i set myself down to calculate whether i had best go on the oregon expedition, or come here to the shaker village; but i had not hope enough left in me to begin the world over again; and, to make my story short, here i am. and now, youngster, take my advice, and turn back; or else, some few years hence, you'll have to climb this hill, with as heavy a heart as mine." this simple story had a strong effect on the young fugitives. the misfortunes of the poet and merchant had won little sympathy from their plain good sense and unworldly feelings, qualities which made them such unprejudiced and inflexible judges, that few men would have chosen to take the opinion of this youth and maiden as to the wisdom or folly of their pursuits. but here was one whose simple wishes had resembled their own, and who, after efforts which almost gave him a right to claim success from fate, had failed in accomplishing them. "but thy wife, friend?" exclaimed the younger man. "what became of the pretty girl, like miriam? oh, i am afraid she is dead!" "yea, poor man, she must be dead,--she and the children, too," sobbed miriam. the female pilgrim had been leaning over the spring, wherein latterly a tear or two might have been seen to fall, and form its little circle on the surface of the water. she now looked up, disclosing features still comely, but which had acquired an expression of fretfulness, in the same long course of evil fortune that had thrown a sullen gloom over the temper of the unprosperous yeoman. "i am his wife," said she, a shade of irritability just perceptible in the sadness of her tone. "these poor little things, asleep on the ground, are two of our children. we had two more, but god has provided better for them than we could, by taking them to himself." "and what would thee advise josiah and me to do?" asked miriam, this being the first question which she had put to either of the strangers. "'tis a thing almost against nature for a woman to try to part true lovers," answered the yeoman's wife, after a pause; "but i'll speak as truly to you as if these were my dying words. though my husband told you some of our troubles, he didn't mention the greatest, and that which makes all the rest so hard to bear. if you and your sweetheart marry, you'll be kind and pleasant to each other for a year or two, and while that's the case, you never will repent; but, by and by, he'll grow gloomy, rough, and hard to please, and you'll be peevish, and full of little angry fits, and apt to be complaining by the fireside, when he comes to rest himself from his troubles out of doors; so your love will wear away by little and little, and leave you miserable at last. it has been so with us; and yet my husband and i were true lovers once, if ever two young folks were ." as she ceased, the yeoman and his wife exchanged a glance, in which there was more and warmer affection than they had supposed to have escaped the frost of a wintry fate, in either of their breasts. at that moment, when they stood on the utmost verge of married life, one word fitly spoken, or perhaps one peculiar look, had they had mutual confidence enough to reciprocate it, might have renewed all their old feelings, and sent them back, resolved to sustain each other amid the struggles of the world. but the crisis passed and never came again. just then, also, the children, roused by their mother's voice, looked up, and added their wailing accents to the testimony borne by all the canterbury pilgrims against the world from which they fled. "we are tired and hungry!" cried they. "is it far to the shaker village?" the shaker youth and maiden looked mournfully into each other's eyes. they had but stepped across the threshold of their homes, when lo! the dark array of cares and sorrows that rose up to warn them back. the varied narratives of the strangers had arranged themselves into a parable; they seemed not merely instances of woful fate that had befallen others, but shadowy omens of disappointed hope and unavailing toil, domestic grief and estranged affection, that would cloud the onward path of these poor fugitives. but after one instant's hesitation, they opened their arms, and sealed their resolve with as pure and fond an embrace as ever youthful love had hallowed. "we will not go back," said they. "the world never can be dark to us, for we will always love one another." then the canterbury pilgrims went up the hill, while the poet chanted a drear and desperate stanza of the farewell to his harp, fitting music for that melancholy band. they sought a home where all former ties of nature or society would be sundered, and all old distinctions levelled, and a cold and passionless security be substituted for mortal hope and fear, as in that other refuge of the world's weary outcasts, the grave. the lovers drank at the shaker spring, and then, with chastened hopes, but more confiding affections, went on to mingle in an untried life. the devil in manuscript on a bitter evening of december, i arrived by mail in a large town, which was then the residence of an intimate friend, one of those gifted youths who cultivate poetry and the belles-lettres, and call themselves students at law. my first business, after supper, was to visit him at the office of his distinguished instructor. as i have said, it was a bitter night, clear starlight, but cold as nova zembla,--the shop-windows along the street being frosted, so as almost to hide the lights, while the wheels of coaches thundered equally loud over frozen earth and pavements of stone. there was no snow, either on the ground or the roofs of the houses. the wind blew so violently, that i had but to spread my cloak like a main-sail, and scud along the street at the rate of ten knots, greatly envied by other navigators, who were beating slowly up, with the gale right in their teeth. one of these i capsized, but was gone on the wings of the wind before he could even vociferate an oath. after this picture of an inclement night, behold us seated by a great blazing fire, which looked so comfortable and delicious that i felt inclined to lie down and roll among the hot coals. the usual furniture of a lawyer's office was around us,--rows of volumes in sheepskin, and a multitude of writs, summonses, and other legal papers, scattered over the desks and tables. but there were certain objects which seemed to intimate that we had little dread of the intrusion of clients, or of the learned counsellor himself, who, indeed, was attending court in a distant town. a tall, decanter-shaped bottle stood on the table, between two tumblers, and beside a pile of blotted manuscripts, altogether dissimilar to any law documents recognized in our courts. my friend, whom i shall call oberon,--it was a name of fancy and friendship between him and me,--my friend oberon looked at these papers with a peculiar expression of disquietude. "i do believe," said he, soberly, "or, at least, i could believe, if i chose, that there is a devil in this pile of blotted papers. you have read them, and know what i mean,--that conception in which i endeavored to embody the character of a fiend, as represented in our traditions and the written records of witchcraft. oh, i have a horror of what was created in my own brain, and shudder at the manuscripts in which i gave that dark idea a sort of material existence! would they were out of my sight!" "and of mine, too," thought i. "you remember," continued oberon, "how the hellish thing used to suck away the happiness of those who, by a simple concession that seemed almost innocent, subjected themselves to his power. just so my peace is gone, and all by these accursed manuscripts. have you felt nothing of the same influence?" "nothing," replied i, "unless the spell be hid in a desire to turn novelist, after reading your delightful tales." "novelist!" exclaimed oberon, half seriously. "then, indeed, my devil has his claw on you! you are gone! you cannot even pray for deliverance! but we will be the last and only victims; for this night i mean to burn the manuscripts, and commit the fiend to his retribution in the flames." "burn your tales!" repeated i, startled at the desperation of the idea. "even so," said the author, despondingly. "you cannot conceive what an effect the composition of these tales has had on me. i have become ambitious of a bubble, and careless of solid reputation. i am surrounding myself with shadows, which bewilder me, by aping the realities of life. they have drawn me aside from the beaten path of the world, and led me into a strange sort of solitude,--a solitude in the midst of men,-where nobody wishes for what i do, nor thinks nor feels as i do. the tales have done all this. when they are ashes, perhaps i shall be as i was before they had existence. moreover, the sacrifice is less than you may suppose, since nobody will publish them." "that does make a difference, indeed," said i. "they have been offered, by letter," continued oberon, reddening with vexation, "to some seventeen booksellers. it would make you stare to read their answers; and read them you should, only that i burnt them as fast as they arrived. one man publishes nothing but school-books; another has five novels already under examination." "what a voluminous mass the unpublished literature of america must be!" cried i. "oh, the alexandrian manuscripts were nothing to it!" said my friend. "well, another gentleman is just giving up business, on purpose, i verily believe, to escape publishing my book. several, however, would not absolutely decline the agency, on my advancing half the cost of an edition, and giving bonds for the remainder, besides a high percentage to themselves, whether the book sells or not. another advises a subscription." "the villain!" exclaimed i. "a fact!" said oberon. "in short, of all the seventeen booksellers, only one has vouchsafed even to read my tales; and he--a literary dabbler himself, i should judge--has the impertinence to criticise them, proposing what he calls vast improvements, and concluding, after a general sentence of condemnation, with the definitive assurance that he will not be concerned on any terms." "it might not be amiss to pull that fellow's nose," remarked i. "if the whole 'trade' had one common nose, there would be some satisfaction in pulling it," answered the author. "but, there does seem to be one honest man among these seventeen unrighteous ones; and he tells me fairly, that no american publisher will meddle with an american work,--seldom if by a known writer, and never if by a new one,--unless at the writer's risk." "the paltry rogues!" cried i. "will they live by literature, and yet risk nothing for its sake? but, after all, you might publish on your own account." "and so i might," replied oberon. "but the devil of the business is this. these people have put me so out of conceit with the tales, that i loathe the very thought of them, and actually experience a physical sickness of the stomach, whenever i glance at them on the table. i tell you there is a demon in them! i anticipate a wild enjoyment in seeing them in the blaze; such as i should feel in taking vengeance on an enemy, or destroying something noxious." i did not very strenuously oppose this determination, being privately of opinion, in spite of my partiality for the author, that his tales would make a more brilliant appearance in the fire than anywhere else. before proceeding to execution, we broached the bottle of champagne, which oberon had provided for keeping up his spirits in this doleful business. we swallowed each a tumblerful, in sparkling commotion; it went bubbling down our throats, and brightened my eyes at once, but left my friend sad and heavy as before. he drew the tales towards him, with a mixture of natural affection and natural disgust, like a father taking a deformed infant into his arms. "pooh! pish! pshaw!" exclaimed he, holding them at arm's-length. "it was gray's idea of heaven, to lounge on a sofa and read new novels. now, what more appropriate torture would dante himself have contrived, for the sinner who perpetrates a bad book, than to be continually turning over the manuscript?" "it would fail of effect," said i, "because a bad author is always his own great admirer." "i lack that one characteristic of my tribe,--the only desirable one," observed oberon. "but how many recollections throng upon me, as i turn over these leaves! this scene came into my fancy as i walked along a hilly road, on a starlight october evening; in the pure and bracing air, i became all soul, and felt as if i could climb the sky, and run a race along the milky way. here is another tale, in which i wrapt myself during a dark and dreary night-ride in the month of march, till the rattling of the wheels and the voices of my companions seemed like faint sounds of a dream, and my visions a bright reality. that scribbled page describes shadows which i summoned to my bedside at midnight: they would not depart when i bade them; the gray dawn came, and found me wide awake and feverish, the victim of my own enchantments!" "there must have been a sort of happiness in all this," said i, smitten with a strange longing to make proof of it. "there may be happiness in a fever fit," replied the author. "and then the various moods in which i wrote! sometimes my ideas were like precious stones under the earth, requiring toil to dig them up, and care to polish and brighten them; but often a delicious stream of thought would gush out upon the page at once, like water sparkling up suddenly in the desert; and when it had passed, i gnawed my pen hopelessly, or blundered on with cold and miserable toil, as if there were a wall of ice between me and my subject." "do you now perceive a corresponding difference," inquired i, "between the passages which you wrote so coldly, and those fervid flashes of the mind?" "no," said oberon, tossing the manuscripts on the table. "i find no traces of the golden pen with which i wrote in characters of fire. my treasure of fairy coin is changed to worthless dross. my picture, painted in what seemed the loveliest hues, presents nothing but a faded and indistinguishable surface. i have been eloquent and poetical and humorous in a dream,--and behold! it is all nonsense, now that i am awake." my friend now threw sticks of wood and dry chips upon the fire, and seeing it blaze like nebuchadnezzar's furnace, seized the champagne bottle, and drank two or three brimming bumpers, successively. the heady liquor combined with his agitation to throw him into a species of rage. he laid violent hands on the tales. in one instant more, their faults and beauties would alike have vanished in a glowing purgatory. but, all at once, i remembered passages of high imagination, deep pathos, original thoughts, and points of such varied excellence, that the vastness of the sacrifice struck me most forcibly. i caught his arm. "surely, you do not mean to burn them!" i exclaimed. "let me alone!" cried oberon, his eyes flashing fire. "i will burn them! not a scorched syllable shall escape! would you have me a damned author?--to undergo sneers, taunts, abuse, and cold neglect, and faint praise, bestowed, for pity's sake, against the giver's conscience! a hissing and a laughing-stock to my own traitorous thoughts! an outlaw from the protection of the grave,--one whose ashes every careless foot might spurn, unhonored in life, and remembered scornfully in death! am i to bear all this, when yonder fire will insure me from the whole? no! there go the tales! may my hand wither when it would write another!" the deed was done. he had thrown the manuscripts into the hottest of the fire, which at first seemed to shrink away, but soon curled around them, and made them a part of its own fervent brightness. oberon stood gazing at the conflagration, and shortly began to soliloquize, in the wildest strain, as if fancy resisted and became riotous, at the moment when he would have compelled her to ascend that funeral pile. his words described objects which he appeared to discern in the fire, fed by his own precious thoughts; perhaps the thousand visions which the writer's magic had incorporated with these pages became visible to him in the dissolving heat, brightening forth ere they vanished forever; while the smoke, the vivid sheets of flame, the ruddy and whitening coals, caught the aspect of a varied scenery. "they blaze," said he, "as if i had steeped them in the intensest spirit of genius. there i see my lovers clasped in each other's arms. how pure the flame that bursts from their glowing hearts! and yonder the features of a villain writhing in the fire that shall torment him to eternity. my holy men, my pious and angelic women, stand like martyrs amid the flames, their mild eyes lifted heavenward. ring out the bells! a city is on fire. see!--destruction roars through my dark forests, while the lakes boil up in steaming billows, and the mountains are volcanoes, and the sky kindles with a lurid brightness! all elements are but one pervading flame! ha! the fiend!" i was somewhat startled by this latter exclamation. the tales were almost consumed, but just then threw forth a broad sheet of fire, which flickered as with laughter, making the whole room dance in its brightness, and then roared portentously up the chimney. "you saw him? you must have seen him!" cried oberon. "how he glared at me and laughed, in that last sheet of flame, with just the features that i imagined for him! well! the tales are gone." the papers were indeed reduced to a heap of black cinders, with a multitude of sparks hurrying confusedly among them, the traces of the pen being now represented by white lines, and the whole mass fluttering to and fro in the draughts of air. the destroyer knelt down to look at them. "what is more potent than fire!" said he, in his gloomiest tone. "even thought, invisible and incorporeal as it is, cannot escape it. in this little time, it has annihilated the creations of long nights and days, which i could no more reproduce, in their first glow and freshness, than cause ashes and whitened bones to rise up and live. there, too, i sacrificed the unborn children of my mind. all that i had accomplished--all that i planned for future years--has perished by one common ruin, and left only this heap of embers! the deed has been my fate. and what remains? a weary and aimless life,--a long repentance of this hour,--and at last an obscure grave, where they will bury and forget me!" as the author concluded his dolorous moan, the extinguished embers arose and settled down and arose again, and finally flew up the chimney, like a demon with sable wings. just as they disappeared, there was a loud and solitary cry in the street below us. "fire!" fire! other voices caught up that terrible word, and it speedily became the shout of a multitude. oberon started to his feet, in fresh excitement. "a fire on such a night!" cried he. "the wind blows a gale, and wherever it whirls the flames, the roofs will flash up like gunpowder. every pump is frozen up, and boiling water would turn to ice the moment it was flung from the engine. in an hour, this wooden town will be one great bonfire! what a glorious scene for my next--pshaw!" the street was now all alive with footsteps, and the air full of voices. we heard one engine thundering round a corner, and another rattling from a distance over the pavements. the bells of three steeples clanged out at once, spreading the alarm to many a neighboring town, and expressing hurry, confusion, and terror, so inimitably that i could almost distinguish in their peal the burden of the universal cry,--"fire! fire! fire!" "what is so eloquent as their iron tongues!" exclaimed oberon. "my heart leaps and trembles, but not with fear. and that other sound, too,--deep and awful as a mighty organ,--the roar and thunder of the multitude on the pavement below! come! we are losing time. i will cry out in the loudest of the uproar, and mingle my spirit with the wildest of the confusion, and be a bubble on the top of the ferment!" from the first outcry, my forebodings had warned me of the true object and centre of alarm. there was nothing now but uproar, above, beneath, and around us; footsteps stumbling pell-mell up the public staircase, eager shouts and heavy thumps at the door, the whiz and dash of water from the engines, and the crash of furniture thrown upon the pavement. at once, the truth flashed upon my friend. his frenzy took the hue of joy, and, with a wild gesture of exultation, he leaped almost to the ceiling of the chamber. "my tales!" cried oberon. "the chimney! the roof! the fiend has gone forth by night, and startled thousands in fear and wonder from their beds! here i stand,--a triumphant author! huzza! huzza! my brain has set the town on fire! huzza!" my kinsman, major molineux after the kings of great britain had assumed the right of appointing the colonial governors, the measures of the latter seldom met with the ready and generous approbation which had been paid to those of their predecessors, under the original charters. the people looked with most jealous scrutiny to the exercise of power which did not emanate from themselves, and they usually rewarded their rulers with slender gratitude for the compliances by which, in softening their instructions from beyond the sea, they had incurred the reprehension of those who gave them. the annals of massachusetts bay will inform us, that of six governors in the space of about forty years from the surrender of the old charter, under james ii, two were imprisoned by a popular insurrection; a third, as hutchinson inclines to believe, was driven from the province by the whizzing of a musket-ball; a fourth, in the opinion of the same historian, was hastened to his grave by continual bickerings with the house of representatives; and the remaining two, as well as their successors, till the revolution, were favored with few and brief intervals of peaceful sway. the inferior members of the court party, in times of high political excitement, led scarcely a more desirable life. these remarks may serve as a preface to the following adventures, which chanced upon a summer night, not far from a hundred years ago. the reader, in order to avoid a long and dry detail of colonial affairs, is requested to dispense with an account of the train of circumstances that had caused much temporary inflammation of the popular mind. it was near nine o'clock of a moonlight evening, when a boat crossed the ferry with a single passenger, who had obtained his conveyance at that unusual hour by the promise of an extra fare. while he stood on the landing-place, searching in either pocket for the means of fulfilling his agreement, the ferryman lifted a lantern, by the aid of which, and the newly risen moon, he took a very accurate survey of the stranger's figure. he was a youth of barely eighteen years, evidently country-bred, and now, as it should seem, upon his first visit to town. he was clad in a coarse gray coat, well worn, but in excellent repair; his under garments were durably constructed of leather, and fitted tight to a pair of serviceable and well-shaped limbs; his stockings of blue yarn were the incontrovertible work of a mother or a sister; and on his head was a three-cornered hat, which in its better days had perhaps sheltered the graver brow of the lad's father. under his left arm was a heavy cudgel formed of an oak sapling, and retaining a part of the hardened root; and his equipment was completed by a wallet, not so abundantly stocked as to incommode the vigorous shoulders on which it hung. brown, curly hair, well-shaped features, and bright, cheerful eyes were nature's gifts, and worth all that art could have done for his adornment. the youth, one of whose names was robin, finally drew from his pocket the half of a little province bill of five shillings, which, in the depreciation in that sort of currency, did but satisfy the ferryman's demand, with the surplus of a sexangular piece of parchment, valued at three pence. he then walked forward into the town, with as light a step as if his day's journey had not already exceeded thirty miles, and with as eager an eye as if he were entering london city, instead of the little metropolis of a new england colony. before robin had proceeded far, however, it occurred to him that he knew not whither to direct his steps; so he paused, and looked up and down the narrow street, scrutinizing the small and mean wooden buildings that were scattered on either side. "this low hovel cannot be my kinsman's dwelling," thought he, "nor yonder old house, where the moonlight enters at the broken casement; and truly i see none hereabouts that might be worthy of him. it would have been wise to inquire my way of the ferryman, and doubtless he would have gone with me, and earned a shilling from the major for his pains. but the next man i meet will do as well." he resumed his walk, and was glad to perceive that the street now became wider, and the houses more respectable in their appearance. he soon discerned a figure moving on moderately in advance, and hastened his steps to overtake it. as robin drew nigh, he saw that the passenger was a man in years, with a full periwig of gray hair, a wide-skirted coat of dark cloth, and silk stockings rolled above his knees. he carried a long and polished cane, which he struck down perpendicularly before him at every step; and at regular intervals he uttered two successive hems, of a peculiarly solemn and sepulchral intonation. having made these observations, robin laid hold of the skirt of the old man's coat just when the light from the open door and windows of a barber's shop fell upon both their figures. "good evening to you, honored sir," said he, making a low bow, and still retaining his hold of the skirt. "i pray you tell me whereabouts is the dwelling of my kinsman, major molineux." the youth's question was uttered very loudly; and one of the barbers, whose razor was descending on a well-soaped chin, and another who was dressing a ramillies wig, left their occupations, and came to the door. the citizen, in the mean time, turned a long-favored countenance upon robin, and answered him in a tone of excessive anger and annoyance. his two sepulchral hems, however, broke into the very centre of his rebuke, with most singular effect, like a thought of the cold grave obtruding among wrathful passions. "let go my garment, fellow! i tell you, i know not the man you speak of. what! i have authority, i have--hem, hem--authority; and if this be the respect you show for your betters, your feet shall be brought acquainted with the stocks by daylight, tomorrow morning!" robin released the old man's skirt, and hastened away, pursued by an ill-mannered roar of laughter from the barber's shop. he was at first considerably surprised by the result of his question, but, being a shrewd youth, soon thought himself able to account for the mystery. "this is some country representative," was his conclusion, "who has never seen the inside of my kinsman's door, and lacks the breeding to answer a stranger civilly. the man is old, or verily--i might be tempted to turn back and smite him on the nose. ah, robin, robin! even the barber's boys laugh at you for choosing such a guide! you will be wiser in time, friend robin." he now became entangled in a succession of crooked and narrow streets, which crossed each other, and meandered at no great distance from the water-side. the smell of tar was obvious to his nostrils, the masts of vessels pierced the moonlight above the tops of the buildings, and the numerous signs, which robin paused to read, informed him that he was near the centre of business. but the streets were empty, the shops were closed, and lights were visible only in the second stories of a few dwelling-houses. at length, on the corner of a narrow lane, through which he was passing, he beheld the broad countenance of a british hero swinging before the door of an inn, whence proceeded the voices of many guests. the casement of one of the lower windows was thrown back, and a very thin curtain permitted robin to distinguish a party at supper, round a well-furnished table. the fragrance of the good cheer steamed forth into the outer air, and the youth could not fail to recollect that the last remnant of his travelling stock of provision had yielded to his morning appetite, and that noon had found and left him dinnerless. "oh, that a parchment three-penny might give me a right to sit down at yonder table!" said robin, with a sigh. "but the major will make me welcome to the best of his victuals; so i will even step boldly in, and inquire my way to his dwelling." he entered the tavern, and was guided by the murmur of voices and the fumes of tobacco to the public-room. it was a long and low apartment, with oaken walls, grown dark in the continual smoke, and a floor which was thickly sanded, but of no immaculate purity. a number of persons--the larger part of whom appeared to be mariners, or in some way connected with the sea--occupied the wooden benches, or leatherbottomed chairs, conversing on various matters, and occasionally lending their attention to some topic of general interest. three or four little groups were draining as many bowls of punch, which the west india trade had long since made a familiar drink in the colony. others, who had the appearance of men who lived by regular and laborious handicraft, preferred the insulated bliss of an unshared potation, and became more taciturn under its influence. nearly all, in short, evinced a predilection for the good creature in some of its various shapes, for this is a vice to which, as fast day sermons of a hundred years ago will testify, we have a long hereditary claim. the only guests to whom robin's sympathies inclined him were two or three sheepish countrymen, who were using the inn somewhat after the fashion of a turkish caravansary; they had gotten themselves into the darkest corner of the room, and heedless of the nicotian atmosphere, were supping on the bread of their own ovens, and the bacon cured in their own chimney-smoke. but though robin felt a sort of brotherhood with these strangers, his eyes were attracted from them to a person who stood near the door, holding whispered conversation with a group of ill-dressed associates. his features were separately striking almost to grotesqueness, and the whole face left a deep impression on the memory. the forehead bulged out into a double prominence, with a vale between; the nose came boldly forth in an irregular curve, and its bridge was of more than a finger's breadth; the eyebrows were deep and shaggy, and the eyes glowed beneath them like fire in a cave. while robin deliberated of whom to inquire respecting his kinsman's dwelling, he was accosted by the innkeeper, a little man in a stained white apron, who had come to pay his professional welcome to the stranger. being in the second generation from a french protestant, he seemed to have inherited the courtesy of his parent nation; but no variety of circumstances was ever known to change his voice from the one shrill note in which he now addressed robin. "from the country, i presume, sir?" said he, with a profound bow. "beg leave to congratulate you on your arrival, and trust you intend a long stay with us. fine town here, sir, beautiful buildings, and much that may interest a stranger. may i hope for the honor of your commands in respect to supper?" "the man sees a family likeness! the rogue has guessed that i am related to the major!" thought robin, who had hitherto experienced little superfluous civility. all eyes were now turned on the country lad, standing at the door, in his worn three-cornered hat, gray coat, leather breeches, and blue yarn stockings, leaning on an oaken cudgel, and bearing a wallet on his back. robin replied to the courteous innkeeper, with such an assumption of confidence as befitted the major's relative. "my honest friend," he said, "i shall make it a point to patronize your house on some occasion, when"--here he could not help lowering his voice--"when i may have more than a parchment three-pence in my pocket. my present business," continued he, speaking with lofty confidence, "is merely to inquire my way to the dwelling of my kinsman, major molineux." there was a sudden and general movement in the room, which robin interpreted as expressing the eagerness of each individual to become his guide. but the innkeeper turned his eyes to a written paper on the wall, which he read, or seemed to read, with occasional recurrences to the young man's figure. "what have we here?" said he, breaking his speech into little dry fragments. "'left the house of the subscriber, bounden servant, hezekiah mudge,--had on, when he went away, gray coat, leather breeches, master's third-best hat. one pound currency reward to whosoever shall lodge him in any jail of the providence.' better trudge, boy; better trudge!" robin had begun to draw his hand towards the lighter end of the oak cudgel, but a strange hostility in every countenance induced him to relinquish his purpose of breaking the courteous innkeeper's head. as he turned to leave the room, he encountered a sneering glance from the bold-featured personage whom he had before noticed; and no sooner was he beyond the door, than he heard a general laugh, in which the innkeeper's voice might be distinguished, like the dropping of small stones into a kettle. "now, is it not strange," thought robin, with his usual shrewdness, "is it not strange that the confession of an empty pocket should outweigh the name of my kinsman, major molineux? oh, if i had one of those grinning rascals in the woods, where i and my oak sapling grew up together, i would teach him that my arm is heavy though my purse be light!" on turning the corner of the narrow lane, robin found himself in a spacious street, with an unbroken line of lofty houses on each side, and a steepled building at the upper end, whence the ringing of a bell announced the hour of nine. the light of the moon, and the lamps from the numerous shop-windows, discovered people promenading on the pavement, and amongst them robin had hoped to recognize his hitherto inscrutable relative. the result of his former inquiries made him unwilling to hazard another, in a scene of such publicity, and he determined to walk slowly and silently up the street, thrusting his face close to that of every elderly gentleman, in search of the major's lineaments. in his progress, robin encountered many gay and gallant figures. embroidered garments of showy colors, enormous periwigs, gold-laced hats, and silver-hilted swords glided past him and dazzled his optics. travelled youths, imitators of the european fine gentlemen of the period, trod jauntily along, half dancing to the fashionable tunes which they hummed, and making poor robin ashamed of his quiet and natural gait. at length, after many pauses to examine the gorgeous display of goods in the shop-windows, and after suffering some rebukes for the impertinence of his scrutiny into people's faces, the major's kinsman found himself near the steepled building, still unsuccessful in his search. as yet, however, he had seen only one side of the thronged street; so robin crossed, and continued the same sort of inquisition down the opposite pavement, with stronger hopes than the philosopher seeking an honest man, but with no better fortune. he had arrived about midway towards the lower end, from which his course began, when he overheard the approach of some one who struck down a cane on the flag-stones at every step, uttering at regular intervals, two sepulchral hems. "mercy on us!" quoth robin, recognizing the sound. turning a corner, which chanced to be close at his right hand, he hastened to pursue his researches in some other part of the town. his patience now was wearing low, and he seemed to feel more fatigue from his rambles since he crossed the ferry, than from his journey of several days on the other side. hunger also pleaded loudly within him, and robin began to balance the propriety of demanding, violently, and with lifted cudgel, the necessary guidance from the first solitary passenger whom he should meet. while a resolution to this effect was gaining strength, he entered a street of mean appearance, on either side of which a row of ill-built houses was straggling towards the harbor. the moonlight fell upon no passenger along the whole extent, but in the third domicile which robin passed there was a half-opened door, and his keen glance detected a woman's garment within. "my luck may be better here," said he to himself. accordingly, he approached the doors and beheld it shut closer as he did so; yet an open space remained, sufficing for the fair occupant to observe the stranger, without a corresponding display on her part. all that robin could discern was a strip of scarlet petticoat, and the occasional sparkle of an eye, as if the moonbeams were trembling on some bright thing. "pretty mistress," for i may call her so with a good conscience thought the shrewd youth, since i know nothing to the contrary,--"my sweet pretty mistress, will you be kind enough to tell me whereabouts i must seek the dwelling of my kinsman, major molineux?" robin's voice was plaintive and winning, and the female, seeing nothing to be shunned in the handsome country youth, thrust open the door, and came forth into the moonlight. she was a dainty little figure with a white neck, round arms, and a slender waist, at the extremity of which her scarlet petticoat jutted out over a hoop, as if she were standing in a balloon. moreover, her face was oval and pretty, her hair dark beneath the little cap, and her bright eyes possessed a sly freedom, which triumphed over those of robin. "major molineux dwells here," said this fair woman. now, her voice was the sweetest robin had heard that night, yet he could not help doubting whether that sweet voice spoke gospel truth. he looked up and down the mean street, and then surveyed the house before which they stood. it was a small, dark edifice of two stories, the second of which projected over the lower floor, and the front apartment had the aspect of a shop for petty commodities. "now, truly, i am in luck," replied robin, cunningly, "and so indeed is my kinsman, the major, in having so pretty a housekeeper. but i prithee trouble him to step to the door; i will deliver him a message from his friends in the country, and then go back to my lodgings at the inn." "nay, the major has been abed this hour or more," said the lady of the scarlet petticoat; "and it would be to little purpose to disturb him to-night, seeing his evening draught was of the strongest. but he is a kind-hearted man, and it would be as much as my life's worth to let a kinsman of his turn away from the door. you are the good old gentleman's very picture, and i could swear that was his rainy-weather hat. also he has garments very much resembling those leather small-clothes. but come in, i pray, for i bid you hearty welcome in his name." so saying, the fair and hospitable dame took our hero by the hand; and the touch was light, and the force was gentleness, and though robin read in her eyes what he did not hear in her words, yet the slender-waisted woman in the scarlet petticoat proved stronger than the athletic country youth. she had drawn his half-willing footsteps nearly to the threshold, when the opening of a door in the neighborhood startled the major's housekeeper, and, leaving the major's kinsman, she vanished speedily into her own domicile. a heavy yawn preceded the appearance of a man, who, like the moonshine of pyramus and thisbe, carried a lantern, needlessly aiding his sister luminary in the heavens. as he walked sleepily up the street, he turned his broad, dull face on robin, and displayed a long staff, spiked at the end. "home, vagabond, home!" said the watchman, in accents that seemed to fall asleep as soon as they were uttered. "home, or we'll set you in the stocks by peep of day!" "this is the second hint of the kind," thought robin. "i wish they would end my difficulties, by setting me there to-night." nevertheless, the youth felt an instinctive antipathy towards the guardian of midnight order, which at first prevented him from asking his usual question. but just when the man was about to vanish behind the corner, robin resolved not to lose the opportunity, and shouted lustily after him, "i say, friend! will you guide me to the house of my kinsman, major molineux?" the watchman made no reply, but turned the corner and was gone; yet robin seemed to hear the sound of drowsy laughter stealing along the solitary street. at that moment, also, a pleasant titter saluted him from the open window above his head; he looked up, and caught the sparkle of a saucy eye; a round arm beckoned to him, and next he heard light footsteps descending the staircase within. but robin, being of the household of a new england clergyman, was a good youth, as well as a shrewd one; so he resisted temptation, and fled away. he now roamed desperately, and at random, through the town, almost ready to believe that a spell was on him, like that by which a wizard of his country had once kept three pursuers wandering, a whole winter night, within twenty paces of the cottage which they sought. the streets lay before him, strange and desolate, and the lights were extinguished in almost every house. twice, however, little parties of men, among whom robin distinguished individuals in outlandish attire, came hurrying along; but, though on both occasions, they paused to address him such intercourse did not at all enlighten his perplexity. they did but utter a few words in some language of which robin knew nothing, and perceiving his inability to answer, bestowed a curse upon him in plain english and hastened away. finally, the lad determined to knock at the door of every mansion that might appear worthy to be occupied by his kinsman, trusting that perseverance would overcome the fatality that had hitherto thwarted him. firm in this resolve, he was passing beneath the walls of a church, which formed the corner of two streets, when, as he turned into the shade of its steeple, he encountered a bulky stranger muffled in a cloak. the man was proceeding with the speed of earnest business, but robin planted himself full before him, holding the oak cudgel with both hands across his body as a bar to further passage. "halt, honest man, and answer me a question," said he, very resolutely. "tell me, this instant, whereabouts is the dwelling of my kinsman, major molineux!" "keep your tongue between your teeth, fool, and let me pass!" said a deep, gruff voice, which robin partly remembered. "let me pass, or i'll strike you to the earth!" "no, no, neighbor!" cried robin, flourishing his cudgel, and then thrusting its larger end close to the man's muffled face. "no, no, i'm not the fool you take me for, nor do you pass till i have an answer to my question. whereabouts is the dwelling of my kinsman, major molineux?" the stranger, instead of attempting to force his passage, stepped back into the moonlight, unmuffled his face, and stared full into that of robin. "watch here an hour, and major molineux will pass by," said he. robin gazed with dismay and astonishment on the unprecedented physiognomy of the speaker. the forehead with its double prominence the broad hooked nose, the shaggy eyebrows, and fiery eyes were those which he had noticed at the inn, but the man's complexion had undergone a singular, or, more properly, a twofold change. one side of the face blazed an intense red, while the other was black as midnight, the division line being in the broad bridge of the nose; and a mouth which seemed to extend from ear to ear was black or red, in contrast to the color of the cheek. the effect was as if two individual devils, a fiend of fire and a fiend of darkness, had united themselves to form this infernal visage. the stranger grinned in robin's face, muffled his party-colored features, and was out of sight in a moment. "strange things we travellers see!" ejaculated robin. he seated himself, however, upon the steps of the church-door, resolving to wait the appointed time for his kinsman. a few moments were consumed in philosophical speculations upon the species of man who had just left him; but having settled this point shrewdly, rationally, and satisfactorily, he was compelled to look elsewhere for his amusement. and first he threw his eyes along the street. it was of more respectable appearance than most of those into which he had wandered, and the moon, creating, like the imaginative power, a beautiful strangeness in familiar objects, gave something of romance to a scene that might not have possessed it in the light of day. the irregular and often quaint architecture of the houses, some of whose roofs were broken into numerous little peaks, while others ascended, steep and narrow, into a single point, and others again were square; the pure snow-white of some of their complexions, the aged darkness of others, and the thousand sparklings, reflected from bright substances in the walls of many; these matters engaged robin's attention for a while, and then began to grow wearisome. next he endeavored to define the forms of distant objects, starting away, with almost ghostly indistinctness, just as his eye appeared to grasp them, and finally he took a minute survey of an edifice which stood on the opposite side of the street, directly in front of the church-door, where he was stationed. it was a large, square mansion, distinguished from its neighbors by a balcony, which rested on tall pillars, and by an elaborate gothic window, communicating therewith. "perhaps this is the very house i have been seeking," thought robin. then he strove to speed away the time, by listening to a murmur which swept continually along the street, yet was scarcely audible, except to an unaccustomed ear like his; it was a low, dull, dreamy sound, compounded of many noises, each of which was at too great a distance to be separately heard. robin marvelled at this snore of a sleeping town, and marvelled more whenever its continuity was broken by now and then a distant shout, apparently loud where it originated. but altogether it was a sleep-inspiring sound, and, to shake off its drowsy influence, robin arose, and climbed a window-frame, that he might view the interior of the church. there the moonbeams came trembling in, and fell down upon the deserted pews, and extended along the quiet aisles. a fainter yet more awful radiance was hovering around the pulpit, and one solitary ray had dared to rest upon the open page of the great bible. had nature, in that deep hour, become a worshipper in the house which man had builded? or was that heavenly light the visible sanctity of the place,--visible because no earthly and impure feet were within the walls? the scene made robin's heart shiver with a sensation of loneliness stronger than he had ever felt in the remotest depths of his native woods; so he turned away and sat down again before the door. there were graves around the church, and now an uneasy thought obtruded into robin's breast. what if the object of his search, which had been so often and so strangely thwarted, were all the time mouldering in his shroud? what if his kinsman should glide through yonder gate, and nod and smile to him in dimly passing by? "oh that any breathing thing were here with me!" said robin. recalling his thoughts from this uncomfortable track, he sent them over forest, hill, and stream, and attempted to imagine how that evening of ambiguity and weariness had been spent by his father's household. he pictured them assembled at the door, beneath the tree, the great old tree, which had been spared for its huge twisted trunk and venerable shade, when a thousand leafy brethren fell. there, at the going down of the summer sun, it was his father's custom to perform domestic worship that the neighbors might come and join with him like brothers of the family, and that the wayfaring man might pause to drink at that fountain, and keep his heart pure by freshening the memory of home. robin distinguished the seat of every individual of the little audience; he saw the good man in the midst, holding the scriptures in the golden light that fell from the western clouds; he beheld him close the book and all rise up to pray. he heard the old thanksgivings for daily mercies, the old supplications for their continuance to which he had so often listened in weariness, but which were now among his dear remembrances. he perceived the slight inequality of his father's voice when he came to speak of the absent one; he noted how his mother turned her face to the broad and knotted trunk; how his elder brother scorned, because the beard was rough upon his upper lip, to permit his features to be moved; how the younger sister drew down a low hanging branch before her eyes; and how the little one of all, whose sports had hitherto broken the decorum of the scene, understood the prayer for her playmate, and burst into clamorous grief. then he saw them go in at the door; and when robin would have entered also, the latch tinkled into its place, and he was excluded from his home. "am i here, or there?" cried robin, starting; for all at once, when his thoughts had become visible and audible in a dream, the long, wide, solitary street shone out before him. he aroused himself, and endeavored to fix his attention steadily upon the large edifice which he had surveyed before. but still his mind kept vibrating between fancy and reality; by turns, the pillars of the balcony lengthened into the tall, bare stems of pines, dwindled down to human figures, settled again into their true shape and size, and then commenced a new succession of changes. for a single moment, when he deemed himself awake, he could have sworn that a visage--one which he seemed to remember, yet could not absolutely name as his kinsman's--was looking towards him from the gothic window. a deeper sleep wrestled with and nearly overcame him, but fled at the sound of footsteps along the opposite pavement. robin rubbed his eyes, discerned a man passing at the foot of the balcony, and addressed him in a loud, peevish, and lamentable cry. "hallo, friend! must i wait here all night for my kinsman, major molineux?" the sleeping echoes awoke, and answered the voice; and the passenger, barely able to discern a figure sitting in the oblique shade of the steeple, traversed the street to obtain a nearer view. he was himself a gentleman in his prime, of open, intelligent, cheerful, and altogether prepossessing countenance. perceiving a country youth, apparently homeless and without friends, he accosted him in a tone of real kindness, which had become strange to robin's ears. "well, my good lad, why are you sitting here?" inquired he. "can i be of service to you in any way?" "i am afraid not, sir," replied robin, despondingly; "yet i shall take it kindly, if you'll answer me a single question. i've been searching, half the night, for one major molineux, now, sir, is there really such a person in these parts, or am i dreaming?" "major molineux! the name is not altogether strange to me," said the gentleman, smiling. "have you any objection to telling me the nature of your business with him?" then robin briefly related that his father was a clergyman, settled on a small salary, at a long distance back in the country, and that he and major molineux were brothers' children. the major, having inherited riches, and acquired civil and military rank, had visited his cousin, in great pomp, a year or two before; had manifested much interest in robin and an elder brother, and, being childless himself, had thrown out hints respecting the future establishment of one of them in life. the elder brother was destined to succeed to the farm which his father cultivated in the interval of sacred duties; it was therefore determined that robin should profit by his kinsman's generous intentions, especially as he seemed to be rather the favorite, and was thought to possess other necessary endowments. "for i have the name of being a shrewd youth," observed robin, in this part of his story. "i doubt not you deserve it," replied his new friend, good-naturedly; "but pray proceed." "well, sir, being nearly eighteen years old, and well grown, as you see," continued robin, drawing himself up to his full height, "i thought it high time to begin in the world. so my mother and sister put me in handsome trim, and my father gave me half the remnant of his last year's salary, and five days ago i started for this place, to pay the major a visit. but, would you believe it, sir! i crossed the ferry a little after dark, and have yet found nobody that would show me the way to his dwelling; only, an hour or two since, i was told to wait here, and major molineux would pass by." "can you describe the man who told you this?" inquired the gentleman. "oh, he was a very ill-favored fellow, sir," replied robin, "with two great bumps on his forehead, a hook nose, fiery eyes; and, what struck me as the strangest, his face was of two different colors. do you happen to know such a man, sir?" "not intimately," answered the stranger, "but i chanced to meet him a little time previous to your stopping me. i believe you may trust his word, and that the major will very shortly pass through this street. in the mean time, as i have a singular curiosity to witness your meeting, i will sit down here upon the steps and bear you company." he seated himself accordingly, and soon engaged his companion in animated discourse. it was but of brief continuance, however, for a noise of shouting, which had long been remotely audible, drew so much nearer that robin inquired its cause. "what may be the meaning of this uproar?" asked he. "truly, if your town be always as noisy, i shall find little sleep while i am an inhabitant." "why, indeed, friend robin, there do appear to be three or four riotous fellows abroad to-night," replied the gentleman. "you must not expect all the stillness of your native woods here in our streets. but the watch will shortly be at the heels of these lads and--" "ay, and set them in the stocks by peep of day," interrupted robin recollecting his own encounter with the drowsy lantern-bearer. "but, dear sir, if i may trust my ears, an army of watchmen would never make head against such a multitude of rioters. there were at least a thousand voices went up to make that one shout." "may not a man have several voices, robin, as well as two complexions?" said his friend. "perhaps a man may; but heaven forbid that a woman should!" responded the shrewd youth, thinking of the seductive tones of the major's housekeeper. the sounds of a trumpet in some neighboring street now became so evident and continual, that robin's curiosity was strongly excited. in addition to the shouts, he heard frequent bursts from many instruments of discord, and a wild and confused laughter filled up the intervals. robin rose from the steps, and looked wistfully towards a point whither people seemed to be hastening. "surely some prodigious merry-making is going on," exclaimed he "i have laughed very little since i left home, sir, and should be sorry to lose an opportunity. shall we step round the corner by that darkish house and take our share of the fun?" "sit down again, sit down, good robin," replied the gentleman, laying his hand on the skirt of the gray coat. "you forget that we must wait here for your kinsman; and there is reason to believe that he will pass by, in the course of a very few moments." the near approach of the uproar had now disturbed the neighborhood; windows flew open on all sides; and many heads, in the attire of the pillow, and confused by sleep suddenly broken, were protruded to the gaze of whoever had leisure to observe them. eager voices hailed each other from house to house, all demanding the explanation, which not a soul could give. half-dressed men hurried towards the unknown commotion stumbling as they went over the stone steps that thrust themselves into the narrow foot-walk. the shouts, the laughter, and the tuneless bray the antipodes of music, came onwards with increasing din, till scattered individuals, and then denser bodies, began to appear round a corner at the distance of a hundred yards. "will you recognize your kinsman, if he passes in this crowd?" inquired the gentleman. "indeed, i can't warrant it, sir; but i'll take my stand here, and keep a bright lookout," answered robin, descending to the outer edge of the pavement. a mighty stream of people now emptied into the street, and came rolling slowly towards the church. a single horseman wheeled the corner in the midst of them, and close behind him came a band of fearful wind instruments, sending forth a fresher discord now that no intervening buildings kept it from the ear. then a redder light disturbed the moonbeams, and a dense multitude of torches shone along the street, concealing, by their glare, whatever object they illuminated. the single horseman, clad in a military dress, and bearing a drawn sword, rode onward as the leader, and, by his fierce and variegated countenance, appeared like war personified; the red of one cheek was an emblem of fire and sword; the blackness of the other betokened the mourning that attends them. in his train were wild figures in the indian dress, and many fantastic shapes without a model, giving the whole march a visionary air, as if a dream had broken forth from some feverish brain, and were sweeping visibly through the midnight streets. a mass of people, inactive, except as applauding spectators, hemmed the procession in; and several women ran along the sidewalk, piercing the confusion of heavier sounds with their shrill voices of mirth or terror. "the double-faced fellow has his eye upon me," muttered robin, with an indefinite but an uncomfortable idea that he was himself to bear a part in the pageantry. the leader turned himself in the saddle, and fixed his glance full upon the country youth, as the steed went slowly by. when robin had freed his eyes from those fiery ones, the musicians were passing before him, and the torches were close at hand; but the unsteady brightness of the latter formed a veil which he could not penetrate. the rattling of wheels over the stones sometimes found its way to his ear, and confused traces of a human form appeared at intervals, and then melted into the vivid light. a moment more, and the leader thundered a command to halt: the trumpets vomited a horrid breath, and then held their peace; the shouts and laughter of the people died away, and there remained only a universal hum, allied to silence. right before robin's eyes was an uncovered cart. there the torches blazed the brightest, there the moon shone out like day, and there, in tar-and-feathery dignity, sat his kinsman, major molineux! he was an elderly man, of large and majestic person, and strong, square features, betokening a steady soul; but steady as it was, his enemies had found means to shake it. his face was pale as death, and far more ghastly; the broad forehead was contracted in his agony, so that his eyebrows formed one grizzled line; his eyes were red and wild, and the foam hung white upon his quivering lip. his whole frame was agitated by a quick and continual tremor, which his pride strove to quell, even in those circumstances of overwhelming humiliation. but perhaps the bitterest pang of all was when his eyes met those of robin; for he evidently knew him on the instant, as the youth stood witnessing the foul disgrace of a head grown gray in honor. they stared at each other in silence, and robin's knees shook, and his hair bristled, with a mixture of pity and terror. soon, however, a bewildering excitement began to seize upon his mind; the preceding adventures of the night, the unexpected appearance of the crowd, the torches, the confused din and the hush that followed, the spectre of his kinsman reviled by that great multitude,--all this, and, more than all, a perception of tremendous ridicule in the whole scene, affected him with a sort of mental inebriety. at that moment a voice of sluggish merriment saluted robin's ears; he turned instinctively, and just behind the corner of the church stood the lantern-bearer, rubbing his eyes, and drowsily enjoying the lad's amazement. then he heard a peal of laughter like the ringing of silvery bells; a woman twitched his arm, a saucy eye met his, and he saw the lady of the scarlet petticoat. a sharp, dry cachinnation appealed to his memory, and, standing on tiptoe in the crowd, with his white apron over his head, he beheld the courteous little innkeeper. and lastly, there sailed over the heads of the multitude a great, broad laugh, broken in the midst by two sepulchral hems; thus, "haw, haw, haw,--hem, hem,--haw, haw, haw, haw!" the sound proceeded from the balcony of the opposite edifice, and thither robin turned his eyes. in front of the gothic window stood the old citizen, wrapped in a wide gown, his gray periwig exchanged for a nightcap, which was thrust back from his forehead, and his silk stockings hanging about his legs. he supported himself on his polished cane in a fit of convulsive merriment, which manifested itself on his solemn old features like a funny inscription on a tombstone. then robin seemed to hear the voices of the barbers, of the guests of the inn, and of all who had made sport of him that night. the contagion was spreading among the multitude, when all at once, it seized upon robin, and he sent forth a shout of laughter that echoed through the street,--every man shook his sides, every man emptied his lungs, but robin's shout was the loudest there. the cloud-spirits peeped from their silvery islands, as the congregated mirth went roaring up the sky! the man in the moon heard the far bellow. "oho," quoth he, "the old earth is frolicsome to-night!" when there was a momentary calm in that tempestuous sea of sound, the leader gave the sign, the procession resumed its march. on they went, like fiends that throng in mockery around some dead potentate, mighty no more, but majestic still in his agony. on they went, in counterfeited pomp, in senseless uproar, in frenzied merriment, trampling all on an old man's heart. on swept the tumult, and left a silent street behind. * * * * * "well, robin, are you dreaming?" inquired the gentleman, laying his hand on the youth's shoulder. robin started, and withdrew his arm from the stone post to which he had instinctively clung, as the living stream rolled by him. his cheek was somewhat pale, and his eye not quite as lively as in the earlier part of the evening. "will you be kind enough to show me the way to the ferry?" said he, after a moment's pause. "you have, then, adopted a new subject of inquiry?" observed his companion, with a smile. "why, yes, sir," replied robin, rather dryly. "thanks to you, and to my other friends, i have at last met my kinsman, and he will scarce desire to see my face again. i begin to grow weary of a town life, sir. will you show me the way to the ferry?" "no, my good friend robin,--not to-night, at least," said the gentleman. "some few days hence, if you wish it, i will speed you on your journey. or, if you prefer to remain with us, perhaps, as you are a shrewd youth, you may rise in the world without the help of your kinsman, major molineux." [illustration: the challenge studio april . h. pyle. del.] [illustration: howard pyle's book of pirates ye pirate bold, as imagined by a quaker gentleman in the-- farm lands of pennsylvania-- howard pyle--chadds ford september th --] [illustration: an attack on a galleon] howard pyle's book of pirates fiction, fact & fancy concerning the buccaneers & marooners of the spanish main: _from the_ writing & pictures _of_ howard pyle: _compiled by_ merle johnson harper & brothers _publishers_ new york & london * * * * * contents page foreword by merle johnson xi preface xiii i. buccaneers and marooners of the spanish main ii. the ghost of captain brand iii. with the buccaneers iv. tom chist and the treasure box v. jack ballister's fortunes vi. blueskin, the pirate vii. captain scarfield viii. the ruby of kishmoor [illustration] * * * * * [illustration] illustrations an attack on a galleon _frontispiece_ on the totugas _facing p._ capture of the galleon " henry morgan recruiting for the attack " morgan at porto bello " the sacking of panama " marooned " blackbeard buries his treasure " walking the plank " "captain malyoe shot captain brand through the head" " "she would sit quite still, permitting barnaby to gaze" " buried treasure " kidd on the deck of the "adventure galley" " burning the ship " who shall be captain? " kidd at gardiner's island " extorting tribute from the citizens " "pirates used to do that to their captains now and then" " "jack followed the captain and the young lady up the crooked path to the house" " "he led jack up to a man who sat upon a barrel" " "the bullets were humming and singing, clipping along the top of the water" " "the combatants cut and slashed with savage fury" " so the treasure was divided " colonel rhett and the pirate " the pirate's christmas " "he lay silent and still, with his face half buried in the sand" " "there cap'n goldsack goes, creeping, creeping, creeping, looking for his treasure down below!" " "he had found the captain agreeable and companionable" " the buccaneer was a picturesque fellow " then the real fight began " "he struck once and again at the bald, narrow forehead beneath him" " captain keitt " how the buccaneers kept christmas " the burning ship " dead men tell no tales " "i am the daughter of that unfortunate captain keitt" " * * * * * foreword pirates, buccaneers, marooners, those cruel but picturesque sea wolves who once infested the spanish main, all live in present-day conceptions in great degree as drawn by the pen and pencil of howard pyle. pyle, artist-author, living in the latter half of the nineteenth century and the first decade of the twentieth, had the fine faculty of transposing himself into any chosen period of history and making its people flesh and blood again--not just historical puppets. his characters were sketched with both words and picture; with both words and picture he ranks as a master, with a rich personality which makes his work individual and attractive in either medium. he was one of the founders of present-day american illustration, and his pupils and grand-pupils pervade that field to-day. while he bore no such important part in the world of letters, his stories are modern in treatment, and yet widely read. his range included historical treatises concerning his favorite pirates (quaker though he was); fiction, with the same pirates as principals; americanized version of old world fairy tales; boy stories of the middle ages, still best sellers to growing lads; stories of the occult, such as _in tenebras_ and _to the soil of the earth_, which, if newly published, would be hailed as contributions to our latest cult. in all these fields pyle's work may be equaled, surpassed, save in one. it is improbable that anyone else will ever bring his combination of interest and talent to the depiction of these old-time pirates, any more than there could be a second remington to paint the now extinct indians and gun-fighters of the great west. important and interesting to the student of history, the adventure-lover, and the artist, as they are, these pirate stories and pictures have been scattered through many magazines and books. here, in this volume, they are gathered together for the first time, perhaps not just as mr. pyle would have done, but with a completeness and appreciation of the real value of the material which the author's modesty might not have permitted. merle johnson. [illustration] [illustration] preface why is it that a little spice of deviltry lends not an unpleasantly titillating twang to the great mass of respectable flour that goes to make up the pudding of our modern civilization? and pertinent to this question another--why is it that the pirate has, and always has had, a certain lurid glamour of the heroical enveloping him round about? is there, deep under the accumulated debris of culture, a hidden groundwork of the old-time savage? is there even in these well-regulated times an unsubdued nature in the respectable mental household of every one of us that still kicks against the pricks of law and order? to make my meaning more clear, would not every boy, for instance--that is, every boy of any account--rather be a pirate captain than a member of parliament? and we ourselves--would we not rather read such a story as that of captain avery's capture of the east indian treasure ship, with its beautiful princess and load of jewels (which gems he sold by the handful, history sayeth, to a bristol merchant), than, say, one of bishop atterbury's sermons, or the goodly master robert boyle's religious romance of "theodora and didymus"? it is to be apprehended that to the unregenerate nature of most of us there can be but one answer to such a query. in the pleasurable warmth the heart feels in answer to tales of derring-do nelson's battles are all mightily interesting, but, even in spite of their romance of splendid courage, i fancy that the majority of us would rather turn back over the leaves of history to read how drake captured the spanish treasure ship in the south sea, and of how he divided such a quantity of booty in the island of plate (so named because of the tremendous dividend there declared) that it had to be measured in quart bowls, being too considerable to be counted. courage and daring, no matter how mad and ungodly, have always a redundancy of _vim_ and life to recommend them to the nether man that lies within us, and no doubt his desperate courage, his battle against the tremendous odds of all the civilized world of law and order, have had much to do in making a popular hero of our friend of the black flag. but it is not altogether courage and daring that endear him to our hearts. there is another and perhaps a greater kinship in that lust for wealth that makes one's fancy revel more pleasantly in the story of the division of treasure in the pirate's island retreat, the hiding of his godless gains somewhere in the sandy stretch of tropic beach, there to remain hidden until the time should come to rake the doubloons up again and to spend them like a lord in polite society, than in the most thrilling tales of his wonderful escapes from commissioned cruisers through tortuous channels between the coral reefs. and what a life of adventure is his, to be sure! a life of constant alertness, constant danger, constant escape! an ocean ishmaelite, he wanders forever aimlessly, homelessly; now unheard of for months, now careening his boat on some lonely uninhabited shore, now appearing suddenly to swoop down on some merchant vessel with rattle of musketry, shouting, yells, and a hell of unbridled passions let loose to rend and tear. what a carlislean hero! what a setting of blood and lust and flame and rapine for such a hero! piracy, such as was practiced in the flower of its days--that is, during the early eighteenth century--was no sudden growth. it was an evolution, from the semilawful buccaneering of the sixteenth century, just as buccaneering was upon its part, in a certain sense, an evolution from the unorganized, unauthorized warfare of the tudor period. for there was a deal of piratical smack in the anti-spanish ventures of elizabethan days. many of the adventurers--of the sir francis drake school, for instance--actually overstepped again and again the bounds of international law, entering into the realms of _de facto_ piracy. nevertheless, while their doings were not recognized officially by the government, the perpetrators were neither punished nor reprimanded for their excursions against spanish commerce at home or in the west indies; rather were they commended, and it was considered not altogether a discreditable thing for men to get rich upon the spoils taken from spanish galleons in times of nominal peace. many of the most reputable citizens and merchants of london, when they felt that the queen failed in her duty of pushing the fight against the great catholic power, fitted out fleets upon their own account and sent them to levy good protestant war of a private nature upon the pope's anointed. some of the treasures captured in such ventures were immense, stupendous, unbelievable. for an example, one can hardly credit the truth of the "purchase" gained by drake in the famous capture of the plate ship in the south sea. one of the old buccaneer writers of a century later says: "the spaniards affirm to this day that he took at that time twelvescore tons of plate and sixteen bowls of coined money a man (his number being then forty-five men in all), insomuch that they were forced to heave much of it overboard, because his ship could not carry it all." maybe this was a very greatly exaggerated statement put by the author and his spanish authorities, nevertheless there was enough truth in it to prove very conclusively to the bold minds of the age that tremendous profits--"purchases" they called them--were to be made from piracy. the western world is filled with the names of daring mariners of those old days, who came flitting across the great trackless ocean in their little tublike boats of a few hundred tons burden, partly to explore unknown seas, partly--largely, perhaps--in pursuit of spanish treasure: frobisher, davis, drake, and a score of others. in this left-handed war against catholic spain many of the adventurers were, no doubt, stirred and incited by a grim, calvinistic, puritanical zeal for protestantism. but equally beyond doubt the gold and silver and plate of the "scarlet woman" had much to do with the persistent energy with which these hardy mariners braved the mysterious, unknown terrors of the great unknown ocean that stretched away to the sunset, there in far-away waters to attack the huge, unwieldy, treasure-laden galleons that sailed up and down the caribbean sea and through the bahama channel. of all ghastly and terrible things old-time religious war was the most ghastly and terrible. one can hardly credit nowadays the cold, callous cruelty of those times. generally death was the least penalty that capture entailed. when the spaniards made prisoners of the english, the inquisition took them in hand, and what that meant all the world knows. when the english captured a spanish vessel the prisoners were tortured, either for the sake of revenge or to compel them to disclose where treasure lay hidden. cruelty begat cruelty, and it would be hard to say whether the anglo-saxon or the latin showed himself to be most proficient in torturing his victim. when cobham, for instance, captured the spanish ship in the bay of biscay, after all resistance was over and the heat of the battle had cooled, he ordered his crew to bind the captain and all of the crew and every spaniard aboard--whether in arms or not--to sew them up in the mainsail and to fling them overboard. there were some twenty dead bodies in the sail when a few days later it was washed up on the shore. of course such acts were not likely to go unavenged, and many an innocent life was sacrificed to pay the debt of cobham's cruelty. nothing could be more piratical than all this. nevertheless, as was said, it was winked at, condoned, if not sanctioned, by the law; and it was not beneath people of family and respectability to take part in it. but by and by protestantism and catholicism began to be at somewhat less deadly enmity with each other; religious wars were still far enough from being ended, but the scabbard of the sword was no longer flung away when the blade was drawn. and so followed a time of nominal peace, and a generation arose with whom it was no longer respectable and worthy--one might say a matter of duty--to fight a country with which one's own land was not at war. nevertheless, the seed had been sown; it had been demonstrated that it was feasible to practice piracy against spain and not to suffer therefor. blood had been shed and cruelty practiced, and, once indulged, no lust seems stronger than that of shedding blood and practicing cruelty. though spain might be ever so well grounded in peace at home, in the west indies she was always at war with the whole world--english, french, dutch. it was almost a matter of life or death with her to keep her hold upon the new world. at home she was bankrupt and, upon the earthquake of the reformation, her power was already beginning to totter and to crumble to pieces. america was her treasure house, and from it alone could she hope to keep her leaking purse full of gold and silver. so it was that she strove strenuously, desperately, to keep out the world from her american possessions--a bootless task, for the old order upon which her power rested was broken and crumbled forever. but still she strove, fighting against fate, and so it was that in the tropical america it was one continual war between her and all the world. thus it came that, long after piracy ceased to be allowed at home, it continued in those far-away seas with unabated vigor, recruiting to its service all that lawless malign element which gathers together in every newly opened country where the only law is lawlessness, where might is right and where a living is to be gained with no more trouble than cutting a throat. [illustration: howard pyle, his mark] howard pyle's book of pirates [illustration] ye pirate bold. it is not because of his life of adventure and daring that i admire this one of my favorite heroes; nor is it because of blowing winds nor blue ocean nor balmy islands which he knew so well; nor is it because of gold he spent nor treasure he hid. he was a man who knew his own mind and what he wanted. howard pyle [illustration] chapter i buccaneers and marooners of the spanish main just above the northwestern shore of the old island of hispaniola--the santo domingo of our day--and separated from it only by a narrow channel of some five or six miles in width, lies a queer little hunch of an island, known, because of a distant resemblance to that animal, as the tortuga de mar, or sea turtle. it is not more than twenty miles in length by perhaps seven or eight in breadth; it is only a little spot of land, and as you look at it upon the map a pin's head would almost cover it; yet from that spot, as from a center of inflammation, a burning fire of human wickedness and ruthlessness and lust overran the world, and spread terror and death throughout the spanish west indies, from st. augustine to the island of trinidad, and from panama to the coasts of peru. about the middle of the seventeenth century certain french adventurers set out from the fortified island of st. christopher in longboats and hoys, directing their course to the westward, there to discover new islands. sighting hispaniola "with abundance of joy," they landed, and went into the country, where they found great quantities of wild cattle, horses, and swine. now vessels on the return voyage to europe from the west indies needed revictualing, and food, especially flesh, was at a premium in the islands of the spanish main; wherefore a great profit was to be turned in preserving beef and pork, and selling the flesh to homeward-bound vessels. the northwestern shore of hispaniola, lying as it does at the eastern outlet of the old bahama channel, running between the island of cuba and the great bahama banks, lay almost in the very main stream of travel. the pioneer frenchmen were not slow to discover the double advantage to be reaped from the wild cattle that cost them nothing to procure, and a market for the flesh ready found for them. so down upon hispaniola they came by boatloads and shiploads, gathering like a swarm of mosquitoes, and overrunning the whole western end of the island. there they established themselves, spending the time alternately in hunting the wild cattle and buccanning[ ] the meat, and squandering their hardly earned gains in wild debauchery, the opportunities for which were never lacking in the spanish west indies. [footnote : buccanning, by which the "buccaneers" gained their name, was a process of curing thin strips of meat by salting, smoking, and drying in the sun.] at first the spaniards thought nothing of the few travel-worn frenchmen who dragged their longboats and hoys up on the beach, and shot a wild bullock or two to keep body and soul together; but when the few grew to dozens, and the dozens to scores, and the scores to hundreds, it was a very different matter, and wrathful grumblings and mutterings began to be heard among the original settlers. but of this the careless buccaneers thought never a whit, the only thing that troubled them being the lack of a more convenient shipping point than the main island afforded them. this lack was at last filled by a party of hunters who ventured across the narrow channel that separated the main island from tortuga. here they found exactly what they needed--a good harbor, just at the junction of the windward channel with the old bahama channel--a spot where four-fifths of the spanish-indian trade would pass by their very wharves. there were a few spaniards upon the island, but they were a quiet folk, and well disposed to make friends with the strangers; but when more frenchmen and still more frenchmen crossed the narrow channel, until they overran the tortuga and turned it into one great curing house for the beef which they shot upon the neighboring island, the spaniards grew restive over the matter, just as they had done upon the larger island. accordingly, one fine day there came half a dozen great boatloads of armed spaniards, who landed upon the turtle's back and sent the frenchmen flying to the woods and fastnesses of rocks as the chaff flies before the thunder gust. that night the spaniards drank themselves mad and shouted themselves hoarse over their victory, while the beaten frenchmen sullenly paddled their canoes back to the main island again, and the sea turtle was spanish once more. but the spaniards were not contented with such a petty triumph as that of sweeping the island of tortuga free from the obnoxious strangers; down upon hispaniola they came, flushed with their easy victory, and determined to root out every frenchman, until not one single buccaneer remained. for a time they had an easy thing of it, for each french hunter roamed the woods by himself, with no better company than his half-wild dogs, so that when two or three spaniards would meet such a one, he seldom if ever came out of the woods again, for even his resting place was lost. but the very success of the spaniards brought their ruin along with it, for the buccaneers began to combine together for self-protection, and out of that combination arose a strange union of lawless man with lawless man, so near, so close, that it can scarce be compared to any other than that of husband and wife. when two entered upon this comradeship, articles were drawn up and signed by both parties, a common stock was made of all their possessions, and out into the woods they went to seek their fortunes; thenceforth they were as one man; they lived together by day, they slept together by night; what one suffered, the other suffered; what one gained, the other gained. the only separation that came betwixt them was death, and then the survivor inherited all that the other left. and now it was another thing with spanish buccaneer hunting, for two buccaneers, reckless of life, quick of eye, and true of aim, were worth any half dozen of spanish islanders. by and by, as the french became more strongly organized for mutual self-protection, they assumed the offensive. then down they came upon tortuga, and now it was the turn of the spanish to be hunted off the island like vermin, and the turn of the french to shout their victory. having firmly established themselves, a governor was sent to the french of tortuga, one m. le passeur, from the island of st. christopher; the sea turtle was fortified, and colonists, consisting of men of doubtful character and women of whose character there could be no doubt whatever, began pouring in upon the island, for it was said that the buccaneers thought no more of a doubloon than of a lima bean, so that this was the place for the brothel and the brandy shop to reap their golden harvest, and the island remained french. [illustration: on the tortugas _illustration from_ buccaneers and marooners of the spanish main _by_ howard pyle _originally published in_ harper's magazine, _august and september_, ] hitherto the tortugans had been content to gain as much as possible from the homeward-bound vessels through the orderly channels of legitimate trade. it was reserved for pierre le grand to introduce piracy as a quicker and more easy road to wealth than the semihonest exchange they had been used to practice. gathering together eight-and-twenty other spirits as hardy and reckless as himself, he put boldly out to sea in a boat hardly large enough to hold his crew, and running down the windward channel and out into the caribbean sea, he lay in wait for such a prize as might be worth the risks of winning. for a while their luck was steadily against them; their provisions and water began to fail, and they saw nothing before them but starvation or a humiliating return. in this extremity they sighted a spanish ship belonging to a "flota" which had become separated from her consorts. the boat in which the buccaneers sailed might, perhaps, have served for the great ship's longboat; the spaniards outnumbered them three to one, and pierre and his men were armed only with pistols and cutlasses; nevertheless this was their one and their only chance, and they determined to take the spanish ship or to die in the attempt. down upon the spaniard they bore through the dusk of the night, and giving orders to the "chirurgeon" to scuttle their craft under them as they were leaving it, they swarmed up the side of the unsuspecting ship and upon its decks in a torrent--pistol in one hand and cutlass in the other. a part of them ran to the gun room and secured the arms and ammunition, pistoling or cutting down all such as stood in their way or offered opposition; the other party burst into the great cabin at the heels of pierre le grand, found the captain and a party of his friends at cards, set a pistol to his breast, and demanded him to deliver up the ship. nothing remained for the spaniard but to yield, for there was no alternative between surrender and death. and so the great prize was won. it was not long before the news of this great exploit and of the vast treasure gained reached the ears of the buccaneers of tortuga and hispaniola. then what a hubbub and an uproar and a tumult there was! hunting wild cattle and buccanning the meat was at a discount, and the one and only thing to do was to go a-pirating; for where one such prize had been won, others were to be had. in a short time freebooting assumed all of the routine of a regular business. articles were drawn up betwixt captain and crew, compacts were sealed, and agreements entered into by the one party and the other. in all professions there are those who make their mark, those who succeed only moderately well, and those who fail more or less entirely. nor did pirating differ from this general rule, for in it were men who rose to distinction, men whose names, something tarnished and rusted by the lapse of years, have come down even to us of the present day. pierre françois, who, with his boatload of six-and-twenty desperadoes, ran boldly into the midst of the pearl fleet off the coast of south america, attacked the vice admiral under the very guns of two men-of-war, captured his ship, though she was armed with eight guns and manned with threescore men, and would have got her safely away, only that having to put on sail, their main-mast went by the board, whereupon the men-of-war came up with them, and the prize was lost. but even though there were two men-of-war against all that remained of six-and-twenty buccaneers, the spaniards were glad enough to make terms with them for the surrender of the vessel, whereby pierre françois and his men came off scot-free. bartholomew portuguese was a worthy of even more note. in a boat manned with thirty fellow adventurers he fell upon a great ship off cape corrientes, manned with threescore and ten men, all told. her he assaulted again and again, beaten off with the very pressure of numbers only to renew the assault, until the spaniards who survived, some fifty in all, surrendered to twenty living pirates, who poured upon their decks like a score of blood-stained, powder-grimed devils. they lost their vessel by recapture, and bartholomew portuguese barely escaped with his life through a series of almost unbelievable adventures. but no sooner had he fairly escaped from the clutches of the spaniards than, gathering together another band of adventurers, he fell upon the very same vessel in the gloom of the night, recaptured her when she rode at anchor in the harbor of campeche under the guns of the fort, slipped the cable, and was away without the loss of a single man. he lost her in a hurricane soon afterward, just off the isle of pines; but the deed was none the less daring for all that. another notable no less famous than these two worthies was roch braziliano, the truculent dutchman who came up from the coast of brazil to the spanish main with a name ready-made for him. upon the very first adventure which he undertook he captured a plate ship of fabulous value, and brought her safely into jamaica; and when at last captured by the spaniards, he fairly frightened them into letting him go by truculent threats of vengeance from his followers. such were three of the pirate buccaneers who infested the spanish main. there were hundreds no less desperate, no less reckless, no less insatiate in their lust for plunder, than they. the effects of this freebooting soon became apparent. the risks to be assumed by the owners of vessels and the shippers of merchandise became so enormous that spanish commerce was practically swept away from these waters. no vessel dared to venture out of port excepting under escort of powerful men-of-war, and even then they were not always secure from molestation. exports from central and south america were sent to europe by way of the strait of magellan, and little or none went through the passes between the bahamas and the caribbees. so at last "buccaneering," as it had come to be generically called, ceased to pay the vast dividends that it had done at first. the cream was skimmed off, and only very thin milk was left in the dish. fabulous fortunes were no longer earned in a ten days' cruise, but what money was won hardly paid for the risks of the winning. there must be a new departure, or buccaneering would cease to exist. then arose one who showed the buccaneers a new way to squeeze money out of the spaniards. this man was an englishman--lewis scot. the stoppage of commerce on the spanish main had naturally tended to accumulate all the wealth gathered and produced into the chief fortified cities and towns of the west indies. as there no longer existed prizes upon the sea, they must be gained upon the land, if they were to be gained at all. lewis scot was the first to appreciate this fact. gathering together a large and powerful body of men as hungry for plunder and as desperate as himself, he descended upon the town of campeche, which he captured and sacked, stripping it of everything that could possibly be carried away. when the town was cleared to the bare walls scot threatened to set the torch to every house in the place if it was not ransomed by a large sum of money which he demanded. with this booty he set sail for tortuga, where he arrived safely--and the problem was solved. after him came one mansvelt, a buccaneer of lesser note, who first made a descent upon the isle of saint catharine, now old providence, which he took, and, with this as a base, made an unsuccessful descent upon neuva granada and cartagena. his name might not have been handed down to us along with others of greater fame had he not been the master of that most apt of pupils, the great captain henry morgan, most famous of all the buccaneers, one time governor of jamaica, and knighted by king charles ii. [illustration: capture of the galleon _illustration from_ buccaneers and marooners of the spanish main _by_ howard pyle _originally published in_ harper's magazine, _august and september_, ] after mansvelt followed the bold john davis, native of jamaica, where he sucked in the lust of piracy with his mother's milk. with only fourscore men, he swooped down upon the great city of nicaragua in the darkness of the night, silenced the sentry with the thrust of a knife, and then fell to pillaging the churches and houses "without any respect or veneration." of course it was but a short time until the whole town was in an uproar of alarm, and there was nothing left for the little handful of men to do but to make the best of their way to their boats. they were in the town but a short time, but in that time they were able to gather together and to carry away money and jewels to the value of fifty thousand pieces of eight, besides dragging off with them a dozen or more notable prisoners, whom they held for ransom. and now one appeared upon the scene who reached a far greater height than any had arisen to before. this was françois l'olonoise, who sacked the great city of maracaibo and the town of gibraltar. cold, unimpassioned, pitiless, his sluggish blood was never moved by one single pulse of human warmth, his icy heart was never touched by one ray of mercy or one spark of pity for the hapless wretches who chanced to fall into his bloody hands. against him the governor of havana sent out a great war vessel, and with it a negro executioner, so that there might be no inconvenient delays of law after the pirates had been captured. but l'olonoise did not wait for the coming of the war vessel; he went out to meet it, and he found it where it lay riding at anchor in the mouth of the river estra. at the dawn of the morning he made his attack--sharp, unexpected, decisive. in a little while the spaniards were forced below the hatches, and the vessel was taken. then came the end. one by one the poor shrieking wretches were dragged up from below, and one by one they were butchered in cold blood, while l'olonoise stood upon the poop deck and looked coldly down upon what was being done. among the rest the negro was dragged upon the deck. he begged and implored that his life might be spared, promising to tell all that might be asked of him. l'olonoise questioned him, and when he had squeezed him dry, waved his hand coldly, and the poor black went with the rest. only one man was spared; him he sent to the governor of havana with a message that henceforth he would give no quarter to any spaniard whom he might meet in arms--a message which was not an empty threat. the rise of l'olonoise was by no means rapid. he worked his way up by dint of hard labor and through much ill fortune. but by and by, after many reverses, the tide turned, and carried him with it from one success to another, without let or stay, to the bitter end. cruising off maracaibo, he captured a rich prize laden with a vast amount of plate and ready money, and there conceived the design of descending upon the powerful town of maracaibo itself. without loss of time he gathered together five hundred picked scoundrels from tortuga, and taking with him one michael de basco as land captain, and two hundred more buccaneers whom he commanded, down he came into the gulf of venezuela and upon the doomed city like a blast of the plague. leaving their vessels, the buccaneers made a land attack upon the fort that stood at the mouth of the inlet that led into lake maracaibo and guarded the city. the spaniards held out well, and fought with all the might that spaniards possess; but after a fight of three hours all was given up and the garrison fled, spreading terror and confusion before them. as many of the inhabitants of the city as could do so escaped in boats to gibraltar, which lies to the southward, on the shores of lake maracaibo, at the distance of some forty leagues or more. then the pirates marched into the town, and what followed may be conceived. it was a holocaust of lust, of passion, and of blood such as even the spanish west indies had never seen before. houses and churches were sacked until nothing was left but the bare walls; men and women were tortured to compel them to disclose where more treasure lay hidden. then, having wrenched all that they could from maracaibo, they entered the lake and descended upon gibraltar, where the rest of the panic-stricken inhabitants were huddled together in a blind terror. the governor of merida, a brave soldier who had served his king in flanders, had gathered together a troop of eight hundred men, had fortified the town, and now lay in wait for the coming of the pirates. the pirates came all in good time, and then, in spite of the brave defense, gibraltar also fell. then followed a repetition of the scenes that had been enacted in maracaibo for the past fifteen days, only here they remained for four horrible weeks, extorting money--money! ever money!--from the poor poverty-stricken, pest-ridden souls crowded into that fever hole of a town. then they left, but before they went they demanded still more money--ten thousand pieces of eight--as a ransom for the town, which otherwise should be given to the flames. there was some hesitation on the part of the spaniards, some disposition to haggle, but there was no hesitation on the part of l'olonoise. the torch was set to the town as he had promised, whereupon the money was promptly paid, and the pirates were piteously begged to help quench the spreading flames. this they were pleased to do, but in spite of all their efforts nearly half of the town was consumed. after that they returned to maracaibo again, where they demanded a ransom of thirty thousand pieces of eight for the city. there was no haggling here, thanks to the fate of gibraltar; only it was utterly impossible to raise that much money in all of the poverty-stricken region. but at last the matter was compromised, and the town was redeemed for twenty thousand pieces of eight and five hundred head of cattle, and tortured maracaibo was quit of them. in the ile de la vache the buccaneers shared among themselves two hundred and sixty thousand pieces of eight, besides jewels and bales of silk and linen and miscellaneous plunder to a vast amount. such was the one great deed of l'olonoise; from that time his star steadily declined--for even nature seemed fighting against such a monster--until at last he died a miserable, nameless death at the hands of an unknown tribe of indians upon the isthmus of darien. * * * * * and now we come to the greatest of all the buccaneers, he who stands pre-eminent among them, and whose name even to this day is a charm to call up his deeds of daring, his dauntless courage, his truculent cruelty, and his insatiate and unappeasable lust for gold--capt. henry morgan, the bold welshman, who brought buccaneering to the height and flower of its glory. having sold himself, after the manner of the times, for his passage across the seas, he worked out his time of servitude at the barbados. as soon as he had regained his liberty he entered upon the trade of piracy, wherein he soon reached a position of considerable prominence. he was associated with mansvelt at the time of the latter's descent upon saint catharine's isle, the importance of which spot, as a center of operations against the neighboring coasts, morgan never lost sight of. the first attempt that capt. henry morgan ever made against any town in the spanish indies was the bold descent upon the city of puerto del principe in the island of cuba, with a mere handful of men. it was a deed the boldness of which has never been outdone by any of a like nature--not even the famous attack upon panama itself. thence they returned to their boats in the very face of the whole island of cuba, aroused and determined upon their extermination. not only did they make good their escape, but they brought away with them a vast amount of plunder, computed at three hundred thousand pieces of eight, besides five hundred head of cattle and many prisoners held for ransom. [illustration: henry morgan recruiting for the attack _illustration from_ buccaneers and marooners of the spanish main _by_ howard pyle _originally published in_ harper's magazine, _august and september_, ] but when the division of all this wealth came to be made, lo! there were only fifty thousand pieces of eight to be found. what had become of the rest no man could tell but capt. henry morgan himself. honesty among thieves was never an axiom with him. rude, truculent, and dishonest as captain morgan was, he seems to have had a wonderful power of persuading the wild buccaneers under him to submit everything to his judgment, and to rely entirely upon his word. in spite of the vast sum of money that he had very evidently made away with, recruits poured in upon him, until his band was larger and better equipped than ever. and now it was determined that the plunder harvest was ripe at porto bello, and that city's doom was sealed. the town was defended by two strong castles thoroughly manned, and officered by as gallant a soldier as ever carried toledo steel at his side. but strong castles and gallant soldiers weighed not a barleycorn with the buccaneers when their blood was stirred by the lust of gold. landing at puerto naso, a town some ten leagues westward of porto bello, they marched to the latter town, and coming before the castle, boldly demanded its surrender. it was refused, whereupon morgan threatened that no quarter should be given. still surrender was refused; and then the castle was attacked, and after a bitter struggle was captured. morgan was as good as his word: every man in the castle was shut in the guard room, the match was set to the powder magazine, and soldiers, castle, and all were blown into the air, while through all the smoke and the dust the buccaneers poured into the town. still the governor held out in the other castle, and might have made good his defense, but that he was betrayed by the soldiers under him. into the castle poured the howling buccaneers. but still the governor fought on, with his wife and daughter clinging to his knees and beseeching him to surrender, and the blood from his wounded forehead trickling down over his white collar, until a merciful bullet put an end to the vain struggle. here were enacted the old scenes. everything plundered that could be taken, and then a ransom set upon the town itself. this time an honest, or an apparently honest, division was made of the spoils, which amounted to two hundred and fifty thousand pieces of eight, besides merchandise and jewels. the next towns to suffer were poor maracaibo and gibraltar, now just beginning to recover from the desolation wrought by l'olonoise. once more both towns were plundered of every bale of merchandise and of every piaster, and once more both were ransomed until everything was squeezed from the wretched inhabitants. here affairs were like to have taken a turn, for when captain morgan came up from gibraltar he found three great men-of-war lying in the entrance to the lake awaiting his coming. seeing that he was hemmed in in the narrow sheet of water, captain morgan was inclined to compromise matters, even offering to relinquish all the plunder he had gained if he were allowed to depart in peace. but no; the spanish admiral would hear nothing of this. having the pirates, as he thought, securely in his grasp, he would relinquish nothing, but would sweep them from the face of the sea once and forever. that was an unlucky determination for the spaniards to reach, for instead of paralyzing the pirates with fear, as he expected it would do, it simply turned their mad courage into as mad desperation. a great vessel that they had taken with the town of maracaibo was converted into a fire ship, manned with logs of wood in montera caps and sailor jackets, and filled with brimstone, pitch, and palm leaves soaked in oil. then out of the lake the pirates sailed to meet the spaniards, the fire ship leading the way, and bearing down directly upon the admiral's vessel. at the helm stood volunteers, the most desperate and the bravest of all the pirate gang, and at the ports stood the logs of wood in montera caps. so they came up with the admiral, and grappled with his ship in spite of the thunder of all his great guns, and then the spaniard saw, all too late, what his opponent really was. [illustration: morgan at porto bello _illustration from_ morgan _by_ e. c. stedman _originally published in_ harper's magazine, _december, _] he tried to swing loose, but clouds of smoke and almost instantly a mass of roaring flames enveloped both vessels, and the admiral was lost. the second vessel, not wishing to wait for the coming of the pirates, bore down upon the fort, under the guns of which the cowardly crew sank her, and made the best of their way to the shore. the third vessel, not having an opportunity to escape, was taken by the pirates without the slightest resistance, and the passage from the lake was cleared. so the buccaneers sailed away, leaving maracaibo and gibraltar prostrate a second time. and now captain morgan determined to undertake another venture, the like of which had never been equaled in all of the annals of buccaneering. this was nothing less than the descent upon and the capture of panama, which was, next to cartagena, perhaps, the most powerful and the most strongly fortified city in the west indies. in preparation for this venture he obtained letters of marque from the governor of jamaica, by virtue of which elastic commission he began immediately to gather around him all material necessary for the undertaking. when it became known abroad that the great captain morgan was about undertaking an adventure that was to eclipse all that was ever done before, great numbers came flocking to his standard, until he had gathered together an army of two thousand or more desperadoes and pirates wherewith to prosecute his adventure, albeit the venture itself was kept a total secret from everyone. port couillon, in the island of hispaniola, over against the ile de la vache, was the place of muster, and thither the motley band gathered from all quarters. provisions had been plundered from the mainland wherever they could be obtained, and by the th of october, (o. s.), everything was in readiness. the island of saint catharine, as it may be remembered, was at one time captured by mansvelt, morgan's master in his trade of piracy. it had been retaken by the spaniards, and was now thoroughly fortified by them. almost the first attempt that morgan had made as a master pirate was the retaking of saint catharine's isle. in that undertaking he had failed; but now, as there was an absolute need of some such place as a base of operations, he determined that the place _must_ be taken. and it was taken. the spaniards, during the time of their possession, had fortified it most thoroughly and completely, and had the governor thereof been as brave as he who met his death in the castle of porto bello, there might have been a different tale to tell. as it was, he surrendered it in a most cowardly fashion, merely stipulating that there should be a sham attack by the buccaneers, whereby his credit might be saved. and so saint catharine was won. the next step to be taken was the capture of the castle of chagres, which guarded the mouth of the river of that name, up which river the buccaneers would be compelled to transport their troops and provisions for the attack upon the city of panama. this adventure was undertaken by four hundred picked men under command of captain morgan himself. the castle of chagres, known as san lorenzo by the spaniards, stood upon the top of an abrupt rock at the mouth of the river, and was one of the strongest fortresses for its size in all of the west indies. this stronghold morgan must have if he ever hoped to win panama. the attack of the castle and the defense of it were equally fierce, bloody, and desperate. again and again the buccaneers assaulted, and again and again they were beaten back. so the morning came, and it seemed as though the pirates had been baffled this time. but just at this juncture the thatch of palm leaves on the roofs of some of the buildings inside the fortifications took fire, a conflagration followed, which caused the explosion of one of the magazines, and in the paralysis of terror that followed, the pirates forced their way into the fortifications, and the castle was won. most of the spaniards flung themselves from the castle walls into the river or upon the rocks beneath, preferring death to capture and possible torture; many who were left were put to the sword, and some few were spared and held as prisoners. so fell the castle of chagres, and nothing now lay between the buccaneers and the city of panama but the intervening and trackless forests. and now the name of the town whose doom was sealed was no secret. up the river of chagres went capt. henry morgan and twelve hundred men, packed closely in their canoes; they never stopped, saving now and then to rest their stiffened legs, until they had come to a place known as cruz de san juan gallego, where they were compelled to leave their boats on account of the shallowness of the water. leaving a guard of one hundred and sixty men to protect their boats as a place of refuge in case they should be worsted before panama, they turned and plunged into the wilderness before them. there a more powerful foe awaited them than a host of spaniards with match, powder, and lead--starvation. they met but little or no opposition in their progress; but wherever they turned they found every fiber of meat, every grain of maize, every ounce of bread or meal, swept away or destroyed utterly before them. even when the buccaneers had successfully overcome an ambuscade or an attack, and had sent the spaniards flying, the fugitives took the time to strip their dead comrades of every grain of food in their leathern sacks, leaving nothing but the empty bags. says the narrator of these events, himself one of the expedition, "they afterward fell to eating those leathern bags, as affording something to the ferment of their stomachs." ten days they struggled through this bitter privation, doggedly forcing their way onward, faint with hunger and haggard with weakness and fever. then, from the high hill and over the tops of the forest trees, they saw the steeples of panama, and nothing remained between them and their goal but the fighting of four spaniards to every one of them--a simple thing which they had done over and over again. down they poured upon panama, and out came the spaniards to meet them; four hundred horse, two thousand five hundred foot, and two thousand wild bulls which had been herded together to be driven over the buccaneers so that their ranks might be disordered and broken. the buccaneers were only eight hundred strong; the others had either fallen in battle or had dropped along the dreary pathway through the wilderness; but in the space of two hours the spaniards were flying madly over the plain, minus six hundred who lay dead or dying behind them. as for the bulls, as many of them as were shot served as food there and then for the half-famished pirates, for the buccaneers were never more at home than in the slaughter of cattle. then they marched toward the city. three hours' more fighting and they were in the streets, howling, yelling, plundering, gorging, dram-drinking, and giving full vent to all the vile and nameless lusts that burned in their hearts like a hell of fire. and now followed the usual sequence of events--rapine, cruelty, and extortion; only this time there was no town to ransom, for morgan had given orders that it should be destroyed. the torch was set to it, and panama, one of the greatest cities in the new world, was swept from the face of the earth. why the deed was done, no man but morgan could tell. perhaps it was that all the secret hiding places for treasure might be brought to light; but whatever the reason was, it lay hidden in the breast of the great buccaneer himself. for three weeks morgan and his men abode in this dreadful place; and they marched away with _one hundred and seventy-five_ beasts of burden loaded with treasures of gold and silver and jewels, besides great quantities of merchandise, and six hundred prisoners held for ransom. [illustration: the sacking of panama _illustration from_ buccaneers and marooners of the spanish main _by_ howard pyle _originally published in_ harper's magazine, _august and september, _] whatever became of all that vast wealth, and what it amounted to, no man but morgan ever knew, for when a division was made it was found that there was only _two hundred pieces of eight to each man_. when this dividend was declared, a howl of execration went up, under which even capt. henry morgan quailed. at night he and four other commanders slipped their cables and ran out to sea, and it was said that these divided the greater part of the booty among themselves. but the wealth plundered at panama could hardly have fallen short of a million and a half of dollars. computing it at this reasonable figure, the various prizes won by henry morgan in the west indies would stand as follows: panama, $ , , ; porto bello, $ , ; puerto del principe, $ , ; maracaibo and gibraltar, $ , ; various piracies, $ , --making a grand total of $ , , as the vast harvest of plunder. with this fabulous wealth, wrenched from the spaniards by means of the rack and the cord, and pilfered from his companions by the meanest of thieving, capt. henry morgan retired from business, honored of all, rendered famous by his deeds, knighted by the good king charles ii, and finally appointed governor of the rich island of jamaica. other buccaneers followed him. campeche was taken and sacked, and even cartagena itself fell; but with henry morgan culminated the glory of the buccaneers, and from that time they declined in power and wealth and wickedness until they were finally swept away. the buccaneers became bolder and bolder. in fact, so daring were their crimes that the home governments, stirred at last by these outrageous barbarities, seriously undertook the suppression of the freebooters, lopping and trimming the main trunk until its members were scattered hither and thither, and it was thought that the organization was exterminated. but, so far from being exterminated, the individual members were merely scattered north, south, east, and west, each forming a nucleus around which gathered and clustered the very worst of the offscouring of humanity. the result was that when the seventeenth century was fairly packed away with its lavender in the store chest of the past, a score or more bands of freebooters were cruising along the atlantic seaboard in armed vessels, each with a black flag with its skull and crossbones at the fore, and with a nondescript crew made up of the tags and remnants of civilized and semicivilized humanity (white, black, red, and yellow), known generally as marooners, swarming upon the decks below. nor did these offshoots from the old buccaneer stem confine their depredations to the american seas alone; the east indies and the african coast also witnessed their doings, and suffered from them, and even the bay of biscay had good cause to remember more than one visit from them. worthy sprigs from so worthy a stem improved variously upon the parent methods; for while the buccaneers were content to prey upon the spaniards alone, the marooners reaped the harvest from the commerce of all nations. so up and down the atlantic seaboard they cruised, and for the fifty years that marooning was in the flower of its glory it was a sorrowful time for the coasters of new england, the middle provinces, and the virginias, sailing to the west indies with their cargoes of salt fish, grain, and tobacco. trading became almost as dangerous as privateering, and sea captains were chosen as much for their knowledge of the flintlock and the cutlass as for their seamanship. as by far the largest part of the trading in american waters was conducted by these yankee coasters, so by far the heaviest blows, and those most keenly felt, fell upon them. bulletin after bulletin came to port with its doleful tale of this vessel burned or that vessel scuttled, this one held by the pirates for their own use or that one stripped of its goods and sent into port as empty as an eggshell from which the yolk had been sucked. boston, new york, philadelphia, and charleston suffered alike, and worthy ship owners had to leave off counting their losses upon their fingers and take to the slate to keep the dismal record. "maroon--to put ashore on a desert isle, as a sailor, under pretense of having committed some great crime." thus our good noah webster gives us the dry bones, the anatomy, upon which the imagination may construct a specimen to suit itself. it is thence that the marooners took their name, for marooning was one of their most effective instruments of punishment or revenge. if a pirate broke one of the many rules which governed the particular band to which he belonged, he was marooned; did a captain defend his ship to such a degree as to be unpleasant to the pirates attacking it, he was marooned; even the pirate captain himself, if he displeased his followers by the severity of his rule, was in danger of having the same punishment visited upon him which he had perhaps more than once visited upon another. the process of marooning was as simple as terrible. a suitable place was chosen (generally some desert isle as far removed as possible from the pathway of commerce), and the condemned man was rowed from the ship to the beach. out he was bundled upon the sand spit; a gun, a half dozen bullets, a few pinches of powder, and a bottle of water were chucked ashore after him, and away rowed the boat's crew back to the ship, leaving the poor wretch alone to rave away his life in madness, or to sit sunken in his gloomy despair till death mercifully released him from torment. it rarely if ever happened that anything was known of him after having been marooned. a boat's crew from some vessel, sailing by chance that way, might perhaps find a few chalky bones bleaching upon the white sand in the garish glare of the sunlight, but that was all. and such were marooners. by far the largest number of pirate captains were englishmen, for, from the days of good queen bess, english sea captains seemed to have a natural turn for any species of venture that had a smack of piracy in it, and from the great admiral drake of the old, old days, to the truculent morgan of buccaneering times, the englishman did the boldest and wickedest deeds, and wrought the most damage. first of all upon the list of pirates stands the bold captain avary, one of the institutors of marooning. him we see but dimly, half hidden by the glamouring mists of legends and tradition. others who came afterward outstripped him far enough in their doings, but he stands pre-eminent as the first of marooners of whom actual history has been handed down to us of the present day. when the english, dutch, and spanish entered into an alliance to suppress buccaneering in the west indies, certain worthies of bristol, in old england, fitted out two vessels to assist in this laudable project; for doubtless bristol trade suffered smartly from the morgans and the l'olonoises of that old time. one of these vessels was named the _duke_, of which a certain captain gibson was the commander and avary the mate. away they sailed to the west indies, and there avary became impressed by the advantages offered by piracy, and by the amount of good things that were to be gained by very little striving. one night the captain (who was one of those fellows mightily addicted to punch), instead of going ashore to saturate himself with rum at the ordinary, had his drink in his cabin in private. while he lay snoring away the effects of his rum in the cabin, avary and a few other conspirators heaved the anchor very leisurely, and sailed out of the harbor of corunna, and through the midst of the allied fleet riding at anchor in the darkness. by and by, when the morning came, the captain was awakened by the pitching and tossing of the vessel, the rattle and clatter of the tackle overhead, and the noise of footsteps passing and repassing hither and thither across the deck. perhaps he lay for a while turning the matter over and over in his muddled head, but he presently rang the bell, and avary and another fellow answered the call. "what's the matter?" bawls the captain from his berth. "nothing," says avary, coolly. "something's the matter with the ship," says the captain. "does she drive? what weather is it?" "oh no," says avary; "we are at sea." "at sea?" "come, come!" says avary: "i'll tell you; you must know that i'm the captain of the ship now, and you must be packing from this here cabin. we are bound to madagascar, to make all of our fortunes, and if you're a mind to ship for the cruise, why, we'll be glad to have you, if you will be sober and mind your own business; if not, there is a boat alongside, and i'll have you set ashore." the poor half-tipsy captain had no relish to go a-pirating under the command of his backsliding mate, so out of the ship he bundled, and away he rowed with four or five of the crew, who, like him, refused to join with their jolly shipmates. the rest of them sailed away to the east indies, to try their fortunes in those waters, for our captain avary was of a high spirit, and had no mind to fritter away his time in the west indies, squeezed dry by buccaneer morgan and others of lesser note. no, he would make a bold stroke for it at once, and make or lose at a single cast. on his way he picked up a couple of like kind with himself--two sloops off madagascar. with these he sailed away to the coast of india, and for a time his name was lost in the obscurity of uncertain history. but only for a time, for suddenly it flamed out in a blaze of glory. it was reported that a vessel belonging to the great mogul, laden with treasure and bearing the monarch's own daughter upon a holy pilgrimage to mecca (they being mohammedans), had fallen in with the pirates, and after a short resistance had been surrendered, with the damsel, her court, and all the diamonds, pearls, silk, silver, and gold aboard. it was rumored that the great mogul, raging at the insult offered to him through his own flesh and blood, had threatened to wipe out of existence the few english settlements scattered along the coast; whereat the honorable east india company was in a pretty state of fuss and feathers. rumor, growing with the telling, has it that avary is going to marry the indian princess, willy-nilly, and will turn rajah, and eschew piracy as indecent. as for the treasure itself, there was no end to the extent to which it grew as it passed from mouth to mouth. cracking the nut of romance and exaggeration, we come to the kernel of the story--that avary did fall in with an indian vessel laden with great treasure (and possibly with the mogul's daughter), which he captured, and thereby gained a vast prize. having concluded that he had earned enough money by the trade he had undertaken, he determined to retire and live decently for the rest of his life upon what he already had. as a step toward this object, he set about cheating his madagascar partners out of their share of what had been gained. he persuaded them to store all the treasure in his vessel, it being the largest of the three; and so, having it safely in hand, he altered the course of his ship one fine night, and when the morning came the madagascar sloops found themselves floating upon a wide ocean without a farthing of the treasure for which they had fought so hard, and for which they might whistle for all the good it would do them. [illustration: marooned _illustration from_ buccaneers and marooners of the spanish main _by_ howard pyle _originally published in_ harper's magazine, _august and september, _] at first avary had a great part of a mind to settle at boston, in massachusetts, and had that little town been one whit less bleak and forbidding, it might have had the honor of being the home of this famous man. as it was, he did not like the looks of it, so he sailed away to the eastward, to ireland, where he settled himself at biddeford, in hopes of an easy life of it for the rest of his days. here he found himself the possessor of a plentiful stock of jewels, such as pearls, diamonds, rubies, etc., but with hardly a score of honest farthings to jingle in his breeches pocket. he consulted with a certain merchant of bristol concerning the disposal of the stones--a fellow not much more cleanly in his habits of honesty than avary himself. this worthy undertook to act as avary's broker. off he marched with the jewels, and that was the last that the pirate saw of his indian treasure. perhaps the most famous of all the piratical names to american ears are those of capt. robert kidd and capt. edward teach, or "blackbeard." nothing will be ventured in regard to kidd at this time, nor in regard to the pros and cons as to whether he really was or was not a pirate, after all. for many years he was the very hero of heroes of piratical fame; there was hardly a creek or stream or point of land along our coast, hardly a convenient bit of good sandy beach, or hump of rock, or water-washed cave, where fabulous treasures were not said to have been hidden by this worthy marooner. now we are assured that he never was a pirate, and never did bury any treasure, excepting a certain chest, which he was compelled to hide upon gardiner's island--and perhaps even it was mythical. so poor kidd must be relegated to the dull ranks of simply respectable people, or semirespectable people at best. but with "blackbeard" it is different, for in him we have a real, ranting, raging, roaring pirate _per se_--one who really did bury treasure, who made more than one captain walk the plank, and who committed more private murders than he could number on the fingers of both hands; one who fills, and will continue to fill, the place to which he has been assigned for generations, and who may be depended upon to hold his place in the confidence of others for generations to come. captain teach was a bristol man born, and learned his trade on board of sundry privateers in the east indies during the old french war--that of --and a better apprenticeship could no man serve. at last, somewhere about the latter part of the year , a privateering captain, one benjamin hornigold, raised him from the ranks and put him in command of a sloop--a lately captured prize--and blackbeard's fortune was made. it was a very slight step, and but the change of a few letters, to convert "privateer" into "pirate," and it was a very short time before teach made that change. not only did he make it himself, but he persuaded his old captain to join with him. and now fairly began that series of bold and lawless depredations which have made his name so justly famous, and which placed him among the very greatest of marooning freebooters. "our hero," says the old historian who sings of the arms and bravery of this great man--"our hero assumed the cognomen of blackbeard from that large quantity of hair which, like a frightful meteor, covered his whole face, and frightened america more than any comet that appeared there in a long time. he was accustomed to twist it with ribbons into small tails, after the manner of our ramillies wig, and turn them about his ears. in time of action he wore a sling over his shoulders, with three brace of pistols, hanging in holsters like bandoleers; he stuck lighted matches under his hat, which, appearing on each side of his face, and his eyes naturally looking fierce and wild, made him altogether such a figure that imagination cannot form an idea of a fury from hell to look more frightful." the night before the day of the action in which he was killed he sat up drinking with some congenial company until broad daylight. one of them asked him if his poor young wife knew where his treasure was hidden. "no," says blackbeard; "nobody but the devil and i knows where it is, and the longest liver shall have all." as for that poor young wife of his, the life that he and his rum-crazy shipmates led her was too terrible to be told. for a time blackbeard worked at his trade down on the spanish main, gathering, in the few years he was there, a very neat little fortune in the booty captured from sundry vessels; but by and by he took it into his head to try his luck along the coast of the carolinas; so off he sailed to the northward, with quite a respectable little fleet, consisting of his own vessel and two captured sloops. from that time he was actively engaged in the making of american history in his small way. he first appeared off the bar of charleston harbor, to the no small excitement of the worthy town of that ilk, and there he lay for five or six days, blockading the port, and stopping incoming and outgoing vessels at his pleasure, so that, for the time, the commerce of the province was entirely paralyzed. all the vessels so stopped he held as prizes, and all the crews and passengers (among the latter of whom was more than one provincial worthy of the day) he retained as though they were prisoners of war. and it was a mightily awkward thing for the good folk of charleston to behold day after day a black flag with its white skull and crossbones fluttering at the fore of the pirate captain's craft, over across the level stretch of green salt marshes; and it was mightily unpleasant, too, to know that this or that prominent citizen was crowded down with the other prisoners under the hatches. one morning captain blackbeard finds that his stock of medicine is low. "tut!" says he, "we'll turn no hair gray for that." so up he calls the bold captain richards, the commander of his consort the _revenge_ sloop, and bids him take mr. marks (one of his prisoners), and go up to charleston and get the medicine. there was no task that suited our captain richards better than that. up to the town he rowed, as bold as brass. "look ye," says he to the governor, rolling his quid of tobacco from one cheek to another--"look ye, we're after this and that, and if we don't get it, why, i'll tell you plain, we'll burn them bloody crafts of yours that we've took over yonder, and cut the weasand of every clodpoll aboard of 'em." there was no answering an argument of such force as this, and the worshipful governor and the good folk of charleston knew very well that blackbeard and his crew were the men to do as they promised. so blackbeard got his medicine, and though it cost the colony two thousand dollars, it was worth that much to the town to be quit of him. they say that while captain richards was conducting his negotiations with the governor his boat's crew were stumping around the streets of the town, having a glorious time of it, while the good folk glowered wrathfully at them, but dared venture nothing in speech or act. having gained a booty of between seven and eight thousand dollars from the prizes captured, the pirates sailed away from charleston harbor to the coast of north carolina. and now blackbeard, following the plan adopted by so many others of his kind, began to cudgel his brains for means to cheat his fellows out of their share of the booty. at topsail inlet he ran his own vessel aground, as though by accident. hands, the captain of one of the consorts, pretending to come to his assistance, also grounded _his_ sloop. nothing now remained but for those who were able to get away in the other craft, which was all that was now left of the little fleet. this did blackbeard with some forty of his favorites. the rest of the pirates were left on the sand spit to await the return of their companions--which never happened. as for blackbeard and those who were with him, they were that much richer, for there were so many the fewer pockets to fill. but even yet there were too many to share the booty, in blackbeard's opinion, and so he marooned a parcel more of them--some eighteen or twenty--upon a naked sand bank, from which they were afterward mercifully rescued by another freebooter who chanced that way--a certain major stede bonnet, of whom more will presently be said. about that time a royal proclamation had been issued offering pardon to all pirates in arms who would surrender to the king's authority before a given date. so up goes master blackbeard to the governor of north carolina and makes his neck safe by surrendering to the proclamation--albeit he kept tight clutch upon what he had already gained. and now we find our bold captain blackbeard established in the good province of north carolina, where he and his worship the governor struck up a vast deal of intimacy, as profitable as it was pleasant. there is something very pretty in the thought of the bold sea rover giving up his adventurous life (excepting now and then an excursion against a trader or two in the neighboring sound, when the need of money was pressing); settling quietly down into the routine of old colonial life, with a young wife of sixteen at his side, who made the fourteenth that he had in various ports here and there in the world. becoming tired of an inactive life, blackbeard afterward resumed his piratical career. he cruised around in the rivers and inlets and sounds of north carolina for a while, ruling the roost and with never a one to say him nay, until there was no bearing with such a pest any longer. so they sent a deputation up to the governor of virginia asking if he would be pleased to help them in their trouble. there were two men-of-war lying at kicquetan, in the james river, at the time. to them the governor of virginia applies, and plucky lieutenant maynard, of the _pearl_, was sent to ocracoke inlet to fight this pirate who ruled it down there so like the cock of a walk. there he found blackbeard waiting for him, and as ready for a fight as ever the lieutenant himself could be. fight they did, and while it lasted it was as pretty a piece of business of its kind as one could wish to see. blackbeard drained a glass of grog, wishing the lieutenant luck in getting aboard of him, fired a broadside, blew some twenty of the lieutenant's men out of existence, and totally crippled one of his little sloops for the balance of the fight. after that, and under cover of the smoke, the pirate and his men boarded the other sloop, and then followed a fine old-fashioned hand-to-hand conflict betwixt him and the lieutenant. first they fired their pistols, and then they took to it with cutlasses--right, left, up and down, cut and slash--until the lieutenant's cutlass broke short off at the hilt. then blackbeard would have finished him off handsomely, only up steps one of the lieutenant's men and fetches him a great slash over the neck, so that the lieutenant came off with no more hurt than a cut across the knuckles. at the very first discharge of their pistols blackbeard had been shot through the body, but he was not for giving up for that--not he. as said before, he was of the true roaring, raging breed of pirates, and stood up to it until he received twenty more cutlass cuts and five additional shots, and then fell dead while trying to fire off an empty pistol. after that the lieutenant cut off the pirate's head, and sailed away in triumph, with the bloody trophy nailed to the bow of his battered sloop. those of blackbeard's men who were not killed were carried off to virginia, and all of them tried and hanged but one or two, their names, no doubt, still standing in a row in the provincial records. but did blackbeard really bury treasures, as tradition says, along the sandy shores he haunted? [illustration: blackbeard buries his treasure _illustration from_ buccaneers and marooners of the spanish main _by_ howard pyle _originally published in_ harper's magazine, _august and september, _] master clement downing, midshipman aboard the _salisbury_, wrote a book after his return from the cruise to madagascar, whither the _salisbury_ had been ordered, to put an end to the piracy with which those waters were infested. he says: "at guzarat i met with a portuguese named anthony de sylvestre; he came with two other portuguese and two dutchmen to take on in the moor's service, as many europeans do. this anthony told me he had been among the pirates, and that he belonged to one of the sloops in virginia when blackbeard was taken. he informed me that if it should be my lot ever to go to york river or maryland, near an island called mulberry island, provided we went on shore at the watering place, where the shipping used most commonly to ride, that there the pirates had buried considerable sums of money in great chests well clamped with iron plates. as to my part, i never was that way, nor much acquainted with any that ever used those parts; but i have made inquiry, and am informed that there is such a place as mulberry island. if any person who uses those parts should think it worth while to dig a little way at the upper end of a small cove, where it is convenient to land, he would soon find whether the information i had was well grounded. fronting the landing place are five trees, among which, he said, the money was hid. i cannot warrant the truth of this account; but if i was ever to go there, i should find some means or other to satisfy myself, as it could not be a great deal out of my way. if anybody should obtain the benefit of this account, if it please god that they ever come to england, 'tis hoped they will remember whence they had this information." another worthy was capt. edward low, who learned his trade of sail-making at good old boston town, and piracy at honduras. no one stood higher in the trade than he, and no one mounted to more lofty altitudes of bloodthirsty and unscrupulous wickedness. 'tis strange that so little has been written and sung of this man of might, for he was as worthy of story and of song as was blackbeard. it was under a yankee captain that he made his first cruise--down to honduras, for a cargo of logwood, which in those times was no better than stolen from the spanish folk. one day, lying off the shore, in the gulf of honduras, comes master low and the crew of the whaleboat rowing across from the beach, where they had been all morning chopping logwood. "what are you after?" says the captain, for they were coming back with nothing but themselves in the boat. "we're after our dinner," says low, as spokesman of the party. "you'll have no dinner," says the captain, "until you fetch off another load." "dinner or no dinner, we'll pay for it," says low, wherewith he up with a musket, squinted along the barrel, and pulled the trigger. luckily the gun hung fire, and the yankee captain was spared to steal logwood a while longer. all the same, that was no place for ned low to make a longer stay, so off he and his messmates rowed in a whaleboat, captured a brig out at sea, and turned pirates. he presently fell in with the notorious captain lowther, a fellow after his own kidney, who put the finishing touches to his education and taught him what wickedness he did not already know. and so he became a master pirate, and a famous hand at his craft, and thereafter forever bore an inveterate hatred of all yankees because of the dinner he had lost, and never failed to smite whatever one of them luck put within his reach. once he fell in with a ship off south carolina--the _amsterdam merchant_, captain williamson, commander--a yankee craft and a yankee master. he slit the nose and cropped the ears of the captain, and then sailed merrily away, feeling the better for having marred a yankee. new york and new england had more than one visit from the doughty captain, each of which visits they had good cause to remember, for he made them smart for it. along in the year thirteen vessels were riding at anchor in front of the good town of marblehead. into the harbor sailed a strange craft. "who is she?" say the townsfolk, for the coming of a new vessel was no small matter in those days. who the strangers were was not long a matter of doubt. up goes the black flag, and the skull and crossbones to the fore. "'tis the bloody low," say one and all; and straightway all was flutter and commotion, as in a duck pond when a hawk pitches and strikes in the midst. it was a glorious thing for our captain, for here were thirteen yankee crafts at one and the same time. so he took what he wanted, and then sailed away, and it was many a day before marblehead forgot that visit. some time after this he and his consort fell foul of an english sloop of war, the _greyhound_, whereby they were so roughly handled that low was glad enough to slip away, leaving his consort and her crew behind him, as a sop to the powers of law and order. and lucky for them if no worse fate awaited them than to walk the dreadful plank with a bandage around the blinded eyes and a rope around the elbows. so the consort was taken, and the crew tried and hanged in chains, and low sailed off in as pretty a bit of rage as ever a pirate fell into. the end of this worthy is lost in the fogs of the past: some say that he died of a yellow fever down in new orleans; it was not at the end of a hempen cord, more's the pity. here fittingly with our strictly american pirates should stand major stede bonnet along with the rest. but in truth he was only a poor half-and-half fellow of his kind, and even after his hand was fairly turned to the business he had undertaken, a qualm of conscience would now and then come across him, and he would make vast promises to forswear his evil courses. however, he jogged along in his course of piracy snugly enough until he fell foul of the gallant colonel rhett, off charleston harbor, whereupon his luck and his courage both were suddenly snuffed out with a puff of powder smoke and a good rattling broadside. down came the "black roger" with its skull and crossbones from the fore, and colonel rhett had the glory of fetching back as pretty a cargo of scoundrels and cutthroats as the town ever saw. after the next assizes they were strung up, all in a row--evil apples ready for the roasting. "ned" england was a fellow of different blood--only he snapped his whip across the back of society over in the east indies and along the hot shores of hindustan. the name of capt. howel davis stands high among his fellows. he was the ulysses of pirates, the beloved not only of mercury, but of minerva. he it was who hoodwinked the captain of a french ship of double the size and strength of his own, and fairly cheated him into the surrender of his craft without the firing of a single pistol or the striking of a single blow; he it was who sailed boldly into the port of gambia, on the coast of guinea, and under the guns of the castle, proclaiming himself as a merchant trading for slaves. the cheat was kept up until the fruit of mischief was ripe for the picking; then, when the governor and the guards of the castle were lulled into entire security, and when davis's band was scattered about wherever each man could do the most good, it was out pistol, up cutlass, and death if a finger moved. they tied the soldiers back to back, and the governor to his own armchair, and then rifled wherever it pleased them. after that they sailed away, and though they had not made the fortune they had hoped to glean, it was a good snug round sum that they shared among them. [illustration: walking the plank _illustration from_ buccaneers and marooners of the spanish main _by_ howard pyle _originally published in_ harper's magazine, _august and september, _] their courage growing high with success, they determined to attempt the island of del principe--a prosperous portuguese settlement on the coast. the plan for taking the place was cleverly laid, and would have succeeded, only that a portuguese negro among the pirate crew turned traitor and carried the news ashore to the governor of the fort. accordingly, the next day, when captain davis came ashore, he found there a good strong guard drawn up as though to honor his coming. but after he and those with him were fairly out of their boat, and well away from the water side, there was a sudden rattle of musketry, a cloud of smoke, and a dull groan or two. only one man ran out from under that pungent cloud, jumped into the boat, and rowed away; and when it lifted, there lay captain davis and his companions all of a heap, like a pile of old clothes. capt. bartholomew roberts was the particular and especial pupil of davis, and when that worthy met his death so suddenly and so unexpectedly in the unfortunate manner above narrated, he was chosen unanimously as the captain of the fleet, and he was a worthy pupil of a worthy master. many were the poor fluttering merchant ducks that this sea hawk swooped upon and struck; and cleanly and cleverly were they plucked before his savage clutch loosened its hold upon them. "he made a gallant figure," says the old narrator, "being dressed in a rich crimson waistcoat and breeches and red feather in his hat, a gold chain around his neck, with a diamond cross hanging to it, a sword in his hand, and two pair of pistols hanging at the end of a silk sling flung over his shoulders according to the fashion of the pyrates." thus he appeared in the last engagement which he fought--that with the _swallow_--a royal sloop of war. a gallant fight they made of it, those bulldog pirates, for, finding themselves caught in a trap betwixt the man-of-war and the shore, they determined to bear down upon the king's vessel, fire a slapping broadside into her, and then try to get away, trusting to luck in the doing, and hoping that their enemy might be crippled by their fire. captain roberts himself was the first to fall at the return fire of the _swallow_; a grapeshot struck him in the neck, and he fell forward across the gun near to which he was standing at the time. a certain fellow named stevenson, who was at the helm, saw him fall, and thought he was wounded. at the lifting of the arm the body rolled over upon the deck, and the man saw that the captain was dead. "whereupon," says the old history, "he" [stevenson] "gushed into tears, and wished that the next shot might be his portion." after their captain's death the pirate crew had no stomach for more fighting; the "black roger" was struck, and one and all surrendered to justice and the gallows. * * * * * such is a brief and bald account of the most famous of these pirates. but they are only a few of a long list of notables, such as captain martel, capt. charles vane (who led the gallant colonel rhett, of south carolina, such a wild-goose chase in and out among the sluggish creeks and inlets along the coast), capt. john rackam, and captain anstis, captain worley, and evans, and philips, and others--a score or more of wild fellows whose very names made ship captains tremble in their shoes in those good old times. and such is that black chapter of history of the past--an evil chapter, lurid with cruelty and suffering, stained with blood and smoke. yet it is a written chapter, and it must be read. he who chooses may read betwixt the lines of history this great truth: evil itself is an instrument toward the shaping of good. therefore the history of evil as well as the history of good should be read, considered, and digested. chapter ii the ghost of captain brand [illustration] it is not so easy to tell why discredit should be cast upon a man because of something that his grandfather may have done amiss, but the world, which is never overnice in its discrimination as to where to lay the blame, is often pleased to make the innocent suffer in the place of the guilty. barnaby true was a good, honest, biddable lad, as boys go, but yet he was not ever allowed altogether to forget that his grandfather had been that very famous pirate, capt. william brand, who, after so many marvelous adventures (if one may believe the catchpenny stories and ballads that were written about him), was murdered in jamaica by capt. john malyoe, the commander of his own consort, the _adventure_ galley. it has never been denied, that ever i heard, that up to the time of captain brand's being commissioned against the south sea pirates he had always been esteemed as honest, reputable a sea captain as could be. when he started out upon that adventure it was with a ship, the _royal sovereign_, fitted out by some of the most decent merchants of new york. the governor himself had subscribed to the adventure, and had himself signed captain brand's commission. so, if the unfortunate man went astray, he must have had great temptation to do so, many others behaving no better when the opportunity offered in those far-away seas where so many rich purchases might very easily be taken and no one the wiser. to be sure, those stories and ballads made our captain to be a most wicked, profane wretch; and if he were, why, god knows he suffered and paid for it, for he laid his bones in jamaica, and never saw his home or his wife and daughter again after he had sailed away on the _royal sovereign_ on that long misfortunate voyage, leaving them in new york to the care of strangers. at the time when he met his fate in port royal harbor he had obtained two vessels under his command--the _royal sovereign_, which was the boat fitted out for him in new york, and the _adventure_ galley, which he was said to have taken somewhere in the south seas. with these he lay in those waters of jamaica for over a month after his return from the coasts of africa, waiting for news from home, which, when it came, was of the very blackest; for the colonial authorities were at that time stirred up very hot against him to take him and hang him for a pirate, so as to clear their own skirts for having to do with such a fellow. so maybe it seemed better to our captain to hide his ill-gotten treasure there in those far-away parts, and afterward to try and bargain with it for his life when he should reach new york, rather than to sail straight for the americas with what he had earned by his piracies, and so risk losing life and money both. [illustration: "captain malyoe shot captain brand through the head" _illustration from_ the ghost of captain brand _by_ howard pyle _originally published in_ harper's weekly, _december , _] however that might be, the story was that captain brand and his gunner, and captain malyoe of the _adventure_ and the sailing master of the _adventure_ all went ashore together with a chest of money (no one of them choosing to trust the other three in so nice an affair), and buried the treasure somewhere on the beach of port royal harbor. the story then has it that they fell a-quarreling about a future division of the money, and that, as a wind-up to the affair, captain malyoe shot captain brand through the head, while the sailing master of the _adventure_ served the gunner of the _royal sovereign_ after the same fashion through the body, and that the murderers then went away, leaving the two stretched out in their own blood on the sand in the staring sun, with no one to know where the money was hid but they two who had served their comrades so. it is a mighty great pity that anyone should have a grandfather who ended his days in such a sort as this, but it was no fault of barnaby true's, nor could he have done anything to prevent it, seeing that he was not even born into the world at the time that his grandfather turned pirate, and was only one year old when he so met his tragical end. nevertheless, the boys with whom he went to school never tired of calling him "pirate," and would sometimes sing for his benefit that famous catchpenny song beginning thus: oh, my name was captain brand, a-sailing, and a-sailing; oh, my name was captain brand, a-sailing free. oh, my name was captain brand, and i sinned by sea and land, for i broke god's just command, a-sailing free. 'twas a vile thing to sing at the grandson of so misfortunate a man, and oftentimes little barnaby true would double up his fists and would fight his tormentors at great odds, and would sometimes go back home with a bloody nose to have his poor mother cry over him and grieve for him. not that his days were all of teasing and torment, neither; for if his comrades did treat him so, why, then, there were other times when he and they were as great friends as could be, and would go in swimming together where there was a bit of sandy strand along the east river above fort george, and that in the most amicable fashion. or, maybe the very next day after he had fought so with his fellows, he would go a-rambling with them up the bowerie road, perhaps to help them steal cherries from some old dutch farmer, forgetting in such adventure what a thief his own grandfather had been. well, when barnaby true was between sixteen and seventeen years old he was taken into employment in the countinghouse of mr. roger hartright, the well-known west india merchant, and barnaby's own stepfather. it was the kindness of this good man that not only found a place for barnaby in the countinghouse, but advanced him so fast that against our hero was twenty-one years old he had made four voyages as supercargo to the west indies in mr. hartright's ship, the _belle helen_, and soon after he was twenty-one undertook a fifth. nor was it in any such subordinate position as mere supercargo that he acted, but rather as the confidential agent of mr. hartright, who, having no children of his own, was very jealous to advance our hero into a position of trust and responsibility in the countinghouse, as though he were indeed a son, so that even the captain of the ship had scarcely more consideration aboard than he, young as he was in years. as for the agents and correspondents of mr. hartright throughout these parts, they also, knowing how the good man had adopted his interests, were very polite and obliging to master barnaby--especially, be it mentioned, mr. ambrose greenfield, of kingston, jamaica, who, upon the occasions of his visits to those parts, did all that he could to make barnaby's stay in that town agreeable and pleasant to him. so much for the history of our hero to the time of the beginning of this story, without which you shall hardly be able to understand the purport of those most extraordinary adventures that befell him shortly after he came of age, nor the logic of their consequence after they had occurred. for it was during his fifth voyage to the west indies that the first of those extraordinary adventures happened of which i shall have presently to tell. at that time he had been in kingston for the best part of four weeks, lodging at the house of a very decent, respectable widow, by name mrs. anne bolles, who, with three pleasant and agreeable daughters, kept a very clean and well-served lodging house in the outskirts of the town. one morning, as our hero sat sipping his coffee, clad only in loose cotton drawers, a shirt, and a jacket, and with slippers upon his feet, as is the custom in that country, where everyone endeavors to keep as cool as may be--while he sat thus sipping his coffee miss eliza, the youngest of the three daughters, came and gave him a note, which, she said, a stranger had just handed in at the door, going away again without waiting for a reply. you may judge of barnaby's surprise when he opened the note and read as follows: mr. barnaby true. sir,--though you don't know me, i know you, and i tell you this: if you will be at pratt's ordinary on harbor street on friday next at eight o'clock of the evening, and will accompany the man who shall say to you, "the _royal sovereign_ is come in," you shall learn something the most to your advantage that ever befell you. sir, keep this note, and show it to him who shall address these words to you, so to certify that you are the man he seeks. such was the wording of the note, which was without address, and without any superscription whatever. the first emotion that stirred barnaby was one of extreme and profound amazement. then the thought came into his mind that some witty fellow, of whom he knew a good many in that town--and wild, waggish pranks they were--was attempting to play off some smart jest upon him. but all that miss eliza could tell him when he questioned her concerning the messenger was that the bearer of the note was a tall, stout man, with a red neckerchief around his neck and copper buckles to his shoes, and that he had the appearance of a sailorman, having a great big queue hanging down his back. but, lord! what was such a description as that in a busy seaport town, full of scores of men to fit such a likeness? accordingly, our hero put away the note into his wallet, determining to show it to his good friend mr. greenfield that evening, and to ask his advice upon it. so he did show it, and that gentleman's opinion was the same as his--that some wag was minded to play off a hoax upon him, and that the matter of the letter was all nothing but smoke. nevertheless, though barnaby was thus confirmed in his opinion as to the nature of the communication he had received, he yet determined in his own mind that he would see the business through to the end, and would be at pratt's ordinary, as the note demanded, upon the day and at the time specified therein. pratt's ordinary was at that time a very fine and well-known place of its sort, with good tobacco and the best rum that ever i tasted, and had a garden behind it that, sloping down to the harbor front, was planted pretty thick with palms and ferns grouped into clusters with flowers and plants. here were a number of little tables, some in little grottoes, like our vauxhall in new york, and with red and blue and white paper lanterns hung among the foliage, whither gentlemen and ladies used sometimes to go of an evening to sit and drink lime juice and sugar and water (and sometimes a taste of something stronger), and to look out across the water at the shipping in the cool of the night. thither, accordingly, our hero went, a little before the time appointed in the note, and passing directly through the ordinary and the garden beyond, chose a table at the lower end of the garden and close to the water's edge, where he would not be easily seen by anyone coming into the place. then, ordering some rum and water and a pipe of tobacco, he composed himself to watch for the appearance of those witty fellows whom he suspected would presently come thither to see the end of their prank and to enjoy his confusion. the spot was pleasant enough; for the land breeze, blowing strong and full, set the leaves of the palm tree above his head to rattling and clattering continually against the sky, where, the moon then being about full, they shone every now and then like blades of steel. the waves also were splashing up against the little landing place at the foot of the garden, sounding very cool in the night, and sparkling all over the harbor where the moon caught the edges of the water. a great many vessels were lying at anchor in their ridings, with the dark, prodigious form of a man-of-war looming up above them in the moonlight. there our hero sat for the best part of an hour, smoking his pipe of tobacco and sipping his grog, and seeing not so much as a single thing that might concern the note he had received. it was not far from half an hour after the time appointed in the note, when a rowboat came suddenly out of the night and pulled up to the landing place at the foot of the garden above mentioned, and three or four men came ashore in the darkness. without saying a word among themselves they chose a near-by table and, sitting down, ordered rum and water, and began drinking their grog in silence. they might have sat there about five minutes, when, by and by, barnaby true became aware that they were observing him very curiously; and then almost immediately one, who was plainly the leader of the party, called out to him: "how now, messmate! won't you come and drink a dram of rum with us?" "why, no," says barnaby, answering very civilly; "i have drunk enough already, and more would only heat my blood." "all the same," quoth the stranger, "i think you will come and drink with us; for, unless i am mistook, you are mr. barnaby true, and i am come here to tell you that the _royal sovereign is come in_." now i may honestly say that barnaby true was never more struck aback in all his life than he was at hearing these words uttered in so unexpected a manner. he had been looking to hear them under such different circumstances that, now that his ears heard them addressed to him, and that so seriously, by a perfect stranger, who, with others, had thus mysteriously come ashore out of the darkness, he could scarce believe that his ears heard aright. his heart suddenly began beating at a tremendous rate, and had he been an older and wiser man, i do believe he would have declined the adventure, instead of leaping blindly, as he did, into that of which he could see neither the beginning nor the ending. but being barely one-and-twenty years of age, and having an adventurous disposition that would have carried him into almost anything that possessed a smack of uncertainty or danger about it, he contrived to say, in a pretty easy tone (though god knows how it was put on for the occasion): "well, then, if that be so, and if the _royal sovereign_ is indeed come in, why, i'll join you, since you are so kind as to ask me." and therewith he went across to the other table, carrying his pipe with him, and sat down and began smoking, with all the appearance of ease he could assume upon the occasion. "well, mr. barnaby true," said the man who had before addressed him, so soon as barnaby had settled himself, speaking in a low tone of voice, so there would be no danger of any others hearing the words--"well, mr. barnaby true--for i shall call you by your name, to show you that though i know you, you don't know me--i am glad to see that you are man enough to enter thus into an affair, though you can't see to the bottom of it. for it shows me that you are a man of mettle, and are deserving of the fortune that is to befall you to-night. nevertheless, first of all, i am bid to say that you must show me a piece of paper that you have about you before we go a step farther." "very well," said barnaby; "i have it here safe and sound, and see it you shall." and thereupon and without more ado he fetched out his wallet, opened it, and handed his interlocutor the mysterious note he had received the day or two before. whereupon the other, drawing to him the candle, burning there for the convenience of those who would smoke tobacco, began immediately reading it. this gave barnaby true a moment or two to look at him. he was a tall, stout man, with a red handkerchief tied around his neck, and with copper buckles on his shoes, so that barnaby true could not but wonder whether he was not the very same man who had given the note to miss eliza bolles at the door of his lodging house. "'tis all right and straight as it should be," the other said, after he had so glanced his eyes over the note. "and now that the paper is read" (suiting his action to his words), "i'll just burn it, for safety's sake." and so he did, twisting it up and setting it to the flame of the candle. "and now," he said, continuing his address, "i'll tell you what i am here for. i was sent to ask you if you're man enough to take your life in your own hands and to go with me in that boat down there? say 'yes,' and we'll start away without wasting more time, for the devil is ashore here at jamaica--though you don't know what that means--and if he gets ahead of us, why, then we may whistle for what we are after. say 'no,' and i go away again, and i promise you you shall never be troubled again in this sort. so now speak up plain, young gentleman, and tell us what is your mind in this business, and whether you will adventure any farther or not." if our hero hesitated it was not for long. i cannot say that his courage did not waver for a moment; but if it did, it was, i say, not for long, and when he spoke up it was with a voice as steady as could be. "to be sure i'm man enough to go with you," he said; "and if you mean me any harm i can look out for myself; and if i can't, why, here is something can look out for me," and therewith he lifted up the flap of his coat pocket and showed the butt of a pistol he had fetched with him when he had set out from his lodging house that evening. at this the other burst out a-laughing. "come," says he, "you are indeed of right mettle, and i like your spirit. all the same, no one in all the world means you less ill than i, and so, if you have to use that barker, 'twill not be upon us who are your friends, but only upon one who is more wicked than the devil himself. so come, and let us get away." thereupon he and the others, who had not spoken a single word for all this time, rose from the table, and he having paid the scores of all, they all went down together to the boat that still lay at the landing place at the bottom of the garden. thus coming to it, our hero could see that it was a large yawl boat manned with half a score of black men for rowers, and there were two lanterns in the stern sheets, and three or four iron shovels. the man who had conducted the conversation with barnaby true for all this time, and who was, as has been said, plainly the captain of the party, stepped immediately down into the boat; our hero followed, and the others followed after him; and instantly they were seated the boat was shoved off and the black men began pulling straight out into the harbor, and so, at some distance away, around under the stern of the man-of-war. not a word was spoken after they had thus left the shore, and presently they might all have been ghosts, for the silence of the party. barnaby true was too full of his own thoughts to talk--and serious enough thoughts they were by this time, with crimps to trepan a man at every turn, and press gangs to carry a man off so that he might never be heard of again. as for the others, they did not seem to choose to say anything now that they had him fairly embarked upon their enterprise. and so the crew pulled on in perfect silence for the best part of an hour, the leader of the expedition directing the course of the boat straight across the harbor, as though toward the mouth of the rio cobra river. indeed, this was their destination, as barnaby could after a while see, by the low point of land with a great long row of coconut palms upon it (the appearance of which he knew very well), which by and by began to loom up out of the milky dimness of the moonlight. as they approached the river they found the tide was running strong out of it, so that some distance away from the stream it gurgled and rippled alongside the boat as the crew of black men pulled strongly against it. thus they came up under what was either a point of land or an islet covered with a thick growth of mangrove trees. but still no one spoke a single word as to their destination, or what was the business they had in hand. the night, now that they were close to the shore, was loud with the noise of running tide-water, and the air was heavy with the smell of mud and marsh, and over all the whiteness of the moonlight, with a few stars pricking out here and there in the sky; and all so strange and silent and mysterious that barnaby could not divest himself of the feeling that it was all a dream. so, the rowers bending to the oars, the boat came slowly around from under the clump of mangrove bushes and out into the open water again. instantly it did so the leader of the expedition called out in a sharp voice, and the black men instantly lay on their oars. almost at the same instant barnaby true became aware that there was another boat coming down the river toward where they lay, now drifting with the strong tide out into the harbor again, and he knew that it was because of the approach of that boat that the other had called upon his men to cease rowing. the other boat, as well as he could see in the distance, was full of men, some of whom appeared to be armed, for even in the dusk of the darkness the shine of the moonlight glimmered sharply now and then on the barrels of muskets or pistols, and in the silence that followed after their own rowing had ceased barnaby true could hear the chug! chug! of the oars sounding louder and louder through the watery stillness of the night as the boat drew nearer and nearer. but he knew nothing of what it all meant, nor whether these others were friends or enemies, or what was to happen next. the oarsmen of the approaching boat did not for a moment cease their rowing, not till they had come pretty close to barnaby and his companions. then a man who sat in the stern ordered them to cease rowing, and as they lay on their oars he stood up. as they passed by, barnaby true could see him very plain, the moonlight shining full upon him--a large, stout gentleman with a round red face, and clad in a fine laced coat of red cloth. amidship of the boat was a box or chest about the bigness of a middle-sized traveling trunk, but covered all over with cakes of sand and dirt. in the act of passing, the gentleman, still standing, pointed at it with an elegant gold-headed cane which he held in his hand. "are you come after this, abraham dawling?" says he, and thereat his countenance broke into as evil, malignant a grin as ever barnaby true saw in all of his life. the other did not immediately reply so much as a single word, but sat as still as any stone. then, at last, the other boat having gone by, he suddenly appeared to regain his wits, for he bawled out after it, "very well, jack malyoe! very well, jack malyoe! you've got ahead of us this time again, but next time is the third, and then it shall be our turn, even if william brand must come back from hell to settle with you." this he shouted out as the other boat passed farther and farther away, but to it my fine gentleman made no reply except to burst out into a great roaring fit of laughter. there was another man among the armed men in the stern of the passing boat--a villainous, lean man with lantern jaws, and the top of his head as bald as the palm of my hand. as the boat went away into the night with the tide and the headway the oars had given it, he grinned so that the moonlight shone white on his big teeth. then, flourishing a great big pistol, he said, and barnaby could hear every word he spoke, "do but give me the word, your honor, and i'll put another bullet through the son of a sea cook." but the gentleman said some words to forbid him, and therewith the boat was gone away into the night, and presently barnaby could hear that the men at the oars had begun rowing again, leaving them lying there, without a single word being said for a long time. by and by one of those in barnaby's boat spoke up. "where shall you go now?" he said. at this the leader of the expedition appeared suddenly to come back to himself, and to find his voice again. "go?" he roared out. "go to the devil! go? go where you choose! go? go back again--that's where we'll go!" and therewith he fell a-cursing and swearing until he foamed at the lips, as though he had gone clean crazy, while the black men began rowing back again across the harbor as fast as ever they could lay oars into the water. they put barnaby true ashore below the old custom house; but so bewildered and shaken was he by all that had happened, and by what he had seen, and by the names that he heard spoken, that he was scarcely conscious of any of the familiar things among which he found himself thus standing. and so he walked up the moonlit street toward his lodging like one drunk or bewildered; for "john malyoe" was the name of the captain of the _adventure_ galley--he who had shot barnaby's own grandfather--and "abraham dawling" was the name of the gunner of the _royal sovereign_ who had been shot at the same time with the pirate captain, and who, with him, had been left stretched out in the staring sun by the murderers. the whole business had occupied hardly two hours, but it was as though that time was no part of barnaby's life, but all a part of some other life, so dark and strange and mysterious that it in no wise belonged to him. as for that box covered all over with mud, he could only guess at that time what it contained and what the finding of it signified. but of this our hero said nothing to anyone, nor did he tell a single living soul what he had seen that night, but nursed it in his own mind, where it lay so big for a while that he could think of little or nothing else for days after. mr. greenfield, mr. hartright's correspondent and agent in these parts, lived in a fine brick house just out of the town, on the mona road, his family consisting of a wife and two daughters--brisk, lively young ladies with black hair and eyes, and very fine bright teeth that shone whenever they laughed, and with a plenty to say for themselves. thither barnaby true was often asked to a family dinner; and, indeed, it was a pleasant home to visit, and to sit upon the veranda and smoke a cigarro with the good old gentleman and look out toward the mountains, while the young ladies laughed and talked, or played upon the guitar and sang. and oftentimes so it was strongly upon barnaby's mind to speak to the good gentleman and tell him what he had beheld that night out in the harbor; but always he would think better of it and hold his peace, falling to thinking, and smoking away upon his cigarro at a great rate. a day or two before the _belle helen_ sailed from kingston mr. greenfield stopped barnaby true as he was going through the office to bid him to come to dinner that night (for there within the tropics they breakfast at eleven o'clock and take dinner in the cool of the evening, because of the heat, and not at midday, as we do in more temperate latitudes). "i would have you meet," says mr. greenfield, "your chief passenger for new york, and his granddaughter, for whom the state cabin and the two staterooms are to be fitted as here ordered [showing a letter]--sir john malyoe and miss marjorie malyoe. did you ever hear tell of capt. jack malyoe, master barnaby?" now i do believe that mr. greenfield had no notion at all that old captain brand was barnaby true's own grandfather and capt. john malyoe his murderer, but when he so thrust at him the name of that man, what with that in itself and the late adventure through which he himself had just passed, and with his brooding upon it until it was so prodigiously big in his mind, it was like hitting him a blow to so fling the questions at him. nevertheless, he was able to reply, with a pretty straight face, that he had heard of captain malyoe and who he was. "well," says mr. greenfield, "if jack malyoe was a desperate pirate and a wild, reckless blade twenty years ago, why, he is sir john malyoe now and the owner of a fine estate in devonshire. well, master barnaby, when one is a baronet and come into the inheritance of a fine estate (though i do hear it is vastly cumbered with debts), the world will wink its eye to much that he may have done twenty years ago. i do hear say, though, that his own kin still turn the cold shoulder to him." to this address barnaby answered nothing, but sat smoking away at his cigarro at a great rate. and so that night barnaby true came face to face for the first time with the man who murdered his own grandfather--the greatest beast of a man that ever he met in all of his life. that time in the harbor he had seen sir john malyoe at a distance and in the darkness; now that he beheld him near by it seemed to him that he had never looked at a more evil face in all his life. not that the man was altogether ugly, for he had a good nose and a fine double chin; but his eyes stood out like balls and were red and watery, and he winked them continually, as though they were always smarting; and his lips were thick and purple-red, and his fat, red cheeks were mottled here and there with little clots of purple veins; and when he spoke his voice rattled so in his throat that it made one wish to clear one's own throat to listen to him. so, what with a pair of fat, white hands, and that hoarse voice, and his swollen face, and his thick lips sticking out, it seemed to barnaby true he had never seen a countenance so distasteful to him as that one into which he then looked. but if sir john malyoe was so displeasing to our hero's taste, why, the granddaughter, even this first time he beheld her, seemed to him to be the most beautiful, lovely young lady that ever he saw. she had a thin, fair skin, red lips, and yellow hair--though it was then powdered pretty white for the occasion--and the bluest eyes that barnaby beheld in all of his life. a sweet, timid creature, who seemed not to dare so much as to speak a word for herself without looking to sir john for leave to do so, and would shrink and shudder whenever he would speak of a sudden to her or direct a sudden glance upon her. when she did speak, it was in so low a voice that one had to bend his head to hear her, and even if she smiled would catch herself and look up as though to see if she had leave to be cheerful. as for sir john, he sat at dinner like a pig, and gobbled and ate and drank, smacking his lips all the while, but with hardly a word to either her or mrs. greenfield or to barnaby true; but with a sour, sullen air, as though he would say, "your damned victuals and drink are no better than they should be, but i must eat 'em or nothing." a great bloated beast of a man! only after dinner was over and the young lady and the two misses sat off in a corner together did barnaby hear her talk with any ease. then, to be sure, her tongue became loose, and she prattled away at a great rate, though hardly above her breath, until of a sudden her grandfather called out, in his hoarse, rattling voice, that it was time to go. whereupon she stopped short in what she was saying and jumped up from her chair, looking as frightened as though she had been caught in something amiss, and was to be punished for it. barnaby true and mr. greenfield both went out to see the two into their coach, where sir john's man stood holding the lantern. and who should he be, to be sure, but that same lean villain with bald head who had offered to shoot the leader of our hero's expedition out on the harbor that night! for, one of the circles of light from the lantern shining up into his face, barnaby true knew him the moment he clapped eyes upon him. though he could not have recognized our hero, he grinned at him in the most impudent, familiar fashion, and never so much as touched his hat either to him or to mr. greenfield; but as soon as his master and his young mistress had entered the coach, banged to the door and scrambled up on the seat alongside the driver, and so away without a word, but with another impudent grin, this time favoring both barnaby and the old gentleman. such were these two, master and man, and what barnaby saw of them then was only confirmed by further observation--the most hateful couple he ever knew; though, god knows, what they afterward suffered should wipe out all complaint against them. the next day sir john malyoe's belongings began to come aboard the _belle helen_, and in the afternoon that same lean, villainous manservant comes skipping across the gangplank as nimble as a goat, with two black men behind him lugging a great sea chest. "what!" he cried out, "and so you is the supercargo, is you? why, i thought you was more account when i saw you last night a-sitting talking with his honor like his equal. well, no matter; 'tis something to have a brisk, genteel young fellow for a supercargo. so come, my hearty, lend a hand, will you, and help me set his honor's cabin to rights." what a speech was this to endure from such a fellow, to be sure! and barnaby so high in his own esteem, and holding himself a gentleman! well, what with his distaste for the villain, and what with such odious familiarity, you can guess into what temper so impudent an address must have cast him. "you'll find the steward in yonder," he said, "and he'll show you the cabin," and therewith turned and walked away with prodigious dignity, leaving the other standing where he was. as he entered his own cabin he could not but see, out of the tail of his eye, that the fellow was still standing where he had left him, regarding him with a most evil, malevolent countenance, so that he had the satisfaction of knowing that he had made one enemy during that voyage who was not very likely to forgive or forget what he must regard as a slight put upon him. the next day sir john malyoe himself came aboard, accompanied by his granddaughter, and followed by this man, and he followed again by four black men, who carried among them two trunks, not large in size, but prodigious heavy in weight, and toward which sir john and his follower devoted the utmost solicitude and care to see that they were properly carried into the state cabin he was to occupy. barnaby true was standing in the great cabin as they passed close by him; but though sir john malyoe looked hard at him and straight in the face, he never so much as spoke a single word, or showed by a look or a sign that he knew who our hero was. at this the serving man, who saw it all with eyes as quick as a cat's, fell to grinning and chuckling to see barnaby in his turn so slighted. the young lady, who also saw it all, flushed up red, then in the instant of passing looked straight at our hero, and bowed and smiled at him with a most sweet and gracious affability, then the next moment recovering herself, as though mightily frightened at what she had done. the same day the _belle helen_ sailed, with as beautiful, sweet weather as ever a body could wish for. there were only two other passengers aboard, the rev. simon styles, the master of a flourishing academy in spanish town, and his wife, a good, worthy old couple, but very quiet, and would sit in the great cabin by the hour together reading, so that, what with sir john malyoe staying all the time in his own cabin with those two trunks he held so precious, it fell upon barnaby true in great part to show attention to the young lady; and glad enough he was of the opportunity, as anyone may guess. for when you consider a brisk, lively young man of one-and-twenty and a sweet, beautiful miss of seventeen so thrown together day after day for two weeks, the weather being very fair, as i have said, and the ship tossing and bowling along before a fine humming breeze that sent white caps all over the sea, and with nothing to do but sit and look at that blue sea and the bright sky overhead, it is not hard to suppose what was to befall, and what pleasure it was to barnaby true to show attention to her. but, oh! those days when a man is young, and, whether wisely or no, fallen in love! how often during that voyage did our hero lie awake in his berth at night, tossing this way and that without sleep--not that he wanted to sleep if he could, but would rather lie so awake thinking about her and staring into the darkness! poor fool! he might have known that the end must come to such a fool's paradise before very long. for who was he to look up to sir john malyoe's granddaughter, he, the supercargo of a merchant ship, and she the granddaughter of a baronet. nevertheless, things went along very smooth and pleasant, until one evening, when all came of a sudden to an end. at that time he and the young lady had been standing for a long while together, leaning over the rail and looking out across the water through the dusk toward the westward, where the sky was still of a lingering brightness. she had been mightily quiet and dull all that evening, but now of a sudden she began, without any preface whatever, to tell barnaby about herself and her affairs. she said that she and her grandfather were going to new york that they might take passage thence to boston town, there to meet her cousin captain malyoe, who was stationed in garrison at that place. then she went on to say that captain malyoe was the next heir to the devonshire estate, and that she and he were to be married in the fall. but, poor barnaby! what a fool was he, to be sure! methinks when she first began to speak about captain malyoe he knew what was coming. but now that she had told him, he could say nothing, but stood there staring across the ocean, his breath coming hot and dry as ashes in his throat. she, poor thing, went on to say, in a very low voice, that she had liked him from the very first moment she had seen him, and had been very happy for these days, and would always think of him as a dear friend who had been very kind to her, who had so little pleasure in life, and so would always remember him. then they were both silent, until at last barnaby made shift to say, though in a hoarse and croaking voice, that captain malyoe must be a very happy man, and that if he were in captain malyoe's place he would be the happiest man in the world. thus, having spoken, and so found his tongue, he went on to tell her, with his head all in a whirl, that he, too, loved her, and that what she had told him struck him to the heart, and made him the most miserable, unhappy wretch in the whole world. she was not angry at what he said, nor did she turn to look at him, but only said, in a low voice, he should not talk so, for that it could only be a pain to them both to speak of such things, and that whether she would or no, she must do everything as her grandfather bade her, for that he was indeed a terrible man. to this poor barnaby could only repeat that he loved her with all his heart, that he had hoped for nothing in his love, but that he was now the most miserable man in the world. it was at this moment, so tragic for him, that some one who had been hiding nigh them all the while suddenly moved away, and barnaby true could see in the gathering darkness that it was that villain manservant of sir john malyoe's and knew that he must have overheard all that had been said. the man went straight to the great cabin, and poor barnaby, his brain all atingle, stood looking after him, feeling that now indeed the last drop of bitterness had been added to his trouble to have such a wretch overhear what he had said. the young lady could not have seen the fellow, for she continued leaning over the rail, and barnaby true, standing at her side, not moving, but in such a tumult of many passions that he was like one bewildered, and his heart beating as though to smother him. so they stood for i know not how long when, of a sudden, sir john malyoe comes running out of the cabin, without his hat, but carrying his gold-headed cane, and so straight across the deck to where barnaby and the young lady stood, that spying wretch close at his heels, grinning like an imp. "you hussy!" bawled out sir john, so soon as he had come pretty near them, and in so loud a voice that all on deck might have heard the words; and as he spoke he waved his cane back and forth as though he would have struck the young lady, who, shrinking back almost upon the deck, crouched as though to escape such a blow. "you hussy!" he bawled out with vile oaths, too horrible here to be set down. "what do you do here with this yankee supercargo, not fit for a gentlewoman to wipe her feet upon? get to your cabin, you hussy" (only it was something worse he called her this time), "before i lay this cane across your shoulders!" what with the whirling of barnaby's brains and the passion into which he was already melted, what with his despair and his love, and his anger at this address, a man gone mad could scarcely be less accountable for his actions than was he at that moment. hardly knowing what he did, he put his hand against sir john malyoe's breast and thrust him violently back, crying out upon him in a great, loud, hoarse voice for threatening a young lady, and saying that for a farthing he would wrench the stick out of his hand and throw it overboard. sir john went staggering back with the push barnaby gave him, and then caught himself up again. then, with a great bellow, ran roaring at our hero, whirling his cane about, and i do believe would have struck him (and god knows then what might have happened) had not his manservant caught him and held him back. "keep back!" cried out our hero, still mighty hoarse. "keep back! if you strike me with that stick i'll fling you overboard!" by this time, what with the sound of loud voices and the stamping of feet, some of the crew and others aboard were hurrying up, and the next moment captain manly and the first mate, mr. freesden, came running out of the cabin. but barnaby, who was by this fairly set agoing, could not now stop himself. "and who are you, anyhow," he cried out, "to threaten to strike me and to insult me, who am as good as you? you dare not strike me! you may shoot a man from behind, as you shot poor captain brand on the rio cobra river, but you won't dare strike me face to face. i know who you are and what you are!" by this time sir john malyoe had ceased to endeavor to strike him, but stood stock-still, his great bulging eyes staring as though they would pop out of his head. "what's all this?" cries captain manly, bustling up to them with mr. freesden. "what does all this mean?" but, as i have said, our hero was too far gone now to contain himself until all that he had to say was out. "the damned villain insulted me and insulted the young lady," he cried out, panting in the extremity of his passion, "and then he threatened to strike me with his cane. but i know who he is and what he is. i know what he's got in his cabin in those two trunks, and where he found it, and whom it belongs to. he found it on the shores of the rio cobra river, and i have only to open my mouth and tell what i know about it." at this captain manly clapped his hand upon our hero's shoulder and fell to shaking him so that he could scarcely stand, calling out to him the while to be silent. "what do you mean?" he cried. "an officer of this ship to quarrel with a passenger of mine! go straight to your cabin, and stay there till i give you leave to come out again." at this master barnaby came somewhat back to himself and into his wits again with a jump. "but he threatened to strike me with his cane, captain," he cried out, "and that i won't stand from any man!" "no matter what he did," said captain manly, very sternly. "go to your cabin, as i bid you, and stay there till i tell you to come out again, and when we get to new york i'll take pains to tell your stepfather of how you have behaved. i'll have no such rioting as this aboard my ship." barnaby true looked around him, but the young lady was gone. nor, in the blindness of his frenzy, had he seen when she had gone nor whither she went. as for sir john malyoe, he stood in the light of a lantern, his face gone as white as ashes, and i do believe if a look could kill, the dreadful malevolent stare he fixed upon barnaby true would have slain him where he stood. after captain manly had so shaken some wits into poor barnaby he, unhappy wretch, went to his cabin, as he was bidden to do, and there, shutting the door upon himself, and flinging himself down, all dressed as he was, upon his berth, yielded himself over to the profoundest passion of humiliation and despair. there he lay for i know not how long, staring into the darkness, until by and by, in spite of his suffering and his despair, he dozed off into a loose sleep, that was more like waking than sleep, being possessed continually by the most vivid and distasteful dreams, from which he would awaken only to doze off and to dream again. it was from the midst of one of these extravagant dreams that he was suddenly aroused by the noise of a pistol shot, and then the noise of another and another, and then a great bump and a grinding jar, and then the sound of many footsteps running across the deck and down into the great cabin. then came a tremendous uproar of voices in the great cabin, the struggling as of men's bodies being tossed about, striking violently against the partitions and bulkheads. at the same instant arose a screaming of women's voices, and one voice, and that sir john malyoe's, crying out as in the greatest extremity: "you villains! you damned villains!" and with the sudden detonation of a pistol fired into the close space of the great cabin. barnaby was out in the middle of his cabin in a moment, and taking only time enough to snatch down one of the pistols that hung at the head of his berth, flung out into the great cabin, to find it as black as night, the lantern slung there having been either blown out or dashed out into darkness. the prodigiously dark space was full of uproar, the hubbub and confusion pierced through and through by that keen sound of women's voices screaming, one in the cabin and the other in the stateroom beyond. almost immediately barnaby pitched headlong over two or three struggling men scuffling together upon the deck, falling with a great clatter and the loss of his pistol, which, however, he regained almost immediately. what all the uproar meant he could not tell, but he presently heard captain manly's voice from somewhere suddenly calling out, "you bloody pirate, would you choke me to death?" wherewith some notion of what had happened came to him like a flash, and that they had been attacked in the night by pirates. looking toward the companionway, he saw, outlined against the darkness of the night without, the blacker form of a man's figure, standing still and motionless as a statue in the midst of all this hubbub, and so by some instinct he knew in a moment that that must be the master maker of all this devil's brew. therewith, still kneeling upon the deck, he covered the bosom of that shadowy figure point-blank, as he thought, with his pistol, and instantly pulled the trigger. in the flash of red light, and in the instant stunning report of the pistol shot, barnaby saw, as stamped upon the blackness, a broad, flat face with fishy eyes, a lean, bony forehead with what appeared to be a great blotch of blood upon the side, a cocked hat trimmed with gold lace, a red scarf across the breast, and the gleam of brass buttons. then the darkness, very thick and black, swallowed everything again. but in the instant sir john malyoe called out, in a great loud voice: "my god! 'tis william brand!" therewith came the sound of some one falling heavily down. the next moment, barnaby's sight coming back to him again in the darkness, he beheld that dark and motionless figure still standing exactly where it had stood before, and so knew either that he had missed it or else that it was of so supernatural a sort that a leaden bullet might do it no harm. though if it was indeed an apparition that barnaby beheld in that moment, there is this to say, that he saw it as plain as ever he saw a living man in all of his life. this was the last our hero knew, for the next moment somebody--whether by accident or design he never knew--struck him such a terrible violent blow upon the side of the head that he saw forty thousand stars flash before his eyeballs, and then, with a great humming in his head, swooned dead away. when barnaby true came back to his senses again it was to find himself being cared for with great skill and nicety, his head bathed with cold water, and a bandage being bound about it as carefully as though a chirurgeon was attending to him. he could not immediately recall what had happened to him, nor until he had opened his eyes to find himself in a strange cabin, extremely well fitted and painted with white and gold, the light of a lantern shining in his eyes, together with the gray of the early daylight through the dead-eye. two men were bending over him--one, a negro in a striped shirt, with a yellow handkerchief around his head and silver earrings in his ears; the other, a white man, clad in a strange outlandish dress of a foreign make, and with great mustachios hanging down, and with gold earrings in his ears. it was the latter who was attending to barnaby's hurt with such extreme care and gentleness. all this barnaby saw with his first clear consciousness after his swoon. then remembering what had befallen him, and his head beating as though it would split asunder, he shut his eyes again, contriving with great effort to keep himself from groaning aloud, and wondering as to what sort of pirates these could be who would first knock a man in the head so terrible a blow as that which he had suffered, and then take such care to fetch him back to life again, and to make him easy and comfortable. nor did he open his eyes again, but lay there gathering his wits together and wondering thus until the bandage was properly tied about his head and sewed together. then once more he opened his eyes, and looked up to ask where he was. either they who were attending to him did not choose to reply, or else they could not speak english, for they made no answer, excepting by signs; for the white man, seeing that he was now able to speak, and so was come back into his senses again, nodded his head three or four times, and smiled with a grin of his white teeth, and then pointed, as though toward a saloon beyond. at the same time the negro held up our hero's coat and beckoned for him to put it on, so that barnaby, seeing that it was required of him to meet some one without, arose, though with a good deal of effort, and permitted the negro to help him on with his coat, still feeling mightily dizzy and uncertain upon his legs, his head beating fit to split, and the vessel rolling and pitching at a great rate, as though upon a heavy ground swell. so, still sick and dizzy, he went out into what was indeed a fine saloon beyond, painted in white and gilt like the cabin he had just quitted, and fitted in the nicest fashion, a mahogany table, polished very bright, extending the length of the room, and a quantity of bottles, together with glasses of clear crystal, arranged in a hanging rack above. here at the table a man was sitting with his back to our hero, clad in a rough pea-jacket, and with a red handkerchief tied around his throat, his feet stretched out before him, and he smoking a pipe of tobacco with all the ease and comfort in the world. as barnaby came in he turned round, and, to the profound astonishment of our hero, presented toward him in the light of the lantern, the dawn shining pretty strong through the skylight, the face of that very man who had conducted the mysterious expedition that night across kingston harbor to the rio cobra river. this man looked steadily at barnaby true for a moment or two, and then burst out laughing; and, indeed, barnaby, standing there with the bandage about his head, must have looked a very droll picture of that astonishment he felt so profoundly at finding who was this pirate into whose hands he had fallen. "well," says the other, "and so you be up at last, and no great harm done, i'll be bound. and how does your head feel by now, my young master?" to this barnaby made no reply, but, what with wonder and the dizziness of his head, seated himself at the table over against the speaker, who pushed a bottle of rum toward him, together with a glass from the swinging shelf above. he watched barnaby fill his glass, and so soon as he had done so began immediately by saying: "i do suppose you think you were treated mightily ill to be so handled last night. well, so you were treated ill enough--though who hit you that crack upon the head i know no more than a child unborn. well, i am sorry for the way you were handled, but there is this much to say, and of that you may believe me, that nothing was meant to you but kindness, and before you are through with us all you will believe that well enough." here he helped himself to a taste of grog, and sucking in his lips, went on again with what he had to say. "do you remember," said he, "that expedition of ours in kingston harbor, and how we were all of us balked that night?" "why, yes," said barnaby true, "nor am i likely to forget it." "and do you remember what i said to that villain, jack malyoe, that night as his boat went by us?" "as to that," said barnaby true, "i do not know that i can say yes or no, but if you will tell me, i will maybe answer you in kind." "why, i mean this," said the other. "i said that the villain had got the better of us once again, but that next time it would be our turn, even if william brand himself had to come back from hell to put the business through." "i remember something of the sort," said barnaby, "now that you speak of it, but still i am all in the dark as to what you are driving at." the other looked at him very cunningly for a little while, his head on one side, and his eyes half shut. then, as if satisfied, he suddenly burst out laughing. "look hither," said he, "and i'll show you something," and therewith, moving to one side, disclosed a couple of traveling cases or small trunks with brass studs, so exactly like those that sir john malyoe had fetched aboard at jamaica that barnaby, putting this and that together, knew that they must be the same. our hero had a strong enough suspicion as to what those two cases contained, and his suspicions had become a certainty when he saw sir john malyoe struck all white at being threatened about them, and his face lowering so malevolently as to look murder had he dared do it. but, lord! what were suspicions or even certainty to what barnaby true's two eyes beheld when that man lifted the lids of the two cases--the locks thereof having already been forced--and, flinging back first one lid and then the other, displayed to barnaby's astonished sight a great treasure of gold and silver! most of it tied up in leathern bags, to be sure, but many of the coins, big and little, yellow and white, lying loose and scattered about like so many beans, brimming the cases to the very top. barnaby sat dumb-struck at what he beheld; as to whether he breathed or no, i cannot tell; but this i know, that he sat staring at that marvelous treasure like a man in a trance, until, after a few seconds of this golden display, the other banged down the lids again and burst out laughing, whereupon he came back to himself with a jump. "well, and what do you think of that?" said the other. "is it not enough for a man to turn pirate for? but," he continued, "it is not for the sake of showing you this that i have been waiting for you here so long a while, but to tell you that you are not the only passenger aboard, but that there is another, whom i am to confide to your care and attention, according to orders i have received; so, if you are ready, master barnaby, i'll fetch her in directly." he waited for a moment, as though for barnaby to speak, but our hero not replying, he arose and, putting away the bottle of rum and the glasses, crossed the saloon to a door like that from which barnaby had come a little while before. this he opened, and after a moment's delay and a few words spoken to some one within, ushered thence a young lady, who came out very slowly into the saloon where barnaby still sat at the table. it was miss marjorie malyoe, very white, and looking as though stunned or bewildered by all that had befallen her. barnaby true could never tell whether the amazing strange voyage that followed was of long or of short duration; whether it occupied three days or ten days. for conceive, if you choose, two people of flesh and blood moving and living continually in all the circumstances and surroundings as of a nightmare dream, yet they two so happy together that all the universe beside was of no moment to them! how was anyone to tell whether in such circumstances any time appeared to be long or short? does a dream appear to be long or to be short? the vessel in which they sailed was a brigantine of good size and build, but manned by a considerable crew, the most strange and outlandish in their appearance that barnaby had ever beheld--some white, some yellow, some black, and all tricked out with gay colors, and gold earrings in their ears, and some with great long mustachios, and others with handkerchiefs tied around their heads, and all talking a language together of which barnaby true could understand not a single word, but which might have been portuguese from one or two phrases he caught. nor did this strange, mysterious crew, of god knows what sort of men, seem to pay any attention whatever to barnaby or to the young lady. they might now and then have looked at him and her out of the corners of their yellow eyes, but that was all; otherwise they were indeed like the creatures of a nightmare dream. only he who was the captain of this outlandish crew would maybe speak to barnaby a few words as to the weather or what not when he would come down into the saloon to mix a glass of grog or to light a pipe of tobacco, and then to go on deck again about his business. otherwise our hero and the young lady were left to themselves, to do as they pleased, with no one to interfere with them. [illustration: "she would sit quite still, permitting barnaby to gaze" _illustration from_ the ghost of captain brand _by_ howard pyle _originally published in_ harper's weekly, _december , _] as for her, she at no time showed any great sign of terror or of fear, only for a little while was singularly numb and quiet, as though dazed with what had happened to her. indeed, methinks that wild beast, her grandfather, had so crushed her spirit by his tyranny and his violence that nothing that happened to her might seem sharp and keen, as it does to others of an ordinary sort. but this was only at first, for afterward her face began to grow singularly clear, as with a white light, and she would sit quite still, permitting barnaby to gaze, i know not how long, into her eyes, her face so transfigured and her lips smiling, and they, as it were, neither of them breathing, but hearing, as in another far-distant place, the outlandish jargon of the crew talking together in the warm, bright sunlight, or the sound of creaking block and tackle as they hauled upon the sheets. is it, then, any wonder that barnaby true could never remember whether such a voyage as this was long or short? it was as though they might have sailed so upon that wonderful voyage forever. you may guess how amazed was barnaby true when, coming upon deck one morning, he found the brigantine riding upon an even keel, at anchor off staten island, a small village on the shore, and the well-known roofs and chimneys of new york town in plain sight across the water. 'twas the last place in the world he had expected to see. and, indeed, it did seem strange to lie there alongside staten island all that day, with new york town so nigh at hand and yet so impossible to reach. for whether he desired to escape or no, barnaby true could not but observe that both he and the young lady were so closely watched that they might as well have been prisoners, tied hand and foot and laid in the hold, so far as any hope of getting away was concerned. all that day there was a deal of mysterious coming and going aboard the brigantine, and in the afternoon a sailboat went up to the town, carrying the captain, and a great load covered over with a tarpaulin in the stern. what was so taken up to the town barnaby did not then guess, but the boat did not return again till about sundown. for the sun was just dropping below the water when the captain came aboard once more and, finding barnaby on deck, bade him come down into the saloon, where they found the young lady sitting, the broad light of the evening shining in through the skylight, and making it all pretty bright within. the captain commanded barnaby to be seated, for he had something of moment to say to him; whereupon, as soon as barnaby had taken his place alongside the young lady, he began very seriously, with a preface somewhat thus: "though you may think me the captain of this brigantine, young gentleman, i am not really so, but am under orders, and so have only carried out those orders of a superior in all these things that i have done." having so begun, he went on to say that there was one thing yet remaining for him to do, and that the greatest thing of all. he said that barnaby and the young lady had not been fetched away from the _belle helen_ as they were by any mere chance of accident, but that 'twas all a plan laid by a head wiser than his, and carried out by one whom he must obey in all things. he said that he hoped that both barnaby and the young lady would perform willingly what they would be now called upon to do, but that whether they did it willingly or no, they must, for that those were the orders of one who was not to be disobeyed. you may guess how our hero held his breath at all this; but whatever might have been his expectations, the very wildest of them all did not reach to that which was demanded of him. "my orders are these," said the other, continuing: "i am to take you and the young lady ashore, and to see that you are married before i quit you; and to that end a very good, decent, honest minister who lives ashore yonder in the village was chosen and hath been spoken to and is now, no doubt, waiting for you to come. such are my orders, and this is the last thing i am set to do; so now i will leave you alone together for five minutes to talk it over, but be quick about it, for whether willing or not, this thing must be done." thereupon he went away, as he had promised, leaving those two alone together, barnaby like one turned into stone, and the young lady, her face turned away, flaming as red as fire in the fading light. nor can i tell what barnaby said to her, nor what words he used, but only, all in a tumult, with neither beginning nor end he told her that god knew he loved her, and that with all his heart and soul, and that there was nothing in all the world for him but her; but, nevertheless, if she would not have it as had been ordered, and if she were not willing to marry him as she was bidden to do, he would rather die than lend himself to forcing her to do such a thing against her will. nevertheless, he told her she must speak up and tell him yes or no, and that god knew he would give all the world if she would say "yes." all this and more he said in such a tumult of words that there was no order in their speaking, and she sitting there, her bosom rising and falling as though her breath stifled her. nor may i tell what she replied to him, only this, that she said she would marry him. at this he took her into his arms and set his lips to hers, his heart all melting away in his bosom. so presently came the captain back into the saloon again, to find barnaby sitting there holding her hand, she with her face turned away, and his heart beating like a trip hammer, and so saw that all was settled as he would have it. wherewith he wished them both joy, and gave barnaby his hand. the yawlboat belonging to the brigantine was ready and waiting alongside when they came upon deck, and immediately they descended to it and took their seats. so they landed, and in a little while were walking up the village street in the darkness, she clinging to his arm as though she would swoon, and the captain of the brigantine and two other men from aboard following after them. and so to the minister's house, finding him waiting for them, smoking his pipe in the warm evening, and walking up and down in front of his own door. he immediately conducted them into the house, where, his wife having fetched a candle, and two others of the village folk being present, the good man having asked several questions as to their names and their age and where they were from, the ceremony was performed, and the certificate duly signed by those present--excepting the men who had come ashore from the brigantine, and who refused to set their hands to any paper. the same sailboat that had taken the captain up to the town in the afternoon was waiting for them at the landing place, whence, the captain, having wished them godspeed, and having shaken barnaby very heartily by the hand, they pushed off, and, coming about, ran away with the slant of the wind, dropping the shore and those strange beings alike behind them into the night. as they sped away through the darkness they could hear the creaking of the sails being hoisted aboard of the brigantine, and so knew that she was about to put to sea once more. nor did barnaby true ever set eyes upon those beings again, nor did anyone else that i ever heard tell of. it was nigh midnight when they made mr. hartright's wharf at the foot of wall street, and so the streets were all dark and silent and deserted as they walked up to barnaby's home. you may conceive of the wonder and amazement of barnaby's dear stepfather when, clad in a dressing gown and carrying a lighted candle in his hand, he unlocked and unbarred the door, and so saw who it was had aroused him at such an hour of the night, and the young and beautiful lady whom barnaby had fetched with him. the first thought of the good man was that the _belle helen_ had come into port; nor did barnaby undeceive him as he led the way into the house, but waited until they were all safe and sound in privity together before he should unfold his strange and wonderful story. "this was left for you by two foreign sailors this afternoon, barnaby," the good old man said, as he led the way through the hall, holding up the candle at the same time, so that barnaby might see an object that stood against the wainscoting by the door of the dining room. nor could barnaby refrain from crying out with amazement when he saw that it was one of the two chests of treasure that sir john malyoe had fetched from jamaica, and which the pirates had taken from the _belle helen_. as for mr. hartright, he guessed no more what was in it than the man in the moon. the next day but one brought the _belle helen_ herself into port, with the terrible news not only of having been attacked at night by pirates, but also that sir john malyoe was dead. for whether it was the sudden shock of the sight of his old captain's face--whom he himself had murdered and thought dead and buried--flashing so out against the darkness, or whether it was the strain of passion that overset his brains, certain it is that when the pirates left the _belle helen_, carrying with them the young lady and barnaby and the traveling trunks, those left aboard the _belle helen_ found sir john malyoe lying in a fit upon the floor, frothing at the mouth and black in the face, as though he had been choked, and so took him away to his berth, where, the next morning about ten o'clock, he died, without once having opened his eyes or spoken a single word. as for the villain manservant, no one ever saw him afterward; though whether he jumped overboard, or whether the pirates who so attacked the ship had carried him away bodily, who shall say? mr. hartright, after he had heard barnaby's story, had been very uncertain as to the ownership of the chest of treasure that had been left by those men for barnaby, but the news of the death of sir john malyoe made the matter very easy for him to decide. for surely if that treasure did not belong to barnaby, there could be no doubt that it must belong to his wife, she being sir john malyoe's legal heir. and so it was that that great fortune (in actual computation amounting to upward of sixty-three thousand pounds) came to barnaby true, the grandson of that famous pirate, william brand; the english estate in devonshire, in default of male issue of sir john malyoe, descended to captain malyoe, whom the young lady was to have married. as for the other case of treasure, it was never heard of again, nor could barnaby ever guess whether it was divided as booty among the pirates, or whether they had carried it away with them to some strange and foreign land, there to share it among themselves. and so the ending of the story, with only this to observe, that whether that strange appearance of captain brand's face by the light of the pistol was a ghostly and spiritual appearance, or whether he was present in flesh and blood, there is only to say that he was never heard of again; nor had he ever been heard of till that time since the day he was so shot from behind by capt. john malyoe on the banks of the rio cobra river in the year . chapter iii with the buccaneers _being an account of certain adventures that befell henry mostyn under capt. h. morgan in the year - _ [illustration] i although this narration has more particularly to do with the taking of the spanish vice admiral in the harbor of porto bello, and of the rescue therefrom of le sieur simon, his wife and daughter (the adventure of which was successfully achieved by captain morgan, the famous buccaneer), we shall, nevertheless, premise something of the earlier history of master harry mostyn, whom you may, if you please, consider as the hero of the several circumstances recounted in these pages. in the year our hero's father embarked from portsmouth, in england, for the barbados, where he owned a considerable sugar plantation. thither to those parts of america he transported with himself his whole family, of whom our master harry was the fifth of eight children--a great lusty fellow as little fitted for the church (for which he was designed) as could be. at the time of this story, though not above sixteen years old, master harry mostyn was as big and well-grown as many a man of twenty, and of such a reckless and dare-devil spirit that no adventure was too dangerous or too mischievous for him to embark upon. at this time there was a deal of talk in those parts of the americas concerning captain morgan, and the prodigious successes he was having pirating against the spaniards. this man had once been an indentured servant with mr. rolls, a sugar factor at the barbados. having served out his time, and being of lawless disposition, possessing also a prodigious appetite for adventure, he joined with others of his kidney, and, purchasing a caravel of three guns, embarked fairly upon that career of piracy the most successful that ever was heard of in the world. master harry had known this man very well while he was still with mr. rolls, serving as a clerk at that gentleman's sugar wharf, a tall, broad-shouldered, strapping fellow, with red cheeks, and thick red lips, and rolling blue eyes, and hair as red as any chestnut. many knew him for a bold, gruff-spoken man, but no one at that time suspected that he had it in him to become so famous and renowned as he afterward grew to be. the fame of his exploits had been the talk of those parts for above a twelvemonth, when, in the latter part of the year , captain morgan, having made a very successful expedition against the spaniards into the gulf of campeche--where he took several important purchases from the plate fleet--came to the barbados, there to fit out another such venture, and to enlist recruits. he and certain other adventurers had purchased a vessel of some five hundred tons, which they proposed to convert into a pirate by cutting portholes for cannon, and running three or four carronades across her main deck. the name of this ship, be it mentioned, was the _good samaritan_, as ill-fitting a name as could be for such a craft, which, instead of being designed for the healing of wounds, was intended to inflict such devastation as those wicked men proposed. [illustration: buried treasure] here was a piece of mischief exactly fitted to our hero's tastes; wherefore, having made up a bundle of clothes, and with not above a shilling in his pocket, he made an excursion into the town to seek for captain morgan. there he found the great pirate established at an ordinary, with a little court of ragamuffins and swashbucklers gathered about him, all talking very loud, and drinking healths in raw rum as though it were sugared water. and what a fine figure our buccaneer had grown, to be sure! how different from the poor, humble clerk upon the sugar wharf! what a deal of gold braid! what a fine, silver-hilted spanish sword! what a gay velvet sling, hung with three silver-mounted pistols! if master harry's mind had not been made up before, to be sure such a spectacle of glory would have determined it. this figure of war our hero asked to step aside with him, and when they had come into a corner, proposed to the other what he intended, and that he had a mind to enlist as a gentleman adventurer upon this expedition. upon this our rogue of a buccaneer captain burst out a-laughing, and fetching master harry a great thump upon the back, swore roundly that he would make a man of him, and that it was a pity to make a parson out of so good a piece of stuff. nor was captain morgan less good than his word, for when the _good samaritan_ set sail with a favoring wind for the island of jamaica, master harry found himself established as one of the adventurers aboard. ii could you but have seen the town of port royal as it appeared in the year you would have beheld a sight very well worth while looking upon. there were no fine houses at that time, and no great counting houses built of brick, such as you may find nowadays, but a crowd of board and wattled huts huddled along the streets, and all so gay with flags and bits of color that vanity fair itself could not have been gayer. to this place came all the pirates and buccaneers that infested those parts, and men shouted and swore and gambled, and poured out money like water, and then maybe wound up their merrymaking by dying of fever. for the sky in these torrid latitudes is all full of clouds overhead, and as hot as any blanket, and when the sun shone forth it streamed down upon the smoking sands so that the houses were ovens and the streets were furnaces; so it was little wonder that men died like rats in a hole. but little they appeared to care for that; so that everywhere you might behold a multitude of painted women and jews and merchants and pirates, gaudy with red scarfs and gold braid and all sorts of odds and ends of foolish finery, all fighting and gambling and bartering for that ill-gotten treasure of the be-robbed spaniard. here, arriving, captain morgan found a hearty welcome, and a message from the governor awaiting him, the message bidding him attend his excellency upon the earliest occasion that offered. whereupon, taking our hero (of whom he had grown prodigiously fond) along with him, our pirate went, without any loss of time, to visit sir thomas modiford, who was then the royal governor of all this devil's brew of wickedness. they found his excellency seated in a great easy-chair, under the shadow of a slatted veranda, the floor whereof was paved with brick. he was clad, for the sake of coolness, only in his shirt, breeches, and stockings, and he wore slippers on his feet. he was smoking a great cigarro of tobacco, and a goblet of lime juice and water and rum stood at his elbow on a table. here, out of the glare of the heat, it was all very cool and pleasant, with a sea breeze blowing violently in through the slats, setting them a-rattling now and then, and stirring sir thomas's long hair, which he had pushed back for the sake of coolness. the purport of this interview, i may tell you, concerned the rescue of one le sieur simon, who, together with his wife and daughter, was held captive by the spaniards. [illustration] this gentleman adventurer (le sieur simon) had, a few years before, been set up by the buccaneers as governor of the island of santa catharina. this place, though well fortified by the spaniards, the buccaneers had seized upon, establishing themselves thereon, and so infesting the commerce of those seas that no spanish fleet was safe from them. at last the spaniards, no longer able to endure these assaults against their commerce, sent a great force against the freebooters to drive them out of their island stronghold. this they did, retaking santa catharina, together with its governor, his wife, and daughter, as well as the whole garrison of buccaneers. this garrison was sent by their conquerors, some to the galleys, some to the mines, some to no man knows where. the governor himself--le sieur simon--was to be sent to spain, there to stand his trial for piracy. the news of all this, i may tell you, had only just been received in jamaica, having been brought thither by a spanish captain, one don roderiguez sylvia, who was, besides, the bearer of dispatches to the spanish authorities relating the whole affair. such, in fine, was the purport of this interview, and as our hero and his captain walked back together from the governor's house to the ordinary where they had taken up their inn, the buccaneer assured his companion that he purposed to obtain those dispatches from the spanish captain that very afternoon, even if he had to use force to seize them. all this, you are to understand, was undertaken only because of the friendship that the governor and captain morgan entertained for le sieur simon. and, indeed, it was wonderful how honest and how faithful were these wicked men in their dealings with one another. for you must know that governor modiford and le sieur simon and the buccaneers were all of one kidney--all taking a share in the piracies of those times, and all holding by one another as though they were the honestest men in the world. hence it was they were all so determined to rescue le sieur simon from the spaniards. iii having reached his ordinary after his interview with the governor, captain morgan found there a number of his companions, such as usually gathered at that place to be in attendance upon him--some, those belonging to the _good samaritan_; others, those who hoped to obtain benefits from him; others, those ragamuffins who gathered around him because he was famous, and because it pleased them to be of his court and to be called his followers. for nearly always your successful pirate had such a little court surrounding him. finding a dozen or more of these rascals gathered there, captain morgan informed them of his present purpose--that he was going to find the spanish captain to demand his papers of him, and calling upon them to accompany him. with this following at his heels, our buccaneer started off down the street, his lieutenant, a cornishman named bartholomew davis, upon one hand and our hero upon the other. so they paraded the streets for the best part of an hour before they found the spanish captain. for whether he had got wind that captain morgan was searching for him, or whether, finding himself in a place so full of his enemies, he had buried himself in some place of hiding, it is certain that the buccaneers had traversed pretty nearly the whole town before they discovered that he was lying at a certain auberge kept by a portuguese jew. thither they went, and thither captain morgan entered with the utmost coolness and composure of demeanor, his followers crowding noisily in at his heels. the space within was very dark, being lighted only by the doorway and by two large slatted windows or openings in the front. in this dark, hot place--not over-roomy at the best--were gathered twelve or fifteen villainous-appearing men, sitting at tables and drinking together, waited upon by the jew and his wife. our hero had no trouble in discovering which of this lot of men was captain sylvia, for not only did captain morgan direct his glance full of war upon him, but the spaniard was clad with more particularity and with more show of finery than any of the others who were there. him captain morgan approached and demanded his papers, whereunto the other replied with such a jabber of spanish and english that no man could have understood what he said. to this captain morgan in turn replied that he must have those papers, no matter what it might cost him to obtain them, and thereupon drew a pistol from his sling and presented it at the other's head. at this threatening action the innkeeper's wife fell a-screaming, and the jew, as in a frenzy, besought them not to tear the house down about his ears. our hero could hardly tell what followed, only that all of a sudden there was a prodigious uproar of combat. knives flashed everywhere, and then a pistol was fired so close to his head that he stood like one stunned, hearing some one crying out in a loud voice, but not knowing whether it was a friend or a foe who had been shot. then another pistol shot so deafened what was left of master harry's hearing that his ears rang for above an hour afterward. by this time the whole place was full of gunpowder smoke, and there was the sound of blows and oaths and outcrying and the clashing of knives. as master harry, who had no great stomach for such a combat, and no very particular interest in the quarrel, was making for the door, a little portuguese, as withered and as nimble as an ape, came ducking under the table and plunged at his stomach with a great long knife, which, had it effected its object, would surely have ended his adventures then and there. finding himself in such danger, master harry snatched up a heavy chair, and, flinging it at his enemy, who was preparing for another attack, he fairly ran for it out of the door, expecting every instant to feel the thrust of the blade betwixt his ribs. a considerable crowd had gathered outside, and others, hearing the uproar, were coming running to join them. with these our hero stood, trembling like a leaf, and with cold chills running up and down his back like water at the narrow escape from the danger that had threatened him. nor shall you think him a coward, for you must remember he was hardly sixteen years old at the time, and that this was the first affair of the sort he had encountered. afterward, as you shall learn, he showed that he could exhibit courage enough at a pinch. while he stood there, endeavoring to recover his composure, the while the tumult continued within, suddenly two men came running almost together out of the door, a crowd of the combatants at their heels. the first of these men was captain sylvia; the other, who was pursuing him, was captain morgan. as the crowd about the door parted before the sudden appearing of these, the spanish captain, perceiving, as he supposed, a way of escape opened to him, darted across the street with incredible swiftness toward an alleyway upon the other side. upon this, seeing his prey like to get away from him, captain morgan snatched a pistol out of his sling, and resting it for an instant across his arm, fired at the flying spaniard, and that with so true an aim that, though the street was now full of people, the other went tumbling over and over all of a heap in the kennel, where he lay, after a twitch or two, as still as a log. at the sound of the shot and the fall of the man the crowd scattered upon all sides, yelling and screaming, and the street being thus pretty clear, captain morgan ran across the way to where his victim lay, his smoking pistol still in his hand, and our hero following close at his heels. our poor harry had never before beheld a man killed thus in an instant who a moment before had been so full of life and activity, for when captain morgan turned the body over upon its back he could perceive at a glance, little as he knew of such matters, that the man was stone-dead. and, indeed, it was a dreadful sight for him who was hardly more than a child. he stood rooted for he knew not how long, staring down at the dead face with twitching fingers and shuddering limbs. meantime a great crowd was gathering about them again. [illustration] as for captain morgan, he went about his work with the utmost coolness and deliberation imaginable, unbuttoning the waistcoat and the shirt of the man he had murdered with fingers that neither twitched nor shook. there were a gold cross and a bunch of silver medals hung by a whipcord about the neck of the dead man. this captain morgan broke away with a snap, reaching the jingling baubles to harry, who took them in his nerveless hand and fingers that he could hardly close upon what they held. the papers captain morgan found in a wallet in an inner breast pocket of the spaniard's waistcoat. these he examined one by one, and finding them to his satisfaction, tied them up again, and slipped the wallet and its contents into his own pocket. then for the first time he appeared to observe master harry, who, indeed, must have been standing, the perfect picture of horror and dismay. whereupon, bursting out a-laughing, and slipping the pistol he had used back into its sling again, he fetched poor harry a great slap upon the back, bidding him be a man, for that he would see many such sights as this. but indeed, it was no laughing matter for poor master harry, for it was many a day before his imagination could rid itself of the image of the dead spaniard's face; and as he walked away down the street with his companions, leaving the crowd behind them, and the dead body where it lay for its friends to look after, his ears humming and ringing from the deafening noise of the pistol shots fired in the close room, and the sweat trickling down his face in drops, he knew not whether all that had passed had been real, or whether it was a dream from which he might presently awaken. iv the papers captain morgan had thus seized upon as the fruit of the murder he had committed must have been as perfectly satisfactory to him as could be, for having paid a second visit that evening to governor modiford, the pirate lifted anchor the next morning and made sail toward the gulf of darien. there, after cruising about in those waters for about a fortnight without falling in with a vessel of any sort, at the end of that time they overhauled a caravel bound from porto bello to cartagena, which vessel they took, and finding her loaded with nothing better than raw hides, scuttled and sank her, being then about twenty leagues from the main of cartagena. from the captain of this vessel they learned that the plate fleet was then lying in the harbor of porto bello, not yet having set sail thence, but waiting for the change of the winds before embarking for spain. besides this, which was a good deal more to their purpose, the spaniards told the pirates that the sieur simon, his wife, and daughter were confined aboard the vice admiral of that fleet, and that the name of the vice admiral was the _santa maria y valladolid_. [illustration: kidd on the deck of the _adventure galley_] so soon as captain morgan had obtained the information he desired he directed his course straight for the bay of santo blaso, where he might lie safely within the cape of that name without any danger of discovery (that part of the mainland being entirely uninhabited) and yet be within twenty or twenty-five leagues of porto bello. having come safely to this anchorage, he at once declared his intentions to his companions, which were as follows: that it was entirely impossible for them to hope to sail their vessel into the harbor of porto bello, and to attack the spanish vice admiral where he lay in the midst of the armed flota; wherefore, if anything was to be accomplished, it must be undertaken by some subtle design rather than by open-handed boldness. having so prefaced what he had to say, he now declared that it was his purpose to take one of the ship's boats and to go in that to porto bello, trusting for some opportunity to occur to aid him either in the accomplishment of his aims or in the gaining of some further information. having thus delivered himself, he invited any who dared to do so to volunteer for the expedition, telling them plainly that he would constrain no man to go against his will, for that at best it was a desperate enterprise, possessing only the recommendation that in its achievement the few who undertook it would gain great renown, and perhaps a very considerable booty. and such was the incredible influence of this bold man over his companions, and such was their confidence in his skill and cunning, that not above a dozen of all those aboard hung back from the undertaking, but nearly every man desired to be taken. of these volunteers captain morgan chose twenty--among others our master harry--and having arranged with his lieutenant that if nothing was heard from the expedition at the end of three days he should sail for jamaica to await news, he embarked upon that enterprise, which, though never heretofore published, was perhaps the boldest and the most desperate of all those that have since made his name so famous. for what could be a more unparalleled undertaking than for a little open boat, containing but twenty men, to enter the harbor of the third strongest fortress of the spanish mainland with the intention of cutting out the spanish vice admiral from the midst of a whole fleet of powerfully armed vessels, and how many men in all the world do you suppose would venture such a thing? but there is this to be said of that great buccaneer: that if he undertook enterprises so desperate as this, he yet laid his plans so well that they never went altogether amiss. moreover, the very desperation of his successes was of such a nature that no man could suspect that he would dare to undertake such things, and accordingly his enemies were never prepared to guard against his attacks. aye, had he but worn the king's colors and served under the rules of honest war, he might have become as great and as renowned as admiral blake himself. but all that is neither here nor there; what i have to tell you now is that captain morgan in this open boat with his twenty mates reached the cape of salmedina toward the fall of day. arriving within view of the harbor they discovered the plate fleet at anchor, with two men-of-war and an armed galley riding as a guard at the mouth of the harbor, scarce half a league distant from the other ships. having spied the fleet in this posture, the pirates presently pulled down their sails and rowed along the coast, feigning to be a spanish vessel from nombre de dios. so hugging the shore, they came boldly within the harbor, upon the opposite side of which you might see the fortress a considerable distance away. being now come so near to the consummation of their adventure, captain morgan required every man to make an oath to stand by him to the last, whereunto our hero swore as heartily as any man aboard, although his heart, i must needs confess, was beating at a great rate at the approach of what was to happen. having thus received the oaths of all his followers, captain morgan commanded the surgeon of the expedition that, when the order was given, he, the medico, was to bore six holes in the boat, so that, it sinking under them, they might all be compelled to push forward, with no chance of retreat. and such was the ascendancy of this man over his followers, and such was their awe of him, that not one of them uttered even so much as a murmur, though what he had commanded the surgeon to do pledged them either to victory or to death, with no chance to choose between. nor did the surgeon question the orders he had received, much less did he dream of disobeying them. by now it had fallen pretty dusk, whereupon, spying two fishermen in a canoe at a little distance, captain morgan demanded of them in spanish which vessel of those at anchor in the harbor was the vice admiral, for that he had dispatches for the captain thereof. whereupon the fishermen, suspecting nothing, pointed to them a galleon of great size riding at anchor not half a league distant. [illustration] toward this vessel accordingly the pirates directed their course, and when they had come pretty nigh, captain morgan called upon the surgeon that now it was time for him to perform the duty that had been laid upon him. whereupon the other did as he was ordered, and that so thoroughly that the water presently came gushing into the boat in great streams, whereat all hands pulled for the galleon as though every next moment was to be their last. and what do you suppose were our hero's emotions at this time? like all in the boat, his awe of captain morgan was so great that i do believe he would rather have gone to the bottom than have questioned his command, even when it was to scuttle the boat. nevertheless, when he felt the cold water gushing about his feet (for he had taken off his shoes and stockings) he became possessed with such a fear of being drowned that even the spanish galleon had no terrors for him if he could only feel the solid planks thereof beneath his feet. indeed, all the crew appeared to be possessed of a like dismay, for they pulled at the oars with such an incredible force that they were under the quarter of the galleon before the boat was half filled with water. here, as they approached, it then being pretty dark and the moon not yet having risen, the watch upon the deck hailed them, whereupon captain morgan called out in spanish that he was capt. alvarez mendazo, and that he brought dispatches for the vice admiral. but at that moment, the boat being now so full of water as to be logged, it suddenly tilted upon one side as though to sink beneath them, whereupon all hands, without further orders, went scrambling up the side, as nimble as so many monkeys, each armed with a pistol in one hand and a cutlass in the other, and so were upon deck before the watch could collect his wits to utter any outcry or to give any other alarm than to cry out, "jesu bless us! who are these?" at which words somebody knocked him down with the butt of a pistol, though who it was our hero could not tell in the darkness and the hurry. before any of those upon deck could recover from their alarm or those from below come up upon deck, a part of the pirates, under the carpenter and the surgeon, had run to the gun room and had taken possession of the arms, while captain morgan, with master harry and a portuguese called murillo braziliano, had flown with the speed of the wind into the great cabin. here they found the captain of the vice admiral playing at cards with the sieur simon and a friend, madam simon and her daughter being present. captain morgan instantly set his pistol at the breast of the spanish captain, swearing with a most horrible fierce countenance that if he spake a word or made any outcry he was a dead man. as for our hero, having now got his hand into the game, he performed the same service for the spaniard's friend, declaring he would shoot him dead if he opened his lips or lifted so much as a single finger. all this while the ladies, not comprehending what had occurred, had sat as mute as stones; but now having so far recovered themselves as to find a voice, the younger of the two fell to screaming, at which the sieur simon called out to her to be still, for these were friends who had come to help them, and not enemies who had come to harm them. all this, you are to understand, occupied only a little while, for in less than a minute three or four of the pirates had come into the cabin, who, together with the portuguese, proceeded at once to bind the two spaniards hand and foot, and to gag them. this being done to our buccaneer's satisfaction, and the spanish captain being stretched out in the corner of the cabin, he instantly cleared his countenance of its terrors, and bursting forth into a great loud laugh, clapped his hand to the sieur simon's, which he wrung with the best will in the world. having done this, and being in a fine humor after this his first success, he turned to the two ladies. "and this, ladies," said he, taking our hero by the hand and presenting him, "is a young gentleman who has embarked with me to learn the trade of piracy. i recommend him to your politeness." think what a confusion this threw our master harry into, to be sure, who at his best was never easy in the company of strange ladies! you may suppose what must have been his emotions to find himself thus introduced to the attention of madam simon and her daughter, being at the time in his bare feet, clad only in his shirt and breeches, and with no hat upon his head, a pistol in one hand and a cutlass in the other. however, he was not left for long to his embarrassments, for almost immediately after he had thus far relaxed, captain morgan fell of a sudden serious again, and bidding the sieur simon to get his ladies away into some place of safety, for the most hazardous part of this adventure was yet to occur, he quitted the cabin with master harry and the other pirates (for you may call him a pirate now) at his heels. having come upon deck, our hero beheld that a part of the spanish crew were huddled forward in a flock like so many sheep (the others being crowded below with the hatches fastened upon them), and such was the terror of the pirates, and so dreadful the name of henry morgan, that not one of those poor wretches dared to lift up his voice to give any alarm, nor even to attempt an escape by jumping overboard. at captain morgan's orders, these men, together with certain of his own company, ran nimbly aloft and began setting the sails, which, the night now having fallen pretty thick, was not for a good while observed by any of the vessels riding at anchor about them. indeed, the pirates might have made good their escape, with at most only a shot or two from the men-of-war, had it not then been about the full of the moon, which, having arisen, presently discovered to those of the fleet that lay closest about them what was being done aboard the vice admiral. at this one of the vessels hailed them, and then after a while, having no reply, hailed them again. even then the spaniards might not immediately have suspected anything was amiss but only that the vice admiral for some reason best known to himself was shifting his anchorage, had not one of the spaniards aloft--but who it was captain morgan was never able to discover--answered the hail by crying out that the vice admiral had been seized by the pirates. at this the alarm was instantly given and the mischief done, for presently there was a tremendous bustle through that part of the fleet lying nighest the vice admiral--a deal of shouting of orders, a beating of drums, and the running hither and thither of the crews. but by this time the sails of the vice admiral had filled with a strong land breeze that was blowing up the harbor, whereupon the carpenter, at captain morgan's orders, having cut away both anchors, the galleon presently bore away up the harbor, gathering headway every moment with the wind nearly dead astern. the nearest vessel was the only one that for the moment was able to offer any hindrance. this ship, having by this time cleared away one of its guns, was able to fire a parting shot against the vice-admiral, striking her somewhere forward, as our hero could see by a great shower of splinters that flew up in the moonlight. at the sound of the shot all the vessels of the flota not yet disturbed by the alarm were aroused at once, so that the pirates had the satisfaction of knowing that they would have to run the gantlet of all the ships between them and the open sea before they could reckon themselves escaped. and, indeed, to our hero's mind it seemed that the battle which followed must have been the most terrific cannonade that was ever heard in the world. it was not so ill at first, for it was some while before the spaniards could get their guns clear for action, they being not the least in the world prepared for such an occasion as this. but by and by first one and then another ship opened fire upon the galleon, until it seemed to our hero that all the thunders of heaven let loose upon them could not have created a more prodigious uproar, and that it was not possible that they could any of them escape destruction. by now the moon had risen full and round, so that the clouds of smoke that rose in the air appeared as white as snow. the air seemed full of the hiss and screaming of shot, each one of which, when it struck the galleon, was magnified by our hero's imagination into ten times its magnitude from the crash which it delivered and from the cloud of splinters it would cast up into the moonlight. at last he suddenly beheld one poor man knocked sprawling across the deck, who, as he raised his arm from behind the mast, disclosed that the hand was gone from it, and that the shirt sleeve was red with blood in the moonlight. at this sight all the strength fell away from poor harry, and he felt sure that a like fate or even a worse must be in store for him. but, after all, this was nothing to what it might have been in broad daylight, for what with the darkness of night, and the little preparation the spaniards could make for such a business, and the extreme haste with which they discharged their guns (many not understanding what was the occasion of all this uproar), nearly all the shot flew so wide of the mark that not above one in twenty struck that at which it was aimed. meantime captain morgan, with the sieur simon, who had followed him upon deck, stood just above where our hero lay behind the shelter of the bulwark. the captain had lit a pipe of tobacco, and he stood now in the bright moonlight close to the rail, with his hands behind him, looking out ahead with the utmost coolness imaginable, and paying no more attention to the din of battle than though it were twenty leagues away. now and then he would take his pipe from his lips to utter an order to the man at the wheel. excepting this he stood there hardly moving at all, the wind blowing his long red hair over his shoulders. [illustration: burning the ship] had it not been for the armed galley the pirates might have got the galleon away with no great harm done in spite of all this cannonading, for the man-of-war which rode at anchor nighest to them at the mouth of the harbor was still so far away that they might have passed it by hugging pretty close to the shore, and that without any great harm being done to them in the darkness. but just at this moment, when the open water lay in sight, came this galley pulling out from behind the point of the shore in such a manner as either to head our pirates off entirely or else to compel them to approach so near to the man-of-war that that latter vessel could bring its guns to bear with more effect. this galley, i must tell you, was like others of its kind such as you may find in these waters, the hull being long and cut low to the water so as to allow the oars to dip freely. the bow was sharp and projected far out ahead, mounting a swivel upon it, while at the stern a number of galleries built one above another into a castle gave shelter to several companies of musketeers as well as the officers commanding them. our hero could behold the approach of this galley from above the starboard bulwarks, and it appeared to him impossible for them to hope to escape either it or the man-of-war. but still captain morgan maintained the same composure that he had exhibited all the while, only now and then delivering an order to the man at the wheel, who, putting the helm over, threw the bows of the galleon around more to the larboard, as though to escape the bow of the galley and get into the open water beyond. this course brought the pirates ever closer and closer to the man-of-war, which now began to add its thunder to the din of the battle, and with so much more effect that at every discharge you might hear the crashing and crackling of splintered wood, and now and then the outcry or groaning of some man who was hurt. indeed, had it been daylight, they must at this juncture all have perished, though, as was said, what with the night and the confusion and the hurry, they escaped entire destruction, though more by a miracle than through any policy upon their own part. meantime the galley, steering as though to come aboard of them, had now come so near that it, too, presently began to open its musketry fire upon them, so that the humming and rattling of bullets were presently added to the din of cannonading. in two minutes more it would have been aboard of them, when in a moment captain morgan roared out of a sudden to the man at the helm to put it hard a starboard. in response the man ran the wheel over with the utmost quickness, and the galleon, obeying her helm very readily, came around upon a course which, if continued, would certainly bring them into collision with their enemy. it is possible at first the spaniards imagined the pirates intended to escape past their stern, for they instantly began backing oars to keep them from getting past, so that the water was all of a foam about them; at the same time they did this they poured in such a fire of musketry that it was a miracle that no more execution was accomplished than happened. as for our hero, methinks for the moment he forgot all about everything else than as to whether or no his captain's maneuver would succeed, for in the very first moment he divined, as by some instinct, what captain morgan purposed doing. at this moment, so particular in the execution of this nice design, a bullet suddenly struck down the man at the wheel. hearing the sharp outcry, our harry turned to see him fall forward, and then to his hands and knees upon the deck, the blood running in a black pool beneath him, while the wheel, escaping from his hands, spun over until the spokes were all of a mist. in a moment the ship would have fallen off before the wind had not our hero, leaping to the wheel (even as captain morgan shouted an order for some one to do so), seized the flying spokes, whirling them back again, and so bringing the bow of the galleon up to its former course. in the first moment of this effort he had reckoned of nothing but of carrying out his captain's designs. he neither thought of cannon balls nor of bullets. but now that his task was accomplished, he came suddenly back to himself to find the galleries of the galley aflame with musket shots, and to become aware with a most horrible sinking of the spirits that all the shots therefrom were intended for him. he cast his eyes about him with despair, but no one came to ease him of his task, which, having undertaken, he had too much spirit to resign from carrying through to the end, though he was well aware that the very next instant might mean his sudden and violent death. his ears hummed and rang, and his brain swam as light as a feather. i know not whether he breathed, but he shut his eyes tight as though that might save him from the bullets that were raining about him. [illustration] at this moment the spaniards must have discovered for the first time the pirates' design, for of a sudden they ceased firing, and began to shout out a multitude of orders, while the oars lashed the water all about with a foam. but it was too late then for them to escape, for within a couple of seconds the galleon struck her enemy a blow so violent upon the larboard quarter as nearly to hurl our harry upon the deck, and then with a dreadful, horrible crackling of wood, commingled with a yelling of men's voices, the galley was swung around upon her side, and the galleon, sailing into the open sea, left nothing of her immediate enemy but a sinking wreck, and the water dotted all over with bobbing heads and waving hands in the moonlight. and now, indeed, that all danger was past and gone, there were plenty to come running to help our hero at the wheel. as for captain morgan, having come down upon the main deck, he fetches the young helmsman a clap upon the back. "well, master harry," says he, "and did i not tell you i would make a man of you?" whereat our poor harry fell a-laughing, but with a sad catch in his voice, for his hands trembled as with an ague, and were as cold as ice. as for his emotions, god knows he was nearer crying than laughing, if captain morgan had but known it. nevertheless, though undertaken under the spur of the moment, i protest it was indeed a brave deed, and i cannot but wonder how many young gentlemen of sixteen there are to-day who, upon a like occasion, would act as well as our harry. v the balance of our hero's adventures were of a lighter sort than those already recounted, for the next morning the spanish captain (a very polite and well-bred gentleman) having fitted him out with a shift of his own clothes, master harry was presented in a proper form to the ladies. for captain morgan, if he had felt a liking for the young man before, could not now show sufficient regard for him. he ate in the great cabin and was petted by all. madam simon, who was a fat and red-faced lady, was forever praising him, and the young miss, who was extremely well-looking, was as continually making eyes at him. she and master harry, i must tell you, would spend hours together, she making pretense of teaching him french, although he was so possessed with a passion of love that he was nigh suffocated with it. she, upon her part, perceiving his emotions, responded with extreme good nature and complacency, so that had our hero been older, and the voyage proved longer, he might have become entirely enmeshed in the toils of his fair siren. for all this while, you are to understand, the pirates were making sail straight for jamaica, which they reached upon the third day in perfect safety. in that time, however, the pirates had well-nigh gone crazy for joy; for when they came to examine their purchase they discovered her cargo to consist of plate to the prodigious sum of £ , in value. 'twas a wonder they did not all make themselves drunk for joy. no doubt they would have done so had not captain morgan, knowing they were still in the exact track of the spanish fleets, threatened them that the first man among them who touched a drop of rum without his permission he would shoot him dead upon the deck. this threat had such effect that they all remained entirely sober until they had reached port royal harbor, which they did about nine o'clock in the morning. [illustration] and now it was that our hero's romance came all tumbling down about his ears with a run. for they had hardly come to anchor in the harbor when a boat came from a man-of-war, and who should come stepping aboard but lieutenant grantley (a particular friend of our hero's father) and his own eldest brother thomas, who, putting on a very stern face, informed master harry that he was a desperate and hardened villain who was sure to end at the gallows, and that he was to go immediately back to his home again. he told our embryo pirate that his family had nigh gone distracted because of his wicked and ungrateful conduct. nor could our hero move him from his inflexible purpose. "what," says our harry, "and will you not then let me wait until our prize is divided and i get my share?" "prize, indeed!" says his brother. "and do you then really think that your father would consent to your having a share in this terrible bloody and murthering business?" and so, after a good deal of argument, our hero was constrained to go; nor did he even have an opportunity to bid adieu to his inamorata. nor did he see her any more, except from a distance, she standing on the poop deck as he was rowed away from her, her face all stained with crying. for himself, he felt that there was no more joy in life; nevertheless, standing up in the stern of the boat, he made shift, though with an aching heart, to deliver her a fine bow with the hat he had borrowed from the spanish captain, before his brother bade him sit down again. and so to the ending of this story, with only this to relate, that our master harry, so far from going to the gallows, became in good time a respectable and wealthy sugar merchant with an english wife and a fine family of children, whereunto, when the mood was upon him, he has sometimes told these adventures (and sundry others not here recounted), as i have told them unto you. [illustration] chapter iv tom chist and the treasure box _an old-time story of the days of captain kidd_ i to tell about tom chist, and how he got his name, and how he came to be living at the little settlement of henlopen, just inside the mouth of the delaware bay, the story must begin as far back as , when a great storm swept the atlantic coast from end to end. during the heaviest part of the hurricane a bark went ashore on the hen-and-chicken shoals, just below cape henlopen and at the mouth of the delaware bay, and tom chist was the only soul of all those on board the ill-fated vessel who escaped alive. this story must first be told, because it was on account of the strange and miraculous escape that happened to him at that time that he gained the name that was given to him. even as late as that time of the american colonies, the little scattered settlement at henlopen, made up of english, with a few dutch and swedish people, was still only a spot upon the face of the great american wilderness that spread away, with swamp and forest, no man knew how far to the westward. that wilderness was not only full of wild beasts, but of indian savages, who every fall would come in wandering tribes to spend the winter along the shores of the fresh-water lakes below henlopen. there for four or five months they would live upon fish and clams and wild ducks and geese, chipping their arrowheads, and making their earthenware pots and pans under the lee of the sand hills and pine woods below the capes. sometimes on sundays, when the rev. hillary jones would be preaching in the little log church back in the woods, these half-clad red savages would come in from the cold, and sit squatting in the back part of the church, listening stolidly to the words that had no meaning for them. but about the wreck of the bark in . such a wreck as that which then went ashore on the hen-and-chicken shoals was a godsend to the poor and needy settlers in the wilderness where so few good things ever came. for the vessel went to pieces during the night, and the next morning the beach was strewn with wreckage--boxes and barrels, chests and spars, timbers and planks, a plentiful and bountiful harvest to be gathered up by the settlers as they chose, with no one to forbid or prevent them. the name of the bark, as found painted on some of the water barrels and sea chests, was the _bristol merchant_, and she no doubt hailed from england. as was said, the only soul who escaped alive off the wreck was tom chist. a settler, a fisherman named matt abrahamson, and his daughter molly, found tom. he was washed up on the beach among the wreckage, in a great wooden box which had been securely tied around with a rope and lashed between two spars--apparently for better protection in beating through the surf. matt abrahamson thought he had found something of more than usual value when he came upon this chest; but when he cut the cords and broke open the box with his broadax, he could not have been more astonished had he beheld a salamander instead of a baby of nine or ten months old lying half smothered in the blankets that covered the bottom of the chest. matt abrahamson's daughter molly had had a baby who had died a month or so before. so when she saw the little one lying there in the bottom of the chest, she cried out in a great loud voice that the good man had sent her another baby in place of her own. the rain was driving before the hurricane storm in dim, slanting sheets, and so she wrapped up the baby in the man's coat she wore and ran off home without waiting to gather up any more of the wreckage. it was parson jones who gave the foundling his name. when the news came to his ears of what matt abrahamson had found he went over to the fisherman's cabin to see the child. he examined the clothes in which the baby was dressed. they were of fine linen and handsomely stitched, and the reverend gentleman opined that the foundling's parents must have been of quality. a kerchief had been wrapped around the baby's neck and under its arms and tied behind, and in the corner, marked with very fine needlework, were the initials t. c. "what d'ye call him, molly?" said parson jones. he was standing, as he spoke, with his back to the fire, warming his palms before the blaze. the pocket of the greatcoat he wore bulged out with a big case bottle of spirits which he had gathered up out of the wreck that afternoon. "what d'ye call him, molly?" "i'll call him tom, after my own baby." "that goes very well with the initial on the kerchief," said parson jones. "but what other name d'ye give him? let it be something to go with the c." "i don't know," said molly. "why not call him 'chist,' since he was born in a chist out of the sea? 'tom chist'--the name goes off like a flash in the pan." and so "tom chist" he was called and "tom chist" he was christened. so much for the beginning of the history of tom chist. the story of captain kidd's treasure box does not begin until the late spring of . that was the year that the famous pirate captain, coming up from the west indies, sailed his sloop into the delaware bay, where he lay for over a month waiting for news from his friends in new york. for he had sent word to that town asking if the coast was clear for him to return home with the rich prize he had brought from the indian seas and the coast of africa, and meantime he lay there in the delaware bay waiting for a reply. before he left he turned the whole of tom chist's life topsy-turvy with something that he brought ashore. by that time tom chist had grown into a strong-limbed, thick-jointed boy of fourteen or fifteen years of age. it was a miserable dog's life he lived with old matt abrahamson, for the old fisherman was in his cups more than half the time, and when he was so there was hardly a day passed that he did not give tom a curse or a buffet or, as like as not, an actual beating. one would have thought that such treatment would have broken the spirit of the poor little foundling, but it had just the opposite effect upon tom chist, who was one of your stubborn, sturdy, stiff-willed fellows who only grow harder and more tough the more they are ill-treated. it had been a long time now since he had made any outcry or complaint at the hard usage he suffered from old matt. at such times he would shut his teeth and bear whatever came to him, until sometimes the half-drunken old man would be driven almost mad by his stubborn silence. maybe he would stop in the midst of the beating he was administering, and, grinding his teeth, would cry out: "won't ye say naught? won't ye say naught? well, then, i'll see if i can't make ye say naught." when things had reached such a pass as this molly would generally interfere to protect her foster son, and then she and tom would together fight the old man until they had wrenched the stick or the strap out of his hand. then old matt would chase them out of doors and around and around the house for maybe half an hour, until his anger was cool, when he would go back again, and for a time the storm would be over. besides his foster mother, tom chist had a very good friend in parson jones, who used to come over every now and then to abrahamson's hut upon the chance of getting a half dozen fish for breakfast. he always had a kind word or two for tom, who during the winter evenings would go over to the good man's house to learn his letters, and to read and write and cipher a little, so that by now he was able to spell the words out of the bible and the almanac, and knew enough to change tuppence into four ha'pennies. this is the sort of boy tom chist was, and this is the sort of life he led. in the late spring or early summer of captain kidd's sloop sailed into the mouth of the delaware bay and changed the whole fortune of his life. and this is how you come to the story of captain kidd's treasure box. ii old matt abrahamson kept the flat-bottomed boat in which he went fishing some distance down the shore, and in the neighborhood of the old wreck that had been sunk on the shoals. this was the usual fishing ground of the settlers, and here old matt's boat generally lay drawn up on the sand. there had been a thunderstorm that afternoon, and tom had gone down the beach to bale out the boat in readiness for the morning's fishing. it was full moonlight now, as he was returning, and the night sky was full of floating clouds. now and then there was a dull flash to the westward, and once a muttering growl of thunder, promising another storm to come. all that day the pirate sloop had been lying just off the shore back of the capes, and now tom chist could see the sails glimmering pallidly in the moonlight, spread for drying after the storm. he was walking up the shore homeward when he became aware that at some distance ahead of him there was a ship's boat drawn up on the little narrow beach, and a group of men clustered about it. he hurried forward with a good deal of curiosity to see who had landed, but it was not until he had come close to them that he could distinguish who and what they were. then he knew that it must be a party who had come off the pirate sloop. they had evidently just landed, and two men were lifting out a chest from the boat. one of them was a negro, naked to the waist, and the other was a white man in his shirt sleeves, wearing petticoat breeches, a monterey cap upon his head, a red bandanna handkerchief around his neck, and gold earrings in his ears. he had a long, plaited queue hanging down his back, and a great sheath knife dangling from his side. another man, evidently the captain of the party, stood at a little distance as they lifted the chest out of the boat. he had a cane in one hand and a lighted lantern in the other, although the moon was shining as bright as day. he wore jack boots and a handsome laced coat, and he had a long, drooping mustache that curled down below his chin. he wore a fine, feathered hat, and his long black hair hung down upon his shoulders. all this tom chist could see in the moonlight that glinted and twinkled upon the gilt buttons of his coat. they were so busy lifting the chest from the boat that at first they did not observe that tom chist had come up and was standing there. it was the white man with the long, plaited queue and the gold earrings that spoke to him. "boy, what do you want here, boy?" he said, in a rough, hoarse voice. "where d'ye come from?" and then dropping his end of the chest, and without giving tom time to answer, he pointed off down the beach, and said, "you'd better be going about your own business, if you know what's good for you; and don't you come back, or you'll find what you don't want waiting for you." [illustration: who shall be captain?] tom saw in a glance that the pirates were all looking at him, and then, without saying a word, he turned and walked away. the man who had spoken to him followed him threateningly for some little distance, as though to see that he had gone away as he was bidden to do. but presently he stopped, and tom hurried on alone, until the boat and the crew and all were dropped away behind and lost in the moonlight night. then he himself stopped also, turned, and looked back whence he had come. there had been something very strange in the appearance of the men he had just seen, something very mysterious in their actions, and he wondered what it all meant, and what they were going to do. he stood for a little while thus looking and listening. he could see nothing, and could hear only the sound of distant talking. what were they doing on the lonely shore thus at night? then, following a sudden impulse, he turned and cut off across the sand hummocks, skirting around inland, but keeping pretty close to the shore, his object being to spy upon them, and to watch what they were about from the back of the low sand hills that fronted the beach. he had gone along some distance in his circuitous return when he became aware of the sound of voices that seemed to be drawing closer to him as he came toward the speakers. he stopped and stood listening, and instantly, as he stopped, the voices stopped also. he crouched there silently in the bright, glimmering moonlight, surrounded by the silent stretches of sand, and the stillness seemed to press upon him like a heavy hand. then suddenly the sound of a man's voice began again, and as tom listened he could hear some one slowly counting. "ninety-one," the voice began, "ninety-two, ninety-three, ninety-four, ninety-five, ninety-six, ninety-seven, ninety-eight, ninety-nine, one hundred, one hundred and one"--the slow, monotonous count coming nearer and nearer; "one hundred and two, one hundred and three, one hundred and four," and so on in its monotonous reckoning. suddenly he saw three heads appear above the sand hill, so close to him that he crouched down quickly with a keen thrill, close beside the hummock near which he stood. his first fear was that they might have seen him in the moonlight; but they had not, and his heart rose again as the counting voice went steadily on. "one hundred and twenty," it was saying--"and twenty-one, and twenty-two, and twenty-three, and twenty-four," and then he who was counting came out from behind the little sandy rise into the white and open level of shimmering brightness. it was the man with the cane whom tom had seen some time before--the captain of the party who had landed. he carried his cane under his arm now, and was holding his lantern close to something that he held in his hand, and upon which he looked narrowly as he walked with a slow and measured tread in a perfectly straight line across the sand, counting each step as he took it. "and twenty-five, and twenty-six, and twenty-seven, and twenty-eight, and twenty-nine, and thirty." [illustration] behind him walked two other figures; one was the half-naked negro, the other the man with the plaited queue and the earrings, whom tom had seen lifting the chest out of the boat. now they were carrying the heavy box between them, laboring through the sand with shuffling tread as they bore it onward. as he who was counting pronounced the word "thirty," the two men set the chest down on the sand with a grunt, the white man panting and blowing and wiping his sleeve across his forehead. and immediately he who counted took out a slip of paper and marked something down upon it. they stood there for a long time, during which tom lay behind the sand hummock watching them, and for a while the silence was uninterrupted. in the perfect stillness tom could hear the washing of the little waves beating upon the distant beach, and once the far-away sound of a laugh from one of those who stood by the ship's boat. one, two, three minutes passed, and then the men picked up the chest and started on again; and then again the other man began his counting. "thirty and one, and thirty and two, and thirty and three, and thirty and four"--he walked straight across the level open, still looking intently at that which he held in his hand--"and thirty and five, and thirty and six, and thirty and seven," and so on, until the three figures disappeared in the little hollow between the two sand hills on the opposite side of the open, and still tom could hear the sound of the counting voice in the distance. just as they disappeared behind the hill there was a sudden faint flash of light; and by and by, as tom lay still listening to the counting, he heard, after a long interval, a far-away muffled rumble of distant thunder. he waited for a while, and then arose and stepped to the top of the sand hummock behind which he had been lying. he looked all about him, but there was no one else to be seen. then he stepped down from the hummock and followed in the direction which the pirate captain and the two men carrying the chest had gone. he crept along cautiously, stopping now and then to make sure that he still heard the counting voice, and when it ceased he lay down upon the sand and waited until it began again. presently, so following the pirates, he saw the three figures again in the distance, and, skirting around back of a hill of sand covered with coarse sedge grass, he came to where he overlooked a little open level space gleaming white in the moonlight. the three had been crossing the level of sand, and were now not more than twenty-five paces from him. they had again set down the chest, upon which the white man with the long queue and the gold earrings had seated to rest himself, the negro standing close beside him. the moon shone as bright as day and full upon his face. it was looking directly at tom chist, every line as keen cut with white lights and black shadows as though it had been carved in ivory and jet. he sat perfectly motionless, and tom drew back with a start, almost thinking he had been discovered. he lay silent, his heart beating heavily in his throat; but there was no alarm, and presently he heard the counting begin again, and when he looked once more he saw they were going away straight across the little open. a soft, sliding hillock of sand lay directly in front of them. they did not turn aside, but went straight over it, the leader helping himself up the sandy slope with his cane, still counting and still keeping his eyes fixed upon that which he held in his hand. then they disappeared again behind the white crest on the other side. so tom followed them cautiously until they had gone almost half a mile inland. when next he saw them clearly it was from a little sandy rise which looked down like the crest of a bowl upon the floor of sand below. upon this smooth, white floor the moon beat with almost dazzling brightness. the white man who had helped to carry the chest was now kneeling, busied at some work, though what it was tom at first could not see. he was whittling the point of a stick into a long wooden peg, and when, by and by, he had finished what he was about, he arose and stepped to where he who seemed to be the captain had stuck his cane upright into the ground as though to mark some particular spot. he drew the cane out of the sand, thrusting the stick down in its stead. then he drove the long peg down with a wooden mallet which the negro handed to him. the sharp rapping of the mallet upon the top of the peg sounded loud in the perfect stillness, and tom lay watching and wondering what it all meant. the man, with quick-repeated blows, drove the peg farther and farther down into the sand until it showed only two or three inches above the surface. as he finished his work there was another faint flash of light, and by and by another smothered rumble of thunder, and tom, as he looked out toward the westward, saw the silver rim of the round and sharply outlined thundercloud rising slowly up into the sky and pushing the other and broken drifting clouds before it. [illustration: kidd at gardiner's island _illustration from_ sea robbers of new york _by_ thomas a. janvier _originally published in_ harper's magazine, _november, _] the two white men were now stooping over the peg, the negro man watching them. then presently the man with the cane started straight away from the peg, carrying the end of a measuring line with him, the other end of which the man with the plaited queue held against the top of the peg. when the pirate captain had reached the end of the measuring line he marked a cross upon the sand, and then again they measured out another stretch of space. so they measured a distance five times over, and then, from where tom lay, he could see the man with the queue drive another peg just at the foot of a sloping rise of sand that swept up beyond into a tall white dune marked sharp and clear against the night sky behind. as soon as the man with the plaited queue had driven the second peg into the ground they began measuring again, and so, still measuring, disappeared in another direction which took them in behind the sand dune where tom no longer could see what they were doing. the negro still sat by the chest where the two had left him, and so bright was the moonlight that from where he lay tom could see the glint of it twinkling in the whites of his eyeballs. presently from behind the hill there came, for the third time, the sharp rapping sound of the mallet driving still another peg, and then after a while the two pirates emerged from behind the sloping whiteness into the space of moonlight again. they came direct to where the chest lay, and the white man and the black man lifting it once more, they walked away across the level of open sand, and so on behind the edge of the hill and out of tom's sight. iii tom chist could no longer see what the pirates were doing, neither did he dare to cross over the open space of sand that now lay between them and him. he lay there speculating as to what they were about, and meantime the storm cloud was rising higher and higher above the horizon, with louder and louder mutterings of thunder following each dull flash from out the cloudy, cavernous depths. in the silence he could hear an occasional click as of some iron implement, and he opined that the pirates were burying the chest, though just where they were at work he could neither see nor tell. still he lay there watching and listening, and by and by a puff of warm air blew across the sand, and a thumping tumble of louder thunder leaped from out the belly of the storm cloud, which every minute was coming nearer and nearer. still tom chist lay watching. suddenly, almost unexpectedly, the three figures reappeared from behind the sand hill, the pirate captain leading the way, and the negro and white man following close behind him. they had gone about halfway across the white, sandy level between the hill and the hummock behind which tom chist lay, when the white man stopped and bent over as though to tie his shoe. this brought the negro a few steps in front of his companion. that which then followed happened so suddenly, so unexpectedly, so swiftly, that tom chist had hardly time to realize what it all meant before it was over. as the negro passed him the white man arose suddenly and silently erect, and tom chist saw the white moonlight glint upon the blade of a great dirk knife which he now held in his hand. he took one, two silent, catlike steps behind the unsuspecting negro. then there was a sweeping flash of the blade in the pallid light, and a blow, the thump of which tom could distinctly hear even from where he lay stretched out upon the sand. there was an instant echoing yell from the black man, who ran stumbling forward, who stopped, who regained his footing, and then stood for an instant as though rooted to the spot. tom had distinctly seen the knife enter his back, and even thought that he had seen the glint of the point as it came out from the breast. meantime the pirate captain had stopped, and now stood with his hand resting upon his cane looking impassively on. then the black man started to run. the white man stood for a while glaring after him; then he, too, started after his victim upon the run. the black man was not very far from tom when he staggered and fell. he tried to rise, then fell forward again, and lay at length. at that instant the first edge of the cloud cut across the moon, and there was a sudden darkness; but in the silence tom heard the sound of another blow and a groan, and then presently a voice calling to the pirate captain that it was all over. he saw the dim form of the captain crossing the level sand, and then, as the moon sailed out from behind the cloud, he saw the white man standing over a black figure that lay motionless upon the sand. [illustration] then tom chist scrambled up and ran away, plunging down into the hollow of sand that lay in the shadows below. over the next rise he ran, and down again into the next black hollow, and so on over the sliding, shifting ground, panting and gasping. it seemed to him that he could hear footsteps following, and in the terror that possessed him he almost expected every instant to feel the cold knife blade slide between his own ribs in such a thrust from behind as he had seen given to the poor black man. [illustration] so he ran on like one in a nightmare. his feet grew heavy like lead, he panted and gasped, his breath came hot and dry in his throat. but still he ran and ran until at last he found himself in front of old matt abrahamson's cabin, gasping, panting, and sobbing for breath, his knees relaxed and his thighs trembling with weakness. as he opened the door and dashed into the darkened cabin (for both matt and molly were long ago asleep in bed) there was a flash of light, and even as he slammed to the door behind him there was an instant peal of thunder, heavy as though a great weight had been dropped upon the roof of the sky, so that the doors and windows of the cabin rattled. iv then tom chist crept to bed, trembling, shuddering, bathed in sweat, his heart beating like a trip hammer, and his brain dizzy from that long, terror-inspired race through the soft sand in which he had striven to outstrip he knew not what pursuing horror. for a long, long time he lay awake, trembling and chattering with nervous chills, and when he did fall asleep it was only to drop into monstrous dreams in which he once again saw ever enacted, with various grotesque variations, the tragic drama which his waking eyes had beheld the night before. then came the dawning of the broad, wet daylight, and before the rising of the sun tom was up and out of doors to find the young day dripping with the rain of overnight. his first act was to climb the nearest sand hill and to gaze out toward the offing where the pirate ship had been the day before. it was no longer there. soon afterward matt abrahamson came out of the cabin and he called to tom to go get a bite to eat, for it was time for them to be away fishing. all that morning the recollection of the night before hung over tom chist like a great cloud of boding trouble. it filled the confined area of the little boat and spread over the entire wide spaces of sky and sea that surrounded them. not for a moment was it lifted. even when he was hauling in his wet and dripping line with a struggling fish at the end of it a recurrent memory of what he had seen would suddenly come upon him, and he would groan in spirit at the recollection. he looked at matt abrahamson's leathery face, at his lantern jaws cavernously and stolidly chewing at a tobacco leaf, and it seemed monstrous to him that the old man should be so unconscious of the black cloud that wrapped them all about. when the boat reached the shore again he leaped scrambling to the beach, and as soon as his dinner was eaten he hurried away to find the dominie jones. he ran all the way from abrahamson's hut to the parson's house, hardly stopping once, and when he knocked at the door he was panting and sobbing for breath. the good man was sitting on the back-kitchen doorstep smoking his long pipe of tobacco out into the sunlight, while his wife within was rattling about among the pans and dishes in preparation of their supper, of which a strong, porky smell already filled the air. then tom chist told his story, panting, hurrying, tumbling one word over another in his haste, and parson jones listened, breaking every now and then into an ejaculation of wonder. the light in his pipe went out and the bowl turned cold. "and i don't see why they should have killed the poor black man," said tom, as he finished his narrative. "why, that is very easy enough to understand," said the good reverend man. "'twas a treasure box they buried!" in his agitation mr. jones had risen from his seat and was now stumping up and down, puffing at his empty tobacco pipe as though it were still alight. "a treasure box!" cried out tom. "aye, a treasure box! and that was why they killed the poor black man. he was the only one, d'ye see, besides they two who knew the place where 'twas hid, and now that they've killed him out of the way, there's nobody but themselves knows. the villains--tut, tut, look at that now!" in his excitement the dominie had snapped the stem of his tobacco pipe in two. "why, then," said tom, "if that is so, 'tis indeed a wicked, bloody treasure, and fit to bring a curse upon anybody who finds it!" "'tis more like to bring a curse upon the soul who buried it," said parson jones, "and it may be a blessing to him who finds it. but tell me, tom, do you think you could find the place again where 'twas hid?" "i can't tell that," said tom, "'twas all in among the sand humps, d'ye see, and it was at night into the bargain. maybe we could find the marks of their feet in the sand," he added. "'tis not likely," said the reverend gentleman, "for the storm last night would have washed all that away." "i could find the place," said tom, "where the boat was drawn up on the beach." "why, then, that's something to start from, tom," said his friend. "if we can find that, then maybe we can find whither they went from there." "if i was certain it was a treasure box," cried out tom chist, "i would rake over every foot of sand betwixt here and henlopen to find it." "'twould be like hunting for a pin in a haystack," said the rev. hilary jones. as tom walked away home, it seemed as though a ton's weight of gloom had been rolled away from his soul. the next day he and parson jones were to go treasure-hunting together; it seemed to tom as though he could hardly wait for the time to come. v the next afternoon parson jones and tom chist started off together upon the expedition that made tom's fortune forever. tom carried a spade over his shoulder and the reverend gentleman walked along beside him with his cane. as they jogged along up the beach they talked together about the only thing they could talk about--the treasure box. "and how big did you say 'twas?" quoth the good gentleman. "about so long," said tom chist, measuring off upon the spade, "and about so wide, and this deep." "and what if it should be full of money, tom?" said the reverend gentleman, swinging his cane around and around in wide circles in the excitement of the thought, as he strode along briskly. "suppose it should be full of money, what then?" "by moses!" said tom chist, hurrying to keep up with his friend, "i'd buy a ship for myself, i would, and i'd trade to injy and to chiny to my own boot, i would. suppose the chist was all full of money, sir, and suppose we should find it; would there be enough in it, d'ye suppose, to buy a ship?" "to be sure there would be enough, tom; enough and to spare, and a good big lump over." "and if i find it 'tis mine to keep, is it, and no mistake?" "why, to be sure it would be yours!" cried out the parson, in a loud voice. "to be sure it would be yours!" he knew nothing of the law, but the doubt of the question began at once to ferment in his brain, and he strode along in silence for a while. "whose else would it be but yours if you find it?" he burst out. "can you tell me that?" "if ever i have a ship of my own," said tom chist, "and if ever i sail to injy in her, i'll fetch ye back the best chist of tea, sir, that ever was fetched from cochin chiny." parson jones burst out laughing. "thankee, tom," he said; "and i'll thankee again when i get my chist of tea. but tell me, tom, didst thou ever hear of the farmer girl who counted her chickens before they were hatched?" it was thus they talked as they hurried along up the beach together, and so came to a place at last where tom stopped short and stood looking about him. "'twas just here," he said, "i saw the boat last night. i know 'twas here, for i mind me of that bit of wreck yonder, and that there was a tall stake drove in the sand just where yon stake stands." parson jones put on his spectacles and went over to the stake toward which tom pointed. as soon as he had looked at it carefully he called out: "why, tom, this hath been just drove down into the sand. 'tis a brand-new stake of wood, and the pirates must have set it here themselves as a mark, just as they drove the pegs you spoke about down into the sand." tom came over and looked at the stake. it was a stout piece of oak nearly two inches thick; it had been shaped with some care, and the top of it had been painted red. he shook the stake and tried to move it, but it had been driven or planted so deeply into the sand that he could not stir it. "aye, sir," he said, "it must have been set here for a mark, for i'm sure 'twas not here yesterday or the day before." he stood looking about him to see if there were other signs of the pirates' presence. at some little distance there was the corner of something white sticking up out of the sand. he could see that it was a scrap of paper, and he pointed to it, calling out: "yonder is a piece of paper, sir. i wonder if they left that behind them?" [illustration: extorting tribute from the citizens] it was a miraculous chance that placed that paper there. there was only an inch of it showing, and if it had not been for tom's sharp eyes, it would certainly have been overlooked and passed by. the next windstorm would have covered it up, and all that afterward happened never would have occurred. "look, sir," he said, as he struck the sand from it, "it hath writing on it." "let me see it," said parson jones. he adjusted the spectacles a little more firmly astride of his nose as he took the paper in his hand and began conning it. "what's all this?" he said; "a whole lot of figures and nothing else." and then he read aloud, "'mark--s. s. w. s. by s.' what d'ye suppose that means, tom?" "i don't know, sir," said tom. "but maybe we can understand it better if you read on." "'tis all a great lot of figures," said parson jones, "without a grain of meaning in them so far as i can see, unless they be sailing directions." and then he began reading again: "'mark--s. s. w. by s. , , , , , , , , , '--d'ye see, it must be sailing directions--' , , , , , , , , , , , '--what a lot of them there be--' , , , , , , , , , . peg. s. e. by e. foot. peg. s. s. w. by s. foot. peg. dig to the west of this six foot.'" "what's that about a peg?" exclaimed tom. "what's that about a peg? and then there's something about digging, too!" it was as though a sudden light began shining into his brain. he felt himself growing quickly very excited. "read that over again, sir," he cried. "why, sir, you remember i told you they drove a peg into the sand. and don't they say to dig close to it? read it over again, sir--read it over again!" "peg?" said the good gentleman. "to be sure it was about a peg. let's look again. yes, here it is. 'peg s. e. by e. foot.'" "aye!" cried out tom chist again, in great excitement. "don't you remember what i told you, sir, foot? sure that must be what i saw 'em measuring with the line." parson jones had now caught the flame of excitement that was blazing up so strongly in tom's breast. he felt as though some wonderful thing was about to happen to them. "to be sure, to be sure!" he called out, in a great big voice. "and then they measured out foot south-southwest by south, and they then drove another peg, and then they buried the box six foot to the west of it. why, tom--why, tom chist! if we've read this aright, thy fortune is made." tom chist stood staring straight at the old gentleman's excited face, and seeing nothing but it in all the bright infinity of sunshine. were they, indeed, about to find the treasure chest? he felt the sun very hot upon his shoulders, and he heard the harsh, insistent jarring of a tern that hovered and circled with forked tail and sharp white wings in the sunlight just above their heads; but all the time he stood staring into the good old gentleman's face. it was parson jones who first spoke. "but what do all these figures mean?" and tom observed how the paper shook and rustled in the tremor of excitement that shook his hand. he raised the paper to the focus of his spectacles and began to read again. "'mark , , --'" "mark?" cried out tom, almost screaming. "why, that must mean the stake yonder; that must be the mark." and he pointed to the oaken stick with its red tip blazing against the white shimmer of sand behind it. "and the and and ," cried the old gentleman, in a voice equally shrill--"why, that must mean the number of steps the pirate was counting when you heard him." "to be sure that's what they mean!" cried tom chist. "that is it, and it can be nothing else. oh, come, sir--come, sir; let us make haste and find it!" "stay! stay!" said the good gentleman, holding up his hand; and again tom chist noticed how it trembled and shook. his voice was steady enough, though very hoarse, but his hand shook and trembled as though with a palsy. "stay! stay! first of all, we must follow these measurements. and 'tis a marvelous thing," he croaked, after a little pause, "how this paper ever came to be here." "maybe it was blown here by the storm," suggested tom chist. "like enough; like enough," said parson jones. "like enough, after the wretches had buried the chest and killed the poor black man, they were so buffeted and bowsed about by the storm that it was shook out of the man's pocket, and thus blew away from him without his knowing aught of it." "but let us find the box!" cried out tom chist, flaming with his excitement. "aye, aye," said the good man; "only stay a little, my boy, until we make sure what we're about. i've got my pocket compass here, but we must have something to measure off the feet when we have found the peg. you run across to tom brooke's house and fetch that measuring rod he used to lay out his new byre. while you're gone i'll pace off the distance marked on the paper with my pocket compass here." vi tom chist was gone for almost an hour, though he ran nearly all the way and back, upborne as on the wings of the wind. when he returned, panting, parson jones was nowhere to be seen, but tom saw his footsteps leading away inland, and he followed the scuffling marks in the smooth surface across the sand humps and down into the hollows, and by and by found the good gentleman in a spot he at once knew as soon as he laid his eyes upon it. it was the open space where the pirates had driven their first peg, and where tom chist had afterward seen them kill the poor black man. tom chist gazed around as though expecting to see some sign of the tragedy, but the space was as smooth and as undisturbed as a floor, excepting where, midway across it, parson jones, who was now stooping over something on the ground, had trampled it all around about. when tom chist saw him he was still bending over, scraping away from something he had found. it was the first peg! inside of half an hour they had found the second and third pegs, and tom chist stripped off his coat, and began digging like mad down into the sand, parson jones standing over him watching him. the sun was sloping well toward the west when the blade of tom chist's spade struck upon something hard. if it had been his own heart that he had hit in the sand his breast could hardly have thrilled more sharply. it was the treasure box! [illustration] parson jones himself leaped down into the hole, and began scraping away the sand with his hands as though he had gone crazy. at last, with some difficulty, they tugged and hauled the chest up out of the sand to the surface, where it lay covered all over with the grit that clung to it. it was securely locked and fastened with a padlock, and it took a good many blows with the blade of the spade to burst the bolt. parson jones himself lifted the lid. tom chist leaned forward and gazed down into the open box. he would not have been surprised to have seen it filled full of yellow gold and bright jewels. it was filled half full of books and papers, and half full of canvas bags tied safely and securely around and around with cords of string. parson jones lifted out one of the bags, and it jingled as he did so. it was full of money. he cut the string, and with trembling, shaking hands handed the bag to tom, who, in an ecstasy of wonder and dizzy with delight, poured out with swimming sight upon the coat spread on the ground a cataract of shining silver money that rang and twinkled and jingled as it fell in a shining heap upon the coarse cloth. parson jones held up both hands into the air, and tom stared at what he saw, wondering whether it was all so, and whether he was really awake. it seemed to him as though he was in a dream. there were two-and-twenty bags in all in the chest: ten of them full of silver money, eight of them full of gold money, three of them full of gold dust, and one small bag with jewels wrapped up in wad cotton and paper. "'tis enough," cried out parson jones, "to make us both rich men as long as we live." the burning summer sun, though sloping in the sky, beat down upon them as hot as fire; but neither of them noticed it. neither did they notice hunger nor thirst nor fatigue, but sat there as though in a trance, with the bags of money scattered on the sand around them, a great pile of money heaped upon the coat, and the open chest beside them. it was an hour of sundown before parson jones had begun fairly to examine the books and papers in the chest. of the three books, two were evidently log books of the pirates who had been lying off the mouth of the delaware bay all this time. the other book was written in spanish, and was evidently the log book of some captured prize. it was then, sitting there upon the sand, the good old gentleman reading in his high, cracking voice, that they first learned from the bloody records in those two books who it was who had been lying inside the cape all this time, and that it was the famous captain kidd. every now and then the reverend gentleman would stop to exclaim, "oh, the bloody wretch!" or, "oh, the desperate, cruel villains!" and then would go on reading again a scrap here and a scrap there. and all the while tom chist sat and listened, every now and then reaching out furtively and touching the heap of money still lying upon the coat. one might be inclined to wonder why captain kidd had kept those bloody records. he had probably laid them away because they so incriminated many of the great people of the colony of new york that, with the books in evidence, it would have been impossible to bring the pirate to justice without dragging a dozen or more fine gentlemen into the dock along with him. if he could have kept them in his own possession they would doubtless have been a great weapon of defense to protect him from the gallows. indeed, when captain kidd was finally brought to conviction and hung, he was not accused of his piracies, but of striking a mutinous seaman upon the head with a bucket and accidentally killing him. the authorities did not dare try him for piracy. he was really hung because he was a pirate, and we know that it was the log books that tom chist brought to new york that did the business for him; he was accused and convicted of manslaughter for killing of his own ship carpenter with a bucket. so parson jones, sitting there in the slanting light, read through these terrible records of piracy, and tom, with the pile of gold and silver money beside him, sat and listened to him. what a spectacle, if anyone had come upon them! but they were alone, with the vast arch of sky empty above them and the wide white stretch of sand a desert around them. the sun sank lower and lower, until there was only time to glance through the other papers in the chest. they were nearly all goldsmiths' bills of exchange drawn in favor of certain of the most prominent merchants of new york. parson jones, as he read over the names, knew of nearly all the gentlemen by hearsay. aye, here was this gentleman; he thought that name would be among 'em. what? here is mr. so-and-so. well, if all they say is true, the villain has robbed one of his own best friends. "i wonder," he said, "why the wretch should have hidden these papers so carefully away with the other treasures, for they could do him no good?" then, answering his own question: "like enough because these will give him a hold over the gentlemen to whom they are drawn so that he can make a good bargain for his own neck before he gives the bills back to their owners. i tell you what it is, tom," he continued, "it is you yourself shall go to new york and bargain for the return of these papers. 'twill be as good as another fortune to you." the majority of the bills were drawn in favor of one richard chillingsworth, esquire. "and he is," said parson jones, "one of the richest men in the province of new york. you shall go to him with the news of what we have found." "when shall i go?" said tom chist. "you shall go upon the very first boat we can catch," said the parson. he had turned, still holding the bills in his hand, and was now fingering over the pile of money that yet lay tumbled out upon the coat. "i wonder, tom," said he, "if you could spare me a score or so of these doubloons?" "you shall have fifty score, if you choose," said tom, bursting with gratitude and with generosity in his newly found treasure. "you are as fine a lad as ever i saw, tom," said the parson, "and i'll thank you to the last day of my life." tom scooped up a double handful of silver money. "take it, sir," he said, "and you may have as much more as you want of it." he poured it into the dish that the good man made of his hands, and the parson made a motion as though to empty it into his pocket. then he stopped, as though a sudden doubt had occurred to him. "i don't know that 'tis fit for me to take this pirate money, after all," he said. "but you are welcome to it," said tom. still the parson hesitated. "nay," he burst out, "i'll not take it; 'tis blood money." and as he spoke he chucked the whole double handful into the now empty chest, then arose and dusted the sand from his breeches. then, with a great deal of bustling energy, he helped to tie the bags again and put them all back into the chest. they reburied the chest in the place whence they had taken it, and then the parson folded the precious paper of directions, placed it carefully in his wallet, and his wallet in his pocket. "tom," he said, for the twentieth time, "your fortune has been made this day." and tom chist, as he rattled in his breeches pocket the half dozen doubloons he had kept out of his treasure, felt that what his friend had said was true. * * * * * as the two went back homeward across the level space of sand tom chist suddenly stopped stock-still and stood looking about him. "'twas just here," he said, digging his heel down into the sand, "that they killed the poor black man." [illustration: "pirates used to do that to their captains now and then" _illustration from_ sea robbers of new york _by_ thomas a. janvier _originally published in_ harper's magazine, _november, _] "and here he lies buried for all time," said parson jones; and as he spoke he dug his cane down into the sand. tom chist shuddered. he would not have been surprised if the ferrule of the cane had struck something soft beneath that level surface. but it did not, nor was any sign of that tragedy ever seen again. for, whether the pirates had carried away what they had done and buried it elsewhere, or whether the storm in blowing the sand had completely leveled off and hidden all sign of that tragedy where it was enacted, certain it is that it never came to sight again--at least so far as tom chist and the rev. hilary jones ever knew. vii this is the story of the treasure box. all that remains now is to conclude the story of tom chist, and to tell of what came of him in the end. he did not go back again to live with old matt abrahamson. parson jones had now taken charge of him and his fortunes, and tom did not have to go back to the fisherman's hut. old abrahamson talked a great deal about it, and would come in his cups and harangue good parson jones, making a vast protestation of what he would do to tom--if he ever caught him--for running away. but tom on all these occasions kept carefully out of his way, and nothing came of the old man's threatenings. tom used to go over to see his foster mother now and then, but always when the old man was from home. and molly abrahamson used to warn him to keep out of her father's way. "he's in as vile a humor as ever i see, tom," she said; "he sits sulking all day long, and 'tis my belief he'd kill ye if he caught ye." of course tom said nothing, even to her, about the treasure, and he and the reverend gentleman kept the knowledge thereof to themselves. about three weeks later parson jones managed to get him shipped aboard of a vessel bound for new york town, and a few days later tom chist landed at that place. he had never been in such a town before, and he could not sufficiently wonder and marvel at the number of brick houses, at the multitude of people coming and going along the fine, hard, earthen sidewalk, at the shops and the stores where goods hung in the windows, and, most of all, the fortifications and the battery at the point, at the rows of threatening cannon, and at the scarlet-coated sentries pacing up and down the ramparts. all this was very wonderful, and so were the clustered boats riding at anchor in the harbor. it was like a new world, so different was it from the sand hills and the sedgy levels of henlopen. tom chist took up his lodgings at a coffee house near to the town hall, and thence he sent by the postboy a letter written by parson jones to master chillingsworth. in a little while the boy returned with a message, asking tom to come up to mr. chillingsworth's house that afternoon at two o'clock. tom went thither with a great deal of trepidation, and his heart fell away altogether when he found it a fine, grand brick house, three stories high, and with wrought-iron letters across the front. the counting house was in the same building; but tom, because of mr. jones's letter, was conducted directly into the parlor, where the great rich man was awaiting his coming. he was sitting in a leather-covered armchair, smoking a pipe of tobacco, and with a bottle of fine old madeira close to his elbow. tom had not had a chance to buy a new suit of clothes yet, and so he cut no very fine figure in the rough dress he had brought with him from henlopen. nor did mr. chillingsworth seem to think very highly of his appearance, for he sat looking sideways at tom as he smoked. "well, my lad," he said, "and what is this great thing you have to tell me that is so mightily wonderful? i got what's-his-name--mr. jones's--letter, and now i am ready to hear what you have to say." but if he thought but little of his visitor's appearance at first, he soon changed his sentiments toward him, for tom had not spoken twenty words when mr. chillingsworth's whole aspect changed. he straightened himself up in his seat, laid aside his pipe, pushed away his glass of madeira, and bade tom take a chair. he listened without a word as tom chist told of the buried treasure, of how he had seen the poor negro murdered, and of how he and parson jones had recovered the chest again. only once did mr. chillingsworth interrupt the narrative. "and to think," he cried, "that the villain this very day walks about new york town as though he were an honest man, ruffling it with the best of us! but if we can only get hold of these log books you speak of. go on; tell me more of this." when tom chist's narrative was ended, mr. chillingsworth's bearing was as different as daylight is from dark. he asked a thousand questions, all in the most polite and gracious tone imaginable, and not only urged a glass of his fine old madeira upon tom, but asked him to stay to supper. there was nobody to be there, he said, but his wife and daughter. tom, all in a panic at the very thought of the two ladies, sturdily refused to stay even for the dish of tea mr. chillingsworth offered him. he did not know that he was destined to stay there as long as he should live. "and now," said mr. chillingsworth, "tell me about yourself." "i have nothing to tell, your honor," said tom, "except that i was washed up out of the sea." "washed up out of the sea!" exclaimed mr. chillingsworth. "why, how was that? come, begin at the beginning, and tell me all." thereupon tom chist did as he was bidden, beginning at the very beginning and telling everything just as molly abrahamson had often told it to him. as he continued, mr. chillingsworth's interest changed into an appearance of stronger and stronger excitement. suddenly he jumped up out of his chair and began to walk up and down the room. [illustration] "stop! stop!" he cried out at last, in the midst of something tom was saying. "stop! stop! tell me; do you know the name of the vessel that was wrecked, and from which you were washed ashore?" "i've heard it said," said tom chist, "'twas the _bristol merchant_." "i knew it! i knew it!" exclaimed the great man, in a loud voice, flinging his hands up into the air. "i felt it was so the moment you began the story. but tell me this, was there nothing found with you with a mark or a name upon it?" "there was a kerchief," said tom, "marked with a t and a c." "theodosia chillingsworth!" cried out the merchant. "i knew it! i knew it! heavens! to think of anything so wonderful happening as this! boy! boy! dost thou know who thou art? thou art my own brother's son. his name was oliver chillingsworth, and he was my partner in business, and thou art his son." then he ran out into the entryway, shouting and calling for his wife and daughter to come. * * * * * so tom chist--or thomas chillingsworth, as he now was to be called--did stay to supper, after all. * * * * * this is the story, and i hope you may like it. for tom chist became rich and great, as was to be supposed, and he married his pretty cousin theodosia (who had been named for his own mother, drowned in the _bristol merchant_). he did not forget his friends, but had parson jones brought to new york to live. as to molly and matt abrahamson, they both enjoyed a pension of ten pounds a year for as long as they lived; for now that all was well with him, tom bore no grudge against the old fisherman for all the drubbings he had suffered. the treasure box was brought on to new york, and if tom chist did not get all the money there was in it (as parson jones had opined he would) he got at least a good big lump of it. and it is my belief that those log books did more to get captain kidd arrested in boston town and hanged in london than anything else that was brought up against him. [illustration] chapter v jack ballister's fortunes i we, of these times, protected as we are by the laws and by the number of people about us, can hardly comprehend such a life as that of the american colonies in the early part of the eighteenth century, when it was possible for a pirate like capt. teach, known as blackbeard, to exist, and for the governor and the secretary of the province in which he lived perhaps to share his plunder, and to shelter and to protect him against the law. at that time the american colonists were in general a rough, rugged people, knowing nothing of the finer things of life. they lived mostly in little settlements, separated by long distances from one another, so that they could neither make nor enforce laws to protect themselves. each man or little group of men had to depend upon his or their own strength to keep what belonged to them, and to prevent fierce men or groups of men from seizing what did not belong to them. it is the natural disposition of everyone to get all that he can. little children, for instance, always try to take away from others that which they want, and to keep it for their own. it is only by constant teaching that they learn that they must not do so; that they must not take by force what does not belong to them. so it is only by teaching and training that people learn to be honest and not to take what is not theirs. when this teaching is not sufficient to make a man learn to be honest, or when there is something in the man's nature that makes him not able to learn, then he only lacks the opportunity to seize upon the things he wants, just as he would do if he were a little child. in the colonies at that time, as was just said, men were too few and scattered to protect themselves against those who had made up their minds to take by force that which they wanted, and so it was that men lived an unrestrained and lawless life, such as we of these times of better government can hardly comprehend. the usual means of commerce between province and province was by water in coasting vessels. these coasting vessels were so defenseless, and the different colonial governments were so ill able to protect them, that those who chose to rob them could do it almost without danger to themselves. so it was that all the western world was, in those days, infested with armed bands of cruising freebooters or pirates, who used to stop merchant vessels and take from them what they chose. each province in those days was ruled over by a royal governor appointed by the king. each governor, at one time, was free to do almost as he pleased in his own province. he was accountable only to the king and his government, and england was so distant that he was really responsible almost to nobody but himself. the governors were naturally just as desirous to get rich quickly, just as desirous of getting all that they could for themselves, as was anybody else--only they had been taught and had been able to learn that it was not right to be an actual pirate or robber. they wanted to be rich easily and quickly, but the desire was not strong enough to lead them to dishonor themselves in their own opinion and in the opinion of others by gratifying their selfishness. they would even have stopped the pirates from doing what they did if they could, but their provincial governments were too weak to prevent the freebooters from robbing merchant vessels, or to punish them when they came ashore. the provinces had no navies, and they really had no armies; neither were there enough people living within the community to enforce the laws against those stronger and fiercer men who were not honest. after the things the pirates seized from merchant vessels were once stolen they were altogether lost. almost never did any owner apply for them, for it would be useless to do so. the stolen goods and merchandise lay in the storehouses of the pirates, seemingly without any owner excepting the pirates themselves. the governors and the secretaries of the colonies would not dishonor themselves by pirating upon merchant vessels, but it did not seem so wicked after the goods were stolen--and so altogether lost--to take a part of that which seemed to have no owner. a child is taught that it is a very wicked thing to take, for instance, by force, a lump of sugar from another child; but when a wicked child has seized the sugar from another and taken it around the corner, and that other child from whom he has seized it has gone home crying, it does not seem so wicked for the third child to take a bite of the sugar when it is offered to him, even if he thinks it has been taken from some one else. it was just so, no doubt, that it did not seem so wicked to governor eden and secretary knight of north carolina, or to governor fletcher of new york, or to other colonial governors, to take a part of the booty that the pirates, such as blackbeard, had stolen. it did not even seem very wicked to compel such pirates to give up a part of what was not theirs, and which seemed to have no owner. in governor eden's time, however, the colonies had begun to be more thickly peopled, and the laws had gradually become stronger and stronger to protect men in the possession of what was theirs. governor eden was the last of the colonial governors who had dealings with the pirates, and blackbeard was almost the last of the pirates who, with his banded men, was savage and powerful enough to come and go as he chose among the people whom he plundered. virginia, at that time, was the greatest and the richest of all the american colonies, and upon the farther side of north carolina was the province of south carolina, also strong and rich. it was these two colonies that suffered the most from blackbeard, and it began to be that the honest men that lived in them could endure no longer to be plundered. the merchants and traders and others who suffered cried out loudly for protection, so loudly that the governors of these provinces could not help hearing them. governor eden was petitioned to act against the pirates, but he would do nothing, for he felt very friendly toward blackbeard--just as a child who has had a taste of the stolen sugar feels friendly toward the child who gives it to him. at last, when blackbeard sailed up into the very heart of virginia, and seized upon and carried away the daughter of that colony's foremost people, the governor of virginia, finding that the governor of north carolina would do nothing to punish the outrage, took the matter into his own hands and issued a proclamation offering a reward of one hundred pounds for blackbeard, alive or dead, and different sums for the other pirates who were his followers. governor spottiswood had the right to issue the proclamation, but he had no right to commission lieutenant maynard, as he did, to take down an armed force into the neighboring province and to attack the pirates in the waters of the north carolina sounds. it was all a part of the rude and lawless condition of the colonies at the time that such a thing could have been done. [illustration: "jack followed the captain and the young lady up the crooked path to the house" _illustration from_ jack ballister's fortunes _by_ howard pyle _originally published by_ the century company, ] the governor's proclamation against the pirates was issued upon the eleventh day of november. it was read in the churches the sunday following and was posted upon the doors of all the government custom offices in lower virginia. lieutenant maynard, in the boats that colonel parker had already fitted out to go against the pirates, set sail upon the seventeenth of the month for ocracoke. five days later the battle was fought. * * * * * blackbeard's sloop was lying inside of ocracoke inlet among the shoals and sand bars when he first heard of governor spottiswood's proclamation. there had been a storm, and a good many vessels had run into the inlet for shelter. blackbeard knew nearly all of the captains of these vessels, and it was from them that he first heard of the proclamation. he had gone aboard one of the vessels--a coaster from boston. the wind was still blowing pretty hard from the southeast. there were maybe a dozen vessels lying within the inlet at that time, and the captain of one of them was paying the boston skipper a visit when blackbeard came aboard. the two captains had been talking together. they instantly ceased when the pirate came down into the cabin, but he had heard enough of their conversation to catch its drift. "why d'ye stop?" he said. "i heard what you said. well, what then? d'ye think i mind it at all? spottiswood is going to send his bullies down here after me. that's what you were saying. well, what then? you don't think i'm afraid of his bullies, do you?" "why, no, captain, i didn't say you was afraid," said the visiting captain. "and what right has he got to send down here against me in north carolina, i should like to ask you?" "he's got none at all," said the boston captain, soothingly. "won't you take a taste of hollands, captain?" "he's no more right to come blustering down here into governor eden's province than i have to come aboard of your schooner here, tom burley, and to carry off two or three kegs of this prime hollands for my own drinking." captain burley--the boston man--laughed a loud, forced laugh. "why, captain," he said, "as for two or three kegs of hollands, you won't find that aboard. but if you'd like to have a keg of it for your own drinking, i'll send it to you and be glad enough to do so for old acquaintance' sake." "but i tell you what 'tis, captain," said the visiting skipper to blackbeard, "they're determined and set against you this time. i tell you, captain, governor spottiswood hath issued a hot proclamation against you, and 't hath been read out in all the churches. i myself saw it posted in yorktown upon the customhouse door and read it there myself. the governor offers one hundred pounds for you, and fifty pounds for your officers, and twenty pounds each for your men." "well, then," said blackbeard, holding up his glass, "here, i wish 'em good luck, and when they get their hundred pounds for me they'll be in a poor way to spend it. as for the hollands," said he, turning to captain burley, "i know what you've got aboard here and what you haven't. d'ye suppose ye can blind me? very well, you send over two kegs, and i'll let you go without search." the two captains were very silent. "as for that lieutenant maynard you're all talking about," said blackbeard, "why, i know him very well. he was the one who was so busy with the pirates down madagascar way. i believe you'd all like to see him blow me out of the water, but he can't do it. there's nobody in his majesty's service i'd rather meet than lieutenant maynard. i'd teach him pretty briskly that north carolina isn't madagascar." * * * * * on the evening of the twenty-second the two vessels under command of lieutenant maynard came into the mouth of ocracoke inlet and there dropped anchor. meantime the weather had cleared, and all the vessels but one had gone from the inlet. the one vessel that remained was a new yorker. it had been there over a night and a day, and the captain and blackbeard had become very good friends. the same night that maynard came into the inlet a wedding was held on the shore. a number of men and women came up the beach in oxcarts and sledges; others had come in boats from more distant points and across the water. the captain of the new yorker and blackbeard went ashore together a little after dark. the new yorker had been aboard of the pirate's sloop for all the latter part of the afternoon, and he and blackbeard had been drinking together in the cabin. the new york man was now a little tipsy, and he laughed and talked foolishly as he and blackbeard were rowed ashore. the pirate sat grim and silent. it was nearly dark when they stepped ashore on the beach. the new york captain stumbled and fell headlong, rolling over and over, and the crew of the boat burst out laughing. the people had already begun to dance in an open shed fronting upon the shore. there were fires of pine knots in front of the building, lighting up the interior with a red glare. a negro was playing a fiddle somewhere inside, and the shed was filled with a crowd of grotesque dancing figures--men and women. now and then they called with loud voices as they danced, and the squeaking of the fiddle sounded incessantly through the noise of outcries and the stamp and shuffling of feet. captain teach and the new york captain stood looking on. the new york man had tilted himself against a post and stood there holding one arm around it, supporting himself. he waved the other hand foolishly in time to the music, now and then snapping his thumb and finger. the young woman who had just been married approached the two. she had been dancing, and she was warm and red, her hair blowzed about her head. "hi, captain, won't you dance with me?" she said to blackbeard. blackbeard stared at her. "who be you?" he said. she burst out laughing. "you look as if you'd eat a body," she cried. blackbeard's face gradually relaxed. "why, to be sure, you're a brazen one, for all the world," he said. "well, i'll dance with you, that i will. i'll dance the heart out of you." he pushed forward, thrusting aside with his elbow the newly made husband. the man, who saw that blackbeard had been drinking, burst out laughing, and the other men and women who had been standing around drew away, so that in a little while the floor was pretty well cleared. one could see the negro now; he sat on a barrel at the end of the room. he grinned with his white teeth and, without stopping in his fiddling, scraped his bow harshly across the strings, and then instantly changed the tune to a lively jig. blackbeard jumped up into the air and clapped his heels together, giving, as he did so, a sharp, short yell. then he began instantly dancing grotesquely and violently. the woman danced opposite to him, this way and that, with her knuckles on her hips. everybody burst out laughing at blackbeard's grotesque antics. they laughed again and again, clapping their hands, and the negro scraped away on his fiddle like fury. the woman's hair came tumbling down her back. she tucked it back, laughing and panting, and the sweat ran down her face. she danced and danced. at last she burst out laughing and stopped, panting. blackbeard again jumped up in the air and clapped his heels. again he yelled, and as he did so, he struck his heels upon the floor and spun around. once more everybody burst out laughing, clapping their hands, and the negro stopped fiddling. [illustration: "he led jack up to a man who sat upon a barrel" _illustration from_ jack ballister's fortunes _by_ howard pyle _originally published by_ the century company. ] near by was a shanty or cabin where they were selling spirits, and by and by blackbeard went there with the new york captain, and presently they began drinking again. "hi, captain!" called one of the men, "maynard's out yonder in the inlet. jack bishop's just come across from t'other side. he says mr. maynard hailed him and asked for a pilot to fetch him in." "well, here's luck to him, and he can't come in quick enough for me!" cried out blackbeard in his hoarse, husky voice. "well, captain," called a voice, "will ye fight him to-morrow?" "aye," shouted the pirate, "if he can get in to me, i'll try to give 'em what they seek, and all they want of it into the bargain. as for a pilot, i tell ye what 'tis--if any man hereabouts goes out there to pilot that villain in 'twill be the worst day's work he ever did in all of his life. 'twon't be fit for him to live in these parts of america if i am living here at the same time." there was a burst of laughter. "give us a toast, captain! give us something to drink to! aye, captain, a toast! a toast!" a half dozen voices were calling out at the same time. "well," cried out the pirate captain, "here's to a good, hot fight to-morrow, and the best dog on top! 'twill be, bang! bang!--this way!" he began pulling a pistol out of his pocket, but it stuck in the lining, and he struggled and tugged at it. the men ducked and scrambled away from before him, and then the next moment he had the pistol out of his pocket. he swung it around and around. there was perfect silence. suddenly there was a flash and a stunning report, and instantly a crash and tinkle of broken glass. one of the men cried out, and began picking and jerking at the back of his neck. "he's broken that bottle all down my neck," he called out. "that's the way 'twill be," said blackbeard. "lookee," said the owner of the place, "i won't serve out another drop if 'tis going to be like that. if there's any more trouble i'll blow out the lantern." the sound of the squeaking and scraping of the fiddle and the shouts and the scuffling feet still came from the shed where the dancing was going on. "suppose you get your dose to-morrow, captain," some one called out, "what then?" "why, if i do," said blackbeard, "i get it, and that's all there is of it." "your wife 'll be a rich widdy then, won't she?" cried one of the men; and there was a burst of laughter. "why," said the new york captain,--"why, has a--a bloody p-pirate like you a wife then--a--like any honest man?" "she'll be no richer than she is now," said blackbeard. "she knows where you've hid your money, anyways. don't she, captain?" called out a voice. "the divil knows where i've hid my money," said blackbeard, "and i know where i've hid it; and the longest liver of the twain will git it all. and that's all there is of it." the gray of early day was beginning to show in the east when blackbeard and the new york captain came down to the landing together. the new york captain swayed and toppled this way and that as he walked, now falling against blackbeard, and now staggering away from him. ii early in the morning--perhaps eight o'clock--lieutenant maynard sent a boat from the schooner over to the settlement, which lay some four or five miles distant. a number of men stood lounging on the landing, watching the approach of the boat. the men rowed close up to the wharf, and there lay upon their oars, while the boatswain of the schooner, who was in command of the boat, stood up and asked if there was any man there who could pilot them over the shoals. nobody answered, but all stared stupidly at him. after a while one of the men at last took his pipe out of his mouth. "there ben't any pilot here, master," said he; "we ben't pilots." "why, what a story you do tell!" roared the boatswain. "d'ye suppose i've never been down here before, not to know that every man about here knows the passes of the shoals?" the fellow still held his pipe in his hand. he looked at another one of the men. "do you know the passes in over the shoals, jem?" said he. the man to whom he spoke was a young fellow with long, shaggy, sunburnt hair hanging over his eyes in an unkempt mass. he shook his head, grunting, "na--i don't know naught about t' shoals." "'tis lieutenant maynard of his majesty's navy in command of them vessels out there," said the boatswain. "he'll give any man five pound to pilot him in." the men on the wharf looked at one another, but still no one spoke, and the boatswain stood looking at them. he saw that they did not choose to answer him. "why," he said, "i believe you've not got right wits--that's what i believe is the matter with you. pull me up to the landing, men, and i'll go ashore and see if i can find anybody that's willing to make five pound for such a little bit of piloting as that." after the boatswain had gone ashore the loungers still stood on the wharf, looking down into the boat, and began talking to one another for the men below to hear them. "they're coming in," said one, "to blow poor blackbeard out of the water." "aye," said another, "he's so peaceable, too, he is; he'll just lay still and let 'em blow and blow, he will." "there's a young fellow there," said another of the men; "he don't look fit to die yet, he don't. why, i wouldn't be in his place for a thousand pound." "i do suppose blackbeard's so afraid he don't know how to see," said the first speaker. at last one of the men in the boat spoke up. "maybe he don't know how to see," said he, "but maybe we'll blow some daylight into him afore we get through with him." some more of the settlers had come out from the shore to the end of the wharf, and there was now quite a crowd gathering there, all looking at the men in the boat. "what do them virginny 'baccy-eaters do down here in caroliny, anyway?" said one of the newcomers. "they've got no call to be down here in north caroliny waters." "maybe you can keep us away from coming, and maybe you can't," said a voice from the boat. "why," answered the man on the wharf, "we could keep you away easy enough, but you ben't worth the trouble, and that's the truth." there was a heavy iron bolt lying near the edge of the landing. one of the men upon the wharf slyly thrust it out with the end of his foot. it hung for a moment and then fell into the boat below with a crash. "what d'ye mean by that?" roared the man in charge of the boat. "what d'ye mean, ye villains? d'ye mean to stave a hole in us?" "why," said the man who had pushed it, "you saw 'twasn't done a purpose, didn't you?" "well, you try it again, and somebody 'll get hurt," said the man in the boat, showing the butt end of his pistol. the men on the wharf began laughing. just then the boatswain came down from the settlement again, and out along the landing. the threatened turbulence quieted as he approached, and the crowd moved sullenly aside to let him pass. he did not bring any pilot with him, and he jumped down into the stern of the boat, saying, briefly, "push off." the crowd of loungers stood looking after them as they rowed away, and when the boat was some distance from the landing they burst out into a volley of derisive yells. "the villains!" said the boatswain, "they are all in league together. they wouldn't even let me go up into the settlement to look for a pilot." * * * * * the lieutenant and his sailing master stood watching the boat as it approached. "couldn't you, then, get a pilot, baldwin?" said mr. maynard, as the boatswain scrambled aboard. "no, i couldn't, sir," said the man. "either they're all banded together, or else they're all afraid of the villains. they wouldn't even let me go up into the settlement to find one." "well, then," said mr. maynard, "we'll make shift to work in as best we may by ourselves. 'twill be high tide against one o'clock. we'll run in then with sail as far as we can, and then we'll send you ahead with the boat to sound for a pass, and we'll follow with the sweeps. you know the waters pretty well, you say." "they were saying ashore that the villain hath forty men aboard," said the boatswain.[ ] [footnote : the pirate captain had really only twenty-five men aboard of his sloop at the time of the battle.] lieutenant maynard's force consisted of thirty-five men in the schooner and twenty-five men in the sloop. he carried neither cannons nor carronades, and neither of his vessels was very well fitted for the purpose for which they were designed. the schooner, which he himself commanded, offered almost no protection to the crew. the rail was not more than a foot high in the waist, and the men on the deck were almost entirely exposed. the rail of the sloop was perhaps a little higher, but it, too, was hardly better adapted for fighting. indeed, the lieutenant depended more upon the moral force of official authority to overawe the pirates than upon any real force of arms or men. he never believed, until the very last moment, that the pirates would show any real fight. it is very possible that they might not have done so had they not thought that the lieutenant had actually no legal right supporting him in his attack upon them in north carolina waters. it was about noon when anchor was hoisted, and, with the schooner leading, both vessels ran slowly in before a light wind that had begun to blow toward midday. in each vessel a man stood in the bows, sounding continually with lead and line. as they slowly opened up the harbor within the inlet, they could see the pirate sloop lying about three miles away. there was a boat just putting off from it to the shore. the lieutenant and his sailing master stood together on the roof of the cabin deckhouse. the sailing master held a glass to his eye. "she carries a long gun, sir," he said, "and four carronades. she'll be hard to beat, sir, i do suppose, armed as we are with only light arms for close fighting." the lieutenant laughed. "why, brookes," he said, "you seem to think forever of these men showing fight. you don't know them as i know them. they have a deal of bluster and make a deal of noise, but when you seize them and hold them with a strong hand, there's naught of fight left in them. 'tis like enough there 'll not be so much as a musket fired to-day. i've had to do with 'em often enough before to know my gentlemen well by this time." nor, as was said, was it until the very last that the lieutenant could be brought to believe that the pirates had any stomach for a fight. the two vessels had reached perhaps within a mile of the pirate sloop before they found the water too shallow to venture any farther with the sail. it was then that the boat was lowered as the lieutenant had planned, and the boatswain went ahead to sound, the two vessels, with their sails still hoisted but empty of wind, pulling in after with sweeps. the pirate had also hoisted sail, but lay as though waiting for the approach of the schooner and the sloop. [illustration: "the bullets were humming and singing, clipping along the top of the water" _illustration from_ jack ballister's fortunes _by_ howard pyle _originally published by_ the century company, ] the boat in which the boatswain was sounding had run in a considerable distance ahead of the two vessels, which were gradually creeping up with the sweeps until they had reached to within less than half a mile of the pirates--the boat with the boatswain maybe a quarter of a mile closer. suddenly there was a puff of smoke from the pirate sloop, and then another and another, and the next moment there came the three reports of muskets up the wind. "by zounds!" said the lieutenant. "i do believe they're firing on the boat!" and then he saw the boat turn and begin pulling toward them. the boat with the boatswain aboard came rowing rapidly. again there were three or four puffs of smoke and three or four subsequent reports from the distant vessel. then, in a little while, the boat was alongside, and the boatswain came scrambling aboard. "never mind hoisting the boat," said the lieutenant; "we'll just take her in tow. come aboard as quick as you can." then, turning to the sailing master, "well, brookes, you'll have to do the best you can to get in over the shoals under half sail." "but, sir," said the master, "we'll be sure to run aground." "very well, sir," said the lieutenant, "you heard my orders. if we run aground we run aground, and that's all there is of it." "i sounded as far as maybe a little over a fathom," said the mate, "but the villains would let me go no nearer. i think i was in the channel, though. 'tis more open inside, as i mind me of it. there's a kind of a hole there, and if we get in over the shoals just beyond where i was we'll be all right." "very well, then, you take the wheel, baldwin," said the lieutenant, "and do the best you can for us." lieutenant maynard stood looking out forward at the pirate vessel, which they were now steadily nearing under half sail. he could see that there were signs of bustle aboard and of men running around upon the deck. then he walked aft and around the cabin. the sloop was some distance astern. it appeared to have run aground, and they were trying to push it off with the sweeps. the lieutenant looked down into the water over the stern, and saw that the schooner was already raising the mud in her wake. then he went forward along the deck. his men were crouching down along by the low rail, and there was a tense quietness of expectation about them. the lieutenant looked them over as he passed them. "johnson," he said, "do you take the lead and line and go forward and sound a bit." then to the others: "now, my men, the moment we run her aboard, you get aboard of her as quick as you can, do you understand? don't wait for the sloop or think about her, but just see that the grappling irons are fast, and then get aboard. if any man offers to resist you, shoot him down. are you ready, mr. cringle?" "aye, aye, sir," said the gunner. "very well, then, be ready, men; we'll be aboard 'em in a minute or two." "there's less than a fathom of water here, sir," sang out johnson from the bows. as he spoke there was a sudden soft jar and jerk, then the schooner was still. they were aground. "push her off to the lee there! let go your sheets!" roared the boatswain from the wheel. "push her off to the lee." he spun the wheel around as he spoke. a half a dozen men sprang up, seized the sweeps, and plunged them into the water. others ran to help them, but the sweeps only sank into the mud without moving the schooner. the sails had fallen off and they were flapping and thumping and clapping in the wind. others of the crew had scrambled to their feet and ran to help those at the sweeps. the lieutenant had walked quickly aft again. they were very close now to the pirate sloop, and suddenly some one hailed him from aboard of her. when he turned he saw that there was a man standing up on the rail of the pirate sloop, holding by the back stays. "who are you?" he called, from the distance, "and whence come you? what do you seek here? what d'ye mean, coming down on us this way?" the lieutenant heard somebody say, "that's blackbeard his-self." and he looked with great interest at the distant figure. the pirate stood out boldly against the cloudy sky. somebody seemed to speak to him from behind. he turned his head and then he turned round again. "we're only peaceful merchantmen!" he called out. "what authority have you got to come down upon us this way? if you'll come aboard i'll show you my papers and that we're only peaceful merchantmen." "the villains!" said the lieutenant to the master, who stood beside him. "they're peaceful merchantmen, are they! they look like peaceful merchantmen, with four carronades and a long gun aboard!" then he called out across the water, "i'll come aboard with my schooner as soon as i can push her off here." "if you undertake to come aboard of me," called the pirate, "i'll shoot into you. you've got no authority to board me, and i won't have you do it. if you undertake it 'twill be at your own risk, for i'll neither ask quarter of you nor give none." "very well," said the lieutenant, "if you choose to try that, you may do as you please; for i'm coming aboard of you as sure as heaven." "push off the bow there!" called the boatswain at the wheel. "look alive! why don't you push off the bow?" "she's hard aground!" answered the gunner. "we can't budge her an inch." "if they was to fire into us now," said the sailing master, "they'd smash us to pieces." "they won't fire into us," said the lieutenant. "they won't dare to." he jumped down from the cabin deckhouse as he spoke, and went forward to urge the men in pushing off the boat. it was already beginning to move. at that moment the sailing master suddenly called out, "mr. maynard! mr. maynard! they're going to give us a broadside!" almost before the words were out of his mouth, before lieutenant maynard could turn, there came a loud and deafening crash, and then instantly another, and a third, and almost as instantly a crackling and rending of broken wood. there were clean yellow splinters flying everywhere. a man fell violently against the lieutenant, nearly overturning him, but he caught at the stays and so saved himself. for one tense moment he stood holding his breath. then all about him arose a sudden outcry of groans and shouts and oaths. the man who had fallen against him was lying face down upon the deck. his thighs were quivering, and a pool of blood was spreading and running out from under him. there were other men down, all about the deck. some were rising; some were trying to rise; some only moved. there was a distant sound of yelling and cheering and shouting. it was from the pirate sloop. the pirates were rushing about upon her decks. they had pulled the cannon back, and, through the grunting sound of the groans about him, the lieutenant could distinctly hear the thud and punch of the rammers, and he knew they were going to shoot again. the low rail afforded almost no shelter against such a broadside, and there was nothing for it but to order all hands below for the time being. "get below!" roared out the lieutenant. "all hands get below and lie snug for further orders!" in obedience the men ran scrambling below into the hold, and in a little while the decks were nearly clear except for the three dead men and some three or four wounded. the boatswain, crouching down close to the wheel, and the lieutenant himself were the only others upon deck. everywhere there were smears and sprinkles of blood. "where's brookes?" the lieutenant called out. "he's hurt in the arm, sir, and he's gone below," said the boatswain. thereupon the lieutenant himself walked over to the forecastle hatch, and, hailing the gunner, ordered him to get up another ladder, so that the men could be run up on deck if the pirates should undertake to come aboard. at that moment the boatswain at the wheel called out that the villains were going to shoot again, and the lieutenant, turning, saw the gunner aboard of the pirate sloop in the act of touching the iron to the touchhole. he stooped down. there was another loud and deafening crash of cannon, one, two, three--four--the last two almost together--and almost instantly the boatswain called out, "'tis the sloop, sir! look at the sloop!" [illustration: "the combatants cut and slashed with savage fury" _illustration from_ jack ballister's fortunes _by_ howard pyle _originally published by_ the century company, ] the sloop had got afloat again, and had been coming up to the aid of the schooner, when the pirates fired their second broadside now at her. when the lieutenant looked at her she was quivering with the impact of the shot, and the next moment she began falling off to the wind, and he could see the wounded men rising and falling and struggling upon her decks. at the same moment the boatswain called out that the enemy was coming aboard, and even as he spoke the pirate sloop came drifting out from the cloud of smoke that enveloped her, looming up larger and larger as she came down upon them. the lieutenant still crouched down under the rail, looking out at them. suddenly, a little distance away, she came about, broadside on, and then drifted. she was close aboard now. something came flying through the air--another and another. they were bottles. one of them broke with a crash upon the deck. the others rolled over to the farther rail. in each of them a quick-match was smoking. almost instantly there was a flash and a terrific report, and the air was full of the whiz and singing of broken particles of glass and iron. there was another report, and then the whole air seemed full of gunpowder smoke. "they're aboard of us!" shouted the boatswain, and even as he spoke the lieutenant roared out, "all hands to repel boarders!" a second later there came the heavy, thumping bump of the vessels coming together. lieutenant maynard, as he called out the order, ran forward through the smoke, snatching one of his pistols out of his pocket and the cutlass out of its sheath as he did so. behind him the men were coming, swarming up from below. there was a sudden stunning report of a pistol, and then another and another, almost together. there was a groan and the fall of a heavy body, and then a figure came jumping over the rail, with two or three more directly following. the lieutenant was in the midst of the gunpowder smoke, when suddenly blackbeard was before him. the pirate captain had stripped himself naked to the waist. his shaggy black hair was falling over his eyes, and he looked like a demon fresh from the pit, with his frantic face. almost with the blindness of instinct the lieutenant thrust out his pistol, firing it as he did so. the pirate staggered back: he was down--no; he was up again. he had a pistol in each hand; but there was a stream of blood running down his naked ribs. suddenly, the mouth of a pistol was pointing straight at the lieutenant's head. he ducked instinctively, striking upward with his cutlass as he did so. there was a stunning, deafening report almost in his ear. he struck again blindly with his cutlass. he saw the flash of a sword and flung up his guard almost instinctively, meeting the crash of the descending blade. somebody shot from behind him, and at the same moment he saw some one else strike the pirate. blackbeard staggered again, and this time there was a great gash upon his neck. then one of maynard's own men tumbled headlong upon him. he fell with the man, but almost instantly he had scrambled to his feet again, and as he did so he saw that the pirate sloop had drifted a little away from them, and that their grappling irons had evidently parted. his hand was smarting as though struck with the lash of a whip. he looked around him; the pirate captain was nowhere to be seen--yes, there he was, lying by the rail. he raised himself upon his elbow, and the lieutenant saw that he was trying to point a pistol at him, with an arm that wavered and swayed blindly, the pistol nearly falling from his fingers. suddenly his other elbow gave way and he fell down upon his face. he tried to raise himself--he fell down again. there was a report and a cloud of smoke, and when it cleared away blackbeard had staggered up again. he was a terrible figure--his head nodding down upon his breast. somebody shot again, and then the swaying figure toppled and fell. it lay still for a moment--then rolled over--then lay still again. there was a loud splash of men jumping overboard, and then, almost instantly, the cry of "quarter! quarter!" the lieutenant ran to the edge of the vessel. it was as he had thought: the grappling irons of the pirate sloop had parted, and it had drifted away. the few pirates who had been left aboard of the schooner had jumped overboard and were now holding up their hands. "quarter!" they cried. "don't shoot!--quarter!" and the fight was over. the lieutenant looked down at his hand, and then he saw, for the first time, that there was a great cutlass gash across the back of it, and that his arm and shirt sleeve were wet with blood. he went aft, holding the wrist of his wounded hand. the boatswain was still at the wheel. "by zounds!" said the lieutenant, with a nervous, quavering laugh, "i didn't know there was such fight in the villains." his wounded and shattered sloop was again coming up toward him under sail, but the pirates had surrendered, and the fight was over. chapter vi blueskin, the pirate i cape may and cape henlopen form, as it were, the upper and lower jaws of a gigantic mouth, which disgorges from its monstrous gullet the cloudy waters of the delaware bay into the heaving, sparkling blue-green of the atlantic ocean. from cape henlopen as the lower jaw there juts out a long, curving fang of high, smooth-rolling sand dunes, cutting sharp and clean against the still, blue sky above--silent, naked, utterly deserted, excepting for the squat, white-walled lighthouse standing upon the crest of the highest hill. within this curving, sheltering hook of sand hills lie the smooth waters of lewes harbor, and, set a little back from the shore, the quaint old town, with its dingy wooden houses of clapboard and shingle, looks sleepily out through the masts of the shipping lying at anchor in the harbor, to the purple, clean-cut, level thread of the ocean horizon beyond. lewes is a queer, odd, old-fashioned little town, smelling fragrant of salt marsh and sea breeze. it is rarely visited by strangers. the people who live there are the progeny of people who have lived there for many generations, and it is the very place to nurse, and preserve, and care for old legends and traditions of bygone times, until they grow from bits of gossip and news into local history of considerable size. as in the busier world men talk of last year's elections, here these old bits, and scraps, and odds and ends of history are retailed to the listener who cares to listen--traditions of the war of , when beresford's fleet lay off the harbor threatening to bombard the town; tales of the revolution and of earl howe's warships, tarrying for a while in the quiet harbor before they sailed up the river to shake old philadelphia town with the thunders of their guns at red bank and fort mifflin. with these substantial and sober threads of real history, other and more lurid colors are interwoven into the web of local lore--legends of the dark doings of famous pirates, of their mysterious, sinister comings and goings, of treasures buried in the sand dunes and pine barrens back of the cape and along the atlantic beach to the southward. of such is the story of blueskin, the pirate. ii it was in the fall and the early winter of the year , and again in the summer of the year following, that the famous pirate, blueskin, became especially identified with lewes as a part of its traditional history. for some time--for three or four years--rumors and reports of blueskin's doings in the west indies and off the carolinas had been brought in now and then by sea captains. there was no more cruel, bloody, desperate, devilish pirate than he in all those pirate-infested waters. all kinds of wild and bloody stories were current concerning him, but it never occurred to the good folk of lewes that such stories were some time to be a part of their own history. but one day a schooner came drifting into lewes harbor--shattered, wounded, her forecastle splintered, her foremast shot half away, and three great tattered holes in her mainsail. the mate with one of the crew came ashore in the boat for help and a doctor. he reported that the captain and the cook were dead and there were three wounded men aboard. the story he told to the gathering crowd brought a very peculiar thrill to those who heard it. they had fallen in with blueskin, he said, off fenwick's island (some twenty or thirty miles below the capes), and the pirates had come aboard of them; but, finding that the cargo of the schooner consisted only of cypress shingles and lumber, had soon quitted their prize. perhaps blueskin was disappointed at not finding a more valuable capture; perhaps the spirit of deviltry was hotter in him that morning than usual; anyhow, as the pirate craft bore away she fired three broadsides at short range into the helpless coaster. the captain had been killed at the first fire, the cook had died on the way up, three of the crew were wounded, and the vessel was leaking fast, betwixt wind and water. such was the mate's story. it spread like wildfire, and in half an hour all the town was in a ferment. fenwick's island was very near home; blueskin might come sailing into the harbor at any minute and then--! in an hour sheriff jones had called together most of the able-bodied men of the town, muskets and rifles were taken down from the chimney places, and every preparation was made to defend the place against the pirates, should they come into the harbor and attempt to land. but blueskin did not come that day, nor did he come the next or the next. but on the afternoon of the third the news went suddenly flying over the town that the pirates were inside the capes. as the report spread the people came running--men, women, and children--to the green before the tavern, where a little knot of old seamen were gathered together, looking fixedly out toward the offing, talking in low voices. two vessels, one bark-rigged, the other and smaller a sloop, were slowly creeping up the bay, a couple of miles or so away and just inside the cape. there appeared nothing remarkable about the two crafts, but the little crowd that continued gathering upon the green stood looking out across the bay at them none the less anxiously for that. they were sailing close-hauled to the wind, the sloop following in the wake of her consort as the pilot fish follows in the wake of the shark. but the course they held did not lie toward the harbor, but rather bore away toward the jersey shore, and by and by it began to be apparent that blueskin did not intend visiting the town. nevertheless, those who stood looking did not draw a free breath until, after watching the two pirates for more than an hour and a half, they saw them--then about six miles away--suddenly put about and sail with a free wind out to sea again. "the bloody villains have gone!" said old captain wolfe, shutting his telescope with a click. but lewes was not yet quit of blueskin. two days later a half-breed from indian river bay came up, bringing the news that the pirates had sailed into the inlet--some fifteen miles below lewes--and had careened the bark to clean her. perhaps blueskin did not care to stir up the country people against him, for the half-breed reported that the pirates were doing no harm, and that what they took from the farmers of indian river and rehoboth they paid for with good hard money. it was while the excitement over the pirates was at its highest fever heat that levi west came home again. iii even in the middle of the last century the grist mill, a couple of miles from lewes, although it was at most but fifty or sixty years old, had all a look of weather-beaten age, for the cypress shingles, of which it was built, ripen in a few years of wind and weather to a silvery, hoary gray, and the white powdering of flour lent it a look as though the dust of ages had settled upon it, making the shadows within dim, soft, mysterious. a dozen willow trees shaded with dappling, shivering ripples of shadow the road before the mill door, and the mill itself, and the long, narrow, shingle-built, one-storied, hip-roofed dwelling house. at the time of the story the mill had descended in a direct line of succession to hiram white, the grandson of old ephraim white, who had built it, it was said, in . hiram white was only twenty-seven years old, but he was already in local repute as a "character." as a boy he was thought to be half-witted or "natural," and, as is the case with such unfortunates in small country towns where everybody knows everybody, he was made a common sport and jest for the keener, crueler wits of the neighborhood. now that he was grown to the ripeness of manhood he was still looked upon as being--to use a quaint expression--"slack," or "not jest right." he was heavy, awkward, ungainly and loose-jointed, and enormously, prodigiously strong. he had a lumpish, thick-featured face, with lips heavy and loosely hanging, that gave him an air of stupidity, half droll, half pathetic. his little eyes were set far apart and flat with his face, his eyebrows were nearly white and his hair was of a sandy, colorless kind. he was singularly taciturn, lisping thickly when he did talk, and stuttering and hesitating in his speech, as though his words moved faster than his mind could follow. it was the custom for local wags to urge, or badger, or tempt him to talk, for the sake of the ready laugh that always followed the few thick, stammering words and the stupid drooping of the jaw at the end of each short speech. perhaps squire hall was the only one in lewes hundred who mis-doubted that hiram was half-witted. he had had dealings with him and was wont to say that whoever bought hiram white for a fool made a fool's bargain. certainly, whether he had common wits or no, hiram had managed his mill to pretty good purpose and was fairly well off in the world as prosperity went in southern delaware and in those days. no doubt, had it come to the pinch, he might have bought some of his tormentors out three times over. hiram white had suffered quite a financial loss some six months before, through that very blueskin who was now lurking in indian river inlet. he had entered into a "venture" with josiah shippin, a philadelphia merchant, to the tune of seven hundred pounds sterling. the money had been invested in a cargo of flour and corn meal which had been shipped to jamaica by the bark _nancy lee_. the _nancy lee_ had been captured by the pirates off currituck sound, the crew set adrift in the longboat, and the bark herself and all her cargo burned to the water's edge. [illustration: so the treasure was divided] five hundred of the seven hundred pounds invested in the unfortunate "venture" was money bequeathed by hiram's father, seven years before, to levi west. eleazer white had been twice married, the second time to the widow west. she had brought with her to her new home a good-looking, long-legged, black-eyed, black-haired ne'er-do-well of a son, a year or so younger than hiram. he was a shrewd, quick-witted lad, idle, shiftless, willful, ill-trained perhaps, but as bright and keen as a pin. he was the very opposite to poor, dull hiram. eleazer white had never loved his son; he was ashamed of the poor, slack-witted oaf. upon the other hand, he was very fond of levi west, whom he always called "our levi," and whom he treated in every way as though he were his own son. he tried to train the lad to work in the mill, and was patient beyond what the patience of most fathers would have been with his stepson's idleness and shiftlessness. "never mind," he was used to say. "levi 'll come all right. levi's as bright as a button." it was one of the greatest blows of the old miller's life when levi ran away to sea. in his last sickness the old man's mind constantly turned to his lost stepson. "mebby he'll come back again," said he, "and if he does i want you to be good to him, hiram. i've done my duty by you and have left you the house and mill, but i want you to promise that if levi comes back again you'll give him a home and a shelter under this roof if he wants one." and hiram had promised to do as his father asked. after eleazer died it was found that he had bequeathed five hundred pounds to his "beloved stepson, levi west," and had left squire hall as trustee. levi west had been gone nearly nine years and not a word had been heard from him; there could be little or no doubt that he was dead. one day hiram came into squire hall's office with a letter in his hand. it was the time of the old french war, and flour and corn meal were fetching fabulous prices in the british west indies. the letter hiram brought with him was from a philadelphia merchant, josiah shippin, with whom he had had some dealings. mr. shippin proposed that hiram should join him in sending a "venture" of flour and corn meal to kingston, jamaica. hiram had slept upon the letter overnight and now he brought it to the old squire. squire hall read the letter, shaking his head the while. "too much risk, hiram!" said he. "mr shippin wouldn't have asked you to go into this venture if he could have got anybody else to do so. my advice is that you let it alone. i reckon you've come to me for advice?" hiram shook his head. "ye haven't? what have ye come for, then?" "seven hundred pounds," said hiram. "seven hundred pounds!" said squire hall. "i haven't got seven hundred pounds to lend you, hiram." "five hundred been left to levi--i got hundred--raise hundred more on mortgage," said hiram. "tut, tut, hiram," said squire hall, "that'll never do in the world. suppose levi west should come back again, what then? i'm responsible for that money. if you wanted to borrow it now for any reasonable venture, you should have it and welcome, but for such a wildcat scheme--" "levi never come back," said hiram--"nine years gone--levi's dead." "mebby he is," said squire hall, "but we don't know that." "i'll give bond for security," said hiram. squire hall thought for a while in silence. "very well, hiram," said he by and by, "if you'll do that. your father left the money, and i don't see that it's right for me to stay his son from using it. but if it is lost, hiram, and if levi should come back, it will go well to ruin ye." so hiram white invested seven hundred pounds in the jamaica venture and every farthing of it was burned by blueskin, off currituck sound. iv sally martin was said to be the prettiest girl in lewes hundred, and when the rumor began to leak out that hiram white was courting her the whole community took it as a monstrous joke. it was the common thing to greet hiram himself with, "hey, hiram; how's sally?" hiram never made answer to such salutation, but went his way as heavily, as impassively, as dully as ever. the joke was true. twice a week, rain or shine, hiram white never failed to scrape his feet upon billy martin's doorstep. twice a week, on sundays and thursdays, he never failed to take his customary seat by the kitchen fire. he rarely said anything by way of talk; he nodded to the farmer, to his wife, to sally and, when he chanced to be at home, to her brother, but he ventured nothing further. there he would sit from half past seven until nine o'clock, stolid, heavy, impassive, his dull eyes following now one of the family and now another, but always coming back again to sally. it sometimes happened that she had other company--some of the young men of the neighborhood. the presence of such seemed to make no difference to hiram; he bore whatever broad jokes might be cracked upon him, whatever grins, whatever giggling might follow those jokes, with the same patient impassiveness. there he would sit, silent, unresponsive; then, at the first stroke of nine o'clock, he would rise, shoulder his ungainly person into his overcoat, twist his head into his three-cornered hat, and with a "good night, sally, i be going now," would take his departure, shutting the door carefully to behind him. never, perhaps, was there a girl in the world had such a lover and such a courtship as sally martin. v it was one thursday evening in the latter part of november, about a week after blueskin's appearance off the capes, and while the one subject of talk was of the pirates being in indian river inlet. the air was still and wintry; a sudden cold snap had set in and skins of ice had formed over puddles in the road; the smoke from the chimneys rose straight in the quiet air and voices sounded loud, as they do in frosty weather. hiram white sat by the dim light of a tallow dip, poring laboriously over some account books. it was not quite seven o'clock, and he never started for billy martin's before that hour. as he ran his finger slowly and hesitatingly down the column of figures, he heard the kitchen door beyond open and shut, the noise of footsteps crossing the floor and the scraping of a chair dragged forward to the hearth. then came the sound of a basket of corncobs being emptied on the smoldering blaze and then the snapping and crackling of the reanimated fire. hiram thought nothing of all this, excepting, in a dim sort of way, that it was bob, the negro mill hand, or old black dinah, the housekeeper, and so went on with his calculations. at last he closed the books with a snap and, smoothing down his hair, arose, took up the candle, and passed out of the room into the kitchen beyond. a man was sitting in front of the corncob fire that flamed and blazed in the great, gaping, sooty fireplace. a rough overcoat was flung over the chair behind him and his hands were spread out to the roaring warmth. at the sound of the lifted latch and of hiram's entrance he turned his head, and when hiram saw his face he stood suddenly still as though turned to stone. the face, marvelously altered and changed as it was, was the face of his stepbrother, levi west. he was not dead; he had come home again. for a time not a sound broke the dead, unbroken silence excepting the crackling of the blaze in the fireplace and the sharp ticking of the tall clock in the corner. the one face, dull and stolid, with the light of the candle shining upward over its lumpy features, looked fixedly, immovably, stonily at the other, sharp, shrewd, cunning--the red wavering light of the blaze shining upon the high cheek bones, cutting sharp on the nose and twinkling in the glassy turn of the black, ratlike eyes. then suddenly that face cracked, broadened, spread to a grin. "i have come back again, hi," said levi, and at the sound of the words the speechless spell was broken. hiram answered never a word, but he walked to the fireplace, set the candle down upon the dusty mantelshelf among the boxes and bottles, and, drawing forward a chair upon the other side of the hearth, sat down. his dull little eyes never moved from his stepbrother's face. there was no curiosity in his expression, no surprise, no wonder. the heavy under lip dropped a little farther open and there was more than usual of dull, expressionless stupidity upon the lumpish face; but that was all. as was said, the face upon which he looked was strangely, marvelously changed from what it had been when he had last seen it nine years before, and, though it was still the face of levi west, it was a very different levi west than the shiftless ne'er-do-well who had run away to sea in the brazilian brig that long time ago. that levi west had been a rough, careless, happy-go-lucky fellow; thoughtless and selfish, but with nothing essentially evil or sinister in his nature. the levi west that now sat in a rush-bottom chair at the other side of the fireplace had that stamped upon his front that might be both evil and sinister. his swart complexion was tanned to an indian copper. on one side of his face was a curious discoloration in the skin and a long, crooked, cruel scar that ran diagonally across forehead and temple and cheek in a white, jagged seam. this discoloration was of a livid blue, about the tint of a tattoo mark. it made a patch the size of a man's hand, lying across the cheek and the side of the neck. hiram could not keep his eyes from this mark and the white scar cutting across it. there was an odd sort of incongruity in levi's dress; a pair of heavy gold earrings and a dirty red handkerchief knotted loosely around his neck, beneath an open collar, displaying to its full length the lean, sinewy throat with its bony "adam's apple," gave to his costume somewhat the smack of a sailor. he wore a coat that had once been of fine plum color--now stained and faded--too small for his lean length, and furbished with tarnished lace. dirty cambric cuffs hung at his wrists and on his fingers were half a dozen and more rings, set with stones that shone, and glistened, and twinkled in the light of the fire. the hair at either temple was twisted into a spanish curl, plastered flat to the cheek, and a plaited queue hung halfway down his back. hiram, speaking never a word, sat motionless, his dull little eyes traveling slowly up and down and around and around his stepbrother's person. levi did not seem to notice his scrutiny, leaning forward, now with his palms spread out to the grateful warmth, now rubbing them slowly together. but at last he suddenly whirled his chair around, rasping on the floor, and faced his stepbrother. he thrust his hand into his capacious coat pocket and brought out a pipe which he proceeded to fill from a skin of tobacco. "well, hi," said he, "d'ye see i've come back home again?" "thought you was dead," said hiram, dully. levi laughed, then he drew a red-hot coal out of the fire, put it upon the bowl of the pipe and began puffing out clouds of pungent smoke. "nay, nay," said he; "not dead--not dead by odds. but [puff] by the eternal holy, hi, i played many a close game [puff] with old davy jones, for all that." hiram's look turned inquiringly toward the jagged scar and levi caught the slow glance. "you're lookin' at this," said he, running his finger down the crooked seam. "that looks bad, but it wasn't so close as this"--laying his hand for a moment upon the livid stain. "a cooly devil off singapore gave me that cut when we fell foul of an opium junk in the china sea four years ago last september. this," touching the disfiguring blue patch again, "was a closer miss, hi. a spanish captain fired a pistol at me down off santa catharina. he was so nigh that the powder went under the skin and it'll never come out again. ---- his eyes--he had better have fired the pistol into his own head that morning. but never mind that. i reckon i'm changed, ain't i, hi?" he took his pipe out of his mouth and looked inquiringly at hiram, who nodded. levi laughed. "devil doubt it," said he, "but whether i'm changed or no, i'll take my affidavy that you are the same old half-witted hi that you used to be. i remember dad used to say that you hadn't no more than enough wits to keep you out of the rain. and, talking of dad, hi, i hearn tell he's been dead now these nine years gone. d'ye know what i've come home for?" hiram shook his head. "i've come for that five hundred pounds that dad left me when he died, for i hearn tell of that, too." hiram sat quite still for a second or two and then he said, "i put that money out to venture and lost it all." levi's face fell and he took his pipe out of his mouth, regarding hiram sharply and keenly. "what d'ye mean?" said he presently. "i thought you was dead--and i put--seven hundred pounds--into _nancy lee_--and blueskin burned her--off currituck." "burned her off currituck!" repeated levi. then suddenly a light seemed to break upon his comprehension. "burned by blueskin!" he repeated, and thereupon flung himself back in his chair and burst into a short, boisterous fit of laughter. "well, by the holy eternal, hi, if that isn't a piece of your tarnal luck. burned by blueskin, was it?" he paused for a moment, as though turning it over in his mind. then he laughed again. "all the same," said he presently, "d'ye see, i can't suffer for blueskin's doings. the money was willed to me, fair and true, and you have got to pay it, hiram white, burn or sink, blueskin or no blueskin." again he puffed for a moment or two in reflective silence. "all the same, hi," said he, once more resuming the thread of talk, "i don't reckon to be too hard on you. you be only half-witted, anyway, and i sha'n't be too hard on you. i give you a month to raise that money, and while you're doing it i'll jest hang around here. i've been in trouble, hi, d'ye see. i'm under a cloud and so i want to keep here, as quiet as may be. i'll tell ye how it came about: i had a set-to with a land pirate in philadelphia, and somebody got hurt. that's the reason i'm here now, and don't you say anything about it. do you understand?" hiram opened his lips as though it was his intent to answer, then seemed to think better of it and contented himself by nodding his head. that thursday night was the first for a six-month that hiram white did not scrape his feet clean at billy martin's doorstep. vi within a week levi west had pretty well established himself among his old friends and acquaintances, though upon a different footing from that of nine years before, for this was a very different levi from that other. nevertheless, he was none the less popular in the barroom of the tavern and at the country store, where he was always the center of a group of loungers. his nine years seemed to have been crowded full of the wildest of wild adventures and happenings, as well by land as by sea, and, given an appreciative audience, he would reel off his yarns by the hour, in a reckless, devil-may-care fashion that set agape even old sea dogs who had sailed the western ocean since boyhood. then he seemed always to have plenty of money, and he loved to spend it at the tavern taproom, with a lavishness that was at once the wonder and admiration of gossips. [illustration: colonel rhett and the pirate _illustration from_ colonies and nation _by_ woodrow wilson _originally published in_ harper's magazine, _may_, ] at that time, as was said, blueskin was the one engrossing topic of talk, and it added not a little to levi's prestige when it was found that he had actually often seen that bloody, devilish pirate with his own eyes. a great, heavy, burly fellow, levi said he was, with a beard as black as a hat--a devil with his sword and pistol afloat, but not so black as he was painted when ashore. he told of many adventures in which blueskin figured and was then always listened to with more than usual gaping interest. as for blueskin, the quiet way in which the pirates conducted themselves at indian river almost made the lewes folk forget what he could do when the occasion called. they almost ceased to remember that poor shattered schooner that had crawled with its ghastly dead and groaning wounded into the harbor a couple of weeks since. but if for a while they forgot who or what blueskin was, it was not for long. one day a bark from bristol, bound for cuba and laden with a valuable cargo of cloth stuffs and silks, put into lewes harbor to take in water. the captain himself came ashore and was at the tavern for two or three hours. it happened that levi was there and that the talk was of blueskin. the english captain, a grizzled old sea dog, listened to levi's yarns with not a little contempt. he had, he said, sailed in the china sea and the indian ocean too long to be afraid of any hog-eating yankee pirate such as this blueskin. a junk full of coolies armed with stink-pots was something to speak of, but who ever heard of the likes of blueskin falling afoul of anything more than a spanish canoe or a yankee coaster? levi grinned. "all the same, my hearty," said he, "if i was you i'd give blueskin a wide berth. i hear that he's cleaned the vessel that was careened awhile ago, and mebby he'll give you a little trouble if you come too nigh him." to this the englishman only answered that blueskin might be----, and that the next afternoon, wind and weather permitting, he intended to heave anchor and run out to sea. levi laughed again. "i wish i might be here to see what'll happen," said he, "but i'm going up the river to-night to see a gal and mebby won't be back again for three or four days." the next afternoon the english bark set sail as the captain promised, and that night lewes town was awake until almost morning, gazing at a broad red glare that lighted up the sky away toward the southeast. two days afterward a negro oysterman came up from indian river with news that the pirates were lying off the inlet, bringing ashore bales of goods from their larger vessel and piling the same upon the beach under tarpaulins. he said that it was known down at indian river that blueskin had fallen afoul of an english bark, had burned her and had murdered the captain and all but three of the crew, who had joined with the pirates. the excitement over this terrible happening had only begun to subside when another occurred to cap it. one afternoon a ship's boat, in which were five men and two women, came rowing into lewes harbor. it was the longboat of the charleston packet, bound for new york, and was commanded by the first mate. the packet had been attacked and captured by the pirates about ten leagues south by east of cape henlopen. the pirates had come aboard of them at night and no resistance had been offered. perhaps it was that circumstance that saved the lives of all, for no murder or violence had been done. nevertheless, officers, passengers and crew had been stripped of everything of value and set adrift in the boats and the ship herself had been burned. the longboat had become separated from the others during the night and had sighted henlopen a little after sunrise. it may be here said that squire hall made out a report of these two occurrences and sent it up to philadelphia by the mate of the packet. but for some reason it was nearly four weeks before a sloop of war was sent around from new york. in the meanwhile, the pirates had disposed of the booty stored under the tarpaulins on the beach at indian river inlet, shipping some of it away in two small sloops and sending the rest by wagons somewhere up the country. vii levi had told the english captain that he was going up-country to visit one of his lady friends. he was gone nearly two weeks. then once more he appeared, as suddenly, as unexpectedly, as he had done when he first returned to lewes. hiram was sitting at supper when the door opened and levi walked in, hanging up his hat behind the door as unconcernedly as though he had only been gone an hour. he was in an ugly, lowering humor and sat himself down at the table without uttering a word, resting his chin upon his clenched fist and glowering fixedly at the corn cake while dinah fetched him a plate and knife and fork. his coming seemed to have taken away all of hiram's appetite. he pushed away his plate and sat staring at his stepbrother, who presently fell to at the bacon and eggs like a famished wolf. not a word was said until levi had ended his meal and filled his pipe. "look'ee, hiram," said he, as he stooped over the fire and raked out a hot coal. "look'ee, hiram! i've been to philadelphia, d'ye see, a-settlin' up that trouble i told you about when i first come home. d'ye understand? d'ye remember? d'ye get it through your skull?" he looked around over his shoulder, waiting as though for an answer. but getting none, he continued: "i expect two gentlemen here from philadelphia to-night. they're friends of mine and are coming to talk over the business and ye needn't stay at home, hi. you can go out somewhere, d'ye understand?" and then he added with a grin, "ye can go to see sally." hiram pushed back his chair and arose. he leaned with his back against the side of the fireplace. "i'll stay at home," said he presently. "but i don't want you to stay at home, hi," said levi. "we'll have to talk business and i want you to go!" "i'll stay at home," said hiram again. levi's brow grew as black as thunder. he ground his teeth together and for a moment or two it seemed as though an explosion was coming. but he swallowed his passion with a gulp. "you're a----pig-headed, half-witted fool," said he. hiram never so much as moved his eyes. "as for you," said levi, whirling round upon dinah, who was clearing the table, and glowering balefully upon the old negress, "you put them things down and git out of here. don't you come nigh this kitchen again till i tell ye to. if i catch you pryin' around may i be ----, eyes and liver, if i don't cut your heart out." * * * * * in about half an hour levi's friends came; the first a little, thin, wizened man with a very foreign look. he was dressed in a rusty black suit and wore gray yarn stockings and shoes with brass buckles. the other was also plainly a foreigner. he was dressed in sailor fashion, with petticoat breeches of duck, a heavy pea-jacket, and thick boots, reaching to the knees. he wore a red sash tied around his waist, and once, as he pushed back his coat, hiram saw the glitter of a pistol butt. he was a powerful, thickset man, low-browed and bull-necked, his cheek, and chin, and throat closely covered with a stubble of blue-black beard. he wore a red kerchief tied around his head and over it a cocked hat, edged with tarnished gilt braid. levi himself opened the door to them. he exchanged a few words outside with his visitors, in a foreign language of which hiram understood nothing. neither of the two strangers spoke a word to hiram: the little man shot him a sharp look out of the corners of his eyes and the burly ruffian scowled blackly at him, but beyond that neither vouchsafed him any regard. levi drew to the shutters, shot the bolt in the outer door, and tilted a chair against the latch of the one that led from the kitchen into the adjoining room. then the three worthies seated themselves at the table which dinah had half cleared of the supper china, and were presently deeply engrossed over a packet of papers which the big, burly man had brought with him in the pocket of his pea-jacket. the confabulation was conducted throughout in the same foreign language which levi had used when first speaking to them--a language quite unintelligible to hiram's ears. now and then the murmur of talk would rise loud and harsh over some disputed point; now and then it would sink away to whispers. twice the tall clock in the corner whirred and sharply struck the hour, but throughout the whole long consultation hiram stood silent, motionless as a stock, his eyes fixed almost unwinkingly upon the three heads grouped close together around the dim, flickering light of the candle and the papers scattered upon the table. suddenly the talk came to an end, the three heads separated and the three chairs were pushed back, grating harshly. levi rose, went to the closet and brought thence a bottle of hiram's apple brandy, as coolly as though it belonged to himself. he set three tumblers and a crock of water upon the table and each helped himself liberally. as the two visitors departed down the road, levi stood for a while at the open door, looking after the dusky figures until they were swallowed in the darkness. then he turned, came in, shut the door, shuddered, took a final dose of the apple brandy and went to bed, without, since his first suppressed explosion, having said a single word to hiram. hiram, left alone, stood for a while, silent, motionless as ever, then he looked slowly about him, gave a shake of the shoulders as though to arouse himself, and taking the candle, left the room, shutting the door noiselessly behind him. viii this time of levi west's unwelcome visitation was indeed a time of bitter trouble and tribulation to poor hiram white. money was of very different value in those days than it is now, and five hundred pounds was in its way a good round lump--in sussex county it was almost a fortune. it was a desperate struggle for hiram to raise the amount of his father's bequest to his stepbrother. squire hall, as may have been gathered, had a very warm and friendly feeling for hiram, believing in him when all others disbelieved; nevertheless, in the matter of money the old man was as hard and as cold as adamant. he would, he said, do all he could to help hiram, but that five hundred pounds must and should be raised--hiram must release his security bond. he would loan him, he said, three hundred pounds, taking a mortgage upon the mill. he would have lent him four hundred but that there was already a first mortgage of one hundred pounds upon it, and he would not dare to put more than three hundred more atop of that. hiram had a considerable quantity of wheat which he had bought upon speculation and which was then lying idle in a philadelphia storehouse. this he had sold at public sale and at a very great sacrifice; he realized barely one hundred pounds upon it. the financial horizon looked very black to him; nevertheless, levi's five hundred pounds was raised, and paid into squire hall's hands, and squire hall released hiram's bond. the business was finally closed on one cold, gray afternoon in the early part of december. as hiram tore his bond across and then tore it across again and again, squire hall pushed back the papers upon his desk and cocked his feet upon its slanting top. "hiram," said he, abruptly, "hiram, do you know that levi west is forever hanging around billy martin's house, after that pretty daughter of his?" so long a space of silence followed the speech that the squire began to think that hiram might not have heard him. but hiram had heard. "no," said he, "i didn't know it." "well, he is," said squire hall. "it's the talk of the whole neighborhood. the talk's pretty bad, too. d'ye know that they say that she was away from home three days last week, nobody knew where? the fellow's turned her head with his sailor's yarns and his traveler's lies." hiram said not a word, but he sat looking at the other in stolid silence. "that stepbrother of yours," continued the old squire presently, "is a rascal--he is a rascal, hiram, and i mis-doubt he's something worse. i hear he's been seen in some queer places and with queer company of late." he stopped again, and still hiram said nothing. "and look'ee, hiram," the old man resumed, suddenly, "i do hear that you be courtin' the girl, too; is that so?" "yes," said hiram, "i'm courtin' her, too." "tut! tut!" said the squire, "that's a pity, hiram. i'm afraid your cakes are dough." after he had left the squire's office, hiram stood for a while in the street, bareheaded, his hat in his hand, staring unwinkingly down at the ground at his feet, with stupidly drooping lips and lackluster eyes. presently he raised his hand and began slowly smoothing down the sandy shock of hair upon his forehead. at last he aroused himself with a shake, looked dully up and down the street, and then, putting on his hat, turned and walked slowly and heavily away. the early dusk of the cloudy winter evening was settling fast, for the sky was leaden and threatening. at the outskirts of the town hiram stopped again and again stood for a while in brooding thought. then, finally, he turned slowly, not the way that led homeward, but taking the road that led between the bare and withered fields and crooked fences toward billy martin's. it would be hard to say just what it was that led hiram to seek billy martin's house at that time of day--whether it was fate or ill fortune. he could not have chosen a more opportune time to confirm his own undoing. what he saw was the very worst that his heart feared. along the road, at a little distance from the house, was a mock-orange hedge, now bare, naked, leafless. as hiram drew near he heard footsteps approaching and low voices. he drew back into the fence corner and there stood, half sheltered by the stark network of twigs. two figures passed slowly along the gray of the roadway in the gloaming. one was his stepbrother, the other was sally martin. levi's arm was around her, he was whispering into her ear, and her head rested upon his shoulder. hiram stood as still, as breathless, as cold as ice. they stopped upon the side of the road just beyond where he stood. hiram's eyes never left them. there for some time they talked together in low voices, their words now and then reaching the ears of that silent, breathless listener. suddenly there came the clattering of an opening door, and then betty martin's voice broke the silence, harshly, shrilly: "sal!--sal!--sally martin! you, sally martin! come in yere. where be ye?" the girl flung her arms around levi's neck and their lips met in one quick kiss. the next moment she was gone, flying swiftly, silently, down the road past where hiram stood, stooping as she ran. levi stood looking after her until she was gone; then he turned and walked away whistling. his whistling died shrilly into silence in the wintry distance, and then at last hiram came stumbling out from the hedge. his face had never looked before as it looked then. ix hiram was standing in front of the fire with his hands clasped behind his back. he had not touched the supper on the table. levi was eating with an appetite. suddenly he looked over his plate at his stepbrother. "how about that five hundred pounds, hiram?" said he. "i gave ye a month to raise it and the month ain't quite up yet, but i'm goin' to leave this here place day after to-morrow--by next day at the furd'st--and i want the money that's mine." "i paid it to squire hall to-day and he has it fer ye," said hiram, dully. levi laid down his knife and fork with a clatter. "squire hall!" said he, "what's squire hall got to do with it? squire hall didn't have the use of that money. it was you had it and you have got to pay it back to me, and if you don't do it, by g----, i'll have the law on you, sure as you're born." "squire hall's trustee--i ain't your trustee," said hiram, in the same dull voice. "i don't know nothing about trustees," said levi, "or anything about lawyer business, either. what i want to know is, are you going to pay me my money or no?" "no," said hiram, "i ain't--squire hall 'll pay ye; you go to him." levi west's face grew purple red. he pushed back, his chair grating harshly. "you--bloody land pirate!" he said, grinding his teeth together. "i see through your tricks. you're up to cheating me out of my money. you know very well that squire hall is down on me, hard and bitter--writin' his ---- reports to philadelphia and doing all he can to stir up everybody agin me and to bring the bluejackets down on me. i see through your tricks as clear as glass, but ye sha'n't trick me. i'll have my money if there's law in the land--ye bloody, unnatural thief ye, who'd go agin your dead father's will!" then--if the roof had fallen in upon him, levi west could not have been more amazed--hiram suddenly strode forward, and, leaning half across the table with his fists clenched, fairly glared into levi's eyes. his face, dull, stupid, wooden, was now fairly convulsed with passion. the great veins stood out upon his temples like knotted whipcords, and when he spoke his voice was more a breathless snarl than the voice of a christian man. "ye'll have the law, will ye?" said he. "ye'll--have the law, will ye? you're afeared to go to law--levi west--you try th' law--and see how ye like it. who 're you to call me thief--ye bloody, murderin' villain ye! you're the thief--levi west--you come here and stole my daddy from me--ye did. you make me ruin--myself to pay what oughter to been mine--then--ye--ye steal the gal i was courtin', to boot." he stopped and his lips writhed for words to say. "i know ye," said he, grinding his teeth. "i know ye! and only for what my daddy made me promise i'd a-had you up to the magistrate's before this." then, pointing with quivering finger: "there's the door--you see it! go out that there door and don't never come into it again--if ye do--or if ye ever come where i can lay eyes on ye again--by th' holy holy i'll hale ye up to the squire's office and tell all i know and all i've seen. oh, i'll give ye your belly-fill of law if--ye want th' law! git out of the house, i say!" as hiram spoke levi seemed to shrink together. his face changed from its copper color to a dull, waxy yellow. when the other ended he answered never a word. but he pushed back his chair, rose, put on his hat and, with a furtive, sidelong look, left the house, without stopping to finish the supper which he had begun. he never entered hiram white's door again. x hiram had driven out the evil spirit from his home, but the mischief that it had brewed was done and could not be undone. the next day it was known that sally martin had run away from home, and that she had run away with levi west. old billy martin had been in town in the morning with his rifle, hunting for levi and threatening if he caught him to have his life for leading his daughter astray. and, as the evil spirit had left hiram's house, so had another and a greater evil spirit quitted its harborage. it was heard from indian river in a few days more that blueskin had quitted the inlet and had sailed away to the southeast; and it was reported, by those who seemed to know, that he had finally quitted those parts. it was well for himself that blueskin left when he did, for not three days after he sailed away the _scorpion_ sloop-of-war dropped anchor in lewes harbor. the new york agent of the unfortunate packet and a government commissioner had also come aboard the _scorpion_. without loss of time, the officer in command instituted a keen and searching examination that brought to light some singularly curious facts. it was found that a very friendly understanding must have existed for some time between the pirates and the people of indian river, for, in the houses throughout that section, many things--some of considerable value--that had been taken by the pirates from the packet, were discovered and seized by the commissioner. valuables of a suspicious nature had found their way even into the houses of lewes itself. the whole neighborhood seemed to have become more or less tainted by the presence of the pirates. even poor hiram white did not escape the suspicions of having had dealings with them. of course the examiners were not slow in discovering that levi west had been deeply concerned with blueskin's doings. old dinah and black bob were examined, and not only did the story of levi's two visitors come to light, but also the fact that hiram was present and with them while they were in the house disposing of the captured goods to their agent. of all that he had endured, nothing seemed to cut poor hiram so deeply and keenly as these unjust suspicions. they seemed to bring the last bitter pang, hardest of all to bear. levi had taken from him his father's love; he had driven him, if not to ruin, at least perilously close to it. he had run away with the girl he loved, and now, through him, even hiram's good name was gone. neither did the suspicions against him remain passive; they became active. goldsmiths' bills, to the amount of several thousand pounds, had been taken in the packet and hiram was examined with an almost inquisitorial closeness and strictness as to whether he had or had not knowledge of their whereabouts. under his accumulated misfortunes, he grew not only more dull, more taciturn, than ever, but gloomy, moody, brooding as well. for hours he would sit staring straight before him into the fire, without moving so much as a hair. one night--it was a bitterly cold night in february, with three inches of dry and gritty snow upon the ground--while hiram sat thus brooding, there came, of a sudden, a soft tap upon the door. low and hesitating as it was, hiram started violently at the sound. he sat for a while, looking from right to left. then suddenly pushing back his chair, he arose, strode to the door, and flung it wide open. it was sally martin. [illustration: the pirate's christmas _originally published in_ harper's weekly, _christmas, _] hiram stood for a while staring blankly at her. it was she who first spoke. "won't you let me come in, hi?" said she. "i'm nigh starved with the cold and i'm fit to die, i'm so hungry. for god's sake, let me come in." "yes," said hiram, "i'll let you come in, but why don't you go home?" the poor girl was shivering and chattering with the cold; now she began crying, wiping her eyes with the corner of a blanket in which her head and shoulders were wrapped. "i have been home, hiram," she said, "but dad, he shut the door in my face. he cursed me just awful, hi--i wish i was dead!" "you better come in," said hiram. "it's no good standing out there in the cold." he stood aside and the girl entered, swiftly, gratefully. at hiram's bidding black dinah presently set some food before sally and she fell to eating ravenously, almost ferociously. meantime, while she ate, hiram stood with his back to the fire, looking at her face--that face once so round and rosy, now thin, pinched, haggard. "are you sick, sally?" said he presently. "no," said she, "but i've had pretty hard times since i left home, hi." the tears sprang to her eyes at the recollection of her troubles, but she only wiped them hastily away with the back of her hand, without stopping in her eating. a long pause of dead silence followed. dinah sat crouched together on a cricket at the other side of the hearth, listening with interest. hiram did not seem to see her. "did you go off with levi?" said he at last, speaking abruptly. the girl looked up furtively under her brows. "you needn't be afeared to tell," he added. "yes," said she at last, "i did go off with him, hi." "where've you been?" at the question, she suddenly laid down her knife and fork. "don't you ask me that, hi," said she, agitatedly, "i can't tell you that. you don't know levi, hiram; i darsn't tell you anything he don't want me to. if i told you where i been he'd hunt me out, no matter where i was, and kill me. if you only knew what i know about him, hiram, you wouldn't ask anything about him." hiram stood looking broodingly at her for a long time; then at last he again spoke. "i thought a sight of you onc't, sally," said he. sally did not answer immediately, but, after a while, she suddenly looked up. "hiram," said she, "if i tell ye something will you promise on your oath not to breathe a word to any living soul?" hiram nodded. "then i'll tell you, but if levi finds i've told he'll murder me as sure as you're standin' there. come nigher--i've got to whisper it." he leaned forward close to her where she sat. she looked swiftly from right to left; then raising her lips she breathed into his ear: "i'm an honest woman, hi. i was married to levi west before i run away." xi the winter had passed, spring had passed, and summer had come. whatever hiram had felt, he had made no sign of suffering. nevertheless, his lumpy face had begun to look flabby, his cheeks hollow, and his loose-jointed body shrunk more awkwardly together into its clothes. he was often awake at night, sometimes walking up and down his room until far into the small hours. it was through such a wakeful spell as this that he entered into the greatest, the most terrible, happening of his life. it was a sulphurously hot night in july. the air was like the breath of a furnace, and it was a hard matter to sleep with even the easiest mind and under the most favorable circumstances. the full moon shone in through the open window, laying a white square of light upon the floor, and hiram, as he paced up and down, up and down, walked directly through it, his gaunt figure starting out at every turn into sudden brightness as he entered the straight line of misty light. the clock in the kitchen whirred and rang out the hour of twelve, and hiram stopped in his walk to count the strokes. the last vibration died away into silence, and still he stood motionless, now listening with a new and sudden intentness, for, even as the clock rang the last stroke, he heard soft, heavy footsteps, moving slowly and cautiously along the pathway before the house and directly below the open window. a few seconds more and he heard the creaking of rusty hinges. the mysterious visitor had entered the mill. hiram crept softly to the window and looked out. the moon shone full on the dusty, shingled face of the old mill, not thirty steps away, and he saw that the door was standing wide open. a second or two of stillness followed, and then, as he still stood looking intently, he saw the figure of a man suddenly appear, sharp and vivid, from the gaping blackness of the open doorway. hiram could see his face as clear as day. it was levi west, and he carried an empty meal bag over his arm. levi west stood looking from right to left for a second or two, and then he took off his hat and wiped his brow with the back of his hand. then he softly closed the door behind him and left the mill as he had come, and with the same cautious step. hiram looked down upon him as he passed close to the house and almost directly beneath. he could have touched him with his hand. fifty or sixty yards from the house levi stopped and a second figure arose from the black shadow in the angle of the worm fence and joined him. they stood for a while talking together, levi pointing now and then toward the mill. then the two turned, and, climbing over the fence, cut across an open field and through the tall, shaggy grass toward the southeast. hiram straightened himself and drew a deep breath, and the moon, shining full upon his face, showed it twisted, convulsed, as it had been when he had fronted his stepbrother seven months before in the kitchen. great beads of sweat stood on his brow and he wiped them away with his sleeve. then, coatless, hatless as he was, he swung himself out of the window, dropped upon the grass, and, without an instant of hesitation, strode off down the road in the direction that levi west had taken. as he climbed the fence where the two men had climbed it he could see them in the pallid light, far away across the level, scrubby meadow land, walking toward a narrow strip of pine woods. a little later they entered the sharp-cut shadows beneath the trees and were swallowed in the darkness. with fixed eyes and close-shut lips, as doggedly, as inexorably as though he were a nemesis hunting his enemy down, hiram followed their footsteps across the stretch of moonlit open. then, by and by, he also was in the shadow of the pines. here, not a sound broke the midnight hush. his feet made no noise upon the resinous softness of the ground below. in that dead, pulseless silence he could distinctly hear the distant voices of levi and his companion, sounding loud and resonant in the hollow of the woods. beyond the woods was a cornfield, and presently he heard the rattling of the harsh leaves as the two plunged into the tasseled jungle. here, as in the woods, he followed them, step by step, guided by the noise of their progress through the canes. beyond the cornfield ran a road that, skirting to the south of lewes, led across a wooden bridge to the wide salt marshes that stretched between the town and the distant sand hills. coming out upon this road hiram found that he had gained upon those he followed, and that they now were not fifty paces away, and he could see that levi's companion carried over his shoulder what looked like a bundle of tools. he waited for a little while to let them gain their distance and for the second time wiped his forehead with his shirt sleeve; then, without ever once letting his eyes leave them, he climbed the fence to the roadway. for a couple of miles or more he followed the two along the white, level highway, past silent, sleeping houses, past barns, sheds, and haystacks, looming big in the moonlight, past fields, and woods, and clearings, past the dark and silent skirts of the town, and so, at last, out upon the wide, misty salt marshes, which seemed to stretch away interminably through the pallid light, yet were bounded in the far distance by the long, white line of sand hills. across the level salt marshes he followed them, through the rank sedge and past the glassy pools in which his own inverted image stalked beneath as he stalked above; on and on, until at last they had reached a belt of scrub pines, gnarled and gray, that fringed the foot of the white sand hills. here hiram kept within the black network of shadow. the two whom he followed walked more in the open, with their shadows, as black as ink, walking along in the sand beside them, and now, in the dead, breathless stillness, might be heard, dull and heavy, the distant thumping, pounding roar of the atlantic surf, beating on the beach at the other side of the sand hills, half a mile away. at last the two rounded the southern end of the white bluff, and when hiram, following, rounded it also, they were no longer to be seen. before him the sand hill rose, smooth and steep, cutting in a sharp ridge against the sky. up this steep hill trailed the footsteps of those he followed, disappearing over the crest. beyond the ridge lay a round, bowl-like hollow, perhaps fifty feet across and eighteen or twenty feet deep, scooped out by the eddying of the winds into an almost perfect circle. hiram, slowly, cautiously, stealthily, following their trailing line of footmarks, mounted to the top of the hillock and peered down into the bowl beneath. the two men were sitting upon the sand, not far from the tall, skeleton-like shaft of a dead pine tree that rose, stark and gray, from the sand in which it may once have been buried, centuries ago. xii levi had taken off his coat and waistcoat and was fanning himself with his hat. he was sitting upon the bag he had brought from the mill and which he had spread out upon the sand. his companion sat facing him. the moon shone full upon him and hiram knew him instantly--he was the same burly, foreign-looking ruffian who had come with the little man to the mill that night to see levi. he also had his hat off and was wiping his forehead and face with a red handkerchief. beside him lay the bundle of tools he had brought--a couple of shovels, a piece of rope, and a long, sharp iron rod. the two men were talking together, but hiram could not understand what they said, for they spoke in the same foreign language that they had before used. but he could see his stepbrother point with his finger, now to the dead tree and now to the steep, white face of the opposite side of the bowl-like hollow. at last, having apparently rested themselves, the conference, if conference it was, came to an end, and levi led the way, the other following, to the dead pine tree. here he stopped and began searching, as though for some mark; then, having found that which he looked for, he drew a tapeline and a large brass pocket compass from his pocket. he gave one end of the tape line to his companion, holding the other with his thumb pressed upon a particular part of the tree. taking his bearings by the compass, he gave now and then some orders to the other, who moved a little to the left or the right as he bade. at last he gave a word of command, and, thereupon, his companion drew a wooden peg from his pocket and thrust it into the sand. from this peg as a base they again measured, taking bearings by the compass, and again drove a peg. for a third time they repeated their measurements and then, at last, seemed to have reached the point which they aimed for. here levi marked a cross with his heel upon the sand. his companion brought him the pointed iron rod which lay beside the shovels, and then stood watching as levi thrust it deep into the sand, again and again, as though sounding for some object below. it was some while before he found that for which he was seeking, but at last the rod struck with a jar upon some hard object below. after making sure of success by one or two additional taps with the rod, levi left it remaining where it stood, brushing the sand from his hands. "now fetch the shovels, pedro," said he, speaking for the first time in english. the two men were busy for a long while, shoveling away the sand. the object for which they were seeking lay buried some six feet deep, and the work was heavy and laborious, the shifting sand sliding back, again and again, into the hole. but at last the blade of one of the shovels struck upon some hard substance and levi stooped and brushed away the sand with the palm of his hand. levi's companion climbed out of the hole which they had dug and tossed the rope which he had brought with the shovels down to the other. levi made it fast to some object below and then himself mounted to the level of the sand above. pulling together, the two drew up from the hole a heavy iron-bound box, nearly three feet long and a foot wide and deep. levi's companion stooped and began untying the rope which had been lashed to a ring in the lid. what next happened happened suddenly, swiftly, terribly. levi drew back a single step, and shot one quick, keen look to right and to left. he passed his hand rapidly behind his back, and the next moment hiram saw the moonlight gleam upon the long, sharp, keen blade of a knife. levi raised his arm. then, just as the other arose from bending over the chest, he struck, and struck again, two swift, powerful blows. hiram saw the blade drive, clean and sharp, into the back, and heard the hilt strike with a dull thud against the ribs--once, twice. the burly, black-bearded wretch gave a shrill, terrible cry and fell staggering back. then, in an instant, with another cry, he was up and clutched levi with a clutch of despair by the throat and by the arm. then followed a struggle, short, terrible, silent. not a sound was heard but the deep, panting breath and the scuffling of feet in the sand, upon which there now poured and dabbled a dark-purple stream. but it was a one-sided struggle and lasted only for a second or two. levi wrenched his arm loose from the wounded man's grasp, tearing his shirt sleeve from the wrist to the shoulder as he did so. again and again the cruel knife was lifted, and again and again it fell, now no longer bright, but stained with red. then, suddenly, all was over. levi's companion dropped to the sand without a sound, like a bundle of rags. for a moment he lay limp and inert; then one shuddering spasm passed over him and he lay silent and still, with his face half buried in the sand. levi, with the knife still gripped tight in his hand, stood leaning over his victim, looking down upon his body. his shirt and hand, and even his naked arm, were stained and blotched with blood. the moon lit up his face and it was the face of a devil from hell. at last he gave himself a shake, stooped and wiped his knife and hand and arm upon the loose petticoat breeches of the dead man. he thrust his knife back into its sheath, drew a key from his pocket and unlocked the chest. in the moonlight hiram could see that it was filled mostly with paper and leather bags, full, apparently of money. all through this awful struggle and its awful ending hiram lay, dumb and motionless, upon the crest of the sand hill, looking with a horrid fascination upon the death struggle in the pit below. now hiram arose. the sand slid whispering down from the crest as he did so, but levi was too intent in turning over the contents of the chest to notice the slight sound. [illustration: "he lay silent and still, with his face half buried in the sand" _illustration from_ blueskin, the pirate _by_ howard pyle _originally published in_ the northwestern miller, _december, _] hiram's face was ghastly pale and drawn. for one moment he opened his lips as though to speak, but no word came. so, white, silent, he stood for a few seconds, rather like a statue than a living man, then, suddenly, his eyes fell upon the bag, which levi had brought with him, no doubt, to carry back the treasure for which he and his companion were in search, and which still lay spread out on the sand where it had been flung. then, as though a thought had suddenly flashed upon him, his whole expression changed, his lips closed tightly together as though fearing an involuntary sound might escape, and the haggard look dissolved from his face. cautiously, slowly, he stepped over the edge of the sand hill and down the slanting face. his coming was as silent as death, for his feet made no noise as he sank ankle-deep in the yielding surface. so, stealthily, step by step, he descended, reached the bag, lifted it silently. levi, still bending over the chest and searching through the papers within, was not four feet away. hiram raised the bag in his hands. he must have made some slight rustle as he did so, for suddenly levi half turned his head. but he was one instant too late. in a flash the bag was over his head--shoulders--arms--body. then came another struggle, as fierce, as silent, as desperate as that other--and as short. wiry, tough, and strong as he was, with a lean, sinewy, nervous vigor, fighting desperately for his life as he was, levi had no chance against the ponderous strength of his stepbrother. in any case, the struggle could not have lasted long; as it was, levi stumbled backward over the body of his dead mate and fell, with hiram upon him. maybe he was stunned by the fall; maybe he felt the hopelessness of resistance, for he lay quite still while hiram, kneeling upon him, drew the rope from the ring of the chest and, without uttering a word, bound it tightly around both the bag and the captive within, knotting it again and again and drawing it tight. only once was a word spoken. "if you'll lemme go," said a muffled voice from the bag, "i'll give you five thousand pounds--it's in that there box." hiram answered never a word, but continued knotting the rope and drawing it tight. xiii the _scorpion_ sloop-of-war lay in lewes harbor all that winter and spring, probably upon the slim chance of a return of the pirates. it was about eight o'clock in the morning and lieutenant maynard was sitting in squire hall's office, fanning himself with his hat and talking in a desultory fashion. suddenly the dim and distant noise of a great crowd was heard from without, coming nearer and nearer. the squire and his visitor hurried to the door. the crowd was coming down the street shouting, jostling, struggling, some on the footway, some in the roadway. heads were at the doors and windows, looking down upon them. nearer they came, and nearer; then at last they could see that the press surrounded and accompanied one man. it was hiram white, hatless, coatless, the sweat running down his face in streams, but stolid and silent as ever. over his shoulder he carried a bag, tied round and round with a rope. it was not until the crowd and the man it surrounded had come quite near that the squire and the lieutenant saw that a pair of legs in gray-yarn stockings hung from the bag. it was a man he was carrying. hiram had lugged his burden five miles that morning without help and with scarcely a rest on the way. he came directly toward the squire's office and, still surrounded and hustled by the crowd, up the steep steps to the office within. he flung his burden heavily upon the floor without a word and wiped his streaming forehead. the squire stood with his knuckles on his desk, staring first at hiram and then at the strange burden he had brought. a sudden hush fell upon all, though the voices of those without sounded as loud and turbulent as ever. "what is it, hiram?" said squire hall at last. then for the first time hiram spoke, panting thickly. "it's a bloody murderer," said he, pointing a quivering finger at the motionless figure. "here, some of you!" called out the squire. "come! untie this man! who is he?" a dozen willing fingers quickly unknotted the rope and the bag was slipped from the head and body. hair and face and eyebrows and clothes were powdered with meal, but, in spite of all and through all the innocent whiteness, dark spots and blotches and smears of blood showed upon head and arm and shirt. levi raised himself upon his elbow and looked scowlingly around at the amazed, wonderstruck faces surrounding him. "why, it's levi west!" croaked the squire, at last finding his voice. then, suddenly, lieutenant maynard pushed forward, before the others crowded around the figure on the floor, and, clutching levi by the hair, dragged his head backward so as to better see his face. "levi west!" said he in a loud voice. "is this the levi west you've been telling me of? look at that scar and the mark on his cheek! _this is blueskin himself._" xiv in the chest which blueskin had dug up out of the sand were found not only the goldsmiths' bills taken from the packet, but also many other valuables belonging to the officers and the passengers of the unfortunate ship. the new york agents offered hiram a handsome reward for his efforts in recovering the lost bills, but hiram declined it, positively and finally. "all i want," said he, in his usual dull, stolid fashion, "is to have folks know i'm honest." nevertheless, though he did not accept what the agents of the packet offered, fate took the matter into its own hands and rewarded him not unsubstantially. blueskin was taken to england in the _scorpion_. but he never came to trial. while in newgate he hanged himself to the cell window with his own stockings. the news of his end was brought to lewes in the early autumn and squire hall took immediate measures to have the five hundred pounds of his father's legacy duly transferred to hiram. in november hiram married the pirate's widow. [illustration: "there cap'n goldsack goes, creeping, creeping, creeping, looking for his treasure down below!" _illustration from_ cap'n goldsack _by_ william sharp _originally published in_ harper's magazine, _july_, ] chapter vii captain scarfield preface [illustration: captain scarfield] _the author of this narrative cannot recall that, in any history of the famous pirates, he has ever read a detailed and sufficient account of the life and death of capt. john scarfield. doubtless some data concerning his death and the destruction of his schooner might be gathered from the report of lieutenant mainwaring, now filed in the archives of the navy department, but beyond such bald and bloodless narrative the author knows of nothing, unless it be the little chap-book history published by isaiah thomas in newburyport about the year - , entitled, "a true history of the life and death of captain jack scarfield." this lack of particularity in the history of one so notable in his profession it is the design of the present narrative in a measure to supply, and, if the author has seen fit to cast it in the form of a fictional story, it is only that it may make more easy reading for those who see fit to follow the tale from this to its conclusion._ captain scarfield i eleazer cooper, or captain cooper, as was his better-known title in philadelphia, was a prominent member of the society of friends. he was an overseer of the meeting and an occasional speaker upon particular occasions. when at home from one of his many voyages he never failed to occupy his seat in the meeting both on first day and fifth day, and he was regarded by his fellow townsmen as a model of business integrity and of domestic responsibility. more incidental to this history, however, it is to be narrated that captain cooper was one of those trading skippers who carried their own merchandise in their own vessels which they sailed themselves, and on whose decks they did their own bartering. his vessel was a swift, large schooner, the _eliza cooper_, _of philadelphia_, named for his wife. his cruising grounds were the west india islands, and his merchandise was flour and corn meal ground at the brandywine mills at wilmington, delaware. during the war of he had earned, as was very well known, an extraordinary fortune in this trading; for flour and corn meal sold at fabulous prices in the french, spanish, dutch, and danish islands, cut off, as they were, from the rest of the world by the british blockade. the running of this blockade was one of the most hazardous maritime ventures possible, but captain cooper had met with such unvaried success, and had sold his merchandise at such incredible profit that, at the end of the war, he found himself to have become one of the wealthiest merchants of his native city. it was known at one time that his balance in the mechanics' bank was greater than that of any other individual depositor upon the books, and it was told of him that he had once deposited in the bank a chest of foreign silver coin, the exchanged value of which, when translated into american currency, was upward of forty-two thousand dollars--a prodigious sum of money in those days. in person, captain cooper was tall and angular of frame. his face was thin and severe, wearing continually an unsmiling, mask-like expression of continent and unruffled sobriety. his manner was dry and taciturn, and his conduct and life were measured to the most absolute accord with the teachings of his religious belief. he lived in an old-fashioned house on front street below spruce--as pleasant, cheerful a house as ever a trading captain could return to. at the back of the house a lawn sloped steeply down toward the river. to the south stood the wharf and storehouses; to the north an orchard and kitchen garden bloomed with abundant verdure. two large chestnut trees sheltered the porch and the little space of lawn, and when you sat under them in the shade you looked down the slope between two rows of box bushes directly across the shining river to the jersey shore. at the time of our story--that is, about the year --this property had increased very greatly in value, but it was the old home of the coopers, as eleazer cooper was entirely rich enough to indulge his fancy in such matters. accordingly, as he chose to live in the same house where his father and his grandfather had dwelt before him, he peremptorily, if quietly, refused all offers looking toward the purchase of the lot of ground--though it was now worth five or six times its former value. as was said, it was a cheerful, pleasant home, impressing you when you entered it with the feeling of spotless and all-pervading cleanliness--a cleanliness that greeted you in the shining brass door-knocker; that entertained you in the sitting room with its stiff, leather-covered furniture, the brass-headed tacks whereof sparkled like so many stars--a cleanliness that bade you farewell in the spotless stretch of sand-sprinkled hallway, the wooden floor of which was worn into knobs around the nail heads by the countless scourings and scrubbings to which it had been subjected and which left behind them an all-pervading faint, fragrant odor of soap and warm water. eleazer cooper and his wife were childless, but one inmate made the great, silent, shady house bright with life. lucinda fairbanks, a niece of captain cooper's by his only sister, was a handsome, sprightly girl of eighteen or twenty, and a great favorite in the quaker society of the city. it remains only to introduce the final and, perhaps, the most important actor of the narrative--lieut. james mainwaring. during the past twelve months or so he had been a frequent visitor at the cooper house. at this time he was a broad-shouldered, red-cheeked, stalwart fellow of twenty-six or twenty-eight. he was a great social favorite, and possessed the added romantic interest of having been aboard the _constitution_ when she fought the _guerriere_, and of having, with his own hands, touched the match that fired the first gun of that great battle. mainwaring's mother and eliza cooper had always been intimate friends, and the coming and going of the young man during his leave of absence were looked upon in the house as quite a matter of course. half a dozen times a week he would drop in to execute some little commission for the ladies, or, if captain cooper was at home, to smoke a pipe of tobacco with him, to sip a dram of his famous old jamaica rum, or to play a rubber of checkers of an evening. it is not likely that either of the older people was the least aware of the real cause of his visits; still less did they suspect that any passages of sentiment had passed between the young people. [illustration: "he had found the captain agreeable and companionable" _illustration from_ sea robbers of new york _by_ thomas a. janvier _originally published in_ harper's magazine, _november_, ] the truth was that mainwaring and the young lady were very deeply in love. it was a love that they were obliged to keep a profound secret, for not only had eleazer cooper held the strictest sort of testimony against the late war--a testimony so rigorous as to render it altogether unlikely that one of so military a profession as mainwaring practiced could hope for his consent to a suit for marriage, but lucinda could not have married one not a member of the society of friends without losing her own birthright membership therein. she herself might not attach much weight to such a loss of membership in the society, but her fear of, and her respect for, her uncle led her to walk very closely in her path of duty in this respect. accordingly she and mainwaring met as they could--clandestinely--and the stolen moments were very sweet. with equal secrecy lucinda had, at the request of her lover, sat for a miniature portrait to mrs. gregory, which miniature, set in a gold medallion, mainwaring, with a mild, sentimental pleasure, wore hung around his neck and beneath his shirt frill next his heart. in the month of april of the year mainwaring received orders to report at washington. during the preceding autumn the west india pirates, and notably capt. jack scarfield, had been more than usually active, and the loss of the packet _marblehead_ (which, sailing from charleston, south carolina, was never heard of more) was attributed to them. two other coasting vessels off the coast of georgia had been looted and burned by scarfield, and the government had at last aroused itself to the necessity of active measures for repressing these pests of the west india waters. mainwaring received orders to take command of the _yankee_, a swift, light-draught, heavily armed brig of war, and to cruise about the bahama islands and to capture and destroy all the pirates' vessels he could there discover. on his way from washington to new york, where the _yankee_ was then waiting orders, mainwaring stopped in philadelphia to bid good-by to his many friends in that city. he called at the old cooper house. it was on a sunday afternoon. the spring was early and the weather extremely pleasant that day, being filled with a warmth almost as of summer. the apple trees were already in full bloom and filled all the air with their fragrance. everywhere there seemed to be the pervading hum of bees, and the drowsy, tepid sunshine was very delightful. at that time eleazer was just home from an unusually successful voyage to antigua. mainwaring found the family sitting under one of the still leafless chestnut trees, captain cooper smoking his long clay pipe and lazily perusing a copy of the _national gazette_. eleazer listened with a great deal of interest to what mainwaring had to say of his proposed cruise. he himself knew a great deal about the pirates, and, singularly unbending from his normal, stiff taciturnity, he began telling of what he knew, particularly of captain scarfield--in whom he appeared to take an extraordinary interest. vastly to mainwaring's surprise, the old quaker assumed the position of a defendant of the pirates, protesting that the wickedness of the accused was enormously exaggerated. he declared that he knew some of the freebooters very well and that at the most they were poor, misdirected wretches who had, by easy gradation, slid into their present evil ways, from having been tempted by the government authorities to enter into privateering in the days of the late war. he conceded that captain scarfield had done many cruel and wicked deeds, but he averred that he had also performed many kind and benevolent actions. the world made no note of these latter, but took care only to condemn the evil that had been done. he acknowledged that it was true that the pirate had allowed his crew to cast lots for the wife and the daughter of the skipper of the _northern rose_, but there were none of his accusers who told how, at the risk of his own life and the lives of all his crew, he had given succor to the schooner _halifax_, found adrift with all hands down with yellow fever. there was no defender of his actions to tell how he and his crew of pirates had sailed the pest-stricken vessel almost into the rescuing waters of kingston harbor. eleazer confessed that he could not deny that when scarfield had tied the skipper of the _baltimore belle_ naked to the foremast of his own brig he had permitted his crew of cutthroats (who were drunk at the time) to throw bottles at the helpless captive, who died that night of the wounds he had received. for this he was doubtless very justly condemned, but who was there to praise him when he had, at the risk of his life and in the face of the authorities, carried a cargo of provisions which he himself had purchased at tampa bay to the island of bella vista after the great hurricane of ? in this notable adventure he had barely escaped, after a two days' chase, the british frigate _ceres_, whose captain, had a capture been effected, would instantly have hung the unfortunate man to the yardarm in spite of the beneficent mission he was in the act of conducting. in all this eleazer had the air of conducting the case for the defendant. as he talked he became more and more animated and voluble. the light went out in his tobacco pipe, and a hectic spot appeared in either thin and sallow cheek. mainwaring sat wondering to hear the severely peaceful quaker preacher defending so notoriously bloody and cruel a cutthroat pirate as capt. jack scarfield. the warm and innocent surroundings, the old brick house looking down upon them, the odor of apple blossoms and the hum of bees seemed to make it all the more incongruous. and still the elderly quaker skipper talked on and on with hardly an interruption, till the warm sun slanted to the west and the day began to decline. that evening mainwaring stayed to tea and when he parted from lucinda fairbanks it was after nightfall, with a clear, round moon shining in the milky sky and a radiance pallid and unreal enveloping the old house, the blooming apple trees, the sloping lawn and the shining river beyond. he implored his sweetheart to let him tell her uncle and aunt of their acknowledged love and to ask the old man's consent to it, but she would not permit him to do so. they were so happy as they were. who knew but what her uncle might forbid their fondness? would he not wait a little longer? maybe it would all come right after a while. she was so fond, so tender, so tearful at the nearness of their parting that he had not the heart to insist. at the same time it was with a feeling almost of despair that he realized that he must now be gone--maybe for the space of two years--without in all that time possessing the right to call her his before the world. when he bade farewell to the older people it was with a choking feeling of bitter disappointment. he yet felt the pressure of her cheek against his shoulder, the touch of soft and velvet lips to his own. but what were such clandestine endearments compared to what might, perchance, be his--the right of calling her his own when he was far away and upon the distant sea? and, besides, he felt like a coward who had shirked his duty. but he was very much in love. the next morning appeared in a drizzle of rain that followed the beautiful warmth of the day before. he had the coach all to himself, and in the damp and leathery solitude he drew out the little oval picture from beneath his shirt frill and looked long and fixedly with a fond and foolish joy at the innocent face, the blue eyes, the red, smiling lips depicted upon the satinlike, ivory surface. ii for the better part of five months mainwaring cruised about in the waters surrounding the bahama islands. in that time he ran to earth and dispersed a dozen nests of pirates. he destroyed no less than fifteen piratical crafts of all sizes, from a large half-decked whaleboat to a three-hundred-ton barkentine. the name of the _yankee_ became a terror to every sea wolf in the western tropics, and the waters of the bahama islands became swept almost clean of the bloody wretches who had so lately infested it. but the one freebooter of all others whom he sought--capt. jack scarfield--seemed to evade him like a shadow, to slip through his fingers like magic. twice he came almost within touch of the famous marauder, both times in the ominous wrecks that the pirate captain had left behind him. the first of these was the water-logged remains of a burned and still smoking wreck that he found adrift in the great bahama channel. it was the _water witch_, of salem, but he did not learn her tragic story until, two weeks later, he discovered a part of her crew at port maria, on the north coast of jamaica. it was, indeed, a dreadful story to which he listened. the castaways said that they of all the vessel's crew had been spared so that they might tell the commander of the _yankee_, should they meet him, that he might keep what he found, with captain scarfield's compliments, who served it up to him hot cooked. three weeks later he rescued what remained of the crew of the shattered, bloody hulk of the _baltimore belle_, eight of whose crew, headed by the captain, had been tied hand and foot and heaved overboard. again, there was a message from captain scarfield to the commander of the _yankee_ that he might season what he found to suit his own taste. mainwaring was of a sanguine disposition, with fiery temper. he swore, with the utmost vehemence, that either he or john scarfield would have to leave the earth. he had little suspicion of how soon was to befall the ominous realization of his angry prophecy. at that time one of the chief rendezvous of the pirates was the little island of san josé, one of the southernmost of the bahama group. here, in the days before the coming of the _yankee_, they were wont to put in to careen and clean their vessels and to take in a fresh supply of provisions, gunpowder, and rum, preparatory to renewing their attacks upon the peaceful commerce circulating up and down outside the islands, or through the wide stretches of the bahama channel. mainwaring had made several descents upon this nest of freebooters. he had already made two notable captures, and it was here he hoped eventually to capture captain scarfield himself. a brief description of this one-time notorious rendezvous of freebooters might not be out of place. it consisted of a little settlement of those wattled and mud-smeared houses such as you find through the west indies. there were only three houses of a more pretentious sort, built of wood. one of these was a storehouse, another was a rum shop, and a third a house in which dwelt a mulatto woman, who was reputed to be a sort of left-handed wife of captain scarfield's. the population was almost entirely black and brown. one or two jews and a half dozen yankee traders, of hardly dubious honesty, comprised the entire white population. the rest consisted of a mongrel accumulation of negroes and mulattoes and half-caste spaniards, and of a multitude of black or yellow women and children. the settlement stood in a bight of the beach forming a small harbor and affording a fair anchorage for small vessels, excepting it were against the beating of a southeasterly gale. the houses, or cabins, were surrounded by clusters of coco palms and growths of bananas, and a long curve of white beach, sheltered from the large atlantic breakers that burst and exploded upon an outer bar, was drawn like a necklace around the semicircle of emerald-green water. such was the famous pirates' settlement of san josé--a paradise of nature and a hell of human depravity and wickedness--and it was to this spot that mainwaring paid another visit a few days after rescuing the crew of the _baltimore belle_ from her shattered and sinking wreck. [illustration: the buccaneer was a picturesque fellow] as the little bay with its fringe of palms and its cluster of wattle huts opened up to view, mainwaring discovered a vessel lying at anchor in the little harbor. it was a large and well-rigged schooner of two hundred and fifty or three hundred tons burden. as the _yankee_ rounded to under the stern of the stranger and dropped anchor in such a position as to bring her broadside battery to bear should the occasion require, mainwaring set his glass to his eye to read the name he could distinguish beneath the overhang of her stern. it is impossible to describe his infinite surprise when, the white lettering starting out in the circle of the glass, he read, _the eliza cooper, of philadelphia_. he could not believe the evidence of his senses. certainly this sink of iniquity was the last place in the world he would have expected to have fallen in with eleazer cooper. he ordered out the gig and had himself immediately rowed over to the schooner. whatever lingering doubts he might have entertained as to the identity of the vessel were quickly dispelled when he beheld captain cooper himself standing at the gangway to meet him. the impassive face of the friend showed neither surprise nor confusion at what must have been to him a most unexpected encounter. but when he stepped upon the deck of the _eliza cooper_ and looked about him, mainwaring could hardly believe the evidence of his senses at the transformation that he beheld. upon the main deck were eight twelve-pound carronade neatly covered with tarpaulin; in the bow a long tom, also snugly stowed away and covered, directed a veiled and muzzled snout out over the bowsprit. it was entirely impossible for mainwaring to conceal his astonishment at so unexpected a sight, and whether or not his own thoughts lent color to his imagination, it seemed to him that eleazer cooper concealed under the immobility of his countenance no small degree of confusion. after captain cooper had led the way into the cabin and he and the younger man were seated over a pipe of tobacco and the invariable bottle of fine old jamaica rum, mainwaring made no attempt to refrain from questioning him as to the reason for this singular and ominous transformation. "i am a man of peace, james mainwaring," eleazer replied, "but there are men of blood in these waters, and an appearance of great strength is of use to protect the innocent from the wicked. if i remained in appearance the peaceful trader i really am, how long does thee suppose i could remain unassailed in this place?" it occurred to mainwaring that the powerful armament he had beheld was rather extreme to be used merely as a preventive. he smoked for a while in silence and then he suddenly asked the other point-blank whether, if it came to blows with such a one as captain scarfield, would he make a fight of it? the quaker trading captain regarded him for a while in silence. his look, it seemed to mainwaring, appeared to be dubitative as to how far he dared to be frank. "friend james," he said at last, "i may as well acknowledge that my officers and crew are somewhat worldly. of a truth they do not hold the same testimony as i. i am inclined to think that if it came to the point of a broil with those men of iniquity, my individual voice cast for peace would not be sufficient to keep my crew from meeting violence with violence. as for myself, thee knows who i am and what is my testimony in these matters." mainwaring made no comment as to the extremely questionable manner in which the quaker proposed to beat the devil about the stump. presently he asked his second question: "and might i inquire," he said, "what you are doing here and why you find it necessary to come at all into such a wicked, dangerous place as this?" "indeed, i knew thee would ask that question of me," said the friend, "and i will be entirely frank with thee. these men of blood are, after all, but human beings, and as human beings they need food. i have at present upon this vessel upward of two hundred and fifty barrels of flour which will bring a higher price here than anywhere else in the west indies. to be entirely frank with thee, i will tell thee that i was engaged in making a bargain for the sale of the greater part of my merchandise when the news of thy approach drove away my best customer." mainwaring sat for a while in smoking silence. what the other had told him explained many things he had not before understood. it explained why captain cooper got almost as much for his flour and corn meal now that peace had been declared as he had obtained when the war and the blockade were in full swing. it explained why he had been so strong a defender of captain scarfield and the pirates that afternoon in the garden. meantime, what was to be done? eleazer confessed openly that he dealt with the pirates. what now was his--mainwaring's--duty in the case? was the cargo of the _eliza cooper_ contraband and subject to confiscation? and then another question framed itself in his mind: who was this customer whom his approach had driven away? as though he had formulated the inquiry into speech the other began directly to speak of it. "i know," he said, "that in a moment thee will ask me who was this customer of whom i have just now spoken. i have no desire to conceal his name from thee. it was the man who is known as captain jack or captain john scarfield." mainwaring fairly started from his seat. "the devil you say!" he cried. "and how long has it been," he asked, "since he left you?" the quaker skipper carefully refilled his pipe, which he had by now smoked out. "i would judge," he said, "that it is a matter of four or five hours since news was brought overland by means of swift runners of thy approach. immediately the man of wickedness disappeared." here eleazer set the bowl of his pipe to the candle flame and began puffing out voluminous clouds of smoke. "i would have thee understand, james mainwaring," he resumed, "that i am no friend of this wicked and sinful man. his safety is nothing to me. it is only a question of buying upon his part and of selling upon mine. if it is any satisfaction to thee i will heartily promise to bring thee news if i hear anything of the man of belial. i may furthermore say that i think it is likely thee will have news more or less directly of him within the space of a day. if this should happen, however, thee will have to do thy own fighting without help from me, for i am no man of combat nor of blood and will take no hand in it either way." it struck mainwaring that the words contained some meaning that did not appear upon the surface. this significance struck him as so ambiguous that when he went aboard the _yankee_ he confided as much of his suspicions as he saw fit to his second in command, lieutenant underwood. as night descended he had a double watch set and had everything prepared to repel any attack or surprise that might be attempted. iii nighttime in the tropics descends with a surprising rapidity. at one moment the earth is shining with the brightness of the twilight; the next, as it were, all things are suddenly swallowed into a gulf of darkness. the particular night of which this story treats was not entirely clear; the time of year was about the approach of the rainy season, and the tepid, tropical clouds added obscurity to the darkness of the sky, so that the night fell with even more startling quickness than usual. the blackness was very dense. now and then a group of drifting stars swam out of a rift in the vapors, but the night was curiously silent and of a velvety darkness. [illustration: then the real fight began] as the obscurity had deepened, mainwaring had ordered lanthorns to be lighted and slung to the shrouds and to the stays, and the faint yellow of their illumination lighted the level white of the snug little war vessel, gleaming here and there in a starlike spark upon the brass trimmings and causing the rows of cannons to assume curiously gigantic proportions. for some reason mainwaring was possessed by a strange, uneasy feeling. he walked restlessly up and down the deck for a time, and then, still full of anxieties for he knew not what, went into his cabin to finish writing up his log for the day. he unstrapped his cutlass and laid it upon the table, lighted his pipe at the lanthorn and was about preparing to lay aside his coat when word was brought to him that the captain of the trading schooner was come alongside and had some private information to communicate to him. mainwaring surmised in an instant that the trader's visit related somehow to news of captain scarfield, and as immediately, in the relief of something positive to face, all of his feeling of restlessness vanished like a shadow of mist. he gave orders that captain cooper should be immediately shown into the cabin, and in a few moments the tall, angular form of the quaker skipper appeared in the narrow, lanthorn-lighted space. mainwaring at once saw that his visitor was strangely agitated and disturbed. he had taken off his hat, and shining beads of perspiration had gathered and stood clustered upon his forehead. he did not reply to mainwaring's greeting; he did not, indeed, seem to hear it; but he came directly forward to the table and stood leaning with one hand upon the open log book in which the lieutenant had just been writing. mainwaring had reseated himself at the head of the table, and the tall figure of the skipper stood looking down at him as from a considerable height. "james mainwaring," he said, "i promised thee to report if i had news of the pirate. is thee ready now to hear my news?" there was something so strange in his agitation that it began to infect mainwaring with a feeling somewhat akin to that which appeared to disturb his visitor. "i know not what you mean, sir!" he cried, "by asking if i care to hear your news. at this moment i would rather have news of that scoundrel than to have anything i know of in the world." "thou would? thou would?" cried the other, with mounting agitation. "is thee in such haste to meet him as all that? very well; very well, then. suppose i could bring thee face to face with him--what then? hey? hey? face to face with him, james mainwaring!" the thought instantly flashed into mainwaring's mind that the pirate had returned to the island; that perhaps at that moment he was somewhere near at hand. "i do not understand you, sir," he cried. "do you mean to tell me that you know where the villain is? if so, lose no time in informing me, for every instant of delay may mean his chance of again escaping." "no danger of that!" the other declared, vehemently. "no danger of that! i'll tell thee where he is and i'll bring thee to him quick enough!" and as he spoke he thumped his fist against the open log book. in the vehemence of his growing excitement his eyes appeared to shine green in the lanthorn light, and the sweat that had stood in beads upon his forehead was now running in streams down his face. one drop hung like a jewel to the tip of his beaklike nose. he came a step nearer to mainwaring and bent forward toward him, and there was something so strange and ominous in his bearing that the lieutenant instinctively drew back a little where he sat. "captain scarfield sent something to you," said eleazer, almost in a raucous voice, "something that you will be surprised to see." and the lapse in his speech from the quaker "thee" to the plural "you" struck mainwaring as singularly strange. as he was speaking eleazer was fumbling in a pocket of his long-tailed drab coat, and presently he brought something forth that gleamed in the lanthorn light. the next moment mainwaring saw leveled directly in his face the round and hollow nozzle of a pistol. there was an instant of dead silence and then, "i am the man you seek!" said eleazer cooper, in a tense and breathless voice. the whole thing had happened so instantaneously and unexpectedly that for the moment mainwaring sat like one petrified. had a thunderbolt fallen from the silent sky and burst at his feet he could not have been more stunned. he was like one held in the meshes of a horrid nightmare, and he gazed as through a mist of impossibility into the lineaments of the well-known, sober face now transformed as from within into the aspect of a devil. that face, now ashy white, was distorted into a diabolical grin. the teeth glistened in the lamplight. the brows, twisted into a tense and convulsed frown, were drawn down into black shadows, through which the eyes burned a baleful green like the eyes of a wild animal driven to bay. again he spoke in the same breathless voice. "i am john scarfield! look at me, then, if you want to see a pirate!" again there was a little time of silence, through which mainwaring heard his watch ticking loudly from where it hung against the bulkhead. then once more the other began speaking. "you would chase me out of the west indies, would you? g---- ---- you! what are you come to now? you are caught in your own trap, and you'll squeal loud enough before you get out of it. speak a word or make a movement and i'll blow your brains out against the partition behind you! listen to what i say or you are a dead man. sing out an order instantly for my mate and my bos'n to come here to the cabin, and be quick about it, for my finger's on the trigger, and it's only a pull to shut your mouth forever." it was astonishing to mainwaring, in afterward thinking about it all, how quickly his mind began to recover its steadiness after that first astonishing shock. even as the other was speaking he discovered that his brain was becoming clarified to a wonderful lucidity; his thoughts were becoming rearranged, and with a marvelous activity and an alertness he had never before experienced. he knew that if he moved to escape or uttered any outcry he would be instantly a dead man, for the circle of the pistol barrel was directed full against his forehead and with the steadiness of a rock. if he could but for an instant divert that fixed and deadly attention he might still have a chance for life. with the thought an inspiration burst into his mind and he instantly put it into execution; thought, inspiration, and action, as in a flash, were one. he must make the other turn aside his deadly gaze, and instantly he roared out in a voice that stunned his own ears: "strike, bos'n! strike, quick!" taken by surprise, and thinking, doubtless, that another enemy stood behind him, the pirate swung around like a flash with his pistol leveled against the blank boarding. equally upon the instant he saw the trick that had been played upon him and in a second flash had turned again. the turn and return had occupied but a moment of time, but that moment, thanks to the readiness of his own invention, had undoubtedly saved mainwaring's life. as the other turned away his gaze for that brief instant mainwaring leaped forward and upon him. there was a flashing flame of fire as the pistol was discharged and a deafening detonation that seemed to split his brain. for a moment, with reeling senses, he supposed himself to have been shot, the next he knew he had escaped. with the energy of despair he swung his enemy around and drove him with prodigious violence against the corner of the table. the pirate emitted a grunting cry and then they fell together, mainwaring upon the top, and the pistol clattered with them to the floor in their fall. even as he fell, mainwaring roared in a voice of thunder, "all hands repel boarders!" and then again, "all hands repel boarders!" whether hurt by the table edge or not, the fallen pirate struggled as though possessed of forty devils, and in a moment or two mainwaring saw the shine of a long, keen knife that he had drawn from somewhere about his person. the lieutenant caught him by the wrist, but the other's muscles were as though made of steel. they both fought in despairing silence, the one to carry out his frustrated purposes to kill, the other to save his life. again and again mainwaring felt that the knife had been thrust against him, piercing once his arm, once his shoulder, and again his neck. he felt the warm blood streaming down his arm and body and looked about him in despair. the pistol lay near upon the deck of the cabin. still holding the other by the wrist as he could, mainwaring snatched up the empty weapon and struck once and again at the bald, narrow forehead beneath him. a third blow he delivered with all the force he could command, and then with a violent and convulsive throe the straining muscles beneath him relaxed and grew limp and the fight was won. through all the struggle he had been aware of the shouts of voices, of trampling of feet and discharge of firearms, and the thought came to him, even through his own danger, that the _yankee_ was being assaulted by the pirates. as he felt the struggling form beneath him loosen and dissolve into quietude, he leaped up, and snatching his cutlass, which still lay upon the table, rushed out upon the deck, leaving the stricken form lying twitching upon the floor behind him. it was a fortunate thing that he had set double watches and prepared himself for some attack from the pirates, otherwise the _yankee_ would certainly have been lost. as it was, the surprise was so overwhelming that the pirates, who had been concealed in the large whaleboat that had come alongside, were not only able to gain a foothold upon the deck, but for a time it seemed as though they would drive the crew of the brig below the hatches. but as mainwaring, streaming with blood, rushed out upon the deck, the pirates became immediately aware that their own captain must have been overpowered, and in an instant their desperate energy began to evaporate. one or two jumped overboard; one, who seemed to be the mate, fell dead from a pistol shot, and then, in the turn of a hand, there was a rush of a retreat and a vision of leaping forms in the dusky light of the lanthorns and a sound of splashing in the water below. the crew of the _yankee_ continued firing at the phosphorescent wakes of the swimming bodies, but whether with effect it was impossible at the time to tell. iv the pirate captain did not die immediately. he lingered for three or four days, now and then unconscious, now and then semi-conscious, but always deliriously wandering. all the while he thus lay dying, the mulatto woman, with whom he lived in this part of his extraordinary dual existence, nursed and cared for him with such rude attentions as the surroundings afforded. in the wanderings of his mind the same duality of life followed him. now and then he would appear the calm, sober, self-contained, well-ordered member of a peaceful society that his friends in his far-away home knew him to be; at other times the nether part of his nature would leap up into life like a wild beast, furious and gnashing. at the one time he talked evenly and clearly of peaceful things; at the other time he blasphemed and hooted with fury. several times mainwaring, though racked by his own wounds, sat beside the dying man through the silent watches of the tropical nights. oftentimes upon these occasions as he looked at the thin, lean face babbling and talking so aimlessly, he wondered what it all meant. could it have been madness--madness in which the separate entities of good and bad each had, in its turn, a perfect and distinct existence? he chose to think that this was the case. who, within his inner consciousness, does not feel that same ferine, savage man struggling against the stern, adamantine bonds of morality and decorum? were those bonds burst asunder, as it was with this man, might not the wild beast rush forth, as it had rushed forth in him, to rend and to tear? such were the questions that mainwaring asked himself. and how had it all come about? by what easy gradations had the respectable quaker skipper descended from the decorum of his home life, step by step, into such a gulf of iniquity? many such thoughts passed through mainwaring's mind, and he pondered them through the still reaches of the tropical nights while he sat watching the pirate captain struggle out of the world he had so long burdened. at last the poor wretch died, and the earth was well quit of one of its torments. [illustration: "he struck once and again at the bald, narrow forehead beneath him" _illustration from_ captain scarfield _by_ howard pyle _originally published in_ the northwestern miller, _december_ , ] a systematic search was made through the island for the scattered crew, but none was captured. either there were some secret hiding places upon the island (which was not very likely) or else they had escaped in boats hidden somewhere among the tropical foliage. at any rate they were gone. nor, search as he would, could mainwaring find a trace of any of the pirate treasure. after the pirate's death and under close questioning, the weeping mulatto woman so far broke down as to confess in broken english that captain scarfield had taken a quantity of silver money aboard his vessel, but either she was mistaken or else the pirates had taken it thence again and had hidden it somewhere else. nor would the treasure ever have been found but for a most fortuitous accident. mainwaring had given orders that the _eliza cooper_ was to be burned, and a party was detailed to carry the order into execution. at this the cook of the _yankee_ came petitioning for some of the wilmington and brandywine flour to make some plum duff upon the morrow, and mainwaring granted his request in so far that he ordered one of the men to knock open one of the barrels of flour and to supply the cook's demands. the crew detailed to execute this modest order in connection with the destruction of the pirate vessel had not been gone a quarter of an hour when word came back that the hidden treasure had been found. mainwaring hurried aboard the _eliza cooper_, and there in the midst of the open flour barrel he beheld a great quantity of silver coin buried in and partly covered by the white meal. a systematic search was now made. one by one the flour barrels were heaved up from below and burst open on the deck and their contents searched, and if nothing but the meal was found it was swept overboard. the breeze was whitened with clouds of flour, and the white meal covered the surface of the ocean for yards around. in all, upward of one hundred and fifty thousand dollars was found concealed beneath the innocent flour and meal. it was no wonder the pirate captain was so successful, when he could upon an instant's notice transform himself from a wolf of the ocean to a peaceful quaker trader selling flour to the hungry towns and settlements among the scattered islands of the west indies, and so carrying his bloody treasure safely into his quiet northern home. in concluding this part of the narrative it may be added that a wide strip of canvas painted black was discovered in the hold of the _eliza cooper_. upon it, in great white letters, was painted the name, "the bloodhound." undoubtedly this was used upon occasions to cover the real and peaceful title of the trading schooner, just as its captain had, in reverse, covered his sanguine and cruel life by a thin sheet of morality and respectability. this is the true story of the death of capt. jack scarfield. the newburyport chap-book, of which i have already spoken, speaks only of how the pirate disguised himself upon the ocean as a quaker trader. nor is it likely that anyone ever identified eleazer cooper with the pirate, for only mainwaring of all the crew of the _yankee_ was exactly aware of the true identity of captain scarfield. all that was ever known to the world was that eleazer cooper had been killed in a fight with the pirates. in a little less than a year mainwaring was married to lucinda fairbanks. as to eleazer cooper's fortune, which eventually came into the possession of mainwaring through his wife, it was many times a subject of speculation to the lieutenant how it had been earned. there were times when he felt well assured that a part of it at least was the fruit of piracy, but it was entirely impossible to guess how much more was the result of legitimate trading. for a little time it seemed to mainwaring that he should give it all up, but this was at once so impracticable and so quixotic that he presently abandoned it, and in time his qualms and misdoubts faded away and he settled himself down to enjoy that which had come to him through his marriage. in time the mainwarings removed to new york, and ultimately the fortune that the pirate scarfield had left behind him was used in part to found the great shipping house of mainwaring & bigot, whose famous transatlantic packet ships were in their time the admiration of the whole world. [illustration] chapter viii the ruby of kishmooor _prologue_ a very famous pirate of his day was capt. robertson keitt. before embarking upon his later career of infamy, he was, in the beginning, very well known as a reputable merchant in the island of jamaica. thence entering, first of all, upon the business of the african trade, he presently, by regular degrees, became a pirate, and finally ended his career as one of the most renowned freebooters of history. the remarkable adventure through which he at once reached the pinnacle of success, and became in his profession the most famous figure of his day, was the capture of the rajah of kishmoor's great ship, _the sun of the east_. in this vessel was the rajah's favorite queen, who, together with her attendants, was set upon a pilgrimage to mecca. the court of this great oriental potentate was, as may be readily supposed, fairly aglitter with gold and jewels, so that, what with such personal adornments that the queen and her attendants had fetched with them, besides an ample treasury for the expenses of the expedition, an incredible prize of gold and jewels rewarded the freebooters for their successful adventure. among the precious stones taken in this great purchase was the splendid ruby of kishmoor. this, as may be known to the reader, was one of the world's greatest gems, and was unique alike both for its prodigious size and the splendor of its color. this precious jewel the rajah of kishmoor had, upon a certain occasion, bestowed upon his queen, and at the time of her capture she wore it as the centerpiece of a sort of coronet which encircled her forehead and brow. the seizure by the pirate of so considerable a person as that of the queen of kishmoor, and of the enormous treasure that he found aboard her ship, would alone have been sufficient to have established his fame. but the capture of so extraordinary a prize as that of the ruby--which was, in itself, worth the value of an entire oriental kingdom--exalted him at once to the very highest pinnacle of renown. having achieved the capture of this incredible prize, our captain scuttled the great ship and left her to sink with all on board. three lascars of the crew alone escaped to bear the news of this tremendous disaster to an astounded world. as may readily be supposed, it was now no longer possible for captain keitt to hope to live in such comparative obscurity as he had before enjoyed. his was now too remarkable a figure in the eyes of the world. several expeditions from various parts were immediately fitted out against him, and it presently became no longer compatible with his safety to remain thus clearly outlined before the eyes of the world. accordingly, he immediately set about seeking such security as he might now hope to find, which he did the more readily since he had now, and at one cast, so entirely fulfilled his most sanguine expectations of good fortune and of fame. thereafter, accordingly, the adventures of our captain became of a more apocryphal sort. it was known that he reached the west indies in safety, for he was once seen at port royal and twice at spanish town, in the island of jamaica. thereafter, however, he disappeared; nor was it until several years later that the world heard anything concerning him. one day a certain nicholas duckworthy, who had once been gunner aboard the pirate captain's own ship, _the good fortune_, was arrested in the town of bristol in the very act of attempting to sell to a merchant of that place several valuable gems from a quantity which he carried with him tied up in a red bandanna handkerchief. in the confession of which duckworthy afterward delivered himself he declared that captain keitt, after his great adventure, having sailed from africa in safety, and so reached the shores of the new world, had wrecked _the good fortune_ on a coral reef off the windward islands; that he then immediately deserted the ship, and together with duckworthy himself, the sailing master (who was a portuguese), the captain of a brig, _the bloody hand_ (a consort of keitt's), and a villainous rascal named hunt (who, occupying no precise position among the pirates, was at once the instigator of and the partaker in the greatest part of captain keitt's wickednesses), made his way to the nearest port of safety. these five worthies at last fetched the island of jamaica, bringing with them all of the jewels and some of the gold that had been captured from _the sun of the east_. but, upon coming to a division of their booty, it was presently discovered that the rajah's ruby had mysteriously disappeared from the collection of jewels to be divided. the other pirates immediately suspected their captain of having secretly purloined it, and, indeed, so certain were they of his turpitude that they immediately set about taking means to force a confession from him. in this, however, they were so far unsuccessful that the captain, refusing to yield to their importunities, had suffered himself to die under their hands, and had so carried the secret of the hiding place of the great ruby--if he possessed such a secret--along with him. [illustration: captain keitt] duckworthy concluded his confession by declaring that in his opinion he himself, the portuguese sailing master, the captain of _the bloody hand_, and hunt were the only ones of captain keitt's crew who were now alive; for that _the good fortune_ must have broken up in a storm, which immediately followed their desertion of her; in which event the entire crew must inevitably have perished. it may be added that duckworthy himself was shortly hanged, so that, if his surmise was true, there were now only three left alive of all that wicked crew that had successfully carried to its completion the greatest adventure which any pirate in the world had ever, perhaps, embarked upon. i _jonathan rugg_ you may never know what romantic aspirations may lie hidden beneath the most sedate and sober demeanor. to have observed jonathan rugg, who was a tall, lean, loose-jointed young quaker of a somewhat forbidding aspect, with straight, dark hair and a bony, overhanging forehead set into a frown, a pair of small, deep-set eyes, and a square jaw, no one would for a moment have suspected that he concealed beneath so serious an exterior any appetite for romantic adventure. nevertheless, finding himself suddenly transported, as it were, from the quiet of so sober a town as that of philadelphia to the tropical enchantment of kingston, in the island of jamaica, the night brilliant with a full moon that swung in an opal sky, the warm and luminous darkness replete with the mysteries of a tropical night, and burdened with the odors of a land breeze, he suddenly discovered himself to be overtaken with so vehement a desire for some unwonted excitement that, had the opportunity presented itself, he felt himself ready to embrace any adventure with the utmost eagerness, no matter whither it would have conducted him. at home (where he was a clerk in the countinghouse of a leading merchant, by name jeremiah doolittle), should such idle fancies have come to him, he would have looked upon himself as little better than a fool, but now that he found himself for the first time in a foreign country, surrounded by such strange and unusual sights and sounds, all conducive to extravagant imaginations, the wish for some extraordinary and altogether unusual experience took possession of him with a singular vehemence to which he had heretofore been altogether a stranger. in the street where he stood, which was of a shining whiteness and which reflected the effulgence of the moonlight with an incredible distinction, he observed, stretching before him, long lines of white garden walls, overtopped by a prodigious luxuriance of tropical foliage. in these gardens, and set close to the street, stood several pretentious villas and mansions, the slatted blinds and curtains of the windows of which were raised to admit of the freer entrance of the cool and balmy air of the night. from within there issued forth bright lights, together with the exhilarating sound of merry voices laughing and talking, or perhaps a song accompanied by the tinkling music of a spinet or of a guitar. an occasional group of figures, clad in light and summerlike garments, and adorned with gay and startling colors, passed him through the moonlight; so that what with the brightness and warmth of the night, together with all these unusual sights and sounds, it appeared to jonathan rugg that he was rather the inhabitant of some extraordinary land of enchantment and unreality than a dweller upon that sober and solid world in which he had heretofore passed his entire existence. before continuing this narrative the reader may here be informed that our hero had come into this enchanted world as the supercargo of the ship _susanna hayes_, of philadelphia; that he had for several years proved himself so honest and industrious a servant to the merchant house of the worthy jeremiah doolittle that that benevolent man had given to his well-deserving clerk this opportunity at once of gratifying an inclination for foreign travel and of filling a position of trust that should redound to his individual profit. the _susanna hayes_ had entered kingston harbor that afternoon, and this was jonathan's first night spent in those tropical latitudes, whither his fancy and his imagination had so often carried him while he stood over the desk filing the accounts of invoices from foreign parts. it might be finally added that, had he at all conceived how soon and to what a degree his sudden inclination for adventure was to be gratified, his romantic aspirations might have been somewhat dashed at the prospect that lay before him. ii _the mysterious lady with the silver veil_ at that moment our hero suddenly became conscious of the fact that a small wicket in a wooden gate near which he stood had been opened, and that the eyes of an otherwise concealed countenance were observing him with the utmost closeness of scrutiny. he had hardly time to become aware of this observation of his person when the gate itself was opened, and there appeared before him, in the moonlight, the bent and crooked figure of an aged negress. she was clad in a calamanco raiment, and was further adorned with a variety of gaudily colored trimmings, vastly suggestive of the tropical world of which she was an inhabitant. her woolly head was enveloped, after the fashion of her people, in the folds of a gigantic and flaming red turban constructed of an entire pocket handkerchief. her face was pock-pitted to an incredible degree, so that what with this deformity, emphasized by the pouting of her prodigious and shapeless lips, and the rolling of a pair of eyes as yellow as saffron, jonathan rugg thought that he had never beheld a figure at once so extraordinary and so repulsive. it occurred to our hero that here, maybe, was to overtake him such an adventure as that which he had just a moment before been desiring so ardently. nor was he mistaken; for the negress, first looking this way and then that, with an extremely wary and cunning expression, and apparently having satisfied herself that the street, for the moment, was pretty empty of passers, beckoned to him to draw nearer. when he had approached close enough to her she caught him by the sleeve, and, instantly drawing him into the garden beyond, shut and bolted the gate with a quickness and a silence suggestive of the most extravagant secrecy. at the same moment a huge negro suddenly appeared from the shadow of the gatepost, and so placed himself between jonathan and the gate that any attempt to escape would inevitably have entailed a conflict, upon our hero's part, with the sable and giant guardian. says the negress, looking very intently at our hero, "be you afeared, buckra?" "why, no," quoth jonathan; "for to tell thee the truth, friend, though i am a man of peace, being of that religious order known as the society of friends, i am not so weak in person nor so timid in disposition as to warrant me in being afraid of anyone. indeed, were i of a mind to escape, i might, without boasting, declare my belief that i should be able to push my way past even a better man than thy large friend who stands so threateningly in front of yonder gate." at these words the negress broke into so prodigious a grin that, in the moonlight, it appeared as though the whole lower part of her face had been transformed into shining teeth. "you be a brave buckra," said she, in her gibbering english. "you come wid melina, and melina take you to pretty lady, who want you to eat supper wid her." thereupon, and allowing our hero no opportunity to decline this extraordinary invitation, even had he been of a mind to do so, she took him by the hand and led him toward the large and imposing house which commanded the garden. "indeed," says jonathan to himself, as he followed his sable guide--himself followed in turn by the gigantic negro--"indeed, i am like to have my fill of adventure, if anything is to be judged from such a beginning as this." nor did the interior sumptuousness of the mansion at all belie the imposing character of its exterior, for, entering by way of an illuminated veranda, and so coming into a brilliantly lighted hallway beyond, jonathan beheld himself to be surrounded by such a wealth of exquisite and well-appointed tastefulness as it had never before been his good fortune to behold. candles of clarified wax sparkled like stars in chandeliers of crystal. these in turn, catching the illumination, glittered in prismatic fragments with all the varied colors of the rainbow, so that a mellow yet brilliant radiance filled the entire apartment. polished mirrors of a spotless clearness, framed in golden frames and built into the walls, reflected the waxed floors, the rich oriental carpets, and the sumptuous paintings that hung against the ivory-tinted paneling, so that in appearance the beauties of the apartment were continued in bewildering vistas upon every side toward which the beholder directed his gaze. bidding our hero to be seated, which he did with no small degree of embarrassment and constraint, and upon the extreme edge of the gilt and satin-covered chair, the negress who had been his conductor left him for the time being to his own contemplation. almost before he had an opportunity to compose himself into anything more than a part of his ordinary sedateness of demeanor, the silken curtains at the doorway at the other end of the apartment were suddenly divided, and jonathan beheld before him a female figure displaying the most exquisite contour of mold and of proportion. she was clad entirely in white, and was enveloped from head to foot in the folds of a veil of delicate silver gauze, which, though hiding her countenance from recognition, nevertheless permitted sufficient of her beauties to be discerned to suggest the extreme elegance and loveliness of her lineaments. advancing toward our hero, and extending to him a tapering hand as white as alabaster, the fingers encircled with a multitude of jeweled rings, she addressed him thus: "sir," she said, speaking in accents of the most silvery and musical cadence, "you are no doubt vastly surprised to find yourself thus unexpectedly, and almost as by violence, introduced into the house of one who is such an entire stranger to you as myself. but though i am unknown to you, i must inform you that i am better acquainted with my visitor, for my agents have been observing you ever since you landed this afternoon at the dock, and they have followed you ever since, until a little while ago, when you stopped immediately opposite my garden gate. these agents have observed you with a closeness of scrutiny of which you are doubtless entirely unaware. they have even informed me that, owing doubtless to your extreme interest in your new surroundings, you have not as yet supped. knowing this, and that you must now be enjoying a very hearty appetite, i have to ask you if you will do me the extreme favor of sitting at table with me at a repast which you will doubtless be surprised to learn has been hastily prepared entirely in your honor." so saying, and giving jonathan no time for reply, she offered him her hand, and with the most polite insistence conducted him into an exquisitely appointed dining room adjoining. here stood a table covered with a snow-white cloth, and embellished with silver and crystal ornaments of every description. having seated herself and having indicated to jonathan to take the chair opposite to her, the two were presently served with a repast such as our hero had not thought could have existed out of the pages of certain extraordinary oriental tales which one time had fallen to his lot to read. this supper (which in itself might successfully have tempted the taste of a sybarite) was further enhanced by several wines and cordials which, filling the room with the aroma of the sunlit grapes from which they had been expressed, stimulated the appetite, which without them needed no such spur. the lady, who ate but sparingly herself, possessed herself with patience until jonathan's hunger had been appeased. when, however, she beheld that he weakened in his attacks upon the dessert of sweets with which the banquet was concluded, she addressed him upon the business which was evidently entirely occupying her mind. "sir," said she, "you are doubtless aware that everyone, whether man or woman, is possessed of an enemy. in my own case i must inform you that i have no less than three who, to compass their ends, would gladly sacrifice my life itself to their purposes. at no time am i safe from their machinations, nor have i anyone," cried she, exhibiting a great emotion, "to whom i may turn in my need. it was this that led me to hope to find in you a friend in my perils, for, having observed through my agents that you are not only honest in disposition and strong in person, but that you are possessed of a considerable degree of energy and determination, i am most desirous of imposing upon your good nature a trust of which you cannot for a moment suspect the magnitude. tell me, are you willing to assist a poor, defenseless female in her hour of trial?" "indeed, friend," quoth jonathan, with more vivacity than he usually exhibited, with a lenity to which he had heretofore in his lifetime been a stranger--being warmed into such a spirit, doubtless, by the generous wines of which he had partaken--"indeed, friend, if i could but see thy face it would doubtless make my decision in such a matter the more favorable, since i am inclined to think, from the little i can behold of it, that thy appearance must be extremely comely to the eye." "sir," said the lady, exhibiting some amusement at this unexpected sally, "i am, you must know, as god made me. sometime, perhaps, i may be very glad to satisfy your curiosity, and exhibit to you my poor countenance such as it is. but now"--and here she reverted to her more serious mood--"i must again put it to you: are you willing to help an unprotected woman in a period of very great danger to herself? should you decline the assistance which i solicit, my slaves shall conduct you to the gate through which you entered, and suffer you to depart in peace. should you, upon the other hand, accept the trust, you are to receive no reward therefor, except the gratitude of one who thus appeals to you in her helplessness." for a few moments jonathan fell silent, for here, indeed, was he entering into an adventure which infinitely surpassed any anticipation that he could have formed. he was, besides, of a cautious nature, and was entirely disinclined to embark in any affair so obscure and tangled as that in which he now found himself becoming involved. "friend," said he, at last, "i may tell thee that thy story has so far moved me as to give me every inclination to help thee in thy difficulties, but i must also inform thee that i am a man of caution, having never before entered into any business of this sort. therefore, before giving any promise that may bind my future actions, i must, in common wisdom, demand to know what are the conditions that thou hast in mind to impose upon me." "indeed, sir," cried the lady, with great vivacity and with more cheerful accents--as though her mind had been relieved of a burden of fear that her companion might at once have declined even a consideration of her request--"indeed, sir, you will find that the trust which i would impose upon you is in appearance no such great matter as my words may have led you to suppose. "you must know that i am possessed of a little trinket which, in the hands of anyone who, like yourself, is a stranger in these parts, would possess no significance, but which while in my keeping is fraught with infinite menace to me." hereupon, and having so spoken, she clapped her hands, and an attendant immediately entered, disclosing the person of the same negress who had first introduced jonathan into the strange adventure in which he now found himself involved. this creature, who appeared still more deformed and repulsive in the brilliantly lighted room than she had in the moonlight, carried in her hands a white napkin, which she handed to her mistress. this being opened, disclosed a small ivory ball of about the bigness of a lime. nodding to the negress to withdraw, the lady handed him the ivory ball, and jonathan took it with no small degree of curiosity and examined it carefully. it appeared to be of an exceeding antiquity, and of so deep a yellow as to be almost brown in color. it was covered over with strange figures and characters of an oriental sort, which appeared to our hero to be of chinese workmanship. "i must tell you, sir," said the lady, after she had permitted her guest to examine this for a while in silence, "that though this appears to you to be of little worth, it is yet of extreme value. after all, however, it is nothing but a curiosity that anyone who is interested in such matters might possess. what i have to ask you is this: will you be willing to take this into your charge, to guard it with the utmost care and fidelity--yes, even as the apple of your eye--during your continuance in these parts, and to return it to me in safety the day before your departure? by so doing you will render me a service which you may neither understand nor comprehend, but which shall make me your debtor for my entire life." by this time jonathan had pretty well composed his mind for a reply. "friend," said he, "such a matter as this is entirely out of my knowledge of business, which is, indeed, that of a clerk in the mercantile profession. nevertheless, i have every inclination to help thee, though i trust thou mayest have magnified the dangers that beset thee. this appears to me to be a little trifle for such an ado; nevertheless, i will do as thou dost request. i will keep it in safety and will return it to thee upon this day a week hence, by which time i hope to have discharged my cargo and be ready to continue my voyage to demerara." at these words the lady, who had been watching him all the time with a most unaccountable eagerness, burst forth into words of such heartfelt gratitude as to entirely overwhelm our hero. when her transports had been somewhat assuaged she permitted him to depart, and the negress conducted him back through the garden, whence she presently showed him through the gate whither he had entered and out into the street. iii _the terrific encounter with the one-eyed little gentleman in black_ finding himself once more in the open street, jonathan rugg stood for a while in the moonlight, endeavoring to compose his mind into somewhat of that sobriety that was habitual with him; for, indeed, he was not a little excited by the unexpected incidents that had just befallen him. from this effort at composure he was aroused by observing that a little gentleman clad all in black had stopped at a little distance away and was looking very intently at him. in the brightness of the moonlight our hero could see that the little gentleman possessed but a single eye, and that he carried a gold-headed cane in his hand. he had hardly time to observe these particulars, when the other approached him with every appearance of politeness and cordiality. "sir," said he, "surely i am not mistaken in recognizing in you the supercargo of the ship _susanna hayes_, which arrived this afternoon at this port?" "indeed," said jonathan, "thou art right, friend. that is my occupation, and that is whence i came." "to be sure!" said the little gentleman. "to be sure! to be sure! the _susanna hayes_, with a cargo of indian-corn meal, and from my dear good friend jeremiah doolittle, of philadelphia. i know your good master very well--very well indeed. and have you never heard him speak of his friend mr. abner greenway, of kingston, jamaica?" "why, no," replied jonathan, "i have no such recollection of the name--nor do i know that any such name hath ever appeared upon our books." "to be sure! to be sure!" repeated the little gentleman, briskly, and with exceeding good nature. "indeed, my name is not likely to have ever appeared upon your employer's books, for i am not a business correspondent, but one who, in times past, was his extremely intimate friend. there is much i would like to ask about him, and, indeed, i was in hopes that you would have been the bearer of a letter from him. but i have lodgings at a little distance from here, so that if it is not requesting too much of you maybe you will accompany me thither, so that we may talk at our leisure. i would gladly accompany you to your ship instead of urging you to come to my apartments, but i must tell you i am possessed of a devil of a fever, so that my physician hath forbidden me to be out of nights." "indeed," said jonathan, who, you may have observed, was of a very easy disposition--"indeed, i shall be very glad to accompany thee to thy lodgings. there is nothing i would like better than to serve any friend of good jeremiah doolittle's." and thereupon, and with great amity, the two walked off together, the little one-eyed gentleman in black linking his arm confidingly into that of jonathan's, and tapping the pavement continually with his cane as he trotted on at a great pace. he was very well acquainted with the town (of which he was a citizen), and so interesting was his discourse that they had gone a considerable distance before jonathan observed they were entering into a quarter darker and less frequented than that which they had quitted. tall brick houses stood upon either side, between which stretched a narrow, crooked roadway, with a kennel running down the center. in front of one of these houses--a tall and gloomy structure--our hero's conductor stopped and, opening the door with a key, beckoned for him to enter. jonathan having complied, his new-found friend led the way up a flight of steps, against which jonathan's feet beat noisily in the darkness, and at length, having ascended two stairways and having reached a landing, he opened a door at the end of the passage and ushered jonathan into an apartment, unlighted, except for the moonshine, which, coming in through a partly open shutter, lay in a brilliant patch of light upon the floor. his conductor having struck a light with a flint and steel, our hero by the illumination of a single candle presently discovered himself to be in a bedchamber furnished with no small degree of comfort, and even elegance, and having every appearance of a bachelor's chamber. "you will pardon me," said his new acquaintance, "if i shut these shutters and the window, for that devilish fever of which i spoke is of such a sort that i must keep the night air even out from my room, or else i shall be shaking the bones out of my joints and chattering the teeth out of my head by to-morrow morning." so saying he was as good as his word, and not only drew the shutters to, but shot the heavy iron bolt into its place. having accomplished this he bade our hero to be seated, and placing before him some exceedingly superior rum, together with some equally excellent tobacco, they presently fell into the friendliest discourse imaginable. in the course of their talk, which after a while became exceedingly confidential, jonathan confided to his new friend the circumstances of the adventure into which he had been led by the beautiful stranger, and to all that he said concerning his adventure his interlocutor listened with the closest and most scrupulously riveted attention. [illustration: how the buccaneers kept christmas _originally published in_ harper's weekly, _december , _] "upon my word," said he, when jonathan had concluded, "i hope that you may not have been made the victim of some foolish hoax. let me see what it is she has confided to you." "that i will," replied jonathan. and thereupon he thrust his hand into his breeches' pocket and brought forth the ivory ball. no sooner did the one eye of the little gentleman in black light upon the object than a most singular and extraordinary convulsion appeared to seize upon him. had a bullet penetrated his heart he could not have started more violently, nor have sat more rigidly and breathlessly staring. mastering his emotion with the utmost difficulty as jonathan replaced the ball in his pocket, he drew a deep and profound breath and wiped the palm of his hand across his forehead as though arousing himself from a dream. "and you," he said, of a sudden, "are, i understand it, a quaker. do you, then, never carry a weapon, even in such a place as this, where at any moment in the dark a spanish knife may be stuck betwixt your ribs?" "why, no," said jonathan, somewhat surprised that so foreign a topic should have been so suddenly introduced into the discourse. "i am a man of peace and not of blood. the people of the society of friends never carry weapons, either of offense or defense." as jonathan concluded his reply the little gentleman suddenly arose from his chair and moved briskly around to the other side of the room. our hero, watching him with some surprise, beheld him clap to the door and with a single movement shoot the bolt and turn the key therein. the next instant he turned to jonathan a visage transformed as suddenly as though he had dropped a mask from his face. the gossiping and polite little old bachelor was there no longer, but in his stead a man with a countenance convulsed with some furious and nameless passion. "that ball!" he cried, in a hoarse and raucous voice. "that ivory ball! give it to me upon the instant!" as he spoke he whipped out from his bosom a long, keen spanish knife that in its every appearance spoke without equivocation of the most murderous possibilities. the malignant passions that distorted every lineament of the countenance of the little old gentleman in black filled our hero with such astonishment that he knew not whether he were asleep or awake; but when he beheld the other advancing with the naked and shining knife in his hand his reason returned to him like a flash. leaping to his feet, he lost no time in putting the table between himself and his sudden enemy. "indeed, friend," he cried, in a voice penetrated with terror--"indeed, friend, thou hadst best keep thy distance from me, for though i am a man of peace and a shunner of bloodshed, i promise thee that i will not stand still to be murdered without outcry or without endeavoring to defend my life!" "cry as loud as you please!" exclaimed the other. "no one is near this place to hear you! cry until you are hoarse; no one in this neighborhood will stop to ask what is the matter with you. i tell you i am determined to possess myself of that ivory ball, and have it i shall, even though i am obliged to cut out your heart to get it!" as he spoke he grinned with so extraordinary and devilish a distortion of his countenance, and with such an appearance of every intention of carrying out his threat as to send the goose flesh creeping like icy fingers up and down our hero's spine with the most incredible rapidity and acuteness. nevertheless, mastering his fears, jonathan contrived to speak up with a pretty good appearance of spirit. "indeed, friend," he said, "thou appearest to forget that i am a man of twice thy bulk and half thy years, and that though thou hast a knife i am determined to defend myself to the last extremity. i am not going to give thee that which thou demandest of me, and for thy sake i advise thee to open the door and let me go free as i entered, or else harm may befall thee." "fool!" cried the other, hardly giving him time to end. "do you, then, think that i have time to chatter with you while two villains are lying in wait for me, perhaps at the very door? blame your own self for your death!" and, gnashing his teeth with an indescribable menace, and resting his hand upon the table, he vaulted with incredible agility clean across it and upon our hero, who, entirely unprepared for such an extraordinary attack, was flung back against the wall, with an arm as strong as steel clutching his throat and a knife flashing in his very eyes with dreadful portent of instant death. with an instinct to preserve his life, he caught his assailant by the wrist, and, bending it away from himself, set every fiber of his body in a superhuman effort to guard and protect himself. the other, though so much older and smaller, seemed to be composed entirely of fibers of steel, and, in his murderous endeavors, put forth a strength so extraordinary that for a moment our hero felt his heart melt within him with terror for his life. the spittle appeared to dry up within his mouth, and his hair to creep and rise upon his head. with a vehement cry of despair and anguish, he put forth one stupendous effort for defense, and, clapping his heel behind the other's leg, and throwing his whole weight forward, he fairly tripped his antagonist backward as he stood. together they fell upon the floor, locked in the most desperate embrace, and overturning a chair with a prodigious clatter in their descent--our hero upon the top and the little gentleman in black beneath him. as they struck the floor the little man in black emitted a most piercing and terrible scream, and instantly relaxing his efforts of attack, fell to beating the floor with the back of his hands and drubbing with his heels upon the rug in which he had become entangled. our hero leaped to his feet, and with dilating eyes and expanding brain and swimming sight stared down upon the other like one turned to a stone. he beheld instantly what had occurred, and that he had, without so intending, killed a fellow man. the knife, turned away from his own person, had in their fall been plunged into the bosom of the other, and he now lay quivering in the last throes of death. as jonathan gazed he beheld a thin red stream trickle out from the parted and grinning lips; he beheld the eyes turn inward; he beheld the eyelids contract; he beheld the figure stretch itself; he beheld it become still in death. iv _the momentous adventure with the stranger with the silver earrings_ so our hero stood stunned and bedazed, gazing down upon his victim, like a man turned into a stone. his brain appeared to him to expand like a bubble, the blood surged and hummed in his ears with every gigantic beat of his heart, his vision swam, and his trembling hands were bedewed with a cold and repugnant sweat. the dead figure upon the floor at his feet gazed at him with a wide, glassy stare, and in the confusion of his mind it appeared to jonathan that he was, indeed, a murderer. what monstrous thing was this that had befallen him who, but a moment before, had been so entirely innocent of the guilt of blood? what was he now to do in such an extremity as this, with his victim lying dead at his feet, a poniard in his heart? who would believe him to be guiltless of crime with such a dreadful evidence as this presented against him? how was he, a stranger in a foreign land, to totally defend himself against an accusation of mistaken justice? at these thoughts a developed terror gripped at his vitals and a sweat as cold as ice bedewed his entire body. no, he must tarry for no explanation or defense! he must immediately fly from this terrible place, or else, should he be discovered, his doom would certainly be sealed! at that moment, and in the very extremity of his apprehensions, there fell of a sudden a knock upon the door, sounding so loud and so startling upon the silence of the room that every shattered nerve in our hero's frame tingled and thrilled in answer to it. he stood petrified, scarcely so much as daring to breathe; and then, observing that his mouth was agape, he moistened his dry and parching lips, and drew his jaws together with a snap. again there fell the same loud, insistent knock upon the panel, followed by the imperative words, "open within!" the wretched jonathan flung about him a glance at once of terror and of despair, but there was for him no possible escape. he was shut tight in the room with his dead victim, like a rat in a trap. nothing remained for him but to obey the summons from without. indeed, in the very extremity of his distraction, he possessed reason enough to perceive that the longer he delayed opening the door the less innocent he might hope to appear in the eyes of whoever stood without. with the uncertain and spasmodic movements of an ill-constructed automaton, he crossed the room, and stepping very carefully over the prostrate body upon the floor, and with a hesitating reluctance that he could in no degree master, he unlocked, unbolted, and opened the door. the figure that outlined itself in the light of the candle, against the blackness of the passageway without, was of such a singular and foreign aspect as to fit extremely well into the extraordinary tragedy of which jonathan was at once the victim and the cause. it was that of a lean, tall man with a thin, yellow countenance, embellished with a long, black mustache, and having a pair of forbidding, deeply set, and extremely restless black eyes. a crimson handkerchief beneath a lace cocked hat was tied tightly around the head, and a pair of silver earrings, which caught the light of the candle, gleamed and twinkled against the inky darkness of the passageway beyond. this extraordinary being, without favoring our hero with any word of apology for his intrusion, immediately thrust himself forward into the room, and stretching his long, lean, birdlike neck so as to direct his gaze over the intervening table, fixed a gaping and concentrated stare upon the figure lying still and motionless in the center of the room. "vat you do dare," said he, with a guttural and foreign accent, and thereupon, without waiting for a reply, came forward and knelt down beside the dead man. after thrusting his hand into the silent and shrunken bosom, he presently looked up and fixed his penetrating eyes upon our hero's countenance, who, benumbed and bedazed with his despair, still stood like one enchained in the bonds of a nightmare. "he vas dead!" said the stranger, and jonathan nodded his head in reply. "vy you keel ze man?" inquired his interlocutor. "indeed," cried jonathan, finding a voice at last, but one so hoarse that he could hardly recognize it for his own, "i know not what to make of the affair! but, indeed, i do assure thee, friend, that i am entirely innocent of what thou seest." the stranger still kept his piercing gaze fixed upon our hero's countenance, and jonathan, feeling that something further was demanded of him, continued: "i am, indeed, a victim of a most extravagant and extraordinary adventure. this evening, coming an entire stranger to this country, i was introduced into the house of a beautiful female, who bestowed upon me a charge that appeared to me to be at once insignificant and absurd. behold this little ivory ball," said he, drawing the globe from his pocket, and displaying it between his thumb and finger. "it is this that appears to have brought all this disaster upon me; for, coming from the house of the young woman, the man whom thou now beholdest lying dead upon the floor induced me to come to this place. having inveigled me hither, he demanded of me to give him at once this insignificant trifle. upon my refusing to do so, he assaulted me with every appearance of a mad and furious inclination to deprive me of my life!" at the sight of the ivory ball the stranger quickly arose from his kneeling posture and fixed upon our hero a gaze the most extraordinary that he had ever encountered. his eyes dilated like those of a cat, the breath expelled itself from his bosom in so deep and profound an expiration that it appeared as though it might never return again. nor was it until jonathan had replaced the ball in his pocket that he appeared to awaken from the trance that the sight of the object had sent him into. but no sooner had the cause of this strange demeanor disappeared into our hero's breeches' pocket than he arose as with an electric shock. in an instant he became transformed as by the touch of magic. a sudden and baleful light flamed into his eyes, his face grew as red as blood, and he clapped his hand to his pocket with a sudden and violent motion. "ze ball!" he cried, in a hoarse and strident voice. "ze ball! give me ze ball!" and upon the next instant our hero beheld the round and shining nozzle of a pistol pointed directly against his forehead. for a moment he stood as though transfixed; then in the mortal peril that faced him, he uttered a roar that sounded in his own ears like the outcry of a wild beast, and thereupon flung himself bodily upon the other with the violence and the fury of a madman. the stranger drew the trigger, and the powder flashed in the pan. he dropped the weapon, clattering, and in an instant tried to draw another from his other pocket. before he could direct his aim, however, our hero had caught him by both wrists, and, bending his hand backward, prevented the chance of any shot from taking immediate effect upon his person. then followed a struggle of extraordinary ferocity and frenzy--the stranger endeavoring to free his hand, and jonathan striving with all the energy of despair to prevent him from effecting his murderous purpose. [illustration] in the struggle our hero became thrust against the edge of the table. he felt as though his back were breaking, and became conscious that in such a situation he could hope to defend himself only a few moments longer. the stranger's face was pressed close to his own. his hot breath, strong with the odor of garlic, fanned our hero's cheek, while his lips, distended into a ferocious and ferine grin, displayed his sharp teeth shining in the candlelight. "give me ze ball!" he said, in a harsh and furious whisper. at the moment there rang in jonathan's ears the sudden and astounding detonation of a pistol shot, and for a moment he wondered whether he had received a mortal wound without being aware of it. then suddenly he beheld an extraordinary and dreadful transformation take place in the countenance thrust so close to his own; the eyes winked several times with incredible rapidity, and then rolled upward and inward; the jaws gaped into a dreadful and cavernous yawn; the pistol fell with a clatter to the floor, and the next moment the muscles, so rigid but an instant before, relaxed into a limp and listless flaccidity. the joints collapsed, and the entire man fell into an indistinguishable heap upon and across the dead figure stretched out upon the floor, while at the same time a pungent and blinding cloud of gunpowder smoke filled the apartment. for a few moments the hands twitched convulsively; the neck stretched itself to an abominable length; the long, lean legs slowly and gradually relaxed, and every fiber of the body gradually collapsed into the lassitude of death. a spot of blood appeared and grew upon the collar at the throat, and in the same degree the color ebbed from the face, leaving it of a dull and leaden pallor. all these terrible and formidable changes of aspect our hero stood watching with a motionless and riveted attention, and as though they were to him matters of the utmost consequence and importance; and only when the last flicker of life had departed from his second victim did he lift his gaze from this terrible scene of dissolution to stare about him, this way and that, his eyes blinded, and his breath stifled by the thick cloud of sulphurous smoke that obscured the objects about him in a pungent cloud. v _the unexpected encounter with the sea captain with the broken nose_ if our hero had been distracted and bedazed by the first catastrophe that had befallen, this second and even more dreadful and violent occurrence appeared to take away from him, for the moment, every power of thought and of sensation. all that perturbation of emotion that had before convulsed him he discovered to have disappeared, and in its stead a benumbed and blinded intelligence alone remained to him. as he stood in the presence of this second death, of which he had been as innocent and as unwilling an instrument as he had of the first, he could observe no signs either of remorse or of horror within him. he picked up his hat, which had fallen upon the floor in the first encounter, and, brushing away the dust with the cuff of his coat sleeve with extraordinary care, adjusted the beaver upon his head with the utmost nicety. then turning, still stupefied as with the fumes of some powerful drug, he prepared to quit the scene of tragic terrors that had thus unexpectedly accumulated upon him. but ere he could put his design into execution his ears were startled by the sound of loud and hurried footsteps which, coming from below, ascended the stairs with a prodigious clatter and bustle of speed. at the landing these footsteps paused for a while, and then approached, more cautious and deliberate, toward the room where the double tragedy had been enacted, and where our hero yet stood silent and inert. all this while jonathan made no endeavor to escape, but stood passive and submissive to what might occur. he felt himself the victim of circumstances over which he himself had no control. gazing at the partly opened door, he waited for whatever adventure might next befall him. once again the footsteps paused, this time at the very threshold, and then the door was slowly pushed open from without. as our hero gazed at the aperture there presently became disclosed to his view the strong and robust figure of one who was evidently of a seafaring habit. from the gold braid upon his hat, the seals dangling from the ribbon at his fob, and a certain particularity of custom, he was evidently one of no small consideration in his profession. he was of a strong and powerful build, with a head set close to his shoulders, and upon a round, short bull neck. he wore a black cravat, loosely tied into a knot, and a red waistcoat elaborately trimmed with gold braid; a leather belt with a brass buckle and hanger, and huge sea boots completed a costume singularly suggestive of his occupation in life. his face was round and broad, like that of a cat, and a complexion stained, by constant exposure to the sun and wind, to a color of newly polished mahogany. but a countenance which otherwise might have been humorous, in this case was rendered singularly repulsive by the fact that his nose had been broken so flat to his face that all that remained to distinguish that feature were two circular orifices where the nostrils should have been. his eyes were by no means so sinister as the rest of his visage, being of a light-gray color and exceedingly vivacious--even good-natured in the merry restlessness of their glance--albeit they were well-nigh hidden beneath a black bush of overhanging eyebrows. when he spoke, his voice was so deep and resonant that it was as though it issued from a barrel rather than from the breast of a human being. "how now, my hearty!" cried he, in stentorian tones, so loud that they seemed to stun the tensely drawn drums of our hero's ears. "how now, my hearty! what's to do here? who is shooting pistols at this hour of the night?" then, catching sight of the figures lying in a huddle upon the floor, his great, thick lips parted into a gape of wonder and his gray eyes rolled in his head like two balls, so that what with his flat face and the round holes of his nostrils he presented an appearance which, under other circumstances, would have been at once ludicrous and grotesque. "by the blood!" cried he, "to be sure it is murder that has happened here." "not murder!" cried jonathan, in a shrill and panting voice. "not murder! it was all an accident, and i am as innocent as a baby." the newcomer looked at him and then at the two figures upon the floor, and then back at him again with eyes at once quizzical and cunning. then his face broke into a grin that might hardly be called of drollery. "accident!" quoth he. "by the blood! d'ye see 'tis a strange accident, indeed, that lays two men by the heels and lets the third go without a scratch!" delivering himself thus, he came forward into the room, and, taking the last victim of jonathan's adventure by the arm, with as little compunction as he would have handled a sack of grain he dragged the limp and helpless figure from where it lay to the floor beside the first victim. then, lifting the lighted candle, he bent over the two prostrate bodies, holding the illumination close to the lineaments first of one and then of the other. he looked at them very carefully for a long while, with the closest and most intent scrutiny, and in perfect silence. "they are both as dead," says he, "as davy jones, and, whoever you be, i protest that you have done your business the most completest that i ever saw in all of my life." "indeed," cried jonathan, in the same shrill and panting voice, "it was themselves who did it. first one of them attacked me and then the other, and i did but try to keep them from murdering me. this one fell on his knife, and that one shot himself in his efforts to destroy me." "that," says the seaman, "you may very well tell to a dry-lander, and maybe he will believe you; but you cannot so easily pull the wool over the eyes of captain benny willitts. and what, if i may be so bold as for to ask you, was the reason for their attacking so harmless a man as you proclaim yourself to be?" [illustration: the burning ship _originally published in_ collier's weekly, _ _] "that i know not," cried jonathan; "but i am entirely willing to tell thee all the circumstances. thou must know that i am a member of the society of friends. this day i landed here in kingston, and met a young woman of very comely appearance, who intrusted me with this little ivory ball, which she requested me to keep for her a few days. the sight of this ball--in which i can detect nothing that could be likely to arouse any feelings of violence--appears to have driven these two men entirely mad, so that they instantly made the most ferocious and murderous assault upon me. see! wouldst thou have believed that so small a thing as this would have caused so much trouble?" and as he spoke he held up to the gaze of the other the cause of the double tragedy that had befallen. but no sooner had captain willitts's eyes lighted upon the ball than the most singular change passed over his countenance. the color appeared to grow dull and yellow in his ruddy cheeks, his fat lips dropped apart, and his eyes stared with a fixed and glassy glare. he arose to his feet and, still with the expression of astonishment and wonder upon his face, gazed first at our hero and then at the ivory ball in his hands, as though he were deprived both of reason and of speech. at last, as our hero slipped the trifle back in his pocket again, the mariner slowly recovered himself, though with a prodigious effort, and drew a deep and profound breath as to the very bottom of his lungs. he wiped, with the corner of his black-silk cravat, his brow, upon which the sweat appeared to have gathered. "well, messmate," says he, at last, with a sudden change of voice, "you have, indeed, had a most wonderful adventure." then with another deep breath: "well, by the blood! i may tell you plainly that i am no poor hand at the reading of faces. well, i think you to be honest, and i am inclined to believe every word you tell me. by the blood! i am prodigiously sorry for you, and am inclined to help you out of your scrape. "the first thing to do," he continued, "is to get rid of these two dead men, and that is an affair i believe we shall have no trouble in handling. one of them we will wrap up in the carpet here, and t'other we can roll into yonder bed curtain. you shall carry the one and i the other, and, the harbor being at no great distance, we can easily bring them thither and tumble them overboard, and no one will be the wiser of what has happened. for your own safety, as you may easily see, you can hardly go away and leave these objects here to be found by the first comer, and to rise up in evidence against you." this reasoning, in our hero's present bewildered state, appeared to him to be so extremely just that he raised not the least objection to it. accordingly, each of the two silent, voiceless victims of the evening's occurrences was wrapped into a bundle that from without appeared to be neither portentous nor terrible in appearance. thereupon, jonathan shouldering the rug containing the little gentleman in black, and the sea captain doing the like for the other, they presently made their way down the stairs through the darkness, and so out into the street. here the sea captain became the conductor of the expedition, and leading the way down several alleys and along certain by-streets--now and then stopping to rest, for the burdens were both heavy and clumsy to carry--they both came out at last to the harbor front, without anyone having questioned them or having appeared to suspect them of anything wrong. at the waterside was an open wharf extending a pretty good distance out into the harbor. thither the captain led the way and jonathan followed. so they made their way out along the wharf or pier, stumbling now and then over loose boards, until they came at last to where the water was of a sufficient depth for their purpose. here the captain, bending his shoulders, shot his burden out into the dark, mysterious waters, and jonathan, following his example, did the same. each body sank with a sullen and leaden splash into the element, where, the casings which swathed them becoming loosened, the rug and the curtain rose to the surface and drifted slowly away with the tide. as jonathan stood gazing dully at the disappearance of these last evidences of his two inadvertent murders, he was suddenly and vehemently aroused by feeling a pair of arms of enormous strength flung about him from behind. in their embrace his elbows were instantly pinned tight to his side, and he stood for a moment helpless and astounded, while the voice of the sea captain, rumbling in his very ear, exclaimed, "ye bloody, murthering quaker, i'll have that ivory ball, or i'll have your life!" [illustration] these words produced the same effect upon jonathan as though a douche of cold water had suddenly been flung over him. he began instantly to struggle to free himself, and that with a frantic and vehement violence begotten at once of terror and despair. so prodigious were his efforts that more than once he had nearly torn himself free, but still the powerful arms of his captor held him as in a vise of iron. meantime, our hero's assailant made frequent though ineffectual attempts to thrust a hand into the breeches' pocket where the ivory ball was hidden, swearing the while under his breath with a terrifying and monstrous string of oaths. at last, finding himself foiled in every such attempt, and losing all patience at the struggles of his victim, he endeavored to lift jonathan off of his feet, as though to dash him bodily upon the ground. in this he would doubtless have succeeded had he not caught his heel in the crack of a loose board of the wharf. instantly they both fell, violently prostrate, the captain beneath and jonathan above him, though still encircled in his iron embrace. our hero felt the back of his head strike violently upon the flat face of the other, and he heard the captain's skull sound with a terrific crack like that of a breaking egg upon some post or billet of wood, against which he must have struck. in their frantic struggles they had approached extremely near the edge of the wharf, so that the next instant, with an enormous and thunderous splash, jonathan found himself plunged into the waters of the harbor, and the arms of his assailant loosened from about his body. the shock of the water brought him instantly to his senses, and, being a fairly good swimmer, he had not the least difficulty in reaching and clutching the crosspiece of a wooden ladder that, coated with slimy sea moss, led from the water level to the wharf above. after reaching the safety of the dry land once more, jonathan gazed about him as though to discern whence the next attack might be delivered upon him. but he stood entirely alone upon the dock--not another living soul was in sight. the surface of the water exhibited some commotion, as though disturbed by something struggling beneath; but the sea captain, who had doubtless been stunned by the tremendous crack upon his head, never arose again out of the element that had engulfed him. * * * * * the moonlight shone with a peaceful and resplendent illumination, and, excepting certain remote noises from the distant town, not a sound broke the silence and the peacefulness of the balmy, tropical night. the limpid water, illuminated by the resplendent moonlight, lapped against the wharf. all the world was calm, serene, and enveloped in a profound and entire repose. [illustration: dead men tell no tales _originally published in_ collier's weekly, _december , _] jonathan looked up at the round and brilliant globe of light floating in the sky above his head, and wondered whether it were, indeed, possible that all that had befallen him was a reality and not some tremendous hallucination. then suddenly arousing himself to a renewed realization of that which had occurred, he turned and ran like one possessed, up along the wharf, and so into the moonlit town once more. vi _the conclusion of the adventure with the lady with the silver veil_ nor did he check his precipitous flight until suddenly, being led perhaps by some strange influence of which he was not at all the master, he discovered himself to be standing before the garden gate where not more than an hour before he had first entered upon the series of monstrous adventures that had led to such tremendous conclusions. people were still passing and repassing, and one of these groups--a party of young ladies and gentlemen--paused upon the opposite side of the street to observe, with no small curiosity and amusement, his dripping and bedraggled aspect. but only one thought and one intention possessed our hero--to relieve himself as quickly as possible of that trust which he had taken up so thoughtlessly, and with such monstrous results to himself and to his victims. he ran to the gate of the garden and began beating and kicking upon it with a vehemence that he could neither master nor control. he was aware that the entire neighborhood was becoming aroused, for he beheld lights moving and loud voices of inquiry; yet he gave not the least thought to the disturbance he was creating, but continued without intermission his uproarious pounding upon the gate. at length, in answer to the sound of his vehement blows, the little wicket was opened and a pair of eyes appeared thereat. the next instant the gate was cast ajar very hastily, and the pock-pitted negress appeared. she caught him by the sleeve of his coat and drew him quickly into the garden. "buckra, buckra!" she cried. "what you doing? you wake de whole town!" then, observing his dripping garments: "you been in de water. you catch de fever and shake till you die." "thy mistress!" cried jonathan, almost sobbing in the excess of his emotion; "take me to her upon the instant, or i cannot answer for my not going entirely mad!" when our hero was again introduced to the lady he found her clad in a loose and elegant negligee, infinitely becoming to her graceful figure, and still covered with the veil of silver gauze that had before enveloped her. "friend," he cried, vehemently, approaching her and holding out toward her the little ivory ball, "take again this which thou gavest me! it has brought death to three men, and i know not what terrible fate may befall me if i keep it longer in my possession." "what is it you say?" cried she, in a piercing voice. "did you say it hath caused the death of three men? quick! tell me what has happened, for i feel somehow a presage that you bring me news of safety and release from all my dangers." "i know not what thou meanest!" cried jonathan, still panting with agitation. "but this i do know: that when i went away from thee i departed an innocent man, and now i come back to thee burdened with the weight of three lives, which, though innocent, i have been instrumental in taking." "explain!" exclaimed the lady, tapping the floor with her foot. "explain! explain! explain!" "that i will," cried jonathan, "and as soon as i am able! when i left thee and went out into the street i was accosted by a little gentleman clad in black." "indeed!" cried the lady. "and had he but one eye, and did he carry a gold-headed cane?" "exactly," said jonathan; "and he claimed acquaintance with friend jeremiah doolittle." "he never knew him!" cried the lady, vehemently; "and i must tell you that he was a villain named hunt, who at one time was the intimate consort of the pirate keitt. he it was who plunged a deadly knife into his captain's bosom, and so murdered him in this very house. he himself, or his agents, must have been watching my gate when you went forth." "i know not how that may be," said jonathan, "but he took me to his apartment, and there, obtaining a knowledge of the trust thou didst burden me with, he demanded it of me, and upon my refusing to deliver it to him he presently fell to attacking me with a dagger. in my efforts to protect my life i inadvertently caused him to plunge the knife into his own bosom and to kill himself." "and what then?" cried the lady, who appeared well-nigh distracted with her emotions. "then," said jonathan, "there came a strange man--a foreigner--who upon his part assaulted me with a pistol, with every intention of murdering me and thus obtaining possession of that same little trifle." "and did he," exclaimed the lady, "have long, black mustachios, and did he have silver earrings in his ears?" "yes," said jonathan, "he did." "that," cried the lady, "could have been none other than captain keitt's portuguese sailing master, who must have been spying upon hunt! tell me what happened next!" "he would have taken my life," said jonathan, "but in the struggle that followed he shot himself accidentally with his own pistol, and died at my very feet. i do not know what would have happened to me if a sea captain had not come and proffered his assistance." "a sea captain!" she exclaimed; "and had he a flat face and a broken nose?" "indeed he had," replied jonathan. "that," said the lady, "must have been captain keitt's pirate partner--captain willitts, of _the bloody hand_. he was doubtless spying upon the portuguese." "he induced me," said jonathan, "to carry the two bodies down to the wharf. having inveigled me there--where, i suppose, he thought no one could interfere--he assaulted me, and endeavored to take the ivory ball away from me. in my efforts to escape we both fell into the water, and he, striking his head upon the edge of the wharf, was first stunned and then drowned." "thank god!" cried the lady, with a transport of fervor, and clasping her jeweled hands together. "at last i am free of those who have heretofore persecuted me and threatened my very life itself! you have asked to behold my face; i will now show it to you! heretofore i have been obliged to keep it concealed lest, recognizing me, my enemies should have slain me." as she spoke she drew aside her veil, and disclosed to the vision of our hero a countenance of the most extraordinary and striking beauty. her luminous eyes were like those of a jawa, and set beneath exquisitely arched and penciled brows. her forehead was like lustrous ivory and her lips like rose leaves. her hair, which was as soft as the finest silk, was fastened up in masses of ravishing abundance. "i am," said she, "the daughter of that unfortunate captain keitt, who, though weak and a pirate, was not so wicked, i would have you know, as he has been painted. he would, doubtless, have been an honest man had he not been led astray by the villain hunt, who so nearly compassed your destruction. he returned to this island before his death, and made me the sole heir of all that great fortune which he had gathered--perhaps not by the most honest means--in the waters of the indian ocean. but the greatest treasure of all that fortune bequeathed to me was a single jewel which you yourself have just now defended with a courage and a fidelity that i cannot sufficiently extol. it is that priceless gem known as the ruby of kishmoor. i will show it to you." [illustration: "i am the daughter of that unfortunate captain keitt"] hereupon she took the little ivory ball in her hand, and, with a turn of her beautiful wrists, unscrewed a lid so nicely and cunningly adjusted that no eye could have detected where it was joined to the parent globe. within was a fleece of raw silk containing an object which she presently displayed before the astonished gaze of our hero. it was a red stone of about the bigness of a plover's egg, and which glowed and flamed with such an exquisite and ruddy brilliancy as to dazzle even jonathan's inexperienced eyes. indeed, he did not need to be informed of the priceless value of the treasure, which he beheld in the rosy palm extended toward him. how long he gazed at this extraordinary jewel he knew not, but he was aroused from his contemplation by the sound of the lady's voice addressing him. "the three villains," said she, "who have this day met their deserts in a violent and bloody death, had by an accident obtained knowledge that this jewel was in my possession. since then my life has hung upon a thread, and every step that i have taken has been watched by these enemies, the most cruel and relentless that it was ever the lot of any unfortunate to possess. from the mortal dangers of their machinations you have saved me, exhibiting a courage and a determination that cannot be sufficiently applauded. in this you have earned my deepest admiration and regard. i would rather," she cried, "intrust my life and my happiness to you than into the keeping of any man whom i have ever known! i cannot hope to reward you in such a way as to recompense you for the perils into which my necessities have thrust you; but yet"--and here she hesitated, as though seeking for words in which to express herself--"but yet if you are willing to accept of this jewel, and all of the fortune that belongs to me, together with the person of poor evaline keitt herself, not only the stone and the wealth, but the woman also, are yours to dispose of as you see fit!" our hero was so struck aback at this unexpected turn that he knew not upon the instant what reply to make. "friend," said he, at last, "i thank thee extremely for thy offer, and, though i would not be ungracious, it is yet borne in upon me to testify to thee that as to the stone itself and the fortune--of which thou speakest, and of which i very well know the history--i have no inclination to receive either the one or the other, both the fruits of theft, rapine, and murder. the jewel i have myself beheld three times stained, as it were, with the blood of my fellow man, so that it now has so little value in my sight that i would not give a peppercorn to possess it. indeed, there is no inducement in the world that could persuade me to accept it, or even to take it again into my hand. as to the rest of thy generous offer, i have only to say that i am, four months hence, to be married to a very comely young woman of kensington, in pennsylvania, by name martha dobbs, and therefore i am not at all at liberty to consider my inclinations in any other direction." having so delivered himself, jonathan bowed with such ease as his stiff and awkward joints might command, and thereupon withdrew from the presence of the charmer, who, with cheeks suffused with blushes and with eyes averted, made no endeavor to detain him. so ended the only adventure of moment that ever happened him in all his life. for thereafter he contented himself with such excitement as his mercantile profession and his extremely peaceful existence might afford. _epilogue_ in conclusion it may be said that when the worthy jonathan rugg was married to martha dobbs, upon the following june, some mysterious friend presented to the bride a rope of pearls of such considerable value that when they were realized into money our hero was enabled to enter into partnership with his former patron the worthy jeremiah doolittle, and that, having made such a beginning, he by and by arose to become, in his day, one of the leading merchants of his native town of philadelphia. [illustration] the end * * * * * books by howard pyle howard pyle's book of pirates men of iron a modern aladdin pepper and salt the ruby of kishmoor stolen treasure the wonder clock harper & brothers publishers established * * * * * howard pyle's book of pirates fiction, fact & fancy concerning the buccaneers & marooners of the spanish main: from the writing & pictures of howard pyle: compiled by merle johnson contents foreword by merle johnson preface i. buccaneers and marooners of the spanish main ii. the ghost of captain brand iii. with the buccaneers iv. tom chist and the treasure box v. jack ballister's fortunes vi. blueskin the pirate vii. captain scarfield foreword pirates, buccaneers, marooners, those cruel but picturesque sea wolves who once infested the spanish main, all live in present-day conceptions in great degree as drawn by the pen and pencil of howard pyle. pyle, artist-author, living in the latter half of the nineteenth century and the first decade of the twentieth, had the fine faculty of transposing himself into any chosen period of history and making its people flesh and blood again--not just historical puppets. his characters were sketched with both words and picture; with both words and picture he ranks as a master, with a rich personality which makes his work individual and attractive in either medium. he was one of the founders of present-day american illustration, and his pupils and grand-pupils pervade that field to-day. while he bore no such important part in the world of letters, his stories are modern in treatment, and yet widely read. his range included historical treatises concerning his favorite pirates (quaker though he was); fiction, with the same pirates as principals; americanized version of old world fairy tales; boy stories of the middle ages, still best sellers to growing lads; stories of the occult, such as in tenebras and to the soil of the earth, which, if newly published, would be hailed as contributions to our latest cult. in all these fields pyle's work may be equaled, surpassed, save in one. it is improbable that anyone else will ever bring his combination of interest and talent to the depiction of these old-time pirates, any more than there could be a second remington to paint the now extinct indians and gun-fighters of the great west. important and interesting to the student of history, the adventure-lover, and the artist, as they are, these pirate stories and pictures have been scattered through many magazines and books. here, in this volume, they are gathered together for the first time, perhaps not just as mr. pyle would have done, but with a completeness and appreciation of the real value of the material which the author's modesty might not have permitted. merle johnson. preface why is it that a little spice of deviltry lends not an unpleasantly titillating twang to the great mass of respectable flour that goes to make up the pudding of our modern civilization? and pertinent to this question another--why is it that the pirate has, and always has had, a certain lurid glamour of the heroical enveloping him round about? is there, deep under the accumulated debris of culture, a hidden groundwork of the old-time savage? is there even in these well-regulated times an unsubdued nature in the respectable mental household of every one of us that still kicks against the pricks of law and order? to make my meaning more clear, would not every boy, for instance--that is, every boy of any account--rather be a pirate captain than a member of parliament? and we ourselves--would we not rather read such a story as that of captain avery's capture of the east indian treasure ship, with its beautiful princess and load of jewels (which gems he sold by the handful, history sayeth, to a bristol merchant), than, say, one of bishop atterbury's sermons, or the goodly master robert boyle's religious romance of "theodora and didymus"? it is to be apprehended that to the unregenerate nature of most of us there can be but one answer to such a query. in the pleasurable warmth the heart feels in answer to tales of derring-do nelson's battles are all mightily interesting, but, even in spite of their romance of splendid courage, i fancy that the majority of us would rather turn back over the leaves of history to read how drake captured the spanish treasure ship in the south sea, and of how he divided such a quantity of booty in the island of plate (so named because of the tremendous dividend there declared) that it had to be measured in quart bowls, being too considerable to be counted. courage and daring, no matter how mad and ungodly, have always a redundancy of vim and life to recommend them to the nether man that lies within us, and no doubt his desperate courage, his battle against the tremendous odds of all the civilized world of law and order, have had much to do in making a popular hero of our friend of the black flag. but it is not altogether courage and daring that endear him to our hearts. there is another and perhaps a greater kinship in that lust for wealth that makes one's fancy revel more pleasantly in the story of the division of treasure in the pirate's island retreat, the hiding of his godless gains somewhere in the sandy stretch of tropic beach, there to remain hidden until the time should come to rake the doubloons up again and to spend them like a lord in polite society, than in the most thrilling tales of his wonderful escapes from commissioned cruisers through tortuous channels between the coral reefs. and what a life of adventure is his, to be sure! a life of constant alertness, constant danger, constant escape! an ocean ishmaelite, he wanders forever aimlessly, homelessly; now unheard of for months, now careening his boat on some lonely uninhabited shore, now appearing suddenly to swoop down on some merchant vessel with rattle of musketry, shouting, yells, and a hell of unbridled passions let loose to rend and tear. what a carlislean hero! what a setting of blood and lust and flame and rapine for such a hero! piracy, such as was practiced in the flower of its days--that is, during the early eighteenth century--was no sudden growth. it was an evolution, from the semi-lawful buccaneering of the sixteenth century, just as buccaneering was upon its part, in a certain sense, an evolution from the unorganized, unauthorized warfare of the tudor period. for there was a deal of piratical smack in the anti-spanish ventures of elizabethan days. many of the adventurers--of the sir francis drake school, for instance--actually overstepped again and again the bounds of international law, entering into the realms of de facto piracy. nevertheless, while their doings were not recognized officially by the government, the perpetrators were neither punished nor reprimanded for their excursions against spanish commerce at home or in the west indies; rather were they commended, and it was considered not altogether a discreditable thing for men to get rich upon the spoils taken from spanish galleons in times of nominal peace. many of the most reputable citizens and merchants of london, when they felt that the queen failed in her duty of pushing the fight against the great catholic power, fitted out fleets upon their own account and sent them to levy good protestant war of a private nature upon the pope's anointed. some of the treasures captured in such ventures were immense, stupendous, unbelievable. for an example, one can hardly credit the truth of the "purchase" gained by drake in the famous capture of the plate ship in the south sea. one of the old buccaneer writers of a century later says: "the spaniards affirm to this day that he took at that time twelvescore tons of plate and sixteen bowls of coined money a man (his number being then forty-five men in all), insomuch that they were forced to heave much of it overboard, because his ship could not carry it all." maybe this was a very greatly exaggerated statement put by the author and his spanish authorities, nevertheless there was enough truth in it to prove very conclusively to the bold minds of the age that tremendous profits--"purchases" they called them--were to be made from piracy. the western world is filled with the names of daring mariners of those old days, who came flitting across the great trackless ocean in their little tublike boats of a few hundred tons burden, partly to explore unknown seas, partly--largely, perhaps--in pursuit of spanish treasure: frobisher, davis, drake, and a score of others. in this left-handed war against catholic spain many of the adventurers were, no doubt, stirred and incited by a grim, calvinistic, puritanical zeal for protestantism. but equally beyond doubt the gold and silver and plate of the "scarlet woman" had much to do with the persistent energy with which these hardy mariners braved the mysterious, unknown terrors of the great unknown ocean that stretched away to the sunset, there in faraway waters to attack the huge, unwieldy, treasure-laden galleons that sailed up and down the caribbean sea and through the bahama channel. of all ghastly and terrible things old-time religious war was the most ghastly and terrible. one can hardly credit nowadays the cold, callous cruelty of those times. generally death was the least penalty that capture entailed. when the spaniards made prisoners of the english, the inquisition took them in hand, and what that meant all the world knows. when the english captured a spanish vessel the prisoners were tortured, either for the sake of revenge or to compel them to disclose where treasure lay hidden. cruelty begat cruelty, and it would be hard to say whether the anglo-saxon or the latin showed himself to be most proficient in torturing his victim. when cobham, for instance, captured the spanish ship in the bay of biscay, after all resistance was over and the heat of the battle had cooled, he ordered his crew to bind the captain and all of the crew and every spaniard aboard--whether in arms or not--to sew them up in the mainsail and to fling them overboard. there were some twenty dead bodies in the sail when a few days later it was washed up on the shore. of course such acts were not likely to go unavenged, and many an innocent life was sacrificed to pay the debt of cobham's cruelty. nothing could be more piratical than all this. nevertheless, as was said, it was winked at, condoned, if not sanctioned, by the law; and it was not beneath people of family and respectability to take part in it. but by and by protestantism and catholicism began to be at somewhat less deadly enmity with each other; religious wars were still far enough from being ended, but the scabbard of the sword was no longer flung away when the blade was drawn. and so followed a time of nominal peace, and a generation arose with whom it was no longer respectable and worthy--one might say a matter of duty--to fight a country with which one's own land was not at war. nevertheless, the seed had been sown; it had been demonstrated that it was feasible to practice piracy against spain and not to suffer therefor. blood had been shed and cruelty practiced, and, once indulged, no lust seems stronger than that of shedding blood and practicing cruelty. though spain might be ever so well grounded in peace at home, in the west indies she was always at war with the whole world--english, french, dutch. it was almost a matter of life or death with her to keep her hold upon the new world. at home she was bankrupt and, upon the earthquake of the reformation, her power was already beginning to totter and to crumble to pieces. america was her treasure house, and from it alone could she hope to keep her leaking purse full of gold and silver. so it was that she strove strenuously, desperately, to keep out the world from her american possessions--a bootless task, for the old order upon which her power rested was broken and crumbled forever. but still she strove, fighting against fate, and so it was that in the tropical america it was one continual war between her and all the world. thus it came that, long after piracy ceased to be allowed at home, it continued in those far-away seas with unabated vigor, recruiting to its service all that lawless malign element which gathers together in every newly opened country where the only law is lawlessness, where might is right and where a living is to be gained with no more trouble than cutting a throat. {signature howard pyle his mark} howard pile's book of pirates chapter i. buccaneers and marooners of the spanish main just above the northwestern shore of the old island of hispaniola--the santo domingo of our day--and separated from it only by a narrow channel of some five or six miles in width, lies a queer little hunch of an island, known, because of a distant resemblance to that animal, as the tortuga de mar, or sea turtle. it is not more than twenty miles in length by perhaps seven or eight in breadth; it is only a little spot of land, and as you look at it upon the map a pin's head would almost cover it; yet from that spot, as from a center of inflammation, a burning fire of human wickedness and ruthlessness and lust overran the world, and spread terror and death throughout the spanish west indies, from st. augustine to the island of trinidad, and from panama to the coasts of peru. about the middle of the seventeenth century certain french adventurers set out from the fortified island of st. christopher in longboats and hoys, directing their course to the westward, there to discover new islands. sighting hispaniola "with abundance of joy," they landed, and went into the country, where they found great quantities of wild cattle, horses, and swine. now vessels on the return voyage to europe from the west indies needed revictualing, and food, especially flesh, was at a premium in the islands of the spanish main; wherefore a great profit was to be turned in preserving beef and pork, and selling the flesh to homeward-bound vessels. the northwestern shore of hispaniola, lying as it does at the eastern outlet of the old bahama channel, running between the island of cuba and the great bahama banks, lay almost in the very main stream of travel. the pioneer frenchmen were not slow to discover the double advantage to be reaped from the wild cattle that cost them nothing to procure, and a market for the flesh ready found for them. so down upon hispaniola they came by boatloads and shiploads, gathering like a swarm of mosquitoes, and overrunning the whole western end of the island. there they established themselves, spending the time alternately in hunting the wild cattle and buccanning( ) the meat, and squandering their hardly earned gains in wild debauchery, the opportunities for which were never lacking in the spanish west indies. ( ) buccanning, by which the "buccaneers" gained their name, was of process of curing thin strips of meat by salting, smoking, and drying in the sun. at first the spaniards thought nothing of the few travel-worn frenchmen who dragged their longboats and hoys up on the beach, and shot a wild bullock or two to keep body and soul together; but when the few grew to dozens, and the dozens to scores, and the scores to hundreds, it was a very different matter, and wrathful grumblings and mutterings began to be heard among the original settlers. but of this the careless buccaneers thought never a whit, the only thing that troubled them being the lack of a more convenient shipping point than the main island afforded them. this lack was at last filled by a party of hunters who ventured across the narrow channel that separated the main island from tortuga. here they found exactly what they needed--a good harbor, just at the junction of the windward channel with the old bahama channel--a spot where four-fifths of the spanish-indian trade would pass by their very wharves. there were a few spaniards upon the island, but they were a quiet folk, and well disposed to make friends with the strangers; but when more frenchmen and still more frenchmen crossed the narrow channel, until they overran the tortuga and turned it into one great curing house for the beef which they shot upon the neighboring island, the spaniards grew restive over the matter, just as they had done upon the larger island. accordingly, one fine day there came half a dozen great boatloads of armed spaniards, who landed upon the turtle's back and sent the frenchmen flying to the woods and fastnesses of rocks as the chaff flies before the thunder gust. that night the spaniards drank themselves mad and shouted themselves hoarse over their victory, while the beaten frenchmen sullenly paddled their canoes back to the main island again, and the sea turtle was spanish once more. but the spaniards were not contented with such a petty triumph as that of sweeping the island of tortuga free from the obnoxious strangers, down upon hispaniola they came, flushed with their easy victory, and determined to root out every frenchman, until not one single buccaneer remained. for a time they had an easy thing of it, for each french hunter roamed the woods by himself, with no better company than his half-wild dogs, so that when two or three spaniards would meet such a one, he seldom if ever came out of the woods again, for even his resting place was lost. but the very success of the spaniards brought their ruin along with it, for the buccaneers began to combine together for self-protection, and out of that combination arose a strange union of lawless man with lawless man, so near, so close, that it can scarce be compared to any other than that of husband and wife. when two entered upon this comradeship, articles were drawn up and signed by both parties, a common stock was made of all their possessions, and out into the woods they went to seek their fortunes; thenceforth they were as one man; they lived together by day, they slept together by night; what one suffered, the other suffered; what one gained, the other gained. the only separation that came betwixt them was death, and then the survivor inherited all that the other left. and now it was another thing with spanish buccaneer hunting, for two buccaneers, reckless of life, quick of eye, and true of aim, were worth any half dozen of spanish islanders. by and by, as the french became more strongly organized for mutual self-protection, they assumed the offensive. then down they came upon tortuga, and now it was the turn of the spanish to be hunted off the island like vermin, and the turn of the french to shout their victory. having firmly established themselves, a governor was sent to the french of tortuga, one m. le passeur, from the island of st. christopher; the sea turtle was fortified, and colonists, consisting of men of doubtful character and women of whose character there could be no doubt whatever, began pouring in upon the island, for it was said that the buccaneers thought no more of a doubloon than of a lima bean, so that this was the place for the brothel and the brandy shop to reap their golden harvest, and the island remained french. hitherto the tortugans had been content to gain as much as possible from the homeward-bound vessels through the orderly channels of legitimate trade. it was reserved for pierre le grand to introduce piracy as a quicker and more easy road to wealth than the semi-honest exchange they had been used to practice. gathering together eight-and-twenty other spirits as hardy and reckless as himself, he put boldly out to sea in a boat hardly large enough to hold his crew, and running down the windward channel and out into the caribbean sea, he lay in wait for such a prize as might be worth the risks of winning. for a while their luck was steadily against them; their provisions and water began to fail, and they saw nothing before them but starvation or a humiliating return. in this extremity they sighted a spanish ship belonging to a "flota" which had become separated from her consorts. the boat in which the buccaneers sailed might, perhaps, have served for the great ship's longboat; the spaniards out-numbered them three to one, and pierre and his men were armed only with pistols and cutlasses; nevertheless this was their one and their only chance, and they determined to take the spanish ship or to die in the attempt. down upon the spaniard they bore through the dusk of the night, and giving orders to the "chirurgeon" to scuttle their craft under them as they were leaving it, they swarmed up the side of the unsuspecting ship and upon its decks in a torrent--pistol in one hand and cutlass in the other. a part of them ran to the gun room and secured the arms and ammunition, pistoling or cutting down all such as stood in their way or offered opposition; the other party burst into the great cabin at the heels of pierre le grand, found the captain and a party of his friends at cards, set a pistol to his breast, and demanded him to deliver up the ship. nothing remained for the spaniard but to yield, for there was no alternative between surrender and death. and so the great prize was won. it was not long before the news of this great exploit and of the vast treasure gained reached the ears of the buccaneers of tortuga and hispaniola. then what a hubbub and an uproar and a tumult there was! hunting wild cattle and buccanning the meat was at a discount, and the one and only thing to do was to go a-pirating; for where one such prize had been won, others were to be had. in a short time freebooting assumed all of the routine of a regular business. articles were drawn up betwixt captain and crew, compacts were sealed, and agreements entered into by the one party and the other. in all professions there are those who make their mark, those who succeed only moderately well, and those who fail more or less entirely. nor did pirating differ from this general rule, for in it were men who rose to distinction, men whose names, something tarnished and rusted by the lapse of years, have come down even to us of the present day. pierre francois, who, with his boatload of six-and-twenty desperadoes, ran boldly into the midst of the pearl fleet off the coast of south america, attacked the vice admiral under the very guns of two men-of-war, captured his ship, though she was armed with eight guns and manned with threescore men, and would have got her safely away, only that having to put on sail, their mainmast went by the board, whereupon the men-of-war came up with them, and the prize was lost. but even though there were two men-of-war against all that remained of six-and-twenty buccaneers, the spaniards were glad enough to make terms with them for the surrender of the vessel, whereby pierre francois and his men came off scot-free. bartholomew portuguese was a worthy of even more note. in a boat manned with thirty fellow adventurers he fell upon a great ship off cape corrientes, manned with threescore and ten men, all told. her he assaulted again and again, beaten off with the very pressure of numbers only to renew the assault, until the spaniards who survived, some fifty in all, surrendered to twenty living pirates, who poured upon their decks like a score of blood-stained, powder-grimed devils. they lost their vessel by recapture, and bartholomew portuguese barely escaped with his life through a series of almost unbelievable adventures. but no sooner had he fairly escaped from the clutches of the spaniards than, gathering together another band of adventurers, he fell upon the very same vessel in the gloom of the night, recaptured her when she rode at anchor in the harbor of campeche under the guns of the fort, slipped the cable, and was away without the loss of a single man. he lost her in a hurricane soon afterward, just off the isle of pines; but the deed was none the less daring for all that. another notable no less famous than these two worthies was roch braziliano, the truculent dutchman who came up from the coast of brazil to the spanish main with a name ready-made for him. upon the very first adventure which he undertook he captured a plate ship of fabulous value, and brought her safely into jamaica; and when at last captured by the spaniards, he fairly frightened them into letting him go by truculent threats of vengeance from his followers. such were three of the pirate buccaneers who infested the spanish main. there were hundreds no less desperate, no less reckless, no less insatiate in their lust for plunder, than they. the effects of this freebooting soon became apparent. the risks to be assumed by the owners of vessels and the shippers of merchandise became so enormous that spanish commerce was practically swept away from these waters. no vessel dared to venture out of port excepting under escort of powerful men-of-war, and even then they were not always secure from molestation. exports from central and south america were sent to europe by way of the strait of magellan, and little or none went through the passes between the bahamas and the caribbees. so at last "buccaneering," as it had come to be generically called, ceased to pay the vast dividends that it had done at first. the cream was skimmed off, and only very thin milk was left in the dish. fabulous fortunes were no longer earned in a ten days' cruise, but what money was won hardly paid for the risks of the winning. there must be a new departure, or buccaneering would cease to exist. then arose one who showed the buccaneers a new way to squeeze money out of the spaniards. this man was an englishman--lewis scot. the stoppage of commerce on the spanish main had naturally tended to accumulate all the wealth gathered and produced into the chief fortified cities and towns of the west indies. as there no longer existed prizes upon the sea, they must be gained upon the land, if they were to be gained at all. lewis scot was the first to appreciate this fact. gathering together a large and powerful body of men as hungry for plunder and as desperate as himself, he descended upon the town of campeche, which he captured and sacked, stripping it of everything that could possibly be carried away. when the town was cleared to the bare walls scot threatened to set the torch to every house in the place if it was not ransomed by a large sum of money which he demanded. with this booty he set sail for tortuga, where he arrived safely--and the problem was solved. after him came one mansvelt, a buccaneer of lesser note, who first made a descent upon the isle of saint catharine, now old providence, which he took, and, with this as a base, made an unsuccessful descent upon neuva granada and cartagena. his name might not have been handed down to us along with others of greater fame had he not been the master of that most apt of pupils, the great captain henry morgan, most famous of all the buccaneers, one time governor of jamaica, and knighted by king charles ii. after mansvelt followed the bold john davis, native of jamaica, where he sucked in the lust of piracy with his mother's milk. with only fourscore men, he swooped down upon the great city of nicaragua in the darkness of the night, silenced the sentry with the thrust of a knife, and then fell to pillaging the churches and houses "without any respect or veneration." of course it was but a short time until the whole town was in an uproar of alarm, and there was nothing left for the little handful of men to do but to make the best of their way to their boats. they were in the town but a short time, but in that time they were able to gather together and to carry away money and jewels to the value of fifty thousand pieces of eight, besides dragging off with them a dozen or more notable prisoners, whom they held for ransom. and now one appeared upon the scene who reached a far greater height than any had arisen to before. this was francois l'olonoise, who sacked the great city of maracaibo and the town of gibraltar. cold, unimpassioned, pitiless, his sluggish blood was never moved by one single pulse of human warmth, his icy heart was never touched by one ray of mercy or one spark of pity for the hapless wretches who chanced to fall into his bloody hands. against him the governor of havana sent out a great war vessel, and with it a negro executioner, so that there might be no inconvenient delays of law after the pirates had been captured. but l'olonoise did not wait for the coming of the war vessel; he went out to meet it, and he found it where it lay riding at anchor in the mouth of the river estra. at the dawn of the morning he made his attack sharp, unexpected, decisive. in a little while the spaniards were forced below the hatches, and the vessel was taken. then came the end. one by one the poor shrieking wretches were dragged up from below, and one by one they were butchered in cold blood, while l'olonoise stood upon the poop deck and looked coldly down upon what was being done. among the rest the negro was dragged upon the deck. he begged and implored that his life might be spared, promising to tell all that might be asked of him. l'olonoise questioned him, and when he had squeezed him dry, waved his hand coldly, and the poor black went with the rest. only one man was spared; him he sent to the governor of havana with a message that henceforth he would give no quarter to any spaniard whom he might meet in arms--a message which was not an empty threat. the rise of l'olonoise was by no means rapid. he worked his way up by dint of hard labor and through much ill fortune. but by and by, after many reverses, the tide turned, and carried him with it from one success to another, without let or stay, to the bitter end. cruising off maracaibo, he captured a rich prize laden with a vast amount of plate and ready money, and there conceived the design of descending upon the powerful town of maracaibo itself. without loss of time he gathered together five hundred picked scoundrels from tortuga, and taking with him one michael de basco as land captain, and two hundred more buccaneers whom he commanded, down he came into the gulf of venezuela and upon the doomed city like a blast of the plague. leaving their vessels, the buccaneers made a land attack upon the fort that stood at the mouth of the inlet that led into lake maracaibo and guarded the city. the spaniards held out well, and fought with all the might that spaniards possess; but after a fight of three hours all was given up and the garrison fled, spreading terror and confusion before them. as many of the inhabitants of the city as could do so escaped in boats to gibraltar, which lies to the southward, on the shores of lake maracaibo, at the distance of some forty leagues or more. then the pirates marched into the town, and what followed may be conceived. it was a holocaust of lust, of passion, and of blood such as even the spanish west indies had never seen before. houses and churches were sacked until nothing was left but the bare walls; men and women were tortured to compel them to disclose where more treasure lay hidden. then, having wrenched all that they could from maracaibo, they entered the lake and descended upon gibraltar, where the rest of the panic-stricken inhabitants were huddled together in a blind terror. the governor of merida, a brave soldier who had served his king in flanders, had gathered together a troop of eight hundred men, had fortified the town, and now lay in wait for the coming of the pirates. the pirates came all in good time, and then, in spite of the brave defense, gibraltar also fell. then followed a repetition of the scenes that had been enacted in maracaibo for the past fifteen days, only here they remained for four horrible weeks, extorting money--money! ever money!--from the poor poverty-stricken, pest-ridden souls crowded into that fever hole of a town. then they left, but before they went they demanded still more money--ten thousand pieces of eight--as a ransom for the town, which otherwise should be given to the flames. there was some hesitation on the part of the spaniards, some disposition to haggle, but there was no hesitation on the part of l'olonoise. the torch was set to the town as he had promised, whereupon the money was promptly paid, and the pirates were piteously begged to help quench the spreading flames. this they were pleased to do, but in spite of all their efforts nearly half of the town was consumed. after that they returned to maracaibo again, where they demanded a ransom of thirty thousand pieces of eight for the city. there was no haggling here, thanks to the fate of gibraltar; only it was utterly impossible to raise that much money in all of the poverty-stricken region. but at last the matter was compromised, and the town was redeemed for twenty thousand pieces of eight and five hundred head of cattle, and tortured maracaibo was quit of them. in the ile de la vache the buccaneers shared among themselves two hundred and sixty thousand pieces of eight, besides jewels and bales of silk and linen and miscellaneous plunder to a vast amount. such was the one great deed of l'olonoise; from that time his star steadily declined--for even nature seemed fighting against such a monster--until at last he died a miserable, nameless death at the hands of an unknown tribe of indians upon the isthmus of darien. and now we come to the greatest of all the buccaneers, he who stands pre-eminent among them, and whose name even to this day is a charm to call up his deeds of daring, his dauntless courage, his truculent cruelty, and his insatiate and unappeasable lust for gold--capt. henry morgan, the bold welshman, who brought buccaneering to the height and flower of its glory. having sold himself, after the manner of the times, for his passage across the seas, he worked out his time of servitude at the barbados. as soon as he had regained his liberty he entered upon the trade of piracy, wherein he soon reached a position of considerable prominence. he was associated with mansvelt at the time of the latter's descent upon saint catharine's isle, the importance of which spot, as a center of operations against the neighboring coasts, morgan never lost sight of. the first attempt that capt. henry morgan ever made against any town in the spanish indies was the bold descent upon the city of puerto del principe in the island of cuba, with a mere handful of men. it was a deed the boldness of which has never been outdone by any of a like nature--not even the famous attack upon panama itself. thence they returned to their boats in the very face of the whole island of cuba, aroused and determined upon their extermination. not only did they make good their escape, but they brought away with them a vast amount of plunder, computed at three hundred thousand pieces of eight, besides five hundred head of cattle and many prisoners held for ransom. but when the division of all this wealth came to be made, lo! there were only fifty thousand pieces of eight to be found. what had become of the rest no man could tell but capt. henry morgan himself. honesty among thieves was never an axiom with him. rude, truculent, and dishonest as captain morgan was, he seems to have had a wonderful power of persuading the wild buccaneers under him to submit everything to his judgment, and to rely entirely upon his word. in spite of the vast sum of money that he had very evidently made away with, recruits poured in upon him, until his band was larger and better equipped than ever. and now it was determined that the plunder harvest was ripe at porto bello, and that city's doom was sealed. the town was defended by two strong castles thoroughly manned, and officered by as gallant a soldier as ever carried toledo steel at his side. but strong castles and gallant soldiers weighed not a barleycorn with the buccaneers when their blood was stirred by the lust of gold. landing at puerto naso, a town some ten leagues westward of porto bello, they marched to the latter town, and coming before the castle, boldly demanded its surrender. it was refused, whereupon morgan threatened that no quarter should be given. still surrender was refused; and then the castle was attacked, and after a bitter struggle was captured. morgan was as good as his word: every man in the castle was shut in the guard room, the match was set to the powder magazine, and soldiers, castle, and all were blown into the air, while through all the smoke and the dust the buccaneers poured into the town. still the governor held out in the other castle, and might have made good his defense, but that he was betrayed by the soldiers under him. into the castle poured the howling buccaneers. but still the governor fought on, with his wife and daughter clinging to his knees and beseeching him to surrender, and the blood from his wounded forehead trickling down over his white collar, until a merciful bullet put an end to the vain struggle. here were enacted the old scenes. everything plundered that could be taken, and then a ransom set upon the town itself. this time an honest, or an apparently honest, division was made of the spoils, which amounted to two hundred and fifty thousand pieces of eight, besides merchandise and jewels. the next towns to suffer were poor maracaibo and gibraltar, now just beginning to recover from the desolation wrought by l'olonoise. once more both towns were plundered of every bale of merchandise and of every plaster, and once more both were ransomed until everything was squeezed from the wretched inhabitants. here affairs were like to have taken a turn, for when captain morgan came up from gibraltar he found three great men-of-war lying in the entrance to the lake awaiting his coming. seeing that he was hemmed in in the narrow sheet of water, captain morgan was inclined to compromise matters, even offering to relinquish all the plunder he had gained if he were allowed to depart in peace. but no; the spanish admiral would hear nothing of this. having the pirates, as he thought, securely in his grasp, he would relinquish nothing, but would sweep them from the face of the sea once and forever. that was an unlucky determination for the spaniards to reach, for instead of paralyzing the pirates with fear, as he expected it would do, it simply turned their mad courage into as mad desperation. a great vessel that they had taken with the town of maracaibo was converted into a fire ship, manned with logs of wood in montera caps and sailor jackets, and filled with brimstone, pitch, and palm leaves soaked in oil. then out of the lake the pirates sailed to meet the spaniards, the fire ship leading the way, and bearing down directly upon the admiral's vessel. at the helm stood volunteers, the most desperate and the bravest of all the pirate gang, and at the ports stood the logs of wood in montera caps. so they came up with the admiral, and grappled with his ship in spite of the thunder of all his great guns, and then the spaniard saw, all too late, what his opponent really was. he tried to swing loose, but clouds of smoke and almost instantly a mass of roaring flames enveloped both vessels, and the admiral was lost. the second vessel, not wishing to wait for the coming of the pirates, bore down upon the fort, under the guns of which the cowardly crew sank her, and made the best of their way to the shore. the third vessel, not having an opportunity to escape, was taken by the pirates without the slightest resistance, and the passage from the lake was cleared. so the buccaneers sailed away, leaving maracaibo and gibraltar prostrate a second time. and now captain morgan determined to undertake another venture, the like of which had never been equaled in all of the annals of buccaneering. this was nothing less than the descent upon and the capture of panama, which was, next to cartagena, perhaps, the most powerful and the most strongly fortified city in the west indies. in preparation for this venture he obtained letters of marque from the governor of jamaica, by virtue of which elastic commission he began immediately to gather around him all material necessary for the undertaking. when it became known abroad that the great captain morgan was about undertaking an adventure that was to eclipse all that was ever done before, great numbers came flocking to his standard, until he had gathered together an army of two thousand or more desperadoes and pirates wherewith to prosecute his adventure, albeit the venture itself was kept a total secret from everyone. port couillon, in the island of hispaniola, over against the ile de la vache, was the place of muster, and thither the motley band gathered from all quarters. provisions had been plundered from the mainland wherever they could be obtained, and by the th of october, (o. s.), everything was in readiness. the island of saint catharine, as it may be remembered, was at one time captured by mansvelt, morgan's master in his trade of piracy. it had been retaken by the spaniards, and was now thoroughly fortified by them. almost the first attempt that morgan had made as a master pirate was the retaking of saint catharine's isle. in that undertaking he had failed; but now, as there was an absolute need of some such place as a base of operations, he determined that the place must be taken. and it was taken. the spaniards, during the time of their possession, had fortified it most thoroughly and completely, and had the governor thereof been as brave as he who met his death in the castle of porto bello, there might have been a different tale to tell. as it was, he surrendered it in a most cowardly fashion, merely stipulating that there should be a sham attack by the buccaneers, whereby his credit might be saved. and so saint catharine was won. the next step to be taken was the capture of the castle of chagres, which guarded the mouth of the river of that name, up which river the buccaneers would be compelled to transport their troops and provisions for the attack upon the city of panama. this adventure was undertaken by four hundred picked men under command of captain morgan himself. the castle of chagres, known as san lorenzo by the spaniards, stood upon the top of an abrupt rock at the mouth of the river, and was one of the strongest fortresses for its size in all of the west indies. this stronghold morgan must have if he ever hoped to win panama. the attack of the castle and the defense of it were equally fierce, bloody, and desperate. again and again the buccaneers assaulted, and again and again they were beaten back. so the morning came, and it seemed as though the pirates had been baffled this time. but just at this juncture the thatch of palm leaves on the roofs of some of the buildings inside the fortifications took fire, a conflagration followed, which caused the explosion of one of the magazines, and in the paralysis of terror that followed, the pirates forced their way into the fortifications, and the castle was won. most of the spaniards flung themselves from the castle walls into the river or upon the rocks beneath, preferring death to capture and possible torture; many who were left were put to the sword, and some few were spared and held as prisoners. so fell the castle of chagres, and nothing now lay between the buccaneers and the city of panama but the intervening and trackless forests. and now the name of the town whose doom was sealed was no secret. up the river of chagres went capt. henry morgan and twelve hundred men, packed closely in their canoes; they never stopped, saving now and then to rest their stiffened legs, until they had come to a place known as cruz de san juan gallego, where they were compelled to leave their boats on account of the shallowness of the water. leaving a guard of one hundred and sixty men to protect their boats as a place of refuge in case they should be worsted before panama, they turned and plunged into the wilderness before them. there a more powerful foe awaited them than a host of spaniards with match, powder, and lead--starvation. they met but little or no opposition in their progress; but wherever they turned they found every fiber of meat, every grain of maize, every ounce of bread or meal, swept away or destroyed utterly before them. even when the buccaneers had successfully overcome an ambuscade or an attack, and had sent the spaniards flying, the fugitives took the time to strip their dead comrades of every grain of food in their leathern sacks, leaving nothing but the empty bags. says the narrator of these events, himself one of the expedition, "they afterward fell to eating those leathern bags, as affording something to the ferment of their stomachs." ten days they struggled through this bitter privation, doggedly forcing their way onward, faint with hunger and haggard with weakness and fever. then, from the high hill and over the tops of the forest trees, they saw the steeples of panama, and nothing remained between them and their goal but the fighting of four spaniards to every one of them--a simple thing which they had done over and over again. down they poured upon panama, and out came the spaniards to meet them; four hundred horse, two thousand five hundred foot, and two thousand wild bulls which had been herded together to be driven over the buccaneers so that their ranks might be disordered and broken. the buccaneers were only eight hundred strong; the others had either fallen in battle or had dropped along the dreary pathway through the wilderness; but in the space of two hours the spaniards were flying madly over the plain, minus six hundred who lay dead or dying behind them. as for the bulls, as many of them as were shot served as food there and then for the half-famished pirates, for the buccaneers were never more at home than in the slaughter of cattle. then they marched toward the city. three hours' more fighting and they were in the streets, howling, yelling, plundering, gorging, dram-drinking, and giving full vent to all the vile and nameless lusts that burned in their hearts like a hell of fire. and now followed the usual sequence of events--rapine, cruelty, and extortion; only this time there was no town to ransom, for morgan had given orders that it should be destroyed. the torch was set to it, and panama, one of the greatest cities in the new world, was swept from the face of the earth. why the deed was done, no man but morgan could tell. perhaps it was that all the secret hiding places for treasure might be brought to light; but whatever the reason was, it lay hidden in the breast of the great buccaneer himself. for three weeks morgan and his men abode in this dreadful place; and they marched away with one hundred and seventy-five beasts of burden loaded with treasures of gold and silver and jewels, besides great quantities of merchandise, and six hundred prisoners held for ransom. whatever became of all that vast wealth, and what it amounted to, no man but morgan ever knew, for when a division was made it was found that there was only two hundred pieces of eight to each man. when this dividend was declared a howl of execration went up, under which even capt. henry morgan quailed. at night he and four other commanders slipped their cables and ran out to sea, and it was said that these divided the greater part of the booty among themselves. but the wealth plundered at panama could hardly have fallen short of a million and a half of dollars. computing it at this reasonable figure, the various prizes won by henry morgan in the west indies would stand as follows: panama, $ , , ; porto bello, $ , ; puerto del principe, $ , ; maracaibo and gibraltar, $ , ; various piracies, $ , --making a grand total of $ , , as the vast harvest of plunder. with this fabulous wealth, wrenched from the spaniards by means of the rack and the cord, and pilfered from his companions by the meanest of thieving, capt. henry morgan retired from business, honored of all, rendered famous by his deeds, knighted by the good king charles ii, and finally appointed governor of the rich island of jamaica. other buccaneers followed him. campeche was taken and sacked, and even cartagena itself fell; but with henry morgan culminated the glory of the buccaneers, and from that time they declined in power and wealth and wickedness until they were finally swept away. the buccaneers became bolder and bolder. in fact, so daring were their crimes that the home governments, stirred at last by these outrageous barbarities, seriously undertook the suppression of the freebooters, lopping and trimming the main trunk until its members were scattered hither and thither, and it was thought that the organization was exterminated. but, so far from being exterminated, the individual members were merely scattered north, south, east, and west, each forming a nucleus around which gathered and clustered the very worst of the offscouring of humanity. the result was that when the seventeenth century was fairly packed away with its lavender in the store chest of the past, a score or more bands of freebooters were cruising along the atlantic seaboard in armed vessels, each with a black flag with its skull and crossbones at the fore, and with a nondescript crew made up of the tags and remnants of civilized and semicivilized humanity (white, black, red, and yellow), known generally as marooners, swarming upon the decks below. nor did these offshoots from the old buccaneer stem confine their depredations to the american seas alone; the east indies and the african coast also witnessed their doings, and suffered from them, and even the bay of biscay had good cause to remember more than one visit from them. worthy sprigs from so worthy a stem improved variously upon the parent methods; for while the buccaneers were content to prey upon the spaniards alone, the marooners reaped the harvest from the commerce of all nations. so up and down the atlantic seaboard they cruised, and for the fifty years that marooning was in the flower of its glory it was a sorrowful time for the coasters of new england, the middle provinces, and the virginias, sailing to the west indies with their cargoes of salt fish, grain, and tobacco. trading became almost as dangerous as privateering, and sea captains were chosen as much for their knowledge of the flintlock and the cutlass as for their seamanship. as by far the largest part of the trading in american waters was conducted by these yankee coasters, so by far the heaviest blows, and those most keenly felt, fell upon them. bulletin after bulletin came to port with its doleful tale of this vessel burned or that vessel scuttled, this one held by the pirates for their own use or that one stripped of its goods and sent into port as empty as an eggshell from which the yolk had been sucked. boston, new york, philadelphia, and charleston suffered alike, and worthy ship owners had to leave off counting their losses upon their fingers and take to the slate to keep the dismal record. "maroon--to put ashore on a desert isle, as a sailor, under pretense of having committed some great crime." thus our good noah webster gives us the dry bones, the anatomy, upon which the imagination may construct a specimen to suit itself. it is thence that the marooners took their name, for marooning was one of their most effective instruments of punishment or revenge. if a pirate broke one of the many rules which governed the particular band to which he belonged, he was marooned; did a captain defend his ship to such a degree as to be unpleasant to the pirates attacking it, he was marooned; even the pirate captain himself, if he displeased his followers by the severity of his rule, was in danger of having the same punishment visited upon him which he had perhaps more than once visited upon another. the process of marooning was as simple as terrible. a suitable place was chosen (generally some desert isle as far removed as possible from the pathway of commerce), and the condemned man was rowed from the ship to the beach. out he was bundled upon the sand spit; a gun, a half dozen bullets, a few pinches of powder, and a bottle of water were chucked ashore after him, and away rowed the boat's crew back to the ship, leaving the poor wretch alone to rave away his life in madness, or to sit sunken in his gloomy despair till death mercifully released him from torment. it rarely if ever happened that anything was known of him after having been marooned. a boat's crew from some vessel, sailing by chance that way, might perhaps find a few chalky bones bleaching upon the white sand in the garish glare of the sunlight, but that was all. and such were marooners. by far the largest number of pirate captains were englishmen, for, from the days of good queen bess, english sea captains seemed to have a natural turn for any species of venture that had a smack of piracy in it, and from the great admiral drake of the old, old days, to the truculent morgan of buccaneering times, the englishman did the boldest and wickedest deeds, and wrought the most damage. first of all upon the list of pirates stands the bold captain avary, one of the institutors of marooning. him we see but dimly, half hidden by the glamouring mists of legends and tradition. others who came afterward outstripped him far enough in their doings, but he stands pre-eminent as the first of marooners of whom actual history has been handed down to us of the present day. when the english, dutch, and spanish entered into an alliance to suppress buccaneering in the west indies, certain worthies of bristol, in old england, fitted out two vessels to assist in this laudable project; for doubtless bristol trade suffered smartly from the morgans and the l'olonoises of that old time. one of these vessels was named the duke, of which a certain captain gibson was the commander and avary the mate. away they sailed to the west indies, and there avary became impressed by the advantages offered by piracy, and by the amount of good things that were to be gained by very little striving. one night the captain (who was one of those fellows mightily addicted to punch), instead of going ashore to saturate himself with rum at the ordinary, had his drink in his cabin in private. while he lay snoring away the effects of his rum in the cabin, avary and a few other conspirators heaved the anchor very leisurely, and sailed out of the harbor of corunna, and through the midst of the allied fleet riding at anchor in the darkness. by and by, when the morning came, the captain was awakened by the pitching and tossing of the vessel, the rattle and clatter of the tackle overhead, and the noise of footsteps passing and repassing hither and thither across the deck. perhaps he lay for a while turning the matter over and over in his muddled head, but he presently rang the bell, and avary and another fellow answered the call. "what's the matter?" bawls the captain from his berth. "nothing," says avary, coolly. "something's the matter with the ship," says the captain. "does she drive? what weather is it?" "oh no," says avary; "we are at sea." "at sea?" "come, come!" says avary: "i'll tell you; you must know that i'm the captain of the ship now, and you must be packing from this here cabin. we are bound to madagascar, to make all of our fortunes, and if you're a mind to ship for the cruise, why, we'll be glad to have you, if you will be sober and mind your own business; if not, there is a boat alongside, and i'll have you set ashore." the poor half-tipsy captain had no relish to go a-pirating under the command of his backsliding mate, so out of the ship he bundled, and away he rowed with four or five of the crew, who, like him, refused to join with their jolly shipmates. the rest of them sailed away to the east indies, to try their fortunes in those waters, for our captain avary was of a high spirit, and had no mind to fritter away his time in the west indies squeezed dry by buccaneer morgan and others of lesser note. no, he would make a bold stroke for it at once, and make or lose at a single cast. on his way he picked up a couple of like kind with himself--two sloops off madagascar. with these he sailed away to the coast of india, and for a time his name was lost in the obscurity of uncertain history. but only for a time, for suddenly it flamed out in a blaze of glory. it was reported that a vessel belonging to the great mogul, laden with treasure and bearing the monarch's own daughter upon a holy pilgrimage to mecca (they being mohammedans), had fallen in with the pirates, and after a short resistance had been surrendered, with the damsel, her court, and all the diamonds, pearls, silk, silver, and gold aboard. it was rumored that the great mogul, raging at the insult offered to him through his own flesh and blood, had threatened to wipe out of existence the few english settlements scattered along the coast; whereat the honorable east india company was in a pretty state of fuss and feathers. rumor, growing with the telling, has it that avary is going to marry the indian princess, willy-nilly, and will turn rajah, and eschew piracy as indecent. as for the treasure itself, there was no end to the extent to which it grew as it passed from mouth to mouth. cracking the nut of romance and exaggeration, we come to the kernel of the story--that avary did fall in with an indian vessel laden with great treasure (and possibly with the mogul's daughter), which he captured, and thereby gained a vast prize. having concluded that he had earned enough money by the trade he had undertaken, he determined to retire and live decently for the rest of his life upon what he already had. as a step toward this object, he set about cheating his madagascar partners out of their share of what had been gained. he persuaded them to store all the treasure in his vessel, it being the largest of the three; and so, having it safely in hand, he altered the course of his ship one fine night, and when the morning came the madagascar sloops found themselves floating upon a wide ocean without a farthing of the treasure for which they had fought so hard, and for which they might whistle for all the good it would do them. at first avary had a great part of a mind to settle at boston, in massachusetts, and had that little town been one whit less bleak and forbidding, it might have had the honor of being the home of this famous man. as it was, he did not like the looks of it, so he sailed away to the eastward, to ireland, where he settled himself at biddeford, in hopes of an easy life of it for the rest of his days. here he found himself the possessor of a plentiful stock of jewels, such as pearls, diamonds, rubies, etc., but with hardly a score of honest farthings to jingle in his breeches pocket. he consulted with a certain merchant of bristol concerning the disposal of the stones--a fellow not much more cleanly in his habits of honesty than avary himself. this worthy undertook to act as avary's broker. off he marched with the jewels, and that was the last that the pirate saw of his indian treasure. perhaps the most famous of all the piratical names to american ears are those of capt. robert kidd and capt. edward teach, or "blackbeard." nothing will be ventured in regard to kidd at this time, nor in regard to the pros and cons as to whether he really was or was not a pirate, after all. for many years he was the very hero of heroes of piratical fame, there was hardly a creek or stream or point of land along our coast, hardly a convenient bit of good sandy beach, or hump of rock, or water-washed cave, where fabulous treasures were not said to have been hidden by this worthy marooner. now we are assured that he never was a pirate, and never did bury any treasure, excepting a certain chest, which he was compelled to hide upon gardiner's island--and perhaps even it was mythical. so poor kidd must be relegated to the dull ranks of simply respectable people, or semirespectable people at best. but with "blackbeard" it is different, for in him we have a real, ranting, raging, roaring pirate per se--one who really did bury treasure, who made more than one captain walk the plank, and who committed more private murders than he could number on the fingers of both hands; one who fills, and will continue to fill, the place to which he has been assigned for generations, and who may be depended upon to hold his place in the confidence of others for generations to come. captain teach was a bristol man born, and learned his trade on board of sundry privateers in the east indies during the old french war--that of --and a better apprenticeship could no man serve. at last, somewhere about the latter part of the year , a privateering captain, one benjamin hornigold, raised him from the ranks and put him in command of a sloop--a lately captured prize and blackbeard's fortune was made. it was a very slight step, and but the change of a few letters, to convert "privateer" into "pirate," and it was a very short time before teach made that change. not only did he make it himself, but he persuaded his old captain to join with him. and now fairly began that series of bold and lawless depredations which have made his name so justly famous, and which placed him among the very greatest of marooning freebooters. "our hero," says the old historian who sings of the arms and bravery of this great man--"our hero assumed the cognomen of blackbeard from that large quantity of hair which, like a frightful meteor, covered his whole face, and frightened america more than any comet that appeared there in a long time. he was accustomed to twist it with ribbons into small tails, after the manner of our ramillies wig, and turn them about his ears. in time of action he wore a sling over his shoulders, with three brace of pistols, hanging in holsters like bandoleers; he stuck lighted matches under his hat, which, appearing on each side of his face, and his eyes naturally looking fierce and wild, made him altogether such a figure that imagination cannot form an idea of a fury from hell to look more frightful." the night before the day of the action in which he was killed he sat up drinking with some congenial company until broad daylight. one of them asked him if his poor young wife knew where his treasure was hidden. "no," says blackbeard; "nobody but the devil and i knows where it is, and the longest liver shall have all." as for that poor young wife of his, the life that he and his rum-crazy shipmates led her was too terrible to be told. for a time blackbeard worked at his trade down on the spanish main, gathering, in the few years he was there, a very neat little fortune in the booty captured from sundry vessels; but by and by he took it into his head to try his luck along the coast of the carolinas; so off he sailed to the northward, with quite a respectable little fleet, consisting of his own vessel and two captured sloops. from that time he was actively engaged in the making of american history in his small way. he first appeared off the bar of charleston harbor, to the no small excitement of the worthy town of that ilk, and there he lay for five or six days, blockading the port, and stopping incoming and outgoing vessels at his pleasure, so that, for the time, the commerce of the province was entirely paralyzed. all the vessels so stopped he held as prizes, and all the crews and passengers (among the latter of whom was more than one provincial worthy of the day) he retained as though they were prisoners of war. and it was a mightily awkward thing for the good folk of charleston to behold day after day a black flag with its white skull and crossbones fluttering at the fore of the pirate captain's craft, over across the level stretch of green salt marshes; and it was mightily unpleasant, too, to know that this or that prominent citizen was crowded down with the other prisoners under the hatches. one morning captain blackbeard finds that his stock of medicine is low. "tut!" says he, "we'll turn no hair gray for that." so up he calls the bold captain richards, the commander of his consort the revenge sloop, and bids him take mr. marks (one of his prisoners), and go up to charleston and get the medicine. there was no task that suited our captain richards better than that. up to the town he rowed, as bold as brass. "look ye," says he to the governor, rolling his quid of tobacco from one cheek to another--"look ye, we're after this and that, and if we don't get it, why, i'll tell you plain, we'll burn them bloody crafts of yours that we've took over yonder, and cut the weasand of every clodpoll aboard of 'em." there was no answering an argument of such force as this, and the worshipful governor and the good folk of charleston knew very well that blackbeard and his crew were the men to do as they promised. so blackbeard got his medicine, and though it cost the colony two thousand dollars, it was worth that much to the town to be quit of him. they say that while captain richards was conducting his negotiations with the governor his boat's crew were stumping around the streets of the town, having a glorious time of it, while the good folk glowered wrathfully at them, but dared venture nothing in speech or act. having gained a booty of between seven and eight thousand dollars from the prizes captured, the pirates sailed away from charleston harbor to the coast of north carolina. and now blackbeard, following the plan adopted by so many others of his kind, began to cudgel his brains for means to cheat his fellows out of their share of the booty. at topsail inlet he ran his own vessel aground, as though by accident. hands, the captain of one of the consorts, pretending to come to his assistance, also grounded his sloop. nothing now remained but for those who were able to get away in the other craft, which was all that was now left of the little fleet. this did blackbeard with some forty of his favorites. the rest of the pirates were left on the sand spit to await the return of their companions--which never happened. as for blackbeard and those who were with him, they were that much richer, for there were so many the fewer pockets to fill. but even yet there were too many to share the booty, in blackbeard's opinion, and so he marooned a parcel more of them--some eighteen or twenty--upon a naked sand bank, from which they were afterward mercifully rescued by another freebooter who chanced that way--a certain major stede bonnet, of whom more will presently be said. about that time a royal proclamation had been issued offering pardon to all pirates in arms who would surrender to the king's authority before a given date. so up goes master blackbeard to the governor of north carolina and makes his neck safe by surrendering to the proclamation--albeit he kept tight clutch upon what he had already gained. and now we find our bold captain blackbeard established in the good province of north carolina, where he and his worship the governor struck up a vast deal of intimacy, as profitable as it was pleasant. there is something very pretty in the thought of the bold sea rover giving up his adventurous life (excepting now and then an excursion against a trader or two in the neighboring sound, when the need of money was pressing); settling quietly down into the routine of old colonial life, with a young wife of sixteen at his side, who made the fourteenth that he had in various ports here and there in the world. becoming tired of an inactive life, blackbeard afterward resumed his piratical career. he cruised around in the rivers and inlets and sounds of north carolina for a while, ruling the roost and with never a one to say him nay, until there was no bearing with such a pest any longer. so they sent a deputation up to the governor of virginia asking if he would be pleased to help them in their trouble. there were two men-of-war lying at kicquetan, in the james river, at the time. to them the governor of virginia applies, and plucky lieutenant maynard, of the pearl, was sent to ocracoke inlet to fight this pirate who ruled it down there so like the cock of a walk. there he found blackbeard waiting for him, and as ready for a fight as ever the lieutenant himself could be. fight they did, and while it lasted it was as pretty a piece of business of its kind as one could wish to see. blackbeard drained a glass of grog, wishing the lieutenant luck in getting aboard of him, fired a broadside, blew some twenty of the lieutenant's men out of existence, and totally crippled one of his little sloops for the balance of the fight. after that, and under cover of the smoke, the pirate and his men boarded the other sloop, and then followed a fine old-fashioned hand-to-hand conflict betwixt him and the lieutenant. first they fired their pistols, and then they took to it with cutlasses--right, left, up and down, cut and slash--until the lieutenant's cutlass broke short off at the hilt. then blackbeard would have finished him off handsomely, only up steps one of the lieutenant's men and fetches him a great slash over the neck, so that the lieutenant came off with no more hurt than a cut across the knuckles. at the very first discharge of their pistols blackbeard had been shot through the body, but he was not for giving up for that--not he. as said before, he was of the true roaring, raging breed of pirates, and stood up to it until he received twenty more cutlass cuts and five additional shots, and then fell dead while trying to fire off an empty pistol. after that the lieutenant cut off the pirate's head, and sailed away in triumph, with the bloody trophy nailed to the bow of his battered sloop. those of blackbeard's men who were not killed were carried off to virginia, and all of them tried and hanged but one or two, their names, no doubt, still standing in a row in the provincial records. but did blackbeard really bury treasures, as tradition says, along the sandy shores he haunted? master clement downing, midshipman aboard the salisbury, wrote a book after his return from the cruise to madagascar, whither the salisbury had been ordered, to put an end to the piracy with which those waters were infested. he says: "at guzarat i met with a portuguese named anthony de sylvestre; he came with two other portuguese and two dutchmen to take on in the moor's service, as many europeans do. this anthony told me he had been among the pirates, and that he belonged to one of the sloops in virginia when blackbeard was taken. he informed me that if it should be my lot ever to go to york river or maryland, near an island called mulberry island, provided we went on shore at the watering place, where the shipping used most commonly to ride, that there the pirates had buried considerable sums of money in great chests well clamped with iron plates. as to my part, i never was that way, nor much acquainted with any that ever used those parts; but i have made inquiry, and am informed that there is such a place as mulberry island. if any person who uses those parts should think it worth while to dig a little way at the upper end of a small cove, where it is convenient to land, he would soon find whether the information i had was well grounded. fronting the landing place are five trees, among which, he said, the money was hid. i cannot warrant the truth of this account; but if i was ever to go there, i should find some means or other to satisfy myself, as it could not be a great deal out of my way. if anybody should obtain the benefit of this account, if it please god that they ever come to england, 'tis hoped they will remember whence they had this information." another worthy was capt. edward low, who learned his trade of sail-making at good old boston town, and piracy at honduras. no one stood higher in the trade than he, and no one mounted to more lofty altitudes of bloodthirsty and unscrupulous wickedness. 'tis strange that so little has been written and sung of this man of might, for he was as worthy of story and of song as was blackbeard. it was under a yankee captain that he made his first cruise--down to honduras, for a cargo of logwood, which in those times was no better than stolen from the spanish folk. one day, lying off the shore, in the gulf of honduras, comes master low and the crew of the whaleboat rowing across from the beach, where they had been all morning chopping logwood. "what are you after?" says the captain, for they were coming back with nothing but themselves in the boat. "we're after our dinner," says low, as spokesman of the party. "you'll have no dinner," says the captain, "until you fetch off another load." "dinner or no dinner, we'll pay for it," says low, wherewith he up with a musket, squinted along the barrel, and pulled the trigger. luckily the gun hung fire, and the yankee captain was spared to steal logwood a while longer. all the same, that was no place for ned low to make a longer stay, so off he and his messmates rowed in a whaleboat, captured a brig out at sea, and turned pirates. he presently fell in with the notorious captain lowther, a fellow after his own kidney, who put the finishing touches to his education and taught him what wickedness he did not already know. and so he became a master pirate, and a famous hand at his craft, and thereafter forever bore an inveterate hatred of all yankees because of the dinner he had lost, and never failed to smite whatever one of them luck put within his reach. once he fell in with a ship off south carolina--the amsterdam merchant, captain williamson, commander--a yankee craft and a yankee master. he slit the nose and cropped the ears of the captain, and then sailed merrily away, feeling the better for having marred a yankee. new york and new england had more than one visit from the doughty captain, each of which visits they had good cause to remember, for he made them smart for it. along in the year thirteen vessels were riding at anchor in front of the good town of marblehead. into the harbor sailed a strange craft. "who is she?" say the townsfolk, for the coming of a new vessel was no small matter in those days. who the strangers were was not long a matter of doubt. up goes the black flag, and the skull and crossbones to the fore. "'tis the bloody low," say one and all; and straightway all was flutter and commotion, as in a duck pond when a hawk pitches and strikes in the midst. it was a glorious thing for our captain, for here were thirteen yankee crafts at one and the same time. so he took what he wanted, and then sailed away, and it was many a day before marblehead forgot that visit. some time after this he and his consort fell foul of an english sloop of war, the greyhound, whereby they were so roughly handled that low was glad enough to slip away, leaving his consort and her crew behind him, as a sop to the powers of law and order. and lucky for them if no worse fate awaited them than to walk the dreadful plank with a bandage around the blinded eyes and a rope around the elbows. so the consort was taken, and the crew tried and hanged in chains, and low sailed off in as pretty a bit of rage as ever a pirate fell into. the end of this worthy is lost in the fogs of the past: some say that he died of a yellow fever down in new orleans; it was not at the end of a hempen cord, more's the pity. here fittingly with our strictly american pirates should stand major stede bonnet along with the rest. but in truth he was only a poor half-and-half fellow of his kind, and even after his hand was fairly turned to the business he had undertaken, a qualm of conscience would now and then come across him, and he would make vast promises to forswear his evil courses. however, he jogged along in his course of piracy snugly enough until he fell foul of the gallant colonel rhett, off charleston harbor, whereupon his luck and his courage both were suddenly snuffed out with a puff of powder smoke and a good rattling broadside. down came the "black roger" with its skull and crossbones from the fore, and colonel rhett had the glory of fetching back as pretty a cargo of scoundrels and cutthroats as the town ever saw. after the next assizes they were strung up, all in a row--evil apples ready for the roasting. "ned" england was a fellow of different blood--only he snapped his whip across the back of society over in the east indies and along the hot shores of hindustan. the name of capt. howel davis stands high among his fellows. he was the ulysses of pirates, the beloved not only of mercury, but of minerva. he it was who hoodwinked the captain of a french ship of double the size and strength of his own, and fairly cheated him into the surrender of his craft without the firing of a single pistol or the striking of a single blow; he it was who sailed boldly into the port of gambia, on the coast of guinea, and under the guns of the castle, proclaiming himself as a merchant trading for slaves. the cheat was kept up until the fruit of mischief was ripe for the picking; then, when the governor and the guards of the castle were lulled into entire security, and when davis's band was scattered about wherever each man could do the most good, it was out pistol, up cutlass, and death if a finger moved. they tied the soldiers back to back, and the governor to his own armchair, and then rifled wherever it pleased them. after that they sailed away, and though they had not made the fortune they had hoped to glean, it was a good snug round sum that they shared among them. their courage growing high with success, they determined to attempt the island of del principe--a prosperous portuguese settlement on the coast. the plan for taking the place was cleverly laid, and would have succeeded, only that a portuguese negro among the pirate crew turned traitor and carried the news ashore to the governor of the fort. accordingly, the next day, when captain davis came ashore, he found there a good strong guard drawn up as though to honor his coming. but after he and those with him were fairly out of their boat, and well away from the water side, there was a sudden rattle of musketry, a cloud of smoke, and a dull groan or two. only one man ran out from under that pungent cloud, jumped into the boat, and rowed away; and when it lifted, there lay captain davis and his companions all of a heap, like a pile of old clothes. capt. bartholomew roberts was the particular and especial pupil of davis, and when that worthy met his death so suddenly and so unexpectedly in the unfortunate manner above narrated, he was chosen unanimously as the captain of the fleet, and he was a worthy pupil of a worthy master. many were the poor fluttering merchant ducks that this sea hawk swooped upon and struck; and cleanly and cleverly were they plucked before his savage clutch loosened its hold upon them. "he made a gallant figure," says the old narrator, "being dressed in a rich crimson waistcoat and breeches and red feather in his hat, a gold chain around his neck, with a diamond cross hanging to it, a sword in his hand, and two pair of pistols hanging at the end of a silk sling flung over his shoulders according to the fashion of the pyrates." thus he appeared in the last engagement which he fought--that with the swallow--a royal sloop of war. a gallant fight they made of it, those bulldog pirates, for, finding themselves caught in a trap betwixt the man-of-war and the shore, they determined to bear down upon the king's vessel, fire a slapping broadside into her, and then try to get away, trusting to luck in the doing, and hoping that their enemy might be crippled by their fire. captain roberts himself was the first to fall at the return fire of the swallow; a grapeshot struck him in the neck, and he fell forward across the gun near to which he was standing at the time. a certain fellow named stevenson, who was at the helm, saw him fall, and thought he was wounded. at the lifting of the arm the body rolled over upon the deck, and the man saw that the captain was dead. "whereupon," says the old history, "he" [stevenson] "gushed into tears, and wished that the next shot might be his portion." after their captain's death the pirate crew had no stomach for more fighting; the "black roger" was struck, and one and all surrendered to justice and the gallows. such is a brief and bald account of the most famous of these pirates. but they are only a few of a long list of notables, such as captain martel, capt. charles vane (who led the gallant colonel rhett, of south carolina, such a wild-goose chase in and out among the sluggish creeks and inlets along the coast), capt. john rackam, and captain anstis, captain worley, and evans, and philips, and others--a score or more of wild fellows whose very names made ship captains tremble in their shoes in those good old times. and such is that black chapter of history of the past--an evil chapter, lurid with cruelty and suffering, stained with blood and smoke. yet it is a written chapter, and it must be read. he who chooses may read betwixt the lines of history this great truth: evil itself is an instrument toward the shaping of good. therefore the history of evil as well as the history of good should be read, considered, and digested. chapter ii. the ghost of captain brand it is not so easy to tell why discredit should be cast upon a man because of something that his grandfather may have done amiss, but the world, which is never overnice in its discrimination as to where to lay the blame, is often pleased to make the innocent suffer in the place of the guilty. barnaby true was a good, honest, biddable lad, as boys go, but yet he was not ever allowed altogether to forget that his grandfather had been that very famous pirate, capt. william brand, who, after so many marvelous adventures (if one may believe the catchpenny stories and ballads that were written about him), was murdered in jamaica by capt. john malyoe, the commander of his own consort, the adventure galley. it has never been denied, that ever i heard, that up to the time of captain brand's being commissioned against the south sea pirates he had always been esteemed as honest, reputable a sea captain as could be. when he started out upon that adventure it was with a ship, the royal sovereign, fitted out by some of the most decent merchants of new york. the governor himself had subscribed to the adventure, and had himself signed captain brand's commission. so, if the unfortunate man went astray, he must have had great temptation to do so, many others behaving no better when the opportunity offered in those far-away seas where so many rich purchases might very easily be taken and no one the wiser. to be sure, those stories and ballads made our captain to be a most wicked, profane wretch; and if he were, why, god knows he suffered and paid for it, for he laid his bones in jamaica, and never saw his home or his wife and daughter again after he had sailed away on the royal sovereign on that long misfortunate voyage, leaving them in new york to the care of strangers. at the time when he met his fate in port royal harbor he had obtained two vessels under his command--the royal sovereign, which was the boat fitted out for him in new york, and the adventure galley, which he was said to have taken somewhere in the south seas. with these he lay in those waters of jamaica for over a month after his return from the coasts of africa, waiting for news from home, which, when it came, was of the very blackest; for the colonial authorities were at that time stirred up very hot against him to take him and hang him for a pirate, so as to clear their own skirts for having to do with such a fellow. so maybe it seemed better to our captain to hide his ill-gotten treasure there in those far-away parts, and afterward to try and bargain with it for his life when he should reach new york, rather than to sail straight for the americas with what he had earned by his piracies, and so risk losing life and money both. however that might be, the story was that captain brand and his gunner, and captain malyoe of the adventure and the sailing master of the adventure all went ashore together with a chest of money (no one of them choosing to trust the other three in so nice an affair), and buried the treasure somewhere on the beach of port royal harbor. the story then has it that they fell a-quarreling about a future division or the money, and that, as a wind-up to the affair, captain malyoe shot captain brand through the head, while the sailing master of the adventure served the gunner of the royal sovereign after the same fashion through the body, and that the murderers then went away, leaving the two stretched out in their own blood on the sand in the staring sun, with no one to know where the money was hid but they two who had served their comrades so. it is a mighty great pity that anyone should have a grandfather who ended his days in such a sort as this, but it was no fault of barnaby true's, nor could he have done anything to prevent it, seeing that he was not even born into the world at the time that his grandfather turned pirate, and was only one year old when he so met his tragical end. nevertheless, the boys with whom he went to school never tired of calling him "pirate," and would sometimes sing for his benefit that famous catchpenny song beginning thus: oh, my name was captain brand, a-sailing, and a-sailing; oh, my name was captain brand, a-sailing free. oh, my name was captain brand, and i sinned by sea and land, for i broke god's just command, a-sailing free. 'twas a vile thing to sing at the grandson of so misfortunate a man, and oftentimes little barnaby true would double up his fists and would fight his tormentors at great odds, and would sometimes go back home with a bloody nose to have his poor mother cry over him and grieve for him. not that his days were all of teasing and torment, neither; for if his comrades did treat him so, why, then, there were other times when he and they were as great friends as could be, and would go in swimming together where there was a bit of sandy strand along the east river above fort george, and that in the most amicable fashion. or, maybe the very next day after he had fought so with his fellows, he would go a-rambling with them up the bowerie road, perhaps to help them steal cherries from some old dutch farmer, forgetting in such adventure what a thief his own grandfather had been. well, when barnaby true was between sixteen and seventeen years old he was taken into employment in the countinghouse of mr. roger hartright, the well-known west india merchant, and barnaby's own stepfather. it was the kindness of this good man that not only found a place for barnaby in the countinghouse, but advanced him so fast that against our hero was twenty-one years old he had made four voyages as supercargo to the west indies in mr. hartright's ship, the belle helen, and soon after he was twenty-one undertook a fifth. nor was it in any such subordinate position as mere supercargo that he acted, but rather as the confidential agent of mr. hartright, who, having no children of his own, was very jealous to advance our hero into a position of trust and responsibility in the countinghouse, as though he were indeed a son, so that even the captain of the ship had scarcely more consideration aboard than he, young as he was in years. as for the agents and correspondents of mr. hartright throughout these parts, they also, knowing how the good man had adopted his interests, were very polite and obliging to master barnaby--especially, be it mentioned, mr. ambrose greenfield, of kingston, jamaica, who, upon the occasions of his visits to those parts, did all that he could to make barnaby's stay in that town agreeable and pleasant to him. so much for the history of our hero to the time of the beginning of this story, without which you shall hardly be able to understand the purport of those most extraordinary adventures that befell him shortly after he came of age, nor the logic of their consequence after they had occurred. for it was during his fifth voyage to the west indies that the first of those extraordinary adventures happened of which i shall have presently to tell. at that time he had been in kingston for the best part of four weeks, lodging at the house of a very decent, respectable widow, by name mrs. anne bolles, who, with three pleasant and agreeable daughters, kept a very clean and well-served lodging house in the outskirts of the town. one morning, as our hero sat sipping his coffee, clad only in loose cotton drawers, a shirt, and a jacket, and with slippers upon his feet, as is the custom in that country, where everyone endeavors to keep as cool as may be while he sat thus sipping his coffee miss eliza, the youngest of the three daughters, came and gave him a note, which, she said, a stranger had just handed in at the door, going away again without waiting for a reply. you may judge of barnaby's surprise when he opened the note and read as follows: mr. barnaby true. sir,--though you don't know me, i know you, and i tell you this: if you will be at pratt's ordinary on harbor street on friday next at eight o'clock of the evening, and will accompany the man who shall say to you, "the royal sovereign is come in," you shall learn something the most to your advantage that ever befell you. sir, keep this note, and show it to him who shall address these words to you, so to certify that you are the man he seeks. such was the wording of the note, which was without address, and without any superscription whatever. the first emotion that stirred barnaby was one of extreme and profound amazement. then the thought came into his mind that some witty fellow, of whom he knew a good many in that town--and wild, waggish pranks they were was attempting to play off some smart jest upon him. but all that miss eliza could tell him when he questioned her concerning the messenger was that the bearer of the note was a tall, stout man, with a red neckerchief around his neck and copper buckles to his shoes, and that he had the appearance of a sailorman, having a great big queue hanging down his back. but, lord! what was such a description as that in a busy seaport town, full of scores of men to fit such a likeness? accordingly, our hero put away the note into his wallet, determining to show it to his good friend mr. greenfield that evening, and to ask his advice upon it. so he did show it, and that gentleman's opinion was the same as his--that some wag was minded to play off a hoax upon him, and that the matter of the letter was all nothing but smoke. nevertheless, though barnaby was thus confirmed in his opinion as to the nature of the communication he had received, he yet determined in his own mind that he would see the business through to the end, and would be at pratt's ordinary, as the note demanded, upon the day and at the time specified therein. pratt's ordinary was at that time a very fine and well-known place of its sort, with good tobacco and the best rum that ever i tasted, and had a garden behind it that, sloping down to the harbor front, was planted pretty thick with palms and ferns grouped into clusters with flowers and plants. here were a number of little tables, some in little grottoes, like our vauxhall in new york, and with red and blue and white paper lanterns hung among the foliage, whither gentlemen and ladies used sometimes to go of an evening to sit and drink lime juice and sugar and water (and sometimes a taste of something stronger), and to look out across the water at the shipping in the cool of the night. thither, accordingly, our hero went, a little before the time appointed in the note, and passing directly through the ordinary and the garden beyond, chose a table at the lower end of the garden and close to the water's edge, where he would not be easily seen by anyone coming into the place. then, ordering some rum and water and a pipe of tobacco, he composed himself to watch for the appearance of those witty fellows whom he suspected would presently come thither to see the end of their prank and to enjoy his confusion. the spot was pleasant enough; for the land breeze, blowing strong and full, set the leaves of the palm tree above his head to rattling and clattering continually against the sky, where, the moon then being about full, they shone every now and then like blades of steel. the waves also were splashing up against the little landing place at the foot of the garden, sounding very cool in the night, and sparkling all over the harbor where the moon caught the edges of the water. a great many vessels were lying at anchor in their ridings, with the dark, prodigious form of a man-of-war looming up above them in the moonlight. there our hero sat for the best part of an hour, smoking his pipe of tobacco and sipping his grog, and seeing not so much as a single thing that might concern the note he had received. it was not far from half an hour after the time appointed in the note, when a rowboat came suddenly out of the night and pulled up to the landing place at the foot of the garden above mentioned, and three or four men came ashore in the darkness. without saying a word among themselves they chose a near-by table and, sitting down, ordered rum and water, and began drinking their grog in silence. they might have sat there about five minutes, when, by and by, barnaby true became aware that they were observing him very curiously; and then almost immediately one, who was plainly the leader of the party, called out to him: "how now, messmate! won't you come and drink a dram of rum with us?" "why, no," says barnaby, answering very civilly; "i have drunk enough already, and more would only heat my blood." "all the same," quoth the stranger, "i think you will come and drink with us; for, unless i am mistook, you are mr. barnaby true, and i am come here to tell you that the royal sovereign is come in." now i may honestly say that barnaby true was never more struck aback in all his life than he was at hearing these words uttered in so unexpected a manner. he had been looking to hear them under such different circumstances that, now that his ears heard them addressed to him, and that so seriously, by a perfect stranger, who, with others, had thus mysteriously come ashore out of the darkness, he could scarce believe that his ears heard aright. his heart suddenly began beating at a tremendous rate, and had he been an older and wiser man, i do believe he would have declined the adventure, instead of leaping blindly, as he did, into that of which he could see neither the beginning nor the ending. but being barely one-and-twenty years of age, and having an adventurous disposition that would have carried him into almost anything that possessed a smack of uncertainty or danger about it, he contrived to say, in a pretty easy tone (though god knows how it was put on for the occasion): "well, then, if that be so, and if the royal sovereign is indeed come in, why, i'll join you, since you are so kind as to ask me." and therewith he went across to the other table, carrying his pipe with him, and sat down and began smoking, with all the appearance of ease he could assume upon the occasion. "well, mr. barnaby true," said the man who had before addressed him, so soon as barnaby had settled himself, speaking in a low tone of voice, so there would be no danger of any others hearing the words--"well, mr. barnaby true--for i shall call you by your name, to show you that though i know you, you don't know me i am glad to see that you are man enough to enter thus into an affair, though you can't see to the bottom of it. for it shows me that you are a man of mettle, and are deserving of the fortune that is to befall you to-night. nevertheless, first of all, i am bid to say that you must show me a piece of paper that you have about you before we go a step farther." "very well," said barnaby; "i have it here safe and sound, and see it you shall." and thereupon and without more ado he fetched out his wallet, opened it, and handed his interlocutor the mysterious note he had received the day or two before. whereupon the other, drawing to him the candle, burning there for the convenience of those who would smoke tobacco, began immediately reading it. this gave barnaby true a moment or two to look at him. he was a tall, stout man, with a red handkerchief tied around his neck, and with copper buckles on his shoes, so that barnaby true could not but wonder whether he was not the very same man who had given the note to miss eliza bolles at the door of his lodging house. "'tis all right and straight as it should be," the other said, after he had so glanced his eyes over the note. "and now that the paper is read" (suiting his action to his words), "i'll just burn it, for safety's sake." and so he did, twisting it up and setting it to the flame of the candle. "and now," he said, continuing his address, "i'll tell you what i am here for. i was sent to ask you if you're man enough to take your life in your own hands and to go with me in that boat down there? say 'yes,' and we'll start away without wasting more time, for the devil is ashore here at jamaica--though you don't know what that means--and if he gets ahead of us, why, then we may whistle for what we are after. say 'no,' and i go away again, and i promise you you shall never be troubled again in this sort. so now speak up plain, young gentleman, and tell us what is your mind in this business, and whether you will adventure any farther or not." if our hero hesitated it was not for long. i cannot say that his courage did not waver for a moment; but if it did, it was, i say, not for long, and when he spoke up it was with a voice as steady as could be. "to be sure i'm man enough to go with you," he said; "and if you mean me any harm i can look out for myself; and if i can't, why, here is something can look out for me," and therewith he lifted up the flap of his coat pocket and showed the butt of a pistol he had fetched with him when he had set out from his lodging house that evening. at this the other burst out a-laughing. "come," says he, "you are indeed of right mettle, and i like your spirit. all the same, no one in all the world means you less ill than i, and so, if you have to use that barker, 'twill not be upon us who are your friends, but only upon one who is more wicked than the devil himself. so come, and let us get away." thereupon he and the others, who had not spoken a single word for all this time, rose from the table, and he having paid the scores of all, they all went down together to the boat that still lay at the landing place at the bottom of the garden. thus coming to it, our hero could see that it was a large yawl boat manned with half a score of black men for rowers, and there were two lanterns in the stern sheets, and three or four iron shovels. the man who had conducted the conversation with barnaby true for all this time, and who was, as has been said, plainly the captain of the party, stepped immediately down into the boat; our hero followed, and the others followed after him; and instantly they were seated the boat was shoved off and the black men began pulling straight out into the harbor, and so, at some distance away, around under the stern of the man-of-war. not a word was spoken after they had thus left the shore, and presently they might all have been ghosts, for the silence of the party. barnaby true was too full of his own thoughts to talk--and serious enough thoughts they were by this time, with crimps to trepan a man at every turn, and press gangs to carry a man off so that he might never be heard of again. as for the others, they did not seem to choose to say anything now that they had him fairly embarked upon their enterprise. and so the crew pulled on in perfect silence for the best part of an hour, the leader of the expedition directing the course of the boat straight across the harbor, as though toward the mouth of the rio cobra river. indeed, this was their destination, as barnaby could after a while see, by the low point of land with a great long row of coconut palms upon it (the appearance of which he knew very well), which by and by began to loom up out of the milky dimness of the moonlight. as they approached the river they found the tide was running strong out of it, so that some distance away from the stream it gurgled and rippled alongside the boat as the crew of black men pulled strongly against it. thus they came up under what was either a point of land or an islet covered with a thick growth of mangrove trees. but still no one spoke a single word as to their destination, or what was the business they had in hand. the night, now that they were close to the shore, was loud with the noise of running tide-water, and the air was heavy with the smell of mud and marsh, and over all the whiteness of the moonlight, with a few stars pricking out here and there in the sky; and all so strange and silent and mysterious that barnaby could not divest himself of the feeling that it was all a dream. so, the rowers bending to the oars, the boat came slowly around from under the clump of mangrove bushes and out into the open water again. instantly it did so the leader of the expedition called out in a sharp voice, and the black men instantly lay on their oars. almost at the same instant barnaby true became aware that there was another boat coming down the river toward where they lay, now drifting with the strong tide out into the harbor again, and he knew that it was because of the approach of that boat that the other had called upon his men to cease rowing. the other boat, as well as he could see in the distance, was full of men, some of whom appeared to be armed, for even in the dusk of the darkness the shine of the moonlight glimmered sharply now and then on the barrels of muskets or pistols, and in the silence that followed after their own rowing had ceased barnaby true could hear the chug! chug! of the oars sounding louder and louder through the watery stillness of the night as the boat drew nearer and nearer. but he knew nothing of what it all meant, nor whether these others were friends or enemies, or what was to happen next. the oarsmen of the approaching boat did not for a moment cease their rowing, not till they had come pretty close to barnaby and his companions. then a man who sat in the stern ordered them to cease rowing, and as they lay on their oars he stood up. as they passed by, barnaby true could see him very plain, the moonlight shining full upon him--a large, stout gentleman with a round red face, and clad in a fine laced coat of red cloth. amidship of the boat was a box or chest about the bigness of a middle-sized traveling trunk, but covered all over with cakes of sand and dirt. in the act of passing, the gentleman, still standing, pointed at it with an elegant gold-headed cane which he held in his hand. "are you come after this, abraham dawling?" says he, and thereat his countenance broke into as evil, malignant a grin as ever barnaby true saw in all of his life. the other did not immediately reply so much as a single word, but sat as still as any stone. then, at last, the other boat having gone by, he suddenly appeared to regain his wits, for he bawled out after it, "very well, jack malyoe! very well, jack malyoe! you've got ahead of us this time again, but next time is the third, and then it shall be our turn, even if william brand must come back from hell to settle with you." this he shouted out as the other boat passed farther and farther away, but to it my fine gentleman made no reply except to burst out into a great roaring fit of laughter. there was another man among the armed men in the stern of the passing boat--a villainous, lean man with lantern jaws, and the top of his head as bald as the palm of my hand. as the boat went away into the night with the tide and the headway the oars had given it, he grinned so that the moonlight shone white on his big teeth. then, flourishing a great big pistol, he said, and barnaby could hear every word he spoke, "do but give me the word, your honor, and i'll put another bullet through the son of a sea cook." but the gentleman said some words to forbid him, and therewith the boat was gone away into the night, and presently barnaby could hear that the men at the oars had begun rowing again, leaving them lying there, without a single word being said for a long time. by and by one of those in barnaby's boat spoke up. "where shall you go now?" he said. at this the leader of the expedition appeared suddenly to come back to himself, and to find his voice again. "go?" he roared out. "go to the devil! go? go where you choose! go? go back again--that's where we'll go!" and therewith he fell a-cursing and swearing until he foamed at the lips, as though he had gone clean crazy, while the black men began rowing back again across the harbor as fast as ever they could lay oars into the water. they put barnaby true ashore below the old custom house; but so bewildered and shaken was he by all that had happened, and by what he had seen, and by the names that he heard spoken, that he was scarcely conscious of any of the familiar things among which he found himself thus standing. and so he walked up the moonlit street toward his lodging like one drunk or bewildered; for "john malyoe" was the name of the captain of the adventure galley--he who had shot barnaby's own grandfather--and "abraham dawling" was the name of the gunner of the royal sovereign who had been shot at the same time with the pirate captain, and who, with him, had been left stretched out in the staring sun by the murderers. the whole business had occupied hardly two hours, but it was as though that time was no part of barnaby's life, but all a part of some other life, so dark and strange and mysterious that it in no wise belonged to him. as for that box covered all over with mud, he could only guess at that time what it contained and what the finding of it signified. but of this our hero said nothing to anyone, nor did he tell a single living soul what he had seen that night, but nursed it in his own mind, where it lay so big for a while that he could think of little or nothing else for days after. mr. greenfield, mr. hartright's correspondent and agent in these parts, lived in a fine brick house just out of the town, on the mona road, his family consisting of a wife and two daughters--brisk, lively young ladies with black hair and eyes, and very fine bright teeth that shone whenever they laughed, and with a plenty to say for themselves. thither barnaby true was often asked to a family dinner; and, indeed, it was a pleasant home to visit, and to sit upon the veranda and smoke a cigarro with the good old gentleman and look out toward the mountains, while the young ladies laughed and talked, or played upon the guitar and sang. and oftentimes so it was strongly upon barnaby's mind to speak to the good gentleman and tell him what he had beheld that night out in the harbor; but always he would think better of it and hold his peace, falling to thinking, and smoking away upon his cigarro at a great rate. a day or two before the belle helen sailed from kingston mr. greenfield stopped barnaby true as he was going through the office to bid him to come to dinner that night (for there within the tropics they breakfast at eleven o'clock and take dinner in the cool of the evening, because of the heat, and not at midday, as we do in more temperate latitudes). "i would have you meet," says mr. greenfield, "your chief passenger for new york, and his granddaughter, for whom the state cabin and the two staterooms are to be fitted as here ordered [showing a letter]--sir john malyoe and miss marjorie malyoe. did you ever hear tell of capt. jack malyoe, master barnaby?" now i do believe that mr. greenfield had no notion at all that old captain brand was barnaby true's own grandfather and capt. john malyoe his murderer, but when he so thrust at him the name of that man, what with that in itself and the late adventure through which he himself had just passed, and with his brooding upon it until it was so prodigiously big in his mind, it was like hitting him a blow to so fling the questions at him. nevertheless, he was able to reply, with a pretty straight face, that he had heard of captain malyoe and who he was. "well," says mr. greenfield, "if jack malyoe was a desperate pirate and a wild, reckless blade twenty years ago, why, he is sir john malyoe now and the owner of a fine estate in devonshire. well, master barnaby, when one is a baronet and come into the inheritance of a fine estate (though i do hear it is vastly cumbered with debts), the world will wink its eye to much that he may have done twenty years ago. i do hear say, though, that his own kin still turn the cold shoulder to him." to this address barnaby answered nothing, but sat smoking away at his cigarro at a great rate. and so that night barnaby true came face to face for the first time with the man who murdered his own grandfather--the greatest beast of a man that ever he met in all of his life. that time in the harbor he had seen sir john malyoe at a distance and in the darkness; now that he beheld him near by it seemed to him that he had never looked at a more evil face in all his life. not that the man was altogether ugly, for he had a good nose and a fine double chin; but his eyes stood out like balls and were red and watery, and he winked them continually, as though they were always smarting; and his lips were thick and purple-red, and his fat, red cheeks were mottled here and there with little clots of purple veins; and when he spoke his voice rattled so in his throat that it made one wish to clear one's own throat to listen to him. so, what with a pair of fat, white hands, and that hoarse voice, and his swollen face, and his thick lips sticking out, it seemed to barnaby true he had never seen a countenance so distasteful to him as that one into which he then looked. but if sir john malyoe was so displeasing to our hero's taste, why, the granddaughter, even this first time he beheld her, seemed to him to be the most beautiful, lovely young lady that ever he saw. she had a thin, fair skin, red lips, and yellow hair--though it was then powdered pretty white for the occasion--and the bluest eyes that barnaby beheld in all of his life. a sweet, timid creature, who seemed not to dare so much as to speak a word for herself without looking to sir john for leave to do so, and would shrink and shudder whenever he would speak of a sudden to her or direct a sudden glance upon her. when she did speak, it was in so low a voice that one had to bend his head to hear her, and even if she smiled would catch herself and look up as though to see if she had leave to be cheerful. as for sir john, he sat at dinner like a pig, and gobbled and ate and drank, smacking his lips all the while, but with hardly a word to either her or mrs. greenfield or to barnaby true; but with a sour, sullen air, as though he would say, "your damned victuals and drink are no better than they should be, but i must eat 'em or nothing." a great bloated beast of a man! only after dinner was over and the young lady and the two misses sat off in a corner together did barnaby hear her talk with any ease. then, to be sure, her tongue became loose, and she prattled away at a great rate, though hardly above her breath, until of a sudden her grandfather called out, in his hoarse, rattling voice, that it was time to go. whereupon she stopped short in what she was saying and jumped up from her chair, looking as frightened as though she had been caught in something amiss, and was to be punished for it. barnaby true and mr. greenfield both went out to see the two into their coach, where sir john's man stood holding the lantern. and who should he be, to be sure, but that same lean villain with bald head who had offered to shoot the leader of our hero's expedition out on the harbor that night! for, one of the circles of light from the lantern shining up into his face, barnaby true knew him the moment he clapped eyes upon him. though he could not have recognized our hero, he grinned at him in the most impudent, familiar fashion, and never so much as touched his hat either to him or to mr. greenfield; but as soon as his master and his young mistress had entered the coach, banged to the door and scrambled up on the seat alongside the driver, and so away without a word, but with another impudent grin, this time favoring both barnaby and the old gentleman. such were these two, master and man, and what barnaby saw of them then was only confirmed by further observation--the most hateful couple he ever knew; though, god knows, what they afterward suffered should wipe out all complaint against them. the next day sir john malyoe's belongings began to come aboard the belle helen, and in the afternoon that same lean, villainous manservant comes skipping across the gangplank as nimble as a goat, with two black men behind him lugging a great sea chest. "what!" he cried out, "and so you is the supercargo, is you? why, i thought you was more account when i saw you last night a-sitting talking with his honor like his equal. well, no matter; 'tis something to have a brisk, genteel young fellow for a supercargo. so come, my hearty, lend a hand, will you, and help me set his honor's cabin to rights." what a speech was this to endure from such a fellow, to be sure! and barnaby so high in his own esteem, and holding himself a gentleman! well, what with his distaste for the villain, and what with such odious familiarity, you can guess into what temper so impudent an address must have cast him. "you'll find the steward in yonder," he said, "and he'll show you the cabin," and therewith turned and walked away with prodigious dignity, leaving the other standing where he was. as he entered his own cabin he could not but see, out of the tail of his eye, that the fellow was still standing where he had left him, regarding him with a most evil, malevolent countenance, so that he had the satisfaction of knowing that he had made one enemy during that voyage who was not very likely to forgive or forget what he must regard as a slight put upon him. the next day sir john malyoe himself came aboard, accompanied by his granddaughter, and followed by this man, and he followed again by four black men, who carried among them two trunks, not large in size, but prodigious heavy in weight, and toward which sir john and his follower devoted the utmost solicitude and care to see that they were properly carried into the state cabin he was to occupy. barnaby true was standing in the great cabin as they passed close by him; but though sir john malyoe looked hard at him and straight in the face, he never so much as spoke a single word, or showed by a look or a sign that he knew who our hero was. at this the serving man, who saw it all with eyes as quick as a cat's, fell to grinning and chuckling to see barnaby in his turn so slighted. the young lady, who also saw it all, flushed up red, then in the instant of passing looked straight at our hero, and bowed and smiled at him with a most sweet and gracious affability, then the next moment recovering herself, as though mightily frightened at what she had done. the same day the belle helen sailed, with as beautiful, sweet weather as ever a body could wish for. there were only two other passengers aboard, the rev. simon styles, the master of a flourishing academy in spanish town, and his wife, a good, worthy old couple, but very quiet, and would sit in the great cabin by the hour together reading, so that, what with sir john malyoe staying all the time in his own cabin with those two trunks he held so precious, it fell upon barnaby true in great part to show attention to the young lady; and glad enough he was of the opportunity, as anyone may guess. for when you consider a brisk, lively young man of one-and-twenty and a sweet, beautiful miss of seventeen so thrown together day after day for two weeks, the weather being very fair, as i have said, and the ship tossing and bowling along before a fine humming breeze that sent white caps all over the sea, and with nothing to do but sit and look at that blue sea and the bright sky overhead, it is not hard to suppose what was to befall, and what pleasure it was to barnaby true to show attention to her. but, oh! those days when a man is young, and, whether wisely or no, fallen in love! how often during that voyage did our hero lie awake in his berth at night, tossing this way and that without sleep--not that he wanted to sleep if he could, but would rather lie so awake thinking about her and staring into the darkness! poor fool! he might have known that the end must come to such a fool's paradise before very long. for who was he to look up to sir john malyoe's granddaughter, he, the supercargo of a merchant ship, and she the granddaughter of a baronet. nevertheless, things went along very smooth and pleasant, until one evening, when all came of a sudden to an end. at that time he and the young lady had been standing for a long while together, leaning over the rail and looking out across the water through the dusk toward the westward, where the sky was still of a lingering brightness. she had been mightily quiet and dull all that evening, but now of a sudden she began, without any preface whatever, to tell barnaby about herself and her affairs. she said that she and her grandfather were going to new york that they might take passage thence to boston town, there to meet her cousin captain malyoe, who was stationed in garrison at that place. then she went on to say that captain malyoe was the next heir to the devonshire estate, and that she and he were to be married in the fall. but, poor barnaby! what a fool was he, to be sure! methinks when she first began to speak about captain malyoe he knew what was coming. but now that she had told him, he could say nothing, but stood there staring across the ocean, his breath coming hot and dry as ashes in his throat. she, poor thing, went on to say, in a very low voice, that she had liked him from the very first moment she had seen him, and had been very happy for these days, and would always think of him as a dear friend who had been very kind to her, who had so little pleasure in life, and so would always remember him. then they were both silent, until at last barnaby made shift to say, though in a hoarse and croaking voice, that captain malyoe must be a very happy man, and that if he were in captain malyoe's place he would be the happiest man in the world. thus, having spoken, and so found his tongue, he went on to tell her, with his head all in a whirl, that he, too, loved her, and that what she had told him struck him to the heart, and made him the most miserable, unhappy wretch in the whole world. she was not angry at what he said, nor did she turn to look at him, but only said, in a low voice, he should not talk so, for that it could only be a pain to them both to speak of such things, and that whether she would or no, she must do everything as her grandfather bade her, for that he was indeed a terrible man. to this poor barnaby could only repeat that he loved her with all his heart, that he had hoped for nothing in his love, but that he was now the most miserable man in the world. it was at this moment, so tragic for him, that some one who had been hiding nigh them all the while suddenly moved away, and barnaby true could see in the gathering darkness that it was that villain manservant of sir john malyoe's and knew that he must have overheard all that had been said. the man went straight to the great cabin, and poor barnaby, his brain all atingle, stood looking after him, feeling that now indeed the last drop of bitterness had been added to his trouble to have such a wretch overhear what he had said. the young lady could not have seen the fellow, for she continued leaning over the rail, and barnaby true, standing at her side, not moving, but in such a tumult of many passions that he was like one bewildered, and his heart beating as though to smother him. so they stood for i know not how long when, of a sudden, sir john malyoe comes running out of the cabin, without his hat, but carrying his gold-headed cane, and so straight across the deck to where barnaby and the young lady stood, that spying wretch close at his heels, grinning like an imp. "you hussy!" bawled out sir john, so soon as he had come pretty near them, and in so loud a voice that all on deck might have heard the words; and as he spoke he waved his cane back and forth as though he would have struck the young lady, who, shrinking back almost upon the deck, crouched as though to escape such a blow. "you hussy!" he bawled out with vile oaths, too horrible here to be set down. "what do you do here with this yankee supercargo, not fit for a gentlewoman to wipe her feet upon? get to your cabin, you hussy" (only it was something worse he called her this time), "before i lay this cane across your shoulders!" what with the whirling of barnaby's brains and the passion into which he was already melted, what with his despair and his love, and his anger at this address, a man gone mad could scarcely be less accountable for his actions than was he at that moment. hardly knowing what he did, he put his hand against sir john malyoe's breast and thrust him violently back, crying out upon him in a great, loud, hoarse voice for threatening a young lady, and saying that for a farthing he would wrench the stick out of his hand and throw it overboard. sir john went staggering back with the push barnaby gave him, and then caught himself up again. then, with a great bellow, ran roaring at our hero, whirling his cane about, and i do believe would have struck him (and god knows then what might have happened) had not his manservant caught him and held him back. "keep back!" cried out our hero, still mighty hoarse. "keep back! if you strike me with that stick i'll fling you overboard!" by this time, what with the sound of loud voices and the stamping of feet, some of the crew and others aboard were hurrying up, and the next moment captain manly and the first mate, mr. freesden, came running out of the cabin. but barnaby, who was by this fairly set agoing, could not now stop himself. "and who are you, anyhow," he cried out, "to threaten to strike me and to insult me, who am as good as you? you dare not strike me! you may shoot a man from behind, as you shot poor captain brand on the rio cobra river, but you won't dare strike me face to face. i know who you are and what you are!" by this time sir john malyoe had ceased to endeavor to strike him, but stood stock-still, his great bulging eyes staring as though they would pop out of his head. "what's all this?" cries captain manly, bustling up to them with mr. freesden. "what does all this mean?" but, as i have said, our hero was too far gone now to contain himself until all that he had to say was out. "the damned villain insulted me and insulted the young lady," he cried out, panting in the extremity of his passion, "and then he threatened to strike me with his cane. but i know who he is and what he is. i know what he's got in his cabin in those two trunks, and where he found it, and whom it belongs to. he found it on the shores of the rio cobra river, and i have only to open my mouth and tell what i know about it." at this captain manly clapped his hand upon our hero's shoulder and fell to shaking him so that he could scarcely stand, calling out to him the while to be silent. "what do you mean?" he cried. "an officer of this ship to quarrel with a passenger of mine! go straight to your cabin, and stay there till i give you leave to come out again." at this master barnaby came somewhat back to himself and into his wits again with a jump. "but he threatened to strike me with his cane, captain," he cried out, "and that i won't stand from any man!" "no matter what he did," said captain manly, very sternly. "go to your cabin, as i bid you, and stay there till i tell you to come out again, and when we get to new york i'll take pains to tell your stepfather of how you have behaved. i'll have no such rioting as this aboard my ship." barnaby true looked around him, but the young lady was gone. nor, in the blindness of his frenzy, had he seen when she had gone nor whither she went. as for sir john malyoe, he stood in the light of a lantern, his face gone as white as ashes, and i do believe if a look could kill, the dreadful malevolent stare he fixed upon barnaby true would have slain him where he stood. after captain manly had so shaken some wits into poor barnaby he, unhappy wretch, went to his cabin, as he was bidden to do, and there, shutting the door upon himself, and flinging himself down, all dressed as he was, upon his berth, yielded himself over to the profoundest passion of humiliation and despair. there he lay for i know not how long, staring into the darkness, until by and by, in spite of his suffering and his despair, he dozed off into a loose sleep, that was more like waking than sleep, being possessed continually by the most vivid and distasteful dreams, from which he would awaken only to doze off and to dream again. it was from the midst of one of these extravagant dreams that he was suddenly aroused by the noise of a pistol shot, and then the noise of another and another, and then a great bump and a grinding jar, and then the sound of many footsteps running across the deck and down into the great cabin. then came a tremendous uproar of voices in the great cabin, the struggling as of men's bodies being tossed about, striking violently against the partitions and bulkheads. at the same instant arose a screaming of women's voices, and one voice, and that sir john malyoe's, crying out as in the greatest extremity: "you villains! you damned villains!" and with the sudden detonation of a pistol fired into the close space of the great cabin. barnaby was out in the middle of his cabin in a moment, and taking only time enough to snatch down one of the pistols that hung at the head of his berth, flung out into the great cabin, to find it as black as night, the lantern slung there having been either blown out or dashed out into darkness. the prodigiously dark space was full of uproar, the hubbub and confusion pierced through and through by that keen sound of women's voices screaming, one in the cabin and the other in the stateroom beyond. almost immediately barnaby pitched headlong over two or three struggling men scuffling together upon the deck, falling with a great clatter and the loss of his pistol, which, however, he regained almost immediately. what all the uproar meant he could not tell, but he presently heard captain manly's voice from somewhere suddenly calling out, "you bloody pirate, would you choke me to death?" wherewith some notion of what had happened came to him like a dash, and that they had been attacked in the night by pirates. looking toward the companionway, he saw, outlined against the darkness of the night without, the blacker form of a man's figure, standing still and motionless as a statue in the midst of all this hubbub, and so by some instinct he knew in a moment that that must be the master maker of all this devil's brew. therewith, still kneeling upon the deck, he covered the bosom of that shadowy figure pointblank, as he thought, with his pistol, and instantly pulled the trigger. in the flash of red light, and in the instant stunning report of the pistol shot, barnaby saw, as stamped upon the blackness, a broad, flat face with fishy eyes, a lean, bony forehead with what appeared to be a great blotch of blood upon the side, a cocked hat trimmed with gold lace, a red scarf across the breast, and the gleam of brass buttons. then the darkness, very thick and black, swallowed everything again. but in the instant sir john malyoe called out, in a great loud voice: "my god! 'tis william brand!" therewith came the sound of some one falling heavily down. the next moment, barnaby's sight coming back to him again in the darkness, he beheld that dark and motionless figure still standing exactly where it had stood before, and so knew either that he had missed it or else that it was of so supernatural a sort that a leaden bullet might do it no harm. though if it was indeed an apparition that barnaby beheld in that moment, there is this to say, that he saw it as plain as ever he saw a living man in all of his life. this was the last our hero knew, for the next moment somebody--whether by accident or design he never knew--struck him such a terrible violent blow upon the side of the head that he saw forty thousand stars flash before his eyeballs, and then, with a great humming in his head, swooned dead away. when barnaby true came back to his senses again it was to find himself being cared for with great skill and nicety, his head bathed with cold water, and a bandage being bound about it as carefully as though a chirurgeon was attending to him. he could not immediately recall what had happened to him, nor until he had opened his eyes to find himself in a strange cabin, extremely well fitted and painted with white and gold, the light of a lantern shining in his eyes, together with the gray of the early daylight through the dead-eye. two men were bending over him--one, a negro in a striped shirt, with a yellow handkerchief around his head and silver earrings in his ears; the other, a white man, clad in a strange outlandish dress of a foreign make, and with great mustachios hanging down, and with gold earrings in his ears. it was the latter who was attending to barnaby's hurt with such extreme care and gentleness. all this barnaby saw with his first clear consciousness after his swoon. then remembering what had befallen him, and his head beating as though it would split asunder, he shut his eyes again, contriving with great effort to keep himself from groaning aloud, and wondering as to what sort of pirates these could be who would first knock a man in the head so terrible a blow as that which he had suffered, and then take such care to fetch him back to life again, and to make him easy and comfortable. nor did he open his eyes again, but lay there gathering his wits together and wondering thus until the bandage was properly tied about his head and sewed together. then once more he opened his eyes, and looked up to ask where he was. either they who were attending to him did not choose to reply, or else they could not speak english, for they made no answer, excepting by signs; for the white man, seeing that he was now able to speak, and so was come back into his senses again, nodded his head three or four times, and smiled with a grin of his white teeth, and then pointed, as though toward a saloon beyond. at the same time the negro held up our hero's coat and beckoned for him to put it on, so that barnaby, seeing that it was required of him to meet some one without, arose, though with a good deal of effort, and permitted the negro to help him on with his coat, still feeling mightily dizzy and uncertain upon his legs, his head beating fit to split, and the vessel rolling and pitching at a great rate, as though upon a heavy ground swell. so, still sick and dizzy, he went out into what was indeed a fine saloon beyond, painted in white and gilt like the cabin he had just quitted, and fitted in the nicest fashion, a mahogany table, polished very bright, extending the length of the room, and a quantity of bottles, together with glasses of clear crystal, arranged in a hanging rack above. here at the table a man was sitting with his back to our hero, clad in a rough pea-jacket, and with a red handkerchief tied around his throat, his feet stretched out before him, and he smoking a pipe of tobacco with all the ease and comfort in the world. as barnaby came in he turned round, and, to the profound astonishment of our hero, presented toward him in the light of the lantern, the dawn shining pretty strong through the skylight, the face of that very man who had conducted the mysterious expedition that night across kingston harbor to the rio cobra river. this man looked steadily at barnaby true for a moment or two, and then burst out laughing; and, indeed, barnaby, standing there with the bandage about his head, must have looked a very droll picture of that astonishment he felt so profoundly at finding who was this pirate into whose hands he had fallen. "well," says the other, "and so you be up at last, and no great harm done, i'll be bound. and how does your head feel by now, my young master?" to this barnaby made no reply, but, what with wonder and the dizziness of his head, seated himself at the table over against the speaker, who pushed a bottle of rum toward him, together with a glass from the swinging shelf above. he watched barnaby fill his glass, and so soon as he had done so began immediately by saying: "i do suppose you think you were treated mightily ill to be so handled last night. well, so you were treated ill enough--though who hit you that crack upon the head i know no more than a child unborn. well, i am sorry for the way you were handled, but there is this much to say, and of that you may believe me, that nothing was meant to you but kindness, and before you are through with us all you will believe that well enough." here he helped himself to a taste of grog, and sucking in his lips, went on again with what he had to say. "do you remember," said he, "that expedition of ours in kingston harbor, and how we were all of us balked that night?" "why, yes," said barnaby true, "nor am i likely to forget it." "and do you remember what i said to that villain, jack malyoe, that night as his boat went by us?" "as to that," said barnaby true, "i do not know that i can say yes or no, but if you will tell me, i will maybe answer you in kind." "why, i mean this," said the other. "i said that the villain had got the better of us once again, but that next time it would be our turn, even if william brand himself had to come back from hell to put the business through." "i remember something of the sort," said barnaby, "now that you speak of it, but still i am all in the dark as to what you are driving at." the other looked at him very cunningly for a little while, his head on one side, and his eyes half shut. then, as if satisfied, he suddenly burst out laughing. "look hither," said he, "and i'll show you something," and therewith, moving to one side, disclosed a couple of traveling cases or small trunks with brass studs, so exactly like those that sir john malyoe had fetched aboard at jamaica that barnaby, putting this and that together, knew that they must be the same. our hero had a strong enough suspicion as to what those two cases contained, and his suspicions had become a certainty when he saw sir john malyoe struck all white at being threatened about them, and his face lowering so malevolently as to look murder had he dared do it. but, lord! what were suspicions or even certainty to what barnaby true's two eyes beheld when that man lifted the lids of the two cases--the locks thereof having already been forced--and, flinging back first one lid and then the other, displayed to barnaby's astonished sight a great treasure of gold and silver! most of it tied up in leathern bags, to be sure, but many of the coins, big and little, yellow and white, lying loose and scattered about like so many beans, brimming the cases to the very top. barnaby sat dumb-struck at what he beheld; as to whether he breathed or no, i cannot tell; but this i know, that he sat staring at that marvelous treasure like a man in a trance, until, after a few seconds of this golden display, the other banged down the lids again and burst out laughing, whereupon he came back to himself with a jump. "well, and what do you think of that?" said the other. "is it not enough for a man to turn pirate for? but," he continued, "it is not for the sake of showing you this that i have been waiting for you here so long a while, but to tell you that you are not the only passenger aboard, but that there is another, whom i am to confide to your care and attention, according to orders i have received; so, if you are ready, master barnaby, i'll fetch her in directly." he waited for a moment, as though for barnaby to speak, but our hero not replying, he arose and, putting away the bottle of rum and the glasses, crossed the saloon to a door like that from which barnaby had come a little while before. this he opened, and after a moment's delay and a few words spoken to some one within, ushered thence a young lady, who came out very slowly into the saloon where barnaby still sat at the table. it was miss marjorie malyoe, very white, and looking as though stunned or bewildered by all that had befallen her. barnaby true could never tell whether the amazing strange voyage that followed was of long or of short duration; whether it occupied three days or ten days. for conceive, if you choose, two people of flesh and blood moving and living continually in all the circumstances and surroundings as of a nightmare dream, yet they two so happy together that all the universe beside was of no moment to them! how was anyone to tell whether in such circumstances any time appeared to be long or short? does a dream appear to be long or to be short? the vessel in which they sailed was a brigantine of good size and build, but manned by a considerable crew, the most strange and outlandish in their appearance that barnaby had ever beheld--some white, some yellow, some black, and all tricked out with gay colors, and gold earrings in their ears, and some with great long mustachios, and others with handkerchiefs tied around their heads, and all talking a language together of which barnaby true could understand not a single word, but which might have been portuguese from one or two phrases he caught. nor did this strange, mysterious crew, of god knows what sort of men, seem to pay any attention whatever to barnaby or to the young lady. they might now and then have looked at him and her out of the corners of their yellow eyes, but that was all; otherwise they were indeed like the creatures of a nightmare dream. only he who was the captain of this outlandish crew would maybe speak to barnaby a few words as to the weather or what not when he would come down into the saloon to mix a glass of grog or to light a pipe of tobacco, and then to go on deck again about his business. otherwise our hero and the young lady were left to themselves, to do as they pleased, with no one to interfere with them. as for her, she at no time showed any great sign of terror or of fear, only for a little while was singularly numb and quiet, as though dazed with what had happened to her. indeed, methinks that wild beast, her grandfather, had so crushed her spirit by his tyranny and his violence that nothing that happened to her might seem sharp and keen, as it does to others of an ordinary sort. but this was only at first, for afterward her face began to grow singularly clear, as with a white light, and she would sit quite still, permitting barnaby to gaze, i know not how long, into her eyes, her face so transfigured and her lips smiling, and they, as it were, neither of them breathing, but hearing, as in another far-distant place, the outlandish jargon of the crew talking together in the warm, bright sunlight, or the sound of creaking block and tackle as they hauled upon the sheets. is it, then, any wonder that barnaby true could never remember whether such a voyage as this was long or short? it was as though they might have sailed so upon that wonderful voyage forever. you may guess how amazed was barnaby true when, coming upon deck one morning, he found the brigantine riding upon an even keel, at anchor off staten island, a small village on the shore, and the well-known roofs and chimneys of new york town in plain sight across the water. 'twas the last place in the world he had expected to see. and, indeed, it did seem strange to lie there alongside staten island all that day, with new york town so nigh at hand and yet so impossible to reach. for whether he desired to escape or no, barnaby true could not but observe that both he and the young lady were so closely watched that they might as well have been prisoners, tied hand and foot and laid in the hold, so far as any hope of getting away was concerned. all that day there was a deal of mysterious coming and going aboard the brigantine, and in the afternoon a sailboat went up to the town, carrying the captain, and a great load covered over with a tarpaulin in the stern. what was so taken up to the town barnaby did not then guess, but the boat did not return again till about sundown. for the sun was just dropping below the water when the captain came aboard once more and, finding barnaby on deck, bade him come down into the saloon, where they found the young lady sitting, the broad light of the evening shining in through the skylight, and making it all pretty bright within. the captain commanded barnaby to be seated, for he had something of moment to say to him; whereupon, as soon as barnaby had taken his place alongside the young lady, he began very seriously, with a preface somewhat thus: "though you may think me the captain of this brigantine, young gentleman, i am not really so, but am under orders, and so have only carried out those orders of a superior in all these things that i have done." having so begun, he went on to say that there was one thing yet remaining for him to do, and that the greatest thing of all. he said that barnaby and the young lady had not been fetched away from the belle helen as they were by any mere chance of accident, but that 'twas all a plan laid by a head wiser than his, and carried out by one whom he must obey in all things. he said that he hoped that both barnaby and the young lady would perform willingly what they would be now called upon to do, but that whether they did it willingly or no, they must, for that those were the orders of one who was not to be disobeyed. you may guess how our hero held his breath at all this; but whatever might have been his expectations, the very wildest of them all did not reach to that which was demanded of him. "my orders are these," said the other, continuing: "i am to take you and the young lady ashore, and to see that you are married before i quit you; and to that end a very good, decent, honest minister who lives ashore yonder in the village was chosen and hath been spoken to and is now, no doubt, waiting for you to come. such are my orders, and this is the last thing i am set to do; so now i will leave you alone together for five minutes to talk it over, but be quick about it, for whether willing or not, this thing must be done." thereupon he went away, as he had promised, leaving those two alone together, barnaby like one turned into stone, and the young lady, her face turned away, flaming as red as fire in the fading light. nor can i tell what barnaby said to her, nor what words he used, but only, all in a tumult, with neither beginning nor end he told her that god knew he loved her, and that with all his heart and soul, and that there was nothing in all the world for him but her; but, nevertheless, if she would not have it as had been ordered, and if she were not willing to marry him as she was bidden to do, he would rather die than lend himself to forcing her to do such a thing against her will. nevertheless, he told her she must speak up and tell him yes or no, and that god knew he would give all the world if she would say "yes." all this and more he said in such a tumult of words that there was no order in their speaking, and she sitting there, her bosom rising and falling as though her breath stifled her. nor may i tell what she replied to him, only this, that she said she would marry him. at this he took her into his arms and set his lips to hers, his heart all melting away in his bosom. so presently came the captain back into the saloon again, to find barnaby sitting there holding her hand, she with her face turned away, and his heart beating like a trip hammer, and so saw that all was settled as he would have it. wherewith he wished them both joy, and gave barnaby his hand. the yawlboat belonging to the brigantine was ready and waiting alongside when they came upon deck, and immediately they descended to it and took their seats. so they landed, and in a little while were walking up the village street in the darkness, she clinging to his arm as though she would swoon, and the captain of the brigantine and two other men from aboard following after them. and so to the minister's house, finding him waiting for them, smoking his pipe in the warm evening, and walking up and down in front of his own door. he immediately conducted them into the house, where, his wife having fetched a candle, and two others of the village folk being present, the good man having asked several questions as to their names and their age and where they were from, the ceremony was performed, and the certificate duly signed by those present--excepting the men who had come ashore from the brigantine, and who refused to set their hands to any paper. the same sailboat that had taken the captain up to the town in the afternoon was waiting for them at the landing place, whence, the captain, having wished them godspeed, and having shaken barnaby very heartily by the hand, they pushed off, and, coming about, ran away with the slant of the wind, dropping the shore and those strange beings alike behind them into the night. as they sped away through the darkness they could hear the creaking of the sails being hoisted aboard of the brigantine, and so knew that she was about to put to sea once more. nor did barnaby true ever set eyes upon those beings again, nor did anyone else that i ever heard tell of. it was nigh midnight when they made mr. hartright's wharf at the foot of wall street, and so the streets were all dark and silent and deserted as they walked up to barnaby's home. you may conceive of the wonder and amazement of barnaby's dear stepfather when, clad in a dressing gown and carrying a lighted candle in his hand, he unlocked and unbarred the door, and so saw who it was had aroused him at such an hour of the night, and the young and beautiful lady whom barnaby had fetched with him. the first thought of the good man was that the belle helen had come into port; nor did barnaby undeceive him as he led the way into the house, but waited until they were all safe and sound in privily together before he should unfold his strange and wonderful story. "this was left for you by two foreign sailors this afternoon, barnaby," the good old man said, as he led the way through the hall, holding up the candle at the same time, so that barnaby might see an object that stood against the wainscoting by the door of the dining room. nor could barnaby refrain from crying out with amazement when he saw that it was one of the two chests of treasure that sir john malyoe had fetched from jamaica, and which the pirates had taken from the belle helen. as for mr. hartright, he guessed no more what was in it than the man in the moon. the next day but one brought the belle helen herself into port, with the terrible news not only of having been attacked at night by pirates, but also that sir john malyoe was dead. for whether it was the sudden shock of the sight of his old captain's face--whom he himself had murdered and thought dead and buried--flashing so out against the darkness, or whether it was the strain of passion that overset his brains, certain it is that when the pirates left the belle helen, carrying with them the young lady and barnaby and the traveling trunks, those left aboard the belle helen found sir john malyoe lying in a fit upon the floor, frothing at the mouth and black in the face, as though he had been choked, and so took him away to his berth, where, the next morning about ten o'clock, he died, without once having opened his eyes or spoken a single word. as for the villain manservant, no one ever saw him afterward; though whether he jumped overboard, or whether the pirates who so attacked the ship had carried him away bodily, who shall say? mr. hartright, after he had heard barnaby's story, had been very uncertain as to the ownership of the chest of treasure that had been left by those men for barnaby, but the news of the death of sir john malyoe made the matter very easy for him to decide. for surely if that treasure did not belong to barnaby, there could be no doubt that it must belong to his wife, she being sir john malyoe's legal heir. and so it was that that great fortune (in actual computation amounting to upward of sixty-three thousand pounds) came to barnaby true, the grandson of that famous pirate, william brand; the english estate in devonshire, in default of male issue of sir john malyoe, descended to captain malyoe, whom the young lady was to have married. as for the other case of treasure, it was never heard of again, nor could barnaby ever guess whether it was divided as booty among the pirates, or whether they had carried it away with them to some strange and foreign land, there to share it among themselves. and so the ending of the story, with only this to observe, that whether that strange appearance of captain brand's face by the light of the pistol was a ghostly and spiritual appearance, or whether he was present in flesh and blood, there is only to say that he was never heard of again; nor had he ever been heard of till that time since the day he was so shot from behind by capt. john malyoe on the banks of the rio cobra river in the year . chapter iii. with the buccaneers being an account of certain adventures that befell henry mostyn under capt. h. morgan in the year - i. although this narration has more particularly to do with the taking of the spanish vice admiral in the harbor of porto bello, and of the rescue therefrom of le sieur simon, his wife and daughter (the adventure of which was successfully achieved by captain morgan, the famous buccaneer), we shall, nevertheless, premise something of the earlier history of master harry mostyn, whom you may, if you please, consider as the hero of the several circumstances recounted in these pages. in the year our hero's father embarked from portsmouth, in england, for the barbados, where he owned a considerable sugar plantation. thither to those parts of america he transported with himself his whole family, of whom our master harry was the fifth of eight children--a great lusty fellow as little fitted for the church (for which he was designed) as could be. at the time of this story, though not above sixteen years old, master harry mostyn was as big and well-grown as many a man of twenty, and of such a reckless and dare-devil spirit that no adventure was too dangerous or too mischievous for him to embark upon. at this time there was a deal of talk in those parts of the americas concerning captain morgan, and the prodigious successes he was having pirating against the spaniards. this man had once been an indentured servant with mr. rolls, a sugar factor at the barbados. having served out his time, and being of lawless disposition, possessing also a prodigious appetite for adventure, he joined with others of his kidney, and, purchasing a caravel of three guns, embarked fairly upon that career of piracy the most successful that ever was heard of in the world. master harry had known this man very well while he was still with mr. rolls, serving as a clerk at that gentleman's sugar wharf, a tall, broad-shouldered, strapping fellow, with red cheeks, and thick red lips, and rolling blue eyes, and hair as red as any chestnut. many knew him for a bold, gruff-spoken man, but no one at that time suspected that he had it in him to become so famous and renowned as he afterward grew to be. the fame of his exploits had been the talk of those parts for above a twelvemonth, when, in the latter part of the year , captain morgan, having made a very successful expedition against the spaniards into the gulf of campeche--where he took several important purchases from the plate fleet--came to the barbados, there to fit out another such venture, and to enlist recruits. he and certain other adventurers had purchased a vessel of some five hundred tons, which they proposed to convert into a pirate by cutting portholes for cannon, and running three or four carronades across her main deck. the name of this ship, be it mentioned, was the good samaritan, as ill-fitting a name as could be for such a craft, which, instead of being designed for the healing of wounds, was intended to inflict such devastation as those wicked men proposed. here was a piece of mischief exactly fitted to our hero's tastes; wherefore, having made up a bundle of clothes, and with not above a shilling in his pocket, he made an excursion into the town to seek for captain morgan. there he found the great pirate established at an ordinary, with a little court of ragamuffins and swashbucklers gathered about him, all talking very loud, and drinking healths in raw rum as though it were sugared water. and what a fine figure our buccaneer had grown, to be sure! how different from the poor, humble clerk upon the sugar wharf! what a deal of gold braid! what a fine, silver-hilled spanish sword! what a gay velvet sling, hung with three silver-mounted pistols! if master harry's mind had not been made up before, to be sure such a spectacle of glory would have determined it. this figure of war our hero asked to step aside with him, and when they had come into a corner, proposed to the other what he intended, and that he had a mind to enlist as a gentleman adventurer upon this expedition. upon this our rogue of a buccaneer captain burst out a-laughing, and fetching master harry a great thump upon the back, swore roundly that he would make a man of him, and that it was a pity to make a parson out of so good a piece of stuff. nor was captain morgan less good than his word, for when the good samaritan set sail with a favoring wind for the island of jamaica, master harry found himself established as one of the adventurers aboard. ii could you but have seen the town of port royal as it appeared in the year you would have beheld a sight very well worth while looking upon. there were no fine houses at that time, and no great counting houses built of brick, such as you may find nowadays, but a crowd of board and wattled huts huddled along the streets, and all so gay with flags and bits of color that vanity fair itself could not have been gayer. to this place came all the pirates and buccaneers that infested those parts, and men shouted and swore and gambled, and poured out money like water, and then maybe wound up their merrymaking by dying of fever. for the sky in these torrid latitudes is all full of clouds overhead, and as hot as any blanket, and when the sun shone forth it streamed down upon the smoking sands so that the houses were ovens and the streets were furnaces; so it was little wonder that men died like rats in a hole. but little they appeared to care for that; so that everywhere you might behold a multitude of painted women and jews and merchants and pirates, gaudy with red scarfs and gold braid and all sorts of odds and ends of foolish finery, all fighting and gambling and bartering for that ill-gotten treasure of the be-robbed spaniard. here, arriving, captain morgan found a hearty welcome, and a message from the governor awaiting him, the message bidding him attend his excellency upon the earliest occasion that offered. whereupon, taking our hero (of whom he had grown prodigiously fond) along with him, our pirate went, without any loss of time, to visit sir thomas modiford, who was then the royal governor of all this devil's brew of wickedness. they found his excellency seated in a great easy-chair, under the shadow of a slatted veranda, the floor whereof was paved with brick. he was clad, for the sake of coolness, only in his shirt, breeches, and stockings, and he wore slippers on his feet. he was smoking a great cigarro of tobacco, and a goblet of lime juice and water and rum stood at his elbow on a table. here, out of the glare of the heat, it was all very cool and pleasant, with a sea breeze blowing violently in through the slats, setting them a-rattling now and then, and stirring sir thomas's long hair, which he had pushed back for the sake of coolness. the purport of this interview, i may tell you, concerned the rescue of one le sieur simon, who, together with his wife and daughter, was held captive by the spaniards. this gentleman adventurer (le sieur simon) had, a few years before, been set up by the buccaneers as governor of the island of santa catharina. this place, though well fortified by the spaniards, the buccaneers had seized upon, establishing themselves thereon, and so infesting the commerce of those seas that no spanish fleet was safe from them. at last the spaniards, no longer able to endure these assaults against their commerce, sent a great force against the freebooters to drive them out of their island stronghold. this they did, retaking santa catharina, together with its governor, his wife, and daughter, as well as the whole garrison of buccaneers. this garrison was sent by their conquerors, some to the galleys, some to the mines, some to no man knows where. the governor himself--le sieur simon--was to be sent to spain, there to stand his trial for piracy. the news of all this, i may tell you, had only just been received in jamaica, having been brought thither by a spanish captain, one don roderiguez sylvia, who was, besides, the bearer of dispatches to the spanish authorities relating the whole affair. such, in fine, was the purport of this interview, and as our hero and his captain walked back together from the governor's house to the ordinary where they had taken up their inn, the buccaneer assured his companion that he purposed to obtain those dispatches from the spanish captain that very afternoon, even if he had to use force to seize them. all this, you are to understand, was undertaken only because of the friendship that the governor and captain morgan entertained for le sieur simon. and, indeed, it was wonderful how honest and how faithful were these wicked men in their dealings with one another. for you must know that governor modiford and le sieur simon and the buccaneers were all of one kidney--all taking a share in the piracies of those times, and all holding by one another as though they were the honestest men in the world. hence it was they were all so determined to rescue le sieur simon from the spaniards. iii having reached his ordinary after his interview with the governor, captain morgan found there a number of his companions, such as usually gathered at that place to be in attendance upon him--some, those belonging to the good samaritan; others, those who hoped to obtain benefits from him; others, those ragamuffins who gathered around him because he was famous, and because it pleased them to be of his court and to be called his followers. for nearly always your successful pirate had such a little court surrounding him. finding a dozen or more of these rascals gathered there, captain morgan informed them of his present purpose that he was going to find the spanish captain to demand his papers of him, and calling upon them to accompany him. with this following at his heels, our buccaneer started off down the street, his lieutenant, a cornishman named bartholomew davis, upon one hand and our hero upon the other. so they paraded the streets for the best part of an hour before they found the spanish captain. for whether he had got wind that captain morgan was searching for him, or whether, finding himself in a place so full of his enemies, he had buried himself in some place of hiding, it is certain that the buccaneers had traversed pretty nearly the whole town before they discovered that he was lying at a certain auberge kept by a portuguese jew. thither they went, and thither captain morgan entered with the utmost coolness and composure of demeanor, his followers crowding noisily in at his heels. the space within was very dark, being lighted only by the doorway and by two large slatted windows or openings in the front. in this dark, hot place not over-roomy at the best--were gathered twelve or fifteen villainous-appearing men, sitting at tables and drinking together, waited upon by the jew and his wife. our hero had no trouble in discovering which of this lot of men was captain sylvia, for not only did captain morgan direct his glance full of war upon him, but the spaniard was clad with more particularity and with more show of finery than any of the others who were there. him captain morgan approached and demanded his papers, whereunto the other replied with such a jabber of spanish and english that no man could have understood what he said. to this captain morgan in turn replied that he must have those papers, no matter what it might cost him to obtain them, and thereupon drew a pistol from his sling and presented it at the other's head. at this threatening action the innkeeper's wife fell a-screaming, and the jew, as in a frenzy, besought them not to tear the house down about his ears. our hero could hardly tell what followed, only that all of a sudden there was a prodigious uproar of combat. knives flashed everywhere, and then a pistol was fired so close to his head that he stood like one stunned, hearing some one crying out in a loud voice, but not knowing whether it was a friend or a foe who had been shot. then another pistol shot so deafened what was left of master harry's hearing that his ears rang for above an hour afterward. by this time the whole place was full of gunpowder smoke, and there was the sound of blows and oaths and outcrying and the clashing of knives. as master harry, who had no great stomach for such a combat, and no very particular interest in the quarrel, was making for the door, a little portuguese, as withered and as nimble as an ape, came ducking under the table and plunged at his stomach with a great long knife, which, had it effected its object, would surely have ended his adventures then and there. finding himself in such danger, master harry snatched up a heavy chair, and, flinging it at his enemy, who was preparing for another attack, he fairly ran for it out of the door, expecting every instant to feel the thrust of the blade betwixt his ribs. a considerable crowd had gathered outside, and others, hearing the uproar, were coming running to join them. with these our hero stood, trembling like a leaf, and with cold chills running up and down his back like water at the narrow escape from the danger that had threatened him. nor shall you think him a coward, for you must remember he was hardly sixteen years old at the time, and that this was the first affair of the sort he had encountered. afterward, as you shall learn, he showed that he could exhibit courage enough at a pinch. while he stood there, endeavoring to recover his composure, the while the tumult continued within, suddenly two men came running almost together out of the door, a crowd of the combatants at their heels. the first of these men was captain sylvia; the other, who was pursuing him, was captain morgan. as the crowd about the door parted before the sudden appearing of these, the spanish captain, perceiving, as he supposed, a way of escape opened to him, darted across the street with incredible swiftness toward an alleyway upon the other side. upon this, seeing his prey like to get away from him, captain morgan snatched a pistol out of his sling, and resting it for an instant across his arm, fired at the flying spaniard, and that with so true an aim that, though the street was now full of people, the other went tumbling over and over all of a heap in the kennel, where he lay, after a twitch or two, as still as a log. at the sound of the shot and the fall of the man the crowd scattered upon all sides, yelling and screaming, and the street being thus pretty clear, captain morgan ran across the way to where his victim lay, his smoking pistol still in his hand, and our hero following close at his heels. our poor harry had never before beheld a man killed thus in an instant who a moment before had been so full of life and activity, for when captain morgan turned the body over upon its back he could perceive at a glance, little as he knew of such matters, that the man was stone-dead. and, indeed, it was a dreadful sight for him who was hardly more than a child. he stood rooted for he knew not how long, staring down at the dead face with twitching fingers and shuddering limbs. meantime a great crowd was gathering about them again. as for captain morgan, he went about his work with the utmost coolness and deliberation imaginable, unbuttoning the waistcoat and the shirt of the man he had murdered with fingers that neither twitched nor shook. there were a gold cross and a bunch of silver medals hung by a whipcord about the neck of the dead man. this captain morgan broke away with a snap, reaching the jingling baubles to harry, who took them in his nerveless hand and fingers that he could hardly close upon what they held. the papers captain morgan found in a wallet in an inner breast pocket of the spaniard's waistcoat. these he examined one by one, and finding them to his satisfaction, tied them up again, and slipped the wallet and its contents into his own pocket. then for the first time he appeared to observe master harry, who, indeed, must have been standing, the perfect picture of horror and dismay. whereupon, bursting out a-laughing, and slipping the pistol he had used back into its sling again, he fetched poor harry a great slap upon the back, bidding him be a man, for that he would see many such sights as this. but indeed, it was no laughing matter for poor master harry, for it was many a day before his imagination could rid itself of the image of the dead spaniard's face; and as he walked away down the street with his companions, leaving the crowd behind them, and the dead body where it lay for its friends to look after, his ears humming and ringing from the deafening noise of the pistol shots fired in the close room, and the sweat trickling down his face in drops, he knew not whether all that had passed had been real, or whether it was a dream from which he might presently awaken. iv the papers captain morgan had thus seized upon as the fruit of the murder he had committed must have been as perfectly satisfactory to him as could be, for having paid a second visit that evening to governor modiford, the pirate lifted anchor the next morning and made sail toward the gulf of darien. there, after cruising about in those waters for about a fortnight without falling in with a vessel of any sort, at the end of that time they overhauled a caravel bound from porto bello to cartagena, which vessel they took, and finding her loaded with nothing better than raw hides, scuttled and sank her, being then about twenty leagues from the main of cartagena. from the captain of this vessel they learned that the plate fleet was then lying in the harbor of porto bello, not yet having set sail thence, but waiting for the change of the winds before embarking for spain. besides this, which was a good deal more to their purpose, the spaniards told the pirates that the sieur simon, his wife, and daughter were confined aboard the vice admiral of that fleet, and that the name of the vice admiral was the santa maria y valladolid. so soon as captain morgan had obtained the information he desired he directed his course straight for the bay of santo blaso, where he might lie safely within the cape of that name without any danger of discovery (that part of the mainland being entirely uninhabited) and yet be within twenty or twenty-five leagues of porto bello. having come safely to this anchorage, he at once declared his intentions to his companions, which were as follows: that it was entirely impossible for them to hope to sail their vessel into the harbor of porto bello, and to attack the spanish vice admiral where he lay in the midst of the armed flota; wherefore, if anything was to be accomplished, it must be undertaken by some subtle design rather than by open-handed boldness. having so prefaced what he had to say, he now declared that it was his purpose to take one of the ship's boats and to go in that to porto bello, trusting for some opportunity to occur to aid him either in the accomplishment of his aims or in the gaining of some further information. having thus delivered himself, he invited any who dared to do so to volunteer for the expedition, telling them plainly that he would constrain no man to go against his will, for that at best it was a desperate enterprise, possessing only the recommendation that in its achievement the few who undertook it would gain great renown, and perhaps a very considerable booty. and such was the incredible influence of this bold man over his companions, and such was their confidence in his skill and cunning, that not above a dozen of all those aboard hung back from the undertaking, but nearly every man desired to be taken. of these volunteers captain morgan chose twenty--among others our master harry--and having arranged with his lieutenant that if nothing was heard from the expedition at the end of three days he should sail for jamaica to await news, he embarked upon that enterprise, which, though never heretofore published, was perhaps the boldest and the most desperate of all those that have since made his name so famous. for what could be a more unparalleled undertaking than for a little open boat, containing but twenty men, to enter the harbor of the third strongest fortress of the spanish mainland with the intention of cutting out the spanish vice admiral from the midst of a whole fleet of powerfully armed vessels, and how many men in all the world do you suppose would venture such a thing? but there is this to be said of that great buccaneer: that if he undertook enterprises so desperate as this, he yet laid his plans so well that they never went altogether amiss. moreover, the very desperation of his successes was of such a nature that no man could suspect that he would dare to undertake such things, and accordingly his enemies were never prepared to guard against his attacks. aye, had he but worn the king's colors and served under the rules of honest war, he might have become as great and as renowned as admiral blake himself. but all that is neither here nor there; what i have to tell you now is that captain morgan in this open boat with his twenty mates reached the cape of salmedina toward the fall of day. arriving within view of the harbor they discovered the plate fleet at anchor, with two men-of-war and an armed galley riding as a guard at the mouth of the harbor, scarce half a league distant from the other ships. having spied the fleet in this posture, the pirates presently pulled down their sails and rowed along the coast, feigning to be a spanish vessel from nombre de dios. so hugging the shore, they came boldly within the harbor, upon the opposite side of which you might see the fortress a considerable distance away. being now come so near to the consummation of their adventure, captain morgan required every man to make an oath to stand by him to the last, whereunto our hero swore as heartily as any man aboard, although his heart, i must needs confess, was beating at a great rate at the approach of what was to happen. having thus received the oaths of all his followers, captain morgan commanded the surgeon of the expedition that, when the order was given, he, the medico, was to bore six holes in the boat, so that, it sinking under them, they might all be compelled to push forward, with no chance of retreat. and such was the ascendancy of this man over his followers, and such was their awe of him, that not one of them uttered even so much as a murmur, though what he had commanded the surgeon to do pledged them either to victory or to death, with no chance to choose between. nor did the surgeon question the orders he had received, much less did he dream of disobeying them. by now it had fallen pretty dusk, whereupon, spying two fishermen in a canoe at a little distance, captain morgan demanded of them in spanish which vessel of those at anchor in the harbor was the vice admiral, for that he had dispatches for the captain thereof. whereupon the fishermen, suspecting nothing, pointed to them a galleon of great size riding at anchor not half a league distant. toward this vessel accordingly the pirates directed their course, and when they had come pretty nigh, captain morgan called upon the surgeon that now it was time for him to perform the duty that had been laid upon him. whereupon the other did as he was ordered, and that so thoroughly that the water presently came gushing into the boat in great streams, whereat all hands pulled for the galleon as though every next moment was to be their last. and what do you suppose were our hero's emotions at this time? like all in the boat, his awe of captain morgan was so great that i do believe he would rather have gone to the bottom than have questioned his command, even when it was to scuttle the boat. nevertheless, when he felt the cold water gushing about his feet (for he had taken off his shoes and stockings) he became possessed with such a fear of being drowned that even the spanish galleon had no terrors for him if he could only feel the solid planks thereof beneath his feet. indeed, all the crew appeared to be possessed of a like dismay, for they pulled at the oars with such an incredible force that they were under the quarter of the galleon before the boat was half filled with water. here, as they approached, it then being pretty dark and the moon not yet having risen, the watch upon the deck hailed them, whereupon captain morgan called out in spanish that he was capt. alvarez mendazo, and that he brought dispatches for the vice admiral. but at that moment, the boat being now so full of water as to be logged, it suddenly tilted upon one side as though to sink beneath them, whereupon all hands, without further orders, went scrambling up the side, as nimble as so many monkeys, each armed with a pistol in one hand and a cutlass in the other, and so were upon deck before the watch could collect his wits to utter any outcry or to give any other alarm than to cry out, "jesu bless us! who are these?" at which words somebody knocked him down with the butt of a pistol, though who it was our hero could not tell in the darkness and the hurry. before any of those upon deck could recover from their alarm or those from below come up upon deck, a part of the pirates, under the carpenter and the surgeon, had run to the gun room and had taken possession of the arms, while captain morgan, with master harry and a portuguese called murillo braziliano, had flown with the speed of the wind into the great cabin. here they found the captain of the vice admiral playing at cards with the sieur simon and a friend, madam simon and her daughter being present. captain morgan instantly set his pistol at the breast of the spanish captain, swearing with a most horrible fierce countenance that if he spake a word or made any outcry he was a dead man. as for our hero, having now got his hand into the game, he performed the same service for the spaniard's friend, declaring he would shoot him dead if he opened his lips or lifted so much as a single finger. all this while the ladies, not comprehending what had occurred, had sat as mute as stones; but now having so far recovered themselves as to find a voice, the younger of the two fell to screaming, at which the sieur simon called out to her to be still, for these were friends who had come to help them, and not enemies who had come to harm them. all this, you are to understand, occupied only a little while, for in less than a minute three or four of the pirates had come into the cabin, who, together with the portuguese, proceeded at once to bind the two spaniards hand and foot, and to gag them. this being done to our buccaneer's satisfaction, and the spanish captain being stretched out in the corner of the cabin, he instantly cleared his countenance of its terrors, and bursting forth into a great loud laugh, clapped his hand to the sieur simon's, which he wrung with the best will in the world. having done this, and being in a fine humor after this his first success, he turned to the two ladies. "and this, ladies," said he, taking our hero by the hand and presenting him, "is a young gentleman who has embarked with me to learn the trade of piracy. i recommend him to your politeness." think what a confusion this threw our master harry into, to be sure, who at his best was never easy in the company of strange ladies! you may suppose what must have been his emotions to find himself thus introduced to the attention of madam simon and her daughter, being at the time in his bare feet, clad only in his shirt and breeches, and with no hat upon his head, a pistol in one hand and a cutlass in the other. however, he was not left for long to his embarrassments, for almost immediately after he had thus far relaxed, captain morgan fell of a sudden serious again, and bidding the sieur simon to get his ladies away into some place of safety, for the most hazardous part of this adventure was yet to occur, he quitted the cabin with master harry and the other pirates (for you may call him a pirate now) at his heels. having come upon deck, our hero beheld that a part of the spanish crew were huddled forward in a flock like so many sheep (the others being crowded below with the hatches fastened upon them), and such was the terror of the pirates, and so dreadful the name of henry morgan, that not one of those poor wretches dared to lift up his voice to give any alarm, nor even to attempt an escape by jumping overboard. at captain morgan's orders, these men, together with certain of his own company, ran nimbly aloft and began setting the sails, which, the night now having fallen pretty thick, was not for a good while observed by any of the vessels riding at anchor about them. indeed, the pirates might have made good their escape, with at most only a shot or two from the men-of-war, had it not then been about the full of the moon, which, having arisen, presently discovered to those of the fleet that lay closest about them what was being done aboard the vice admiral. at this one of the vessels hailed them, and then after a while, having no reply, hailed them again. even then the spaniards might not immediately have suspected anything was amiss but only that the vice admiral for some reason best known to himself was shifting his anchorage, had not one of the spaniards aloft--but who it was captain morgan was never able to discover--answered the hail by crying out that the vice admiral had been seized by the pirates. at this the alarm was instantly given and the mischief done, for presently there was a tremendous bustle through that part of the fleet lying nighest the vice admiral--a deal of shouting of orders, a beating of drums, and the running hither and thither of the crews. but by this time the sails of the vice admiral had filled with a strong land breeze that was blowing up the harbor, whereupon the carpenter, at captain morgan's orders, having cut away both anchors, the galleon presently bore away up the harbor, gathering headway every moment with the wind nearly dead astern. the nearest vessel was the only one that for the moment was able to offer any hindrance. this ship, having by this time cleared away one of its guns, was able to fire a parting shot against the vice-admiral, striking her somewhere forward, as our hero could see by a great shower of splinters that flew up in the moonlight. at the sound of the shot all the vessels of the flota not yet disturbed by the alarm were aroused at once, so that the pirates had the satisfaction of knowing that they would have to run the gantlet of all the ships between them and the open sea before they could reckon themselves escaped. and, indeed, to our hero's mind it seemed that the battle which followed must have been the most terrific cannonade that was ever heard in the world. it was not so ill at first, for it was some while before the spaniards could get their guns clear for action, they being not the least in the world prepared for such an occasion as this. but by and by first one and then another ship opened fire upon the galleon, until it seemed to our hero that all the thunders of heaven let loose upon them could not have created a more prodigious uproar, and that it was not possible that they could any of them escape destruction. by now the moon had risen full and round, so that the clouds of smoke that rose in the air appeared as white as snow. the air seemed full of the hiss and screaming of shot, each one of which, when it struck the galleon, was magnified by our hero's imagination into ten times its magnitude from the crash which it delivered and from the cloud of splinters it would cast up into the moonlight. at last he suddenly beheld one poor man knocked sprawling across the deck, who, as he raised his arm from behind the mast, disclosed that the hand was gone from it, and that the shirt sleeve was red with blood in the moonlight. at this sight all the strength fell away from poor harry, and he felt sure that a like fate or even a worse must be in store for him. but, after all, this was nothing to what it might have been in broad daylight, for what with the darkness of night, and the little preparation the spaniards could make for such a business, and the extreme haste with which they discharged their guns (many not understanding what was the occasion of all this uproar), nearly all the shot flew so wide of the mark that not above one in twenty struck that at which it was aimed. meantime captain morgan, with the sieur simon, who had followed him upon deck, stood just above where our hero lay behind the shelter of the bulwark. the captain had lit a pipe of tobacco, and he stood now in the bright moonlight close to the rail, with his hands behind him, looking out ahead with the utmost coolness imaginable, and paying no more attention to the din of battle than though it were twenty leagues away. now and then he would take his pipe from his lips to utter an order to the man at the wheel. excepting this he stood there hardly moving at all, the wind blowing his long red hair over his shoulders. had it not been for the armed galley the pirates might have got the galleon away with no great harm done in spite of all this cannonading, for the man-of-war which rode at anchor nighest to them at the mouth of the harbor was still so far away that they might have passed it by hugging pretty close to the shore, and that without any great harm being done to them in the darkness. but just at this moment, when the open water lay in sight, came this galley pulling out from behind the point of the shore in such a manner as either to head our pirates off entirely or else to compel them to approach so near to the man-of-war that that latter vessel could bring its guns to bear with more effect. this galley, i must tell you, was like others of its kind such as you may find in these waters, the hull being long and cut low to the water so as to allow the oars to dip freely. the bow was sharp and projected far out ahead, mounting a swivel upon it, while at the stern a number of galleries built one above another into a castle gave shelter to several companies of musketeers as well as the officers commanding them. our hero could behold the approach of this galley from above the starboard bulwarks, and it appeared to him impossible for them to hope to escape either it or the man-of-war. but still captain morgan maintained the same composure that he had exhibited all the while, only now and then delivering an order to the man at the wheel, who, putting the helm over, threw the bows of the galleon around more to the larboard, as though to escape the bow of the galley and get into the open water beyond. this course brought the pirates ever closer and closer to the man-of-war, which now began to add its thunder to the din of the battle, and with so much more effect that at every discharge you might hear the crashing and crackling of splintered wood, and now and then the outcry or groaning of some man who was hurt. indeed, had it been daylight, they must at this juncture all have perished, though, as was said, what with the night and the confusion and the hurry, they escaped entire destruction, though more by a miracle than through any policy upon their own part. meantime the galley, steering as though to come aboard of them, had now come so near that it, too, presently began to open its musketry fire upon them, so that the humming and rattling of bullets were presently added to the din of cannonading. in two minutes more it would have been aboard of them, when in a moment captain morgan roared out of a sudden to the man at the helm to put it hard a starboard. in response the man ran the wheel over with the utmost quickness, and the galleon, obeying her helm very readily, came around upon a course which, if continued, would certainly bring them into collision with their enemy. it is possible at first the spaniards imagined the pirates intended to escape past their stern, for they instantly began backing oars to keep them from getting past, so that the water was all of a foam about them, at the same time they did this they poured in such a fire of musketry that it was a miracle that no more execution was accomplished than happened. as for our hero, methinks for the moment he forgot all about everything else than as to whether or no his captain's maneuver would succeed, for in the very first moment he divined, as by some instinct, what captain morgan purposed doing. at this moment, so particular in the execution of this nice design, a bullet suddenly struck down the man at the wheel. hearing the sharp outcry, our harry turned to see him fall forward, and then to his hands and knees upon the deck, the blood running in a black pool beneath him, while the wheel, escaping from his hands, spun over until the spokes were all of a mist. in a moment the ship would have fallen off before the wind had not our hero, leaping to the wheel (even as captain morgan shouted an order for some one to do so), seized the flying spokes, whirling them back again, and so bringing the bow of the galleon up to its former course. in the first moment of this effort he had reckoned of nothing but of carrying out his captain's designs. he neither thought of cannon balls nor of bullets. but now that his task was accomplished, he came suddenly back to himself to find the galleries of the galley aflame with musket shots, and to become aware with a most horrible sinking of the spirits that all the shots therefrom were intended for him. he cast his eyes about him with despair, but no one came to ease him of his task, which, having undertaken, he had too much spirit to resign from carrying through to the end, though he was well aware that the very next instant might mean his sudden and violent death. his ears hummed and rang, and his brain swam as light as a feather. i know not whether he breathed, but he shut his eyes tight as though that might save him from the bullets that were raining about him. at this moment the spaniards must have discovered for the first time the pirates' design, for of a sudden they ceased firing, and began to shout out a multitude of orders, while the oars lashed the water all about with a foam. but it was too late then for them to escape, for within a couple of seconds the galleon struck her enemy a blow so violent upon the larboard quarter as nearly to hurl our harry upon the deck, and then with a dreadful, horrible crackling of wood, commingled with a yelling of men's voices, the galley was swung around upon her side, and the galleon, sailing into the open sea, left nothing of her immediate enemy but a sinking wreck, and the water dotted all over with bobbing heads and waving hands in the moonlight. and now, indeed, that all danger was past and gone, there were plenty to come running to help our hero at the wheel. as for captain morgan, having come down upon the main deck, he fetches the young helmsman a clap upon the back. "well, master harry," says he, "and did i not tell you i would make a man of you?" whereat our poor harry fell a-laughing, but with a sad catch in his voice, for his hands trembled as with an ague, and were as cold as ice. as for his emotions, god knows he was nearer crying than laughing, if captain morgan had but known it. nevertheless, though undertaken under the spur of the moment, i protest it was indeed a brave deed, and i cannot but wonder how many young gentlemen of sixteen there are to-day who, upon a like occasion, would act as well as our harry. v the balance of our hero's adventures were of a lighter sort than those already recounted, for the next morning the spanish captain (a very polite and well-bred gentleman) having fitted him out with a shift of his own clothes, master harry was presented in a proper form to the ladies. for captain morgan, if he had felt a liking for the young man before, could not now show sufficient regard for him. he ate in the great cabin and was petted by all. madam simon, who was a fat and red-faced lady, was forever praising him, and the young miss, who was extremely well-looking, was as continually making eyes at him. she and master harry, i must tell you, would spend hours together, she making pretense of teaching him french, although he was so possessed with a passion of love that he was nigh suffocated with it. she, upon her part, perceiving his emotions, responded with extreme good nature and complacency, so that had our hero been older, and the voyage proved longer, he might have become entirely enmeshed in the toils of his fair siren. for all this while, you are to understand, the pirates were making sail straight for jamaica, which they reached upon the third day in perfect safety. in that time, however, the pirates had well-nigh gone crazy for joy; for when they came to examine their purchase they discovered her cargo to consist of plate to the prodigious sum of l , in value. 'twas a wonder they did not all make themselves drunk for joy. no doubt they would have done so had not captain morgan, knowing they were still in the exact track of the spanish fleets, threatened them that the first man among them who touched a drop of rum without his permission he would shoot him dead upon the deck. this threat had such effect that they all remained entirely sober until they had reached port royal harbor, which they did about nine o'clock in the morning. and now it was that our hero's romance came all tumbling down about his ears with a run. for they had hardly come to anchor in the harbor when a boat came from a man-of-war, and who should come stepping aboard but lieutenant grantley (a particular friend of our hero's father) and his own eldest brother thomas, who, putting on a very stern face, informed master harry that he was a desperate and hardened villain who was sure to end at the gallows, and that he was to go immediately back to his home again. he told our embryo pirate that his family had nigh gone distracted because of his wicked and ungrateful conduct. nor could our hero move him from his inflexible purpose. "what," says our harry, "and will you not then let me wait until our prize is divided and i get my share?" "prize, indeed!" says his brother. "and do you then really think that your father would consent to your having a share in this terrible bloody and murthering business?" and so, after a good deal of argument, our hero was constrained to go; nor did he even have an opportunity to bid adieu to his inamorata. nor did he see her any more, except from a distance, she standing on the poop deck as he was rowed away from her, her face all stained with crying. for himself, he felt that there was no more joy in life; nevertheless, standing up in the stern of the boat, he made shift, though with an aching heart, to deliver her a fine bow with the hat he had borrowed from the spanish captain, before his brother bade him sit down again. and so to the ending of this story, with only this to relate, that our master harry, so far from going to the gallows, became in good time a respectable and wealthy sugar merchant with an english wife and a fine family of children, whereunto, when the mood was upon him, he has sometimes told these adventures (and sundry others not here recounted), as i have told them unto you. chapter iv. tom chist and the treasure box an old-time story of the days of captain kidd i to tell about tom chist, and how he got his name, and how he came to be living at the little settlement of henlopen, just inside the mouth of the delaware bay, the story must begin as far back as , when a great storm swept the atlantic coast from end to end. during the heaviest part of the hurricane a bark went ashore on the hen-and-chicken shoals, just below cape henlopen and at the mouth of the delaware bay, and tom chist was the only soul of all those on board the ill-fated vessel who escaped alive. this story must first be told, because it was on account of the strange and miraculous escape that happened to him at that time that he gained the name that was given to him. even as late as that time of the american colonies, the little scattered settlement at henlopen, made up of english, with a few dutch and swedish people, was still only a spot upon the face of the great american wilderness that spread away, with swamp and forest, no man knew how far to the westward. that wilderness was not only full of wild beasts, but of indian savages, who every fall would come in wandering tribes to spend the winter along the shores of the fresh-water lakes below henlopen. there for four or five months they would live upon fish and clams and wild ducks and geese, chipping their arrowheads, and making their earthenware pots and pans under the lee of the sand hills and pine woods below the capes. sometimes on sundays, when the rev. hillary jones would be preaching in the little log church back in the woods, these half-clad red savages would come in from the cold, and sit squatting in the back part of the church, listening stolidly to the words that had no meaning for them. but about the wreck of the bark in . such a wreck as that which then went ashore on the hen-and-chicken shoals was a godsend to the poor and needy settlers in the wilderness where so few good things ever came. for the vessel went to pieces during the night, and the next morning the beach was strewn with wreckage--boxes and barrels, chests and spars, timbers and planks, a plentiful and bountiful harvest, to be gathered up by the settlers as they chose, with no one to forbid or prevent them. the name of the bark, as found painted on some of the water barrels and sea chests, was the bristol merchant, and she no doubt hailed from england. as was said, the only soul who escaped alive off the wreck was tom chist. a settler, a fisherman named matt abrahamson, and his daughter molly, found tom. he was washed up on the beach among the wreckage, in a great wooden box which had been securely tied around with a rope and lashed between two spars--apparently for better protection in beating through the surf. matt abrahamson thought he had found something of more than usual value when he came upon this chest; but when he cut the cords and broke open the box with his broadax, he could not have been more astonished had he beheld a salamander instead of a baby of nine or ten months old lying half smothered in the blankets that covered the bottom of the chest. matt abrahamson's daughter molly had had a baby who had died a month or so before. so when she saw the little one lying there in the bottom of the chest, she cried out in a great loud voice that the good man had sent her another baby in place of her own. the rain was driving before the hurricane storm in dim, slanting sheets, and so she wrapped up the baby in the man's coat she wore and ran off home without waiting to gather up any more of the wreckage. it was parson jones who gave the foundling his name. when the news came to his ears of what matt abrahamson had found he went over to the fisherman's cabin to see the child. he examined the clothes in which the baby was dressed. they were of fine linen and handsomely stitched, and the reverend gentleman opined that the foundling's parents must have been of quality. a kerchief had been wrapped around the baby's neck and under its arms and tied behind, and in the corner, marked with very fine needlework, were the initials t. c. "what d'ye call him, molly?" said parson jones. he was standing, as he spoke, with his back to the fire, warming his palms before the blaze. the pocket of the greatcoat he wore bulged out with a big case bottle of spirits which he had gathered up out of the wreck that afternoon. "what d'ye call him, molly?" "i'll call him tom, after my own baby." "that goes very well with the initial on the kerchief," said parson jones. "but what other name d'ye give him? let it be something to go with the c." "i don't know," said molly. "why not call him 'chist,' since he was born in a chist out of the sea? 'tom chist'--the name goes off like a flash in the pan." and so "tom chist" he was called and "tom chist" he was christened. so much for the beginning of the history of tom chist. the story of captain kidd's treasure box does not begin until the late spring of . that was the year that the famous pirate captain, coming up from the west indies, sailed his sloop into the delaware bay, where he lay for over a month waiting for news from his friends in new york. for he had sent word to that town asking if the coast was clear for him to return home with the rich prize he had brought from the indian seas and the coast of africa, and meantime he lay there in the delaware bay waiting for a reply. before he left he turned the whole of tom chist's life topsy-turvy with something that he brought ashore. by that time tom chist had grown into a strong-limbed, thick-jointed boy of fourteen or fifteen years of age. it was a miserable dog's life he lived with old matt abrahamson, for the old fisherman was in his cups more than half the time, and when he was so there was hardly a day passed that he did not give tom a curse or a buffet or, as like as not, an actual beating. one would have thought that such treatment would have broken the spirit of the poor little foundling, but it had just the opposite effect upon tom chist, who was one of your stubborn, sturdy, stiff-willed fellows who only grow harder and more tough the more they are ill-treated. it had been a long time now since he had made any outcry or complaint at the hard usage he suffered from old matt. at such times he would shut his teeth and bear whatever came to him, until sometimes the half-drunken old man would be driven almost mad by his stubborn silence. maybe he would stop in the midst of the beating he was administering, and, grinding his teeth, would cry out: "won't ye say naught? won't ye say naught? well, then, i'll see if i can't make ye say naught." when things had reached such a pass as this molly would generally interfere to protect her foster son, and then she and tom would together fight the old man until they had wrenched the stick or the strap out of his hand. then old matt would chase them out of doors and around and around the house for maybe half an hour, until his anger was cool, when he would go back again, and for a time the storm would be over. besides his foster mother, tom chist had a very good friend in parson jones, who used to come over every now and then to abrahamson's hut upon the chance of getting a half dozen fish for breakfast. he always had a kind word or two for tom, who during the winter evenings would go over to the good man's house to learn his letters, and to read and write and cipher a little, so that by now he was able to spell the words out of the bible and the almanac, and knew enough to change tuppence into four ha'pennies. this is the sort of boy tom chist was, and this is the sort of life he led. in the late spring or early summer of captain kidd's sloop sailed into the mouth of the delaware bay and changed the whole fortune of his life. and this is how you come to the story of captain kidd's treasure box. ii old matt abrahamson kept the flat-bottomed boat in which he went fishing some distance down the shore, and in the neighborhood of the old wreck that had been sunk on the shoals. this was the usual fishing ground of the settlers, and here old matt's boat generally lay drawn up on the sand. there had been a thunderstorm that afternoon, and tom had gone down the beach to bale out the boat in readiness for the morning's fishing. it was full moonlight now, as he was returning, and the night sky was full of floating clouds. now and then there was a dull flash to the westward, and once a muttering growl of thunder, promising another storm to come. all that day the pirate sloop had been lying just off the shore back of the capes, and now tom chist could see the sails glimmering pallidly in the moonlight, spread for drying after the storm. he was walking up the shore homeward when he became aware that at some distance ahead of him there was a ship's boat drawn up on the little narrow beach, and a group of men clustered about it. he hurried forward with a good deal of curiosity to see who had landed, but it was not until he had come close to them that he could distinguish who and what they were. then he knew that it must be a party who had come off the pirate sloop. they had evidently just landed, and two men were lifting out a chest from the boat. one of them was a negro, naked to the waist, and the other was a white man in his shirt sleeves, wearing petticoat breeches, a monterey cap upon his head, a red bandanna handkerchief around his neck, and gold earrings in his ears. he had a long, plaited queue hanging down his back, and a great sheath knife dangling from his side. another man, evidently the captain of the party, stood at a little distance as they lifted the chest out of the boat. he had a cane in one hand and a lighted lantern in the other, although the moon was shining as bright as day. he wore jack boots and a handsome laced coat, and he had a long, drooping mustache that curled down below his chin. he wore a fine, feathered hat, and his long black hair hung down upon his shoulders. all this tom chist could see in the moonlight that glinted and twinkled upon the gilt buttons of his coat. they were so busy lifting the chest from the boat that at first they did not observe that tom chist had come up and was standing there. it was the white man with the long, plaited queue and the gold earrings that spoke to him. "boy, what do you want here, boy?" he said, in a rough, hoarse voice. "where d'ye come from?" and then dropping his end of the chest, and without giving tom time to answer, he pointed off down the beach, and said, "you'd better be going about your own business, if you know what's good for you; and don't you come back, or you'll find what you don't want waiting for you." tom saw in a glance that the pirates were all looking at him, and then, without saying a word, he turned and walked away. the man who had spoken to him followed him threateningly for some little distance, as though to see that he had gone away as he was bidden to do. but presently he stopped, and tom hurried on alone, until the boat and the crew and all were dropped away behind and lost in the moonlight night. then he himself stopped also, turned, and looked back whence he had come. there had been something very strange in the appearance of the men he had just seen, something very mysterious in their actions, and he wondered what it all meant, and what they were going to do. he stood for a little while thus looking and listening. he could see nothing, and could hear only the sound of distant talking. what were they doing on the lonely shore thus at night? then, following a sudden impulse, he turned and cut off across the sand hummocks, skirting around inland, but keeping pretty close to the shore, his object being to spy upon them, and to watch what they were about from the back of the low sand hills that fronted the beach. he had gone along some distance in his circuitous return when he became aware of the sound of voices that seemed to be drawing closer to him as he came toward the speakers. he stopped and stood listening, and instantly, as he stopped, the voices stopped also. he crouched there silently in the bright, glimmering moonlight, surrounded by the silent stretches of sand, and the stillness seemed to press upon him like a heavy hand. then suddenly the sound of a man's voice began again, and as tom listened he could hear some one slowly counting. "ninety-one," the voice began, "ninety-two, ninety-three, ninety-four, ninety-five, ninety-six, ninety-seven, ninety-eight, ninety-nine, one hundred, one hundred and one"--the slow, monotonous count coming nearer and nearer; "one hundred and two, one hundred and three, one hundred and four," and so on in its monotonous reckoning. suddenly he saw three heads appear above the sand hill, so close to him that he crouched down quickly with a keen thrill, close beside the hummock near which he stood. his first fear was that they might have seen him in the moonlight; but they had not, and his heart rose again as the counting voice went steadily on. "one hundred and twenty," it was saying--"and twenty-one, and twenty-two, and twenty-three, and twenty-four," and then he who was counting came out from behind the little sandy rise into the white and open level of shimmering brightness. it was the man with the cane whom tom had seen some time before the captain of the party who had landed. he carried his cane under his arm now, and was holding his lantern close to something that he held in his hand, and upon which he looked narrowly as he walked with a slow and measured tread in a perfectly straight line across the sand, counting each step as he took it. "and twenty-five, and twenty-six, and twenty-seven, and twenty-eight, and twenty-nine, and thirty." behind him walked two other figures; one was the half-naked negro, the other the man with the plaited queue and the earrings, whom tom had seen lifting the chest out of the boat. now they were carrying the heavy box between them, laboring through the sand with shuffling tread as they bore it onward. as he who was counting pronounced the word "thirty," the two men set the chest down on the sand with a grunt, the white man panting and blowing and wiping his sleeve across his forehead. and immediately he who counted took out a slip of paper and marked something down upon it. they stood there for a long time, during which tom lay behind the sand hummock watching them, and for a while the silence was uninterrupted. in the perfect stillness tom could hear the washing of the little waves beating upon the distant beach, and once the far-away sound of a laugh from one of those who stood by the ship's boat. one, two, three minutes passed, and then the men picked up the chest and started on again; and then again the other man began his counting. "thirty and one, and thirty and two, and thirty and three, and thirty and four"--he walked straight across the level open, still looking intently at that which he held in his hand--"and thirty and five, and thirty and six, and thirty and seven," and so on, until the three figures disappeared in the little hollow between the two sand hills on the opposite side of the open, and still tom could hear the sound of the counting voice in the distance. just as they disappeared behind the hill there was a sudden faint flash of light; and by and by, as tom lay still listening to the counting, he heard, after a long interval, a far-away muffled rumble of distant thunder. he waited for a while, and then arose and stepped to the top of the sand hummock behind which he had been lying. he looked all about him, but there was no one else to be seen. then he stepped down from the hummock and followed in the direction which the pirate captain and the two men carrying the chest had gone. he crept along cautiously, stopping now and then to make sure that he still heard the counting voice, and when it ceased he lay down upon the sand and waited until it began again. presently, so following the pirates, he saw the three figures again in the distance, and, skirting around back of a hill of sand covered with coarse sedge grass, he came to where he overlooked a little open level space gleaming white in the moonlight. the three had been crossing the level of sand, and were now not more than twenty-five paces from him. they had again set down the chest, upon which the white man with the long queue and the gold earrings had seated to rest himself, the negro standing close beside him. the moon shone as bright as day and full upon his face. it was looking directly at tom chist, every line as keen cut with white lights and black shadows as though it had been carved in ivory and jet. he sat perfectly motionless, and tom drew back with a start, almost thinking he had been discovered. he lay silent, his heart beating heavily in his throat; but there was no alarm, and presently he heard the counting begin again, and when he looked once more he saw they were going away straight across the little open. a soft, sliding hillock of sand lay directly in front of them. they did not turn aside, but went straight over it, the leader helping himself up the sandy slope with his cane, still counting and still keeping his eyes fixed upon that which he held in his hand. then they disappeared again behind the white crest on the other side. so tom followed them cautiously until they had gone almost half a mile inland. when next he saw them clearly it was from a little sandy rise which looked down like the crest of a bowl upon the floor of sand below. upon this smooth, white floor the moon beat with almost dazzling brightness. the white man who had helped to carry the chest was now kneeling, busied at some work, though what it was tom at first could not see. he was whittling the point of a stick into a long wooden peg, and when, by and by, he had finished what he was about, he arose and stepped to where he who seemed to be the captain had stuck his cane upright into the ground as though to mark some particular spot. he drew the cane out of the sand, thrusting the stick down in its stead. then he drove the long peg down with a wooden mallet which the negro handed to him. the sharp rapping of the mallet upon the top of the peg sounded loud the perfect stillness, and tom lay watching and wondering what it all meant. the man, with quick-repeated blows, drove the peg farther and farther down into the sand until it showed only two or three inches above the surface. as he finished his work there was another faint flash of light, and by and by another smothered rumble of thunder, and tom, as he looked out toward the westward, saw the silver rim of the round and sharply outlined thundercloud rising slowly up into the sky and pushing the other and broken drifting clouds before it. the two white men were now stooping over the peg, the negro man watching them. then presently the man with the cane started straight away from the peg, carrying the end of a measuring line with him, the other end of which the man with the plaited queue held against the top of the peg. when the pirate captain had reached the end of the measuring line he marked a cross upon the sand, and then again they measured out another stretch of space. so they measured a distance five times over, and then, from where tom lay, he could see the man with the queue drive another peg just at the foot of a sloping rise of sand that swept up beyond into a tall white dune marked sharp and clear against the night sky behind. as soon as the man with the plaited queue had driven the second peg into the ground they began measuring again, and so, still measuring, disappeared in another direction which took them in behind the sand dune where tom no longer could see what they were doing. the negro still sat by the chest where the two had left him, and so bright was the moonlight that from where he lay tom could see the glint of it twinkling in the whites of his eyeballs. presently from behind the hill there came, for the third time, the sharp rapping sound of the mallet driving still another peg, and then after a while the two pirates emerged from behind the sloping whiteness into the space of moonlight again. they came direct to where the chest lay, and the white man and the black man lifting it once more, they walked away across the level of open sand, and so on behind the edge of the hill and out of tom's sight. iii tom chist could no longer see what the pirates were doing, neither did he dare to cross over the open space of sand that now lay between them and him. he lay there speculating as to what they were about, and meantime the storm cloud was rising higher and higher above the horizon, with louder and louder mutterings of thunder following each dull flash from out the cloudy, cavernous depths. in the silence he could hear an occasional click as of some iron implement, and he opined that the pirates were burying the chest, though just where they were at work he could neither see nor tell. still he lay there watching and listening, and by and by a puff of warm air blew across the sand, and a thumping tumble of louder thunder leaped from out the belly of the storm cloud, which every minute was coming nearer and nearer. still tom chist lay watching. suddenly, almost unexpectedly, the three figures reappeared from behind the sand hill, the pirate captain leading the way, and the negro and white man following close behind him. they had gone about halfway across the white, sandy level between the hill and the hummock behind which tom chist lay, when the white man stopped and bent over as though to tie his shoe. this brought the negro a few steps in front of his companion. that which then followed happened so suddenly, so unexpectedly, so swiftly, that tom chist had hardly time to realize what it all meant before it was over. as the negro passed him the white man arose suddenly and silently erect, and tom chist saw the white moonlight glint upon the blade of a great dirk knife which he now held in his hand. he took one, two silent, catlike steps behind the unsuspecting negro. then there was a sweeping flash of the blade in the pallid light, and a blow, the thump of which tom could distinctly hear even from where he lay stretched out upon the sand. there was an instant echoing yell from the black man, who ran stumbling forward, who stopped, who regained his footing, and then stood for an instant as though rooted to the spot. tom had distinctly seen the knife enter his back, and even thought that he had seen the glint of the point as it came out from the breast. meantime the pirate captain had stopped, and now stood with his hand resting upon his cane looking impassively on. then the black man started to run. the white man stood for a while glaring after him; then he, too, started after his victim upon the run. the black man was not very far from tom when he staggered and fell. he tried to rise, then fell forward again, and lay at length. at that instant the first edge of the cloud cut across the moon, and there was a sudden darkness; but in the silence tom heard the sound of another blow and a groan, and then presently a voice calling to the pirate captain that it was all over. he saw the dim form of the captain crossing the level sand, and then, as the moon sailed out from behind the cloud, he saw the white man standing over a black figure that lay motionless upon the sand. then tom chist scrambled up and ran away, plunging down into the hollow of sand that lay in the shadows below. over the next rise he ran, and down again into the next black hollow, and so on over the sliding, shifting ground, panting and gasping. it seemed to him that he could hear footsteps following, and in the terror that possessed him he almost expected every instant to feel the cold knife blade slide between his own ribs in such a thrust from behind as he had seen given to the poor black man. so he ran on like one in a nightmare. his feet grew heavy like lead, he panted and gasped, his breath came hot and dry in his throat. but still he ran and ran until at last he found himself in front of old matt abrahamson's cabin, gasping, panting, and sobbing for breath, his knees relaxed and his thighs trembling with weakness. as he opened the door and dashed into the darkened cabin (for both matt and molly were long ago asleep in bed) there was a flash of light, and even as he slammed to the door behind him there was an instant peal of thunder, heavy as though a great weight had been dropped upon the roof of the sky, so that the doors and windows of the cabin rattled. iv then tom chist crept to bed, trembling, shuddering, bathed in sweat, his heart beating like a trip hammer, and his brain dizzy from that long, terror-inspired race through the soft sand in which he had striven to outstrip he knew not what pursuing horror. for a long, long time he lay awake, trembling and chattering with nervous chills, and when he did fall asleep it was only to drop into monstrous dreams in which he once again saw ever enacted, with various grotesque variations, the tragic drama which his waking eyes had beheld the night before. then came the dawning of the broad, wet daylight, and before the rising of the sun tom was up and out of doors to find the young day dripping with the rain of overnight. his first act was to climb the nearest sand hill and to gaze out toward the offing where the pirate ship had been the day before. it was no longer there. soon afterward matt abrahamson came out of the cabin and he called to tom to go get a bite to eat, for it was time for them to be away fishing. all that morning the recollection of the night before hung over tom chist like a great cloud of boding trouble. it filled the confined area of the little boat and spread over the entire wide spaces of sky and sea that surrounded them. not for a moment was it lifted. even when he was hauling in his wet and dripping line with a struggling fish at the end of it a recurrent memory of what he had seen would suddenly come upon him, and he would groan in spirit at the recollection. he looked at matt abrahamson's leathery face, at his lantern jaws cavernously and stolidly chewing at a tobacco leaf, and it seemed monstrous to him that the old man should be so unconscious of the black cloud that wrapped them all about. when the boat reached the shore again he leaped scrambling to the beach, and as soon as his dinner was eaten he hurried away to find the dominie jones. he ran all the way from abrahamson's hut to the parson's house, hardly stopping once, and when he knocked at the door he was panting and sobbing for breath. the good man was sitting on the back-kitchen doorstep smoking his long pipe of tobacco out into the sunlight, while his wife within was rattling about among the pans and dishes in preparation of their supper, of which a strong, porky smell already filled the air. then tom chist told his story, panting, hurrying, tumbling one word over another in his haste, and parson jones listened, breaking every now and then into an ejaculation of wonder. the light in his pipe went out and the bowl turned cold. "and i don't see why they should have killed the poor black man," said tom, as he finished his narrative. "why, that is very easy enough to understand," said the good reverend man. "'twas a treasure box they buried!" in his agitation mr. jones had risen from his seat and was now stumping up and down, puffing at his empty tobacco pipe as though it were still alight. "a treasure box!" cried out tom. "aye, a treasure box! and that was why they killed the poor black man. he was the only one, d'ye see, besides they two who knew the place where 'twas hid, and now that they've killed him out of the way, there's nobody but themselves knows. the villains--tut, tut, look at that now!" in his excitement the dominie had snapped the stem of his tobacco pipe in two. "why, then," said tom, "if that is so, 'tis indeed a wicked, bloody treasure, and fit to bring a curse upon anybody who finds it!" "'tis more like to bring a curse upon the soul who buried it," said parson jones, "and it may be a blessing to him who finds it. but tell me, tom, do you think you could find the place again where 'twas hid?" "i can't tell that," said tom, "'twas all in among the sand humps, d'ye see, and it was at night into the bargain. maybe we could find the marks of their feet in the sand," he added. "'tis not likely," said the reverend gentleman, "for the storm last night would have washed all that away." "i could find the place," said tom, "where the boat was drawn up on the beach." "why, then, that's something to start from, tom," said his friend. "if we can find that, then maybe we can find whither they went from there." "if i was certain it was a treasure box," cried out tom chist, "i would rake over every foot of sand betwixt here and henlopen to find it." "'twould be like hunting for a pin in a haystack," said the rev. hilary jones. as tom walked away home, it seemed as though a ton's weight of gloom had been rolled away from his soul. the next day he and parson jones were to go treasure-hunting together; it seemed to tom as though he could hardly wait for the time to come. v the next afternoon parson jones and tom chist started off together upon the expedition that made tom's fortune forever. tom carried a spade over his shoulder and the reverend gentleman walked along beside him with his cane. as they jogged along up the beach they talked together about the only thing they could talk about--the treasure box. "and how big did you say 'twas?" quoth the good gentleman. "about so long," said tom chist, measuring off upon the spade, "and about so wide, and this deep." "and what if it should be full of money, tom?" said the reverend gentleman, swinging his cane around and around in wide circles in the excitement of the thought, as he strode along briskly. "suppose it should be full of money, what then?" "by moses!" said tom chist, hurrying to keep up with his friend, "i'd buy a ship for myself, i would, and i'd trade to injyy and to chiny to my own boot, i would. suppose the chist was all full of money, sir, and suppose we should find it; would there be enough in it, d'ye suppose, to buy a ship?" "to be sure there would be enough, tom, enough and to spare, and a good big lump over." "and if i find it 'tis mine to keep, is it, and no mistake?" "why, to be sure it would be yours!" cried out the parson, in a loud voice. "to be sure it would be yours!" he knew nothing of the law, but the doubt of the question began at once to ferment in his brain, and he strode along in silence for a while. "whose else would it be but yours if you find it?" he burst out. "can you tell me that?" "if ever i have a ship of my own," said tom chist, "and if ever i sail to injy in her, i'll fetch ye back the best chist of tea, sir, that ever was fetched from cochin chiny." parson jones burst out laughing. "thankee, tom," he said; "and i'll thankee again when i get my chist of tea. but tell me, tom, didst thou ever hear of the farmer girl who counted her chickens before they were hatched?" it was thus they talked as they hurried along up the beach together, and so came to a place at last where tom stopped short and stood looking about him. "'twas just here," he said, "i saw the boat last night. i know 'twas here, for i mind me of that bit of wreck yonder, and that there was a tall stake drove in the sand just where yon stake stands." parson jones put on his barnacles and went over to the stake toward which tom pointed. as soon as he had looked at it carefully he called out: "why, tom, this hath been just drove down into the sand. 'tis a brand-new stake of wood, and the pirates must have set it here themselves as a mark, just as they drove the pegs you spoke about down into the sand." tom came over and looked at the stake. it was a stout piece of oak nearly two inches thick; it had been shaped with some care, and the top of it had been painted red. he shook the stake and tried to move it, but it had been driven or planted so deeply into the sand that he could not stir it. "aye, sir," he said, "it must have been set here for a mark, for i'm sure 'twas not here yesterday or the day before." he stood looking about him to see if there were other signs of the pirates' presence. at some little distance there was the corner of something white sticking up out of the sand. he could see that it was a scrap of paper, and he pointed to it, calling out: "yonder is a piece of paper, sir. i wonder if they left that behind them?" it was a miraculous chance that placed that paper there. there was only an inch of it showing, and if it had not been for tom's sharp eyes, it would certainly have been overlooked and passed by. the next windstorm would have covered it up, and all that afterward happened never would have occurred. "look, sir," he said, as he struck the sand from it, "it hath writing on it." "let me see it," said parson jones. he adjusted the spectacles a little more firmly astride of his nose as he took the paper in his hand and began conning it. "what's all this?" he said; "a whole lot of figures and nothing else." and then he read aloud, "'mark--s. s. w. s. by s.' what d'ye suppose that means, tom?" "i don't know, sir," said tom. "but maybe we can understand it better if you read on." "'tis all a great lot of figures," said parson jones, "without a grain of meaning in them so far as i can see, unless they be sailing directions." and then he began reading again: "'mark--s. s. w. by s. , , , , , , , , , '--d'ye see, it must be sailing directions--' , , , , , , , , , , , '--what a lot of them there be ' , , , , , , , , , . peg. s. e. by e. foot. peg. s. s. w. by s. foot. peg. dig to the west of this six foot.'" "what's that about a peg?" exclaimed tom. "what's that about a peg? and then there's something about digging, too!" it was as though a sudden light began shining into his brain. he felt himself growing quickly very excited. "read that over again, sir," he cried. "why, sir, you remember i told you they drove a peg into the sand. and don't they say to dig close to it? read it over again, sir--read it over again!" "peg?" said the good gentleman. "to be sure it was about a peg. let's look again. yes, here it is. 'peg s. e. by e. foot.'" "aye!" cried out tom chist again, in great excitement. "don't you remember what i told you, sir, foot? sure that must be what i saw 'em measuring with the line." parson jones had now caught the flame of excitement that was blazing up so strongly in tom's breast. he felt as though some wonderful thing was about to happen to them. "to be sure, to be sure!" he called out, in a great big voice. "and then they measured out foot south-southwest by south, and they then drove another peg, and then they buried the box six foot to the west of it. why, tom--why, tom chist! if we've read this aright, thy fortune is made." tom chist stood staring straight at the old gentleman's excited face, and seeing nothing but it in all the bright infinity of sunshine. were they, indeed, about to find the treasure chest? he felt the sun very hot upon his shoulders, and he heard the harsh, insistent jarring of a tern that hovered and circled with forked tail and sharp white wings in the sunlight just above their heads; but all the time he stood staring into the good old gentleman's face. it was parson jones who first spoke. "but what do all these figures mean?" and tom observed how the paper shook and rustled in the tremor of excitement that shook his hand. he raised the paper to the focus of his spectacles and began to read again. "'mark , , --'" "mark?" cried out tom, almost screaming. "why, that must mean the stake yonder; that must be the mark." and he pointed to the oaken stick with its red tip blazing against the white shimmer of sand behind it. "and the and and ," cried the old gentleman, in a voice equally shrill--"why, that must mean the number of steps the pirate was counting when you heard him." "to be sure that's what they mean!" cried tom chist. "that is it, and it can be nothing else. oh, come, sir--come, sir; let us make haste and find it!" "stay! stay!" said the good gentleman, holding up his hand; and again tom chist noticed how it trembled and shook. his voice was steady enough, though very hoarse, but his hand shook and trembled as though with a palsy. "stay! stay! first of all, we must follow these measurements. and 'tis a marvelous thing," he croaked, after a little pause, "how this paper ever came to be here." "maybe it was blown here by the storm," suggested tom chist. "like enough; like enough," said parson jones. "like enough, after the wretches had buried the chest and killed the poor black man, they were so buffeted and bowsed about by the storm that it was shook out of the man's pocket, and thus blew away from him without his knowing aught of it." "but let us find the box!" cried out tom chist, flaming with his excitement. "aye, aye," said the good man; "only stay a little, my boy, until we make sure what we're about. i've got my pocket compass here, but we must have something to measure off the feet when we have found the peg. you run across to tom brooke's house and fetch that measuring rod he used to lay out his new byre. while you're gone i'll pace off the distance marked on the paper with my pocket compass here." vi tom chist was gone for almost an hour, though he ran nearly all the way and back, upborne as on the wings of the wind. when he returned, panting, parson jones was nowhere to be seen, but tom saw his footsteps leading away inland, and he followed the scuffling marks in the smooth surface across the sand humps and down into the hollows, and by and by found the good gentleman in a spot he at once knew as soon as he laid his eyes upon it. it was the open space where the pirates had driven their first peg, and where tom chist had afterward seen them kill the poor black man. tom chist gazed around as though expecting to see some sign of the tragedy, but the space was as smooth and as undisturbed as a floor, excepting where, midway across it, parson jones, who was now stooping over something on the ground, had trampled it all around about. when tom chist saw him he was still bending over, scraping away from something he had found. it was the first peg! inside of half an hour they had found the second and third pegs, and tom chist stripped off his coat, and began digging like mad down into the sand, parson jones standing over him watching him. the sun was sloping well toward the west when the blade of tom chist's spade struck upon something hard. if it had been his own heart that he had hit in the sand his breast could hardly have thrilled more sharply. it was the treasure box! parson jones himself leaped down into the hole, and began scraping away the sand with his hands as though he had gone crazy. at last, with some difficulty, they tugged and hauled the chest up out of the sand to the surface, where it lay covered all over with the grit that clung to it. it was securely locked and fastened with a padlock, and it took a good many blows with the blade of the spade to burst the bolt. parson jones himself lifted the lid. tom chist leaned forward and gazed down into the open box. he would not have been surprised to have seen it filled full of yellow gold and bright jewels. it was filled half full of books and papers, and half full of canvas bags tied safely and securely around and around with cords of string. parson jones lifted out one of the bags, and it jingled as he did so. it was full of money. he cut the string, and with trembling, shaking hands handed the bag to tom, who, in an ecstasy of wonder and dizzy with delight, poured out with swimming sight upon the coat spread on the ground a cataract of shining silver money that rang and twinkled and jingled as it fell in a shining heap upon the coarse cloth. parson jones held up both hands into the air, and tom stared at what he saw, wondering whether it was all so, and whether he was really awake. it seemed to him as though he was in a dream. there were two-and-twenty bags in all in the chest: ten of them full of silver money, eight of them full of gold money, three of them full of gold dust, and one small bag with jewels wrapped up in wad cotton and paper. "'tis enough," cried out parson jones, "to make us both rich men as long as we live." the burning summer sun, though sloping in the sky, beat down upon them as hot as fire; but neither of them noticed it. neither did they notice hunger nor thirst nor fatigue, but sat there as though in a trance, with the bags of money scattered on the sand around them, a great pile of money heaped upon the coat, and the open chest beside them. it was an hour of sundown before parson jones had begun fairly to examine the books and papers in the chest. of the three books, two were evidently log books of the pirates who had been lying off the mouth of the delaware bay all this time. the other book was written in spanish, and was evidently the log book of some captured prize. it was then, sitting there upon the sand, the good old gentleman reading in his high, cracking voice, that they first learned from the bloody records in those two books who it was who had been lying inside the cape all this time, and that it was the famous captain kidd. every now and then the reverend gentleman would stop to exclaim, "oh, the bloody wretch!" or, "oh, the desperate, cruel villains!" and then would go on reading again a scrap here and a scrap there. and all the while tom chist sat and listened, every now and then reaching out furtively and touching the heap of money still lying upon the coat. one might be inclined to wonder why captain kidd had kept those bloody records. he had probably laid them away because they so incriminated many of the great people of the colony of new york that, with the books in evidence, it would have been impossible to bring the pirate to justice without dragging a dozen or more fine gentlemen into the dock along with him. if he could have kept them in his own possession they would doubtless have been a great weapon of defense to protect him from the gallows. indeed, when captain kidd was finally brought to conviction and hung, he was not accused of his piracies, but of striking a mutinous seaman upon the head with a bucket and accidentally killing him. the authorities did not dare try him for piracy. he was really hung because he was a pirate, and we know that it was the log books that tom chist brought to new york that did the business for him; he was accused and convicted of manslaughter for killing of his own ship carpenter with a bucket. so parson jones, sitting there in the slanting light, read through these terrible records of piracy, and tom, with the pile of gold and silver money beside him, sat and listened to him. what a spectacle, if anyone had come upon them! but they were alone, with the vast arch of sky empty above them and the wide white stretch of sand a desert around them. the sun sank lower and lower, until there was only time to glance through the other papers in the chest. they were nearly all goldsmiths' bills of exchange drawn in favor of certain of the most prominent merchants of new york. parson jones, as he read over the names, knew of nearly all the gentlemen by hearsay. aye, here was this gentleman; he thought that name would be among 'em. what? here is mr. so-and-so. well, if all they say is true, the villain has robbed one of his own best friends. "i wonder," he said, "why the wretch should have hidden these papers so carefully away with the other treasures, for they could do him no good?" then, answering his own question: "like enough because these will give him a hold over the gentlemen to whom they are drawn so that he can make a good bargain for his own neck before he gives the bills back to their owners. i tell you what it is, tom," he continued, "it is you yourself shall go to new york and bargain for the return of these papers. 'twill be as good as another fortune to you." the majority of the bills were drawn in favor of one richard chillingsworth, esquire. "and he is," said parson jones, "one of the richest men in the province of new york. you shall go to him with the news of what we have found." "when shall i go?" said tom chist. "you shall go upon the very first boat we can catch," said the parson. he had turned, still holding the bills in his hand, and was now fingering over the pile of money that yet lay tumbled out upon the coat. "i wonder, tom," said he, "if you could spare me a score or so of these doubloons?" "you shall have fifty score, if you choose," said tom, bursting with gratitude and with generosity in his newly found treasure. "you are as fine a lad as ever i saw, tom," said the parson, "and i'll thank you to the last day of my life." tom scooped up a double handful of silver money. "take it sir," he said, "and you may have as much more as you want of it." he poured it into the dish that the good man made of his hands, and the parson made a motion as though to empty it into his pocket. then he stopped, as though a sudden doubt had occurred to him. "i don't know that 'tis fit for me to take this pirate money, after all," he said. "but you are welcome to it," said tom. still the parson hesitated. "nay," he burst out, "i'll not take it; 'tis blood money." and as he spoke he chucked the whole double handful into the now empty chest, then arose and dusted the sand from his breeches. then, with a great deal of bustling energy, he helped to tie the bags again and put them all back into the chest. they reburied the chest in the place whence they had taken it, and then the parson folded the precious paper of directions, placed it carefully in his wallet, and his wallet in his pocket. "tom," he said, for the twentieth time, "your fortune has been made this day." and tom chist, as he rattled in his breeches pocket the half dozen doubloons he had kept out of his treasure, felt that what his friend had said was true. as the two went back homeward across the level space of sand tom chist suddenly stopped stock-still and stood looking about him. "'twas just here," he said, digging his heel down into the sand, "that they killed the poor black man." "and here he lies buried for all time," said parson jones; and as he spoke he dug his cane down into the sand. tom chist shuddered. he would not have been surprised if the ferrule of the cane had struck something soft beneath that level surface. but it did not, nor was any sign of that tragedy ever seen again. for, whether the pirates had carried away what they had done and buried it elsewhere, or whether the storm in blowing the sand had completely leveled off and hidden all sign of that tragedy where it was enacted, certain it is that it never came to sight again--at least so far as tom chist and the rev. hilary jones ever knew. vii this is the story of the treasure box. all that remains now is to conclude the story of tom chist, and to tell of what came of him in the end. he did not go back again to live with old matt abrahamson. parson jones had now taken charge of him and his fortunes, and tom did not have to go back to the fisherman's hut. old abrahamson talked a great deal about it, and would come in his cups and harangue good parson jones, making a vast protestation of what he would do to tom--if he ever caught him--for running away. but tom on all these occasions kept carefully out of his way, and nothing came of the old man's threatenings. tom used to go over to see his foster mother now and then, but always when the old man was from home. and molly abrahamson used to warn him to keep out of her father's way. "he's in as vile a humor as ever i see, tom," she said; "he sits sulking all day long, and 'tis my belief he'd kill ye if he caught ye." of course tom said nothing, even to her, about the treasure, and he and the reverend gentleman kept the knowledge thereof to themselves. about three weeks later parson jones managed to get him shipped aboard of a vessel bound for new york town, and a few days later tom chist landed at that place. he had never been in such a town before, and he could not sufficiently wonder and marvel at the number of brick houses, at the multitude of people coming and going along the fine, hard, earthen sidewalk, at the shops and the stores where goods hung in the windows, and, most of all, the fortifications and the battery at the point, at the rows of threatening cannon, and at the scarlet-coated sentries pacing up and down the ramparts. all this was very wonderful, and so were the clustered boats riding at anchor in the harbor. it was like a new world, so different was it from the sand hills and the sedgy levels of henlopen. tom chist took up his lodgings at a coffee house near to the town hall, and thence he sent by the postboy a letter written by parson jones to master chillingsworth. in a little while the boy returned with a message, asking tom to come up to mr. chillingsworth's house that afternoon at two o'clock. tom went thither with a great deal of trepidation, and his heart fell away altogether when he found it a fine, grand brick house, three stories high, and with wrought-iron letters across the front. the counting house was in the same building; but tom, because of mr. jones's letter, was conducted directly into the parlor, where the great rich man was awaiting his coming. he was sitting in a leather-covered armchair, smoking a pipe of tobacco, and with a bottle of fine old madeira close to his elbow. tom had not had a chance to buy a new suit of clothes yet, and so he cut no very fine figure in the rough dress he had brought with him from henlopen. nor did mr. chillingsworth seem to think very highly of his appearance, for he sat looking sideways at tom as he smoked. "well, my lad," he said, "and what is this great thing you have to tell me that is so mightily wonderful? i got what's-his-name--mr. jones's--letter, and now i am ready to hear what you have to say." but if he thought but little of his visitor's appearance at first, he soon changed his sentiments toward him, for tom had not spoken twenty words when mr. chillingsworth's whole aspect changed. he straightened himself up in his seat, laid aside his pipe, pushed away his glass of madeira, and bade tom take a chair. he listened without a word as tom chist told of the buried treasure, of how he had seen the poor negro murdered, and of how he and parson jones had recovered the chest again. only once did mr. chillingsworth interrupt the narrative. "and to think," he cried, "that the villain this very day walks about new york town as though he were an honest man, ruffling it with the best of us! but if we can only get hold of these log books you speak of. go on; tell me more of this." when tom chist's narrative was ended, mr. chillingsworth's bearing was as different as daylight is from dark. he asked a thousand questions, all in the most polite and gracious tone imaginable, and not only urged a glass of his fine old madeira upon tom, but asked him to stay to supper. there was nobody to be there, he said, but his wife and daughter. tom, all in a panic at the very thought of the two ladies, sturdily refused to stay even for the dish of tea mr. chillingsworth offered him. he did not know that he was destined to stay there as long as he should live. "and now," said mr. chillingsworth, "tell me about yourself." "i have nothing to tell, your honor," said tom, "except that i was washed up out of the sea." "washed up out of the sea!" exclaimed mr. chillingsworth. "why, how was that? come, begin at the beginning, and tell me all." thereupon tom chist did as he was bidden, beginning at the very beginning and telling everything just as molly abrahamson had often told it to him. as he continued, mr. chillingsworth's interest changed into an appearance of stronger and stronger excitement. suddenly he jumped up out of his chair and began to walk up and down the room. "stop! stop!" he cried out at last, in the midst of something tom was saying. "stop! stop! tell me; do you know the name of the vessel that was wrecked, and from which you were washed ashore?" "i've heard it said," said tom chist, "'twas the bristol merchant." "i knew it! i knew it!" exclaimed the great man, in a loud voice, flinging his hands up into the air. "i felt it was so the moment you began the story. but tell me this, was there nothing found with you with a mark or a name upon it?" "there was a kerchief," said tom, "marked with a t and a c." "theodosia chillingsworth!" cried out the merchant. "i knew it! i knew it! heavens! to think of anything so wonderful happening as this! boy! boy! dost thou know who thou art? thou art my own brother's son. his name was oliver chillingsworth, and he was my partner in business, and thou art his son." then he ran out into the entryway, shouting and calling for his wife and daughter to come. so tom chist--or thomas chillingsworth, as he now was to be called--did stay to supper, after all. this is the story, and i hope you may like it. for tom chist became rich and great, as was to be supposed, and he married his pretty cousin theodosia (who had been named for his own mother, drowned in the bristol merchant). he did not forget his friends, but had parson jones brought to new york to live. as to molly and matt abrahamson, they both enjoyed a pension of ten pounds a year for as long as they lived; for now that all was well with him, tom bore no grudge against the old fisherman for all the drubbings he had suffered. the treasure box was brought on to new york, and if tom chist did not get all the money there was in it (as parson jones had opined he would) he got at least a good big lump of it. and it is my belief that those log books did more to get captain kidd arrested in boston town and hanged in london than anything else that was brought up against him. chapter v. jack ballister's fortunes i we, of these times, protected as we are by the laws and by the number of people about us, can hardly comprehend such a life as that of the american colonies in the early part of the eighteenth century, when it was possible for a pirate like capt. teach, known as blackbeard, to exist, and for the governor and the secretary of the province in which he lived perhaps to share his plunder, and to shelter and to protect him against the law. at that time the american colonists were in general a rough, rugged people, knowing nothing of the finer things of life. they lived mostly in little settlements, separated by long distances from one another, so that they could neither make nor enforce laws to protect themselves. each man or little group of men had to depend upon his or their own strength to keep what belonged to them, and to prevent fierce men or groups of men from seizing what did not belong to them. it is the natural disposition of everyone to get all that he can. little children, for instance, always try to take away from others that which they want, and to keep it for their own. it is only by constant teaching that they learn that they must not do so; that they must not take by force what does not belong to them. so it is only by teaching and training that people learn to be honest and not to take what is not theirs. when this teaching is not sufficient to make a man learn to be honest, or when there is something in the man's nature that makes him not able to learn, then he only lacks the opportunity to seize upon the things he wants, just as he would do if he were a little child. in the colonies at that time, as was just said, men were too few and scattered to protect themselves against those who had made up their minds to take by force that which they wanted, and so it was that men lived an unrestrained and lawless life, such as we of these times of better government can hardly comprehend. the usual means of commerce between province and province was by water in coasting vessels. these coasting vessels were so defenseless, and the different colonial governments were so ill able to protect them, that those who chose to rob them could do it almost without danger to themselves. so it was that all the western world was, in those days, infested with armed bands of cruising freebooters or pirates, who used to stop merchant vessels and take from them what they chose. each province in those days was ruled over by a royal governor appointed by the king. each governor, at one time, was free to do almost as he pleased in his own province. he was accountable only to the king and his government, and england was so distant that he was really responsible almost to nobody but himself. the governors were naturally just as desirous to get rich quickly, just as desirous of getting all that they could for themselves, as was anybody else only they had been taught and had been able to learn that it was not right to be an actual pirate or robber. they wanted to be rich easily and quickly, but the desire was not strong enough to lead them to dishonor themselves in their own opinion and in the opinion of others by gratifying their selfishness. they would even have stopped the pirates from doing what they did if they could, but their provincial governments were too weak to prevent the freebooters from robbing merchant vessels, or to punish them when they came ashore. the provinces had no navies, and they really had no armies; neither were there enough people living within the community to enforce the laws against those stronger and fiercer men who were not honest. after the things the pirates seized from merchant vessels were once stolen they were altogether lost. almost never did any owner apply for them, for it would be useless to do so. the stolen goods and merchandise lay in the storehouses of the pirates, seemingly without any owner excepting the pirates themselves. the governors and the secretaries of the colonies would not dishonor themselves by pirating upon merchant vessels, but it did not seem so wicked after the goods were stolen--and so altogether lost--to take a part of that which seemed to have no owner. a child is taught that it is a very wicked thing to take, for instance, by force, a lump of sugar from another child; but when a wicked child has seized the sugar from another and taken it around the corner, and that other child from whom he has seized it has gone home crying, it does not seem so wicked for the third child to take a bite of the sugar when it is offered to him, even if he thinks it has been taken from some one else. it was just so, no doubt, that it did not seem so wicked to governor eden and secretary knight of north carolina, or to governor fletcher of new york, or to other colonial governors, to take a part of the booty that the pirates, such as blackbeard, had stolen. it did not even seem very wicked to compel such pirates to give up a part of what was not theirs, and which seemed to have no owner. in governor eden's time, however, the colonies had begun to be more thickly peopled, and the laws had gradually become stronger and stronger to protect men in the possession of what was theirs. governor eden was the last of the colonial governors who had dealings with the pirates, and blackbeard was almost the last of the pirates who, with his banded men, was savage and powerful enough to come and go as he chose among the people whom he plundered. virginia, at that time, was the greatest and the richest of all the american colonies, and upon the farther side of north carolina was the province of south carolina, also strong and rich. it was these two colonies that suffered the most from blackbeard, and it began to be that the honest men that lived in them could endure no longer to be plundered. the merchants and traders and others who suffered cried out loudly for protection, so loudly that the governors of these provinces could not help hearing them. governor eden was petitioned to act against the pirates, but he would do nothing, for he felt very friendly toward blackbeard--just as a child who has had a taste of the stolen sugar feels friendly toward the child who gives it to him. at last, when blackbeard sailed up into the very heart of virginia, and seized upon and carried away the daughter of that colony's foremost people, the governor of virginia, finding that the governor of north carolina would do nothing to punish the outrage, took the matter into his own hands and issued a proclamation offering a reward of one hundred pounds for blackbeard, alive or dead, and different sums for the other pirates who were his followers. governor spottiswood had the right to issue the proclamation, but he had no right to commission lieutenant maynard, as he did, to take down an armed force into the neighboring province and to attack the pirates in the waters of the north carolina sounds. it was all a part of the rude and lawless condition of the colonies at the time that such a thing could have been done. the governor's proclamation against the pirates was issued upon the eleventh day of november. it was read in the churches the sunday following and was posted upon the doors of all the government custom offices in lower virginia. lieutenant maynard, in the boats that colonel parker had already fitted out to go against the pirates, set sail upon the seventeenth of the month for ocracoke. five days later the battle was fought. blackbeard's sloop was lying inside of ocracoke inlet among the shoals and sand bars when he first heard of governor spottiswood's proclamation. there had been a storm, and a good many vessels had run into the inlet for shelter. blackbeard knew nearly all of the captains of these vessels, and it was from them that he first heard of the proclamation. he had gone aboard one of the vessels--a coaster from boston. the wind was still blowing pretty hard from the southeast. there were maybe a dozen vessels lying within the inlet at that time, and the captain of one of them was paying the boston skipper a visit when blackbeard came aboard. the two captains had been talking together. they instantly ceased when the pirate came down into the cabin, but he had heard enough of their conversation to catch its drift. "why d'ye stop?" he said. "i heard what you said. well, what then? d'ye think i mind it at all? spottiswood is going to send his bullies down here after me. that's what you were saying. well, what then? you don't think i'm afraid of his bullies, do you?" "why, no, captain, i didn't say you was afraid," said the visiting captain. "and what right has he got to send down here against me in north carolina, i should like to ask you?" "he's got none at all," said the boston captain, soothingly. "won't you take a taste of hollands, captain?" "he's no more right to come blustering down here into governor eden's province than i have to come aboard of your schooner here, tom burley, and to carry off two or three kegs of this prime hollands for my own drinking." captain burley--the boston man--laughed a loud, forced laugh. "why, captain," he said, "as for two or three kegs of hollands, you won't find that aboard. but if you'd like to have a keg of it for your own drinking, i'll send it to you and be glad enough to do so for old acquaintance' sake." "but i tell you what 'tis, captain," said the visiting skipper to blackbeard, "they're determined and set against you this time. i tell you, captain, governor spottiswood hath issued a hot proclamation against you, and 't hath been read out in all the churches. i myself saw it posted in yorktown upon the customhouse door and read it there myself. the governor offers one hundred pounds for you, and fifty pounds for your officers, and twenty pounds each for your men." "well, then," said blackbeard, holding up his glass, "here, i wish 'em good luck, and when they get their hundred pounds for me they'll be in a poor way to spend it. as for the hollands," said he, turning to captain burley, "i know what you've got aboard here and what you haven't. d'ye suppose ye can blind me? very well, you send over two kegs, and i'll let you go without search." the two captains were very silent. "as for that lieutenant maynard you're all talking about," said blackbeard, "why, i know him very well. he was the one who was so busy with the pirates down madagascar way. i believe you'd all like to see him blow me out of the water, but he can't do it. there's nobody in his majesty's service i'd rather meet than lieutenant maynard. i'd teach him pretty briskly that north carolina isn't madagascar." on the evening of the twenty-second the two vessels under command of lieutenant maynard came into the mouth of ocracoke inlet and there dropped anchor. meantime the weather had cleared, and all the vessels but one had gone from the inlet. the one vessel that remained was a new yorker. it had been there over a night and a day, and the captain and blackbeard had become very good friends. the same night that maynard came into the inlet a wedding was held on the shore. a number of men and women came up the beach in oxcarts and sledges; others had come in boats from more distant points and across the water. the captain of the new yorker and blackbeard went ashore together a little after dark. the new yorker had been aboard of the pirate's sloop for all the latter part of the afternoon, and he and blackbeard had been drinking together in the cabin. the new york man was now a little tipsy, and he laughed and talked foolishly as he and blackbeard were rowed ashore. the pirate sat grim and silent. it was nearly dark when they stepped ashore on the beach. the new york captain stumbled and fell headlong, rolling over and over, and the crew of the boat burst out laughing. the people had already begun to dance in an open shed fronting upon the shore. there were fires of pine knots in front of the building, lighting up the interior with a red glare. a negro was playing a fiddle somewhere inside, and the shed was filled with a crowd of grotesque dancing figures--men and women. now and then they called with loud voices as they danced, and the squeaking of the fiddle sounded incessantly through the noise of outcries and the stamp and shuffling of feet. captain teach and the new york captain stood looking on. the new york man had tilted himself against a post and stood there holding one arm around it, supporting himself. he waved the other hand foolishly in time to the music, now and then snapping his thumb and finger. the young woman who had just been married approached the two. she had been dancing, and she was warm and red, her hair blowzed about her head. "hi, captain, won't you dance with me?" she said to blackbeard. blackbeard stared at her. "who be you?" he said. she burst out laughing. "you look as if you'd eat a body," she cried. blackbeard's face gradually relaxed. "why, to be sure, you're a brazen one, for all the world," he said. "well, i'll dance with you, that i will. i'll dance the heart out of you." he pushed forward, thrusting aside with his elbow the newly made husband. the man, who saw that blackbeard had been drinking, burst out laughing, and the other men and women who had been standing around drew away, so that in a little while the floor was pretty well cleared. one could see the negro now; he sat on a barrel at the end of the room. he grinned with his white teeth and, without stopping in his fiddling, scraped his bow harshly across the strings, and then instantly changed the tune to a lively jig. blackbeard jumped up into the air and clapped his heels together, giving, as he did so, a sharp, short yell. then he began instantly dancing grotesquely and violently. the woman danced opposite to him, this way and that, with her knuckles on her hips. everybody burst out laughing at blackbeard's grotesque antics. they laughed again and again, clapping their hands, and the negro scraped away on his fiddle like fury. the woman's hair came tumbling down her back. she tucked it back, laughing and panting, and the sweat ran down her face. she danced and danced. at last she burst out laughing and stopped, panting. blackbeard again jumped up in the air and clapped his heels. again he yelled, and as he did so, he struck his heels upon the floor and spun around. once more everybody burst out laughing, clapping their hands, and the negro stopped fiddling. near by was a shanty or cabin where they were selling spirits, and by and by blackbeard went there with the new york captain, and presently they began drinking again. "hi, captain!" called one of the men, "maynard's out yonder in the inlet. jack bishop's just come across from t'other side. he says mr. maynard hailed him and asked for a pilot to fetch him in." "well, here's luck to him, and he can't come in quick enough for me!" cried out blackbeard in his hoarse, husky voice. "well, captain," called a voice, "will ye fight him to-morrow?" "aye," shouted the pirate, "if he can get in to me, i'll try to give 'em what they seek, and all they want of it into the bargain. as for a pilot, i tell ye what 'tis--if any man hereabouts goes out there to pilot that villain in 'twill be the worst day's work he ever did in all of his life. 'twon't be fit for him to live in these parts of america if i am living here at the same time." there was a burst of laughter. "give us a toast, captain! give us something to drink to! aye, captain, a toast! a toast!" a half dozen voices were calling out at the same time. "well," cried out the pirate captain, "here's to a good, hot fight to-morrow, and the best dog on top! 'twill be, bang! bang!--this way!" he began pulling a pistol out of his pocket, but it stuck in the lining, and he struggled and tugged at it. the men ducked and scrambled away from before him, and then the next moment he had the pistol out of his pocket. he swung it around and around. there was perfect silence. suddenly there was a flash and a stunning report, and instantly a crash and tinkle of broken glass. one of the men cried out, and began picking and jerking at the back of his neck. "he's broken that bottle all down my neck," he called out. "that's the way 'twill be," said blackbeard. "lookee," said the owner of the place, "i won't serve out another drop if 'tis going to be like that. if there's any more trouble i'll blow out the lantern." the sound of the squeaking and scraping of the fiddle and the shouts and the scuffling feet still came from the shed where the dancing was going on. "suppose you get your dose to-morrow, captain," some one called out, "what then?" "why, if i do," said blackbeard, "i get it, and that's all there is of it." "your wife'll be a rich widdy then, won't she?" cried one of the men; and there was a burst of laughter. "why," said the new york captain,--"why, has a--a bloody p-pirate like you a wife then--a--like any honest man?" "she'll be no richer than she is now," said blackbeard. "she knows where you've hid your money, anyways. don't she, captain?" called out a voice. "the civil knows where i've hid my money," said blackbeard, "and i know where i've hid it; and the longest liver of the twain will git it all. and that's all there is of it." the gray of early day was beginning to show in the east when blackbeard and the new york captain came down to the landing together. the new york captain swayed and toppled this way and that as he walked, now falling against blackbeard, and now staggering away from him. ii early in the morning--perhaps eight o'clock--lieutenant maynard sent a boat from the schooner over to the settlement, which lay some four or five miles distant. a number of men stood lounging on the landing, watching the approach of the boat. the men rowed close up to the wharf, and there lay upon their oars, while the boatswain of the schooner, who was in command of the boat, stood up and asked if there was any man there who could pilot them over the shoals. nobody answered, but all stared stupidly at him. after a while one of the men at last took his pipe out of his mouth. "there ben't any pilot here, master," said he; "we ben't pilots." "why, what a story you do tell!" roared the boatswain. "d'ye suppose i've never been down here before, not to know that every man about here knows the passes of the shoals?" the fellow still held his pipe in his hand. he looked at another one of the men. "do you know the passes in over the shoals, jem?" said he. the man to whom he spoke was a young fellow with long, shaggy, sunburnt hair hanging over his eyes in an unkempt mass. he shook his head, grunting, "na--i don't know naught about t' shoals." "'tis lieutenant maynard of his majesty's navy in command of them vessels out there," said the boatswain. "he'll give any man five pound to pilot him in." the men on the wharf looked at one another, but still no one spoke, and the boatswain stood looking at them. he saw that they did not choose to answer him. "why," he said, "i believe you've not got right wits--that's what i believe is the matter with you. pull me up to the landing, men, and i'll go ashore and see if i can find anybody that's willing to make five pound for such a little bit of piloting as that." after the boatswain had gone ashore the loungers still stood on the wharf, looking down into the boat, and began talking to one another for the men below to hear them. "they're coming in," said one, "to blow poor blackbeard out of the water." "aye," said another, "he's so peaceable, too, he is; he'll just lay still and let 'em blow and blow, he will." "there's a young fellow there," said another of the men; "he don't look fit to die yet, he don't. why, i wouldn't be in his place for a thousand pound." "i do suppose blackbeard's so afraid he don't know how to see," said the first speaker. at last one of the men in the boat spoke up. "maybe he don't know how to see," said he, "but maybe we'll blow some daylight into him afore we get through with him." some more of the settlers had come out from the shore to the end of the wharf, and there was now quite a crowd gathering there, all looking at the men in the boat. "what do them virginny 'baccy-eaters do down here in caroliny, anyway?" said one of the newcomers. "they've got no call to be down here in north caroliny waters." "maybe you can keep us away from coming, and maybe you can't," said a voice from the boat. "why," answered the man on the wharf, "we could keep you away easy enough, but you ben't worth the trouble, and that's the truth." there was a heavy iron bolt lying near the edge of the landing. one of the men upon the wharf slyly thrust it out with the end of his foot. it hung for a moment and then fell into the boat below with a crash. "what d'ye mean by that?" roared the man in charge of the boat. "what d'ye mean, ye villains? d'ye mean to stave a hole in us?" "why," said the man who had pushed it, "you saw 'twasn't done a purpose, didn't you?" "well, you try it again, and somebody'll get hurt," said the man in the boat, showing the butt end of his pistol. the men on the wharf began laughing. just then the boatswain came down from the settlement again, and out along the landing. the threatened turbulence quieted as he approached, and the crowd moved sullenly aside to let him pass. he did not bring any pilot with him, and he jumped down into the stern of the boat, saying, briefly, "push off." the crowd of loungers stood looking after them as they rowed away, and when the boat was some distance from the landing they burst out into a volley of derisive yells. "the villains!" said the boatswain, "they are all in league together. they wouldn't even let me go up into the settlement to look for a pilot." the lieutenant and his sailing master stood watching the boat as it approached. "couldn't you, then, get a pilot, baldwin?" said mr. maynard, as the boatswain scrambled aboard. "no, i couldn't, sir," said the man. "either they're all banded together, or else they're all afraid of the villains. they wouldn't even let me go up into the settlement to find one." "well, then," said mr. maynard, "we'll make shift to work in as best we may by ourselves. 'twill be high tide against one o'clock. we'll run in then with sail as far as we can, and then we'll send you ahead with the boat to sound for a pass, and we'll follow with the sweeps. you know the waters pretty well, you say." "they were saying ashore that the villain hath forty men aboard," said the boatswain.( ) ( ) the pirate captain had really only twenty-five men aboard of his ship at the time of the battle. lieutenant maynard's force consisted of thirty-five men in the schooner and twenty-five men in the sloop. he carried neither cannons nor carronades, and neither of his vessels was very well fitted for the purpose for which they were designed. the schooner, which he himself commanded, offered almost no protection to the crew. the rail was not more than a foot high in the waist, and the men on the deck were almost entirely exposed. the rail of the sloop was perhaps a little higher, but it, too, was hardly better adapted for fighting. indeed, the lieutenant depended more upon the moral force of official authority to overawe the pirates than upon any real force of arms or men. he never believed, until the very last moment, that the pirates would show any real fight. it is very possible that they might not have done so had they not thought that the lieutenant had actually no legal right supporting him in his attack upon them in north carolina waters. it was about noon when anchor was hoisted, and, with the schooner leading, both vessels ran slowly in before a light wind that had begun to blow toward midday. in each vessel a man stood in the bows, sounding continually with lead and line. as they slowly opened up the harbor within the inlet, they could see the pirate sloop lying about three miles away. there was a boat just putting off from it to the shore. the lieutenant and his sailing master stood together on the roof of the cabin deckhouse. the sailing master held a glass to his eye. "she carries a long gun, sir," he said, "and four carronades. she'll be hard to beat, sir, i do suppose, armed as we are with only light arms for close fighting." the lieutenant laughed. "why, brookes," he said, "you seem to think forever of these men showing fight. you don't know them as i know them. they have a deal of bluster and make a deal of noise, but when you seize them and hold them with a strong hand, there's naught of fight left in them. 'tis like enough there'll not be so much as a musket fired to-day. i've had to do with 'em often enough before to know my gentlemen well by this time." nor, as was said, was it until the very last that the lieutenant could be brought to believe that the pirates had any stomach for a fight. the two vessels had reached perhaps within a mile of the pirate sloop before they found the water too shoal to venture any farther with the sail. it was then that the boat was lowered as the lieutenant had planned, and the boatswain went ahead to sound, the two vessels, with their sails still hoisted but empty of wind, pulling in after with sweeps. the pirate had also hoisted sail, but lay as though waiting for the approach of the schooner and the sloop. the boat in which the boatswain was sounding had run in a considerable distance ahead of the two vessels, which were gradually creeping up with the sweeps until they had reached to within less than half a mile of the pirates--the boat with the boatswain maybe a quarter of a mile closer. suddenly there was a puff of smoke from the pirate sloop, and then another and another, and the next moment there came the three reports of muskets up the wind. "by zounds!" said the lieutenant. "i do believe they're firing on the boat!" and then he saw the boat turn and begin pulling toward them. the boat with the boatswain aboard came rowing rapidly. again there were three or four puffs of smoke and three or four subsequent reports from the distant vessel. then, in a little while, the boat was alongside, and the boatswain came scrambling aboard. "never mind hoisting the boat," said the lieutenant; "we'll just take her in tow. come aboard as quick as you can." then, turning to the sailing master, "well, brookes, you'll have to do the best you can to get in over the shoals under half sail." "but, sir," said the master, "we'll be sure to run aground." "very well, sir," said the lieutenant, "you heard my orders. if we run aground we run aground, and that's all there is of it." "i sounded as far as maybe a little over a fathom," said the mate, "but the villains would let me go no nearer. i think i was in the channel, though. 'tis more open inside, as i mind me of it. there's a kind of a hole there, and if we get in over the shoals just beyond where i was we'll be all right." "very well, then, you take the wheel, baldwin," said the lieutenant, "and do the best you can for us." lieutenant maynard stood looking out forward at the pirate vessel, which they were now steadily nearing under half sail. he could see that there were signs of bustle aboard and of men running around upon the deck. then he walked aft and around the cabin. the sloop was some distance astern. it appeared to have run aground, and they were trying to push it off with the sweeps. the lieutenant looked down into the water over the stern, and saw that the schooner was already raising the mud in her wane. then he went forward along the deck. his men were crouching down along by the low rail, and there was a tense quietness of expectation about them. the lieutenant looked them over as he passed them. "johnson," he said, "do you take the lead and line and go forward and sound a bit." then to the others: "now, my men, the moment we run her aboard, you get aboard of her as quick as you can, do you understand? don't wait for the sloop or think about her, but just see that the grappling irons are fast, and then get aboard. if any man offers to resist you, shoot him down. are you ready, mr. cringle?" "aye, aye, sir," said the gunner. "very well, then, be ready, men; we'll be aboard 'em in a minute or two." "there's less than a fathom of water here, sir," sang out johnson from the bows. as he spoke there was a sudden soft jar and jerk, then the schooner was still. they were aground. "push her off to the lee there! let go your sheets!" roared the boatswain from the wheel. "push her off to the lee." he spun the wheel around as he spoke. a half a dozen men sprang up, seized the sweeps, and plunged them into the water. others ran to help them, but the sweeps only sank into the mud without moving the schooner. the sails had fallen off and they were flapping and thumping and clapping in the wind. others of the crew had scrambled to their feet and ran to help those at the sweeps. the lieutenant had walked quickly aft again. they were very close now to the pirate sloop, and suddenly some one hailed him from aboard of her. when he turned he saw that there was a man standing up on the rail of the pirate sloop, holding by the back stays. "who are you?" he called, from the distance, "and whence come you? what do you seek here? what d'ye mean, coming down on us this way?" the lieutenant heard somebody say, "that's blackbeard hisself." and he looked with great interest at the distant figure. the pirate stood out boldly against the cloudy sky. somebody seemed to speak to him from behind. he turned his head and then he turned round again. "we're only peaceful merchantmen!" he called out. "what authority have you got to come down upon us this way? if you'll come aboard i'll show you my papers and that we're only peaceful merchantmen." "the villains!" said the lieutenant to the master, who stood beside him. "they're peaceful merchantmen, are they! they look like peaceful merchantmen, with four carronades and a long gun aboard!" then he called out across the water, "i'll come aboard with my schooner as soon as i can push her off here." "if you undertake to come aboard of me," called the pirate, "i'll shoot into you. you've got no authority to board me, and i won't have you do it. if you undertake it 'twill be at your own risk, for i'll neither ask quarter of you nor give none." "very well," said the lieutenant, "if you choose to try that, you may do as you please; for i'm coming aboard of you as sure as heaven." "push off the bow there!" called the boatswain at the wheel. "look alive! why don't you push off the bow?" "she's hard aground!" answered the gunner. "we can't budge her an inch." "if they was to fire into us now," said the sailing master, "they'd smash us to pieces." "they won't fire into us," said the lieutenant. "they won't dare to." he jumped down from the cabin deckhouse as he spoke, and went forward to urge the men in pushing off the boat. it was already beginning to move. at that moment the sailing master suddenly called out, "mr. maynard! mr. maynard! they're going to give us a broadside!" almost before the words were out of his mouth, before lieutenant maynard could turn, there came a loud and deafening crash, and then instantly another, and a third, and almost as instantly a crackling and rending of broken wood. there were clean yellow splinters flying everywhere. a man fell violently against the lieutenant, nearly overturning him, but he caught at the stays and so saved himself. for one tense moment he stood holding his breath. then all about him arose a sudden outcry of groans and shouts and oaths. the man who had fallen against him was lying face down upon the deck. his thighs were quivering, and a pool of blood was spreading and running out from under him. there were other men down, all about the deck. some were rising; some were trying to rise; some only moved. there was a distant sound of yelling and cheering and shouting. it was from the pirate sloop. the pirates were rushing about upon her decks. they had pulled the cannon back, and, through the grunting sound of the groans about him, the lieutenant could distinctly hear the thud and punch of the rammers, and he knew they were going to shoot again. the low rail afforded almost no shelter against such a broadside, and there was nothing for it but to order all hands below for the time being. "get below!" roared out the lieutenant. "all hands get below and lie snug for further orders!" in obedience the men ran scrambling below into the hold, and in a little while the decks were nearly clear except for the three dead men and some three or four wounded. the boatswain, crouching down close to the wheel, and the lieutenant himself were the only others upon deck. everywhere there were smears and sprinkles of blood. "where's brookes?" the lieutenant called out. "he's hurt in the arm, sir, and he's gone below," said the boatswain. thereupon the lieutenant himself walked over to the forecastle hatch, and, hailing the gunner, ordered him to get up another ladder, so that the men could be run up on deck if the pirates should undertake to come aboard. at that moment the boatswain at the wheel called out that the villains were going to shoot again, and the lieutenant, turning, saw the gunner aboard of the pirate sloop in the act of touching the iron to the touchhole. he stooped down. there was another loud and deafening crash of cannon, one, two, three--four--the last two almost together--and almost instantly the boatswain called out, "'tis the sloop, sir! look at the sloop!" the sloop had got afloat again, and had been coming up to the aid of the schooner, when the pirates fired their second broadside now at her. when the lieutenant looked at her she was quivering with the impact of the shot, and the next moment she began falling off to the wind, and he could see the wounded men rising and falling and struggling upon her decks. at the same moment the boatswain called out that the enemy was coming aboard, and even as he spoke the pirate sloop came drifting out from the cloud of smoke that enveloped her, looming up larger and larger as she came down upon them. the lieutenant still crouched down under the rail, looking out at them. suddenly, a little distance away, she came about, broadside on, and then drifted. she was close aboard now. something came flying through the air--another and another. they were bottles. one of them broke with a crash upon the deck. the others rolled over to the farther rail. in each of them a quick-match was smoking. almost instantly there was a flash and a terrific report, and the air was full of the whiz and singing of broken particles of glass and iron. there was another report, and then the whole air seemed full of gunpowder smoke. "they're aboard of us!" shouted the boatswain, and even as he spoke the lieutenant roared out, "all hands to repel boarders!" a second later there came the heavy, thumping bump of the vessels coming together. lieutenant maynard, as he called out the order, ran forward through the smoke, snatching one of his pistols out of his pocket and the cutlass out of its sheath as he did so. behind him the men were coming, swarming up from below. there was a sudden stunning report of a pistol, and then another and another, almost together. there was a groan and the fall of a heavy body, and then a figure came jumping over the rail, with two or three more directly following. the lieutenant was in the midst of the gun powder smoke, when suddenly blackbeard was before him. the pirate captain had stripped himself naked to the waist. his shaggy black hair was falling over his eyes, and he looked like a demon fresh from the pit, with his frantic face. almost with the blindness of instinct the lieutenant thrust out his pistol, firing it as he did so. the pirate staggered back: he was down--no; he was up again. he had a pistol in each hand; but there was a stream of blood running down his naked ribs. suddenly, the mouth of a pistol was pointing straight at the lieutenant's head. he ducked instinctively, striking upward with his cutlass as he did so. there was a stunning, deafening report almost in his ear. he struck again blindly with his cutlass. he saw the flash of a sword and flung up his guard almost instinctively, meeting the crash of the descending blade. somebody shot from behind him, and at the same moment he saw some one else strike the pirate. blackbeard staggered again, and this time there was a great gash upon his neck. then one of maynard's own men tumbled headlong upon him. he fell with the man, but almost instantly he had scrambled to his feet again, and as he did so he saw that the pirate sloop had drifted a little away from them, and that their grappling irons had evidently parted. his hand was smarting as though struck with the lash of a whip. he looked around him; the pirate captain was nowhere to be seen--yes, there he was, lying by the rail. he raised himself upon his elbow, and the lieutenant saw that he was trying to point a pistol at him, with an arm that wavered and swayed blindly, the pistol nearly falling from his fingers. suddenly his other elbow gave way and he fell down upon his face. he tried to raise himself--he fell down again. there was a report and a cloud of smoke, and when it cleared away blackbeard had staggered up again. he was a terrible figure his head nodding down upon his breast. somebody shot again, and then the swaying figure toppled and fell. it lay still for a moment--then rolled over--then lay still again. there was a loud splash of men jumping overboard, and then, almost instantly, the cry of "quarter! quarter!" the lieutenant ran to the edge of the vessel. it was as he had thought: the grappling irons of the pirate sloop had parted, and it had drifted away. the few pirates who had been left aboard of the schooner had jumped overboard and were now holding up their hands. "quarter!" they cried. "don't shoot!--quarter!" and the fight was over. the lieutenant looked down at his hand, and then he saw, for the first time, that there was a great cutlass gash across the back of it, and that his arm and shirt sleeve were wet with blood. he went aft, holding the wrist of his wounded hand. the boatswain was still at the wheel. "by zounds!" said the lieutenant, with a nervous, quavering laugh, "i didn't know there was such fight in the villains." his wounded and shattered sloop was again coming up toward him under sail, but the pirates had surrendered, and the fight was over. chapter vi. blueskin the pirate i cape may and cape henlopen form, as it were, the upper and lower jaws of a gigantic mouth, which disgorges from its monstrous gullet the cloudy waters of the delaware bay into the heaving, sparkling blue-green of the atlantic ocean. from cape henlopen as the lower jaw there juts out a long, curving fang of high, smooth-rolling sand dunes, cutting sharp and clean against the still, blue sky above silent, naked, utterly deserted, excepting for the squat, white-walled lighthouse standing upon the crest of the highest hill. within this curving, sheltering hook of sand hills lie the smooth waters of lewes harbor, and, set a little back from the shore, the quaint old town, with its dingy wooden houses of clapboard and shingle, looks sleepily out through the masts of the shipping lying at anchor in the harbor, to the purple, clean-cut, level thread of the ocean horizon beyond. lewes is a queer, odd, old-fashioned little town, smelling fragrant of salt marsh and sea breeze. it is rarely visited by strangers. the people who live there are the progeny of people who have lived there for many generations, and it is the very place to nurse, and preserve, and care for old legends and traditions of bygone times, until they grow from bits of gossip and news into local history of considerable size. as in the busier world men talk of last year's elections, here these old bits, and scraps, and odds and ends of history are retailed to the listener who cares to listen--traditions of the war of , when beresford's fleet lay off the harbor threatening to bombard the town; tales of the revolution and of earl howe's warships, tarrying for a while in the quiet harbor before they sailed up the river to shake old philadelphia town with the thunders of their guns at red bank and fort mifflin. with these substantial and sober threads of real history, other and more lurid colors are interwoven into the web of local lore--legends of the dark doings of famous pirates, of their mysterious, sinister comings and goings, of treasures buried in the sand dunes and pine barrens back of the cape and along the atlantic beach to the southward. of such is the story of blueskin, the pirate. ii it was in the fall and the early winter of the year , and again in the summer of the year following, that the famous pirate, blueskin, became especially identified with lewes as a part of its traditional history. for some time--for three or four years--rumors and reports of blueskin's doings in the west indies and off the carolinas had been brought in now and then by sea captains. there was no more cruel, bloody, desperate, devilish pirate than he in all those pirate-infested waters. all kinds of wild and bloody stories were current concerning him, but it never occurred to the good folk of lewes that such stories were some time to be a part of their own history. but one day a schooner came drifting into lewes harbor--shattered, wounded, her forecastle splintered, her foremast shot half away, and three great tattered holes in her mainsail. the mate with one of the crew came ashore in the boat for help and a doctor. he reported that the captain and the cook were dead and there were three wounded men aboard. the story he told to the gathering crowd brought a very peculiar thrill to those who heard it. they had fallen in with blueskin, he said, off fenwick's island (some twenty or thirty miles below the capes), and the pirates had come aboard of them; but, finding that the cargo of the schooner consisted only of cypress shingles and lumber, had soon quitted their prize. perhaps blueskin was disappointed at not finding a more valuable capture; perhaps the spirit of deviltry was hotter in him that morning than usual; anyhow, as the pirate craft bore away she fired three broadsides at short range into the helpless coaster. the captain had been killed at the first fire, the cook had died on the way up, three of the crew were wounded, and the vessel was leaking fast, betwixt wind and water. such was the mate's story. it spread like wildfire, and in half an hour all the town was in a ferment. fenwick's island was very near home; blueskin might come sailing into the harbor at any minute and then--! in an hour sheriff jones had called together most of the able-bodied men of the town, muskets and rifles were taken down from the chimney places, and every preparation was made to defend the place against the pirates, should they come into the harbor and attempt to land. but blueskin did not come that day, nor did he come the next or the next. but on the afternoon of the third the news went suddenly flying over the town that the pirates were inside the capes. as the report spread the people came running--men, women, and children--to the green before the tavern, where a little knot of old seamen were gathered together, looking fixedly out toward the offing, talking in low voices. two vessels, one bark-rigged, the other and smaller a sloop, were slowly creeping up the bay, a couple of miles or so away and just inside the cape. there appeared nothing remarkable about the two crafts, but the little crowd that continued gathering upon the green stood looking out across the bay at them none the less anxiously for that. they were sailing close-hauled to the wind, the sloop following in the wake of her consort as the pilot fish follows in the wake of the shark. but the course they held did not lie toward the harbor, but rather bore away toward the jersey shore, and by and by it began to be apparent that blueskin did not intend visiting the town. nevertheless, those who stood looking did not draw a free breath until, after watching the two pirates for more than an hour and a half, they saw them--then about six miles away--suddenly put about and sail with a free wind out to sea again. "the bloody villains have gone!" said old captain wolfe, shutting his telescope with a click. but lewes was not yet quit of blueskin. two days later a half-breed from indian river bay came up, bringing the news that the pirates had sailed into the inlet--some fifteen miles below lewes--and had careened the bark to clean her. perhaps blueskin did not care to stir up the country people against him, for the half-breed reported that the pirates were doing no harm, and that what they took from the farmers of indian river and rehoboth they paid for with good hard money. it was while the excitement over the pirates was at its highest fever heat that levi west came home again. iii even in the middle of the last century the grist mill, a couple of miles from lewes, although it was at most but fifty or sixty years old, had all a look of weather-beaten age, for the cypress shingles, of which it was built, ripen in a few years of wind and weather to a silvery, hoary gray, and the white powdering of flour lent it a look as though the dust of ages had settled upon it, making the shadows within dim, soft, mysterious. a dozen willow trees shaded with dappling, shivering ripples of shadow the road before the mill door, and the mill itself, and the long, narrow, shingle-built, one-storied, hip-roofed dwelling house. at the time of the story the mill had descended in a direct line of succession to hiram white, the grandson of old ephraim white, who had built it, it was said, in . hiram white was only twenty-seven years old, but he was already in local repute as a "character." as a boy he was thought to be half-witted or "natural," and, as is the case with such unfortunates in small country towns where everybody knows everybody, he was made a common sport and jest for the keener, crueler wits of the neighborhood. now that he was grown to the ripeness of manhood he was still looked upon as being--to use a quaint expression--"slack," or "not jest right." he was heavy, awkward, ungainly and loose-jointed, and enormously, prodigiously strong. he had a lumpish, thick-featured face, with lips heavy and loosely hanging, that gave him an air of stupidity, half droll, half pathetic. his little eyes were set far apart and flat with his face, his eyebrows were nearly white and his hair was of a sandy, colorless kind. he was singularly taciturn, lisping thickly when he did talk, and stuttering and hesitating in his speech, as though his words moved faster than his mind could follow. it was the custom for local wags to urge, or badger, or tempt him to talk, for the sake of the ready laugh that always followed the few thick, stammering words and the stupid drooping of the jaw at the end of each short speech. perhaps squire hall was the only one in lewes hundred who misdoubted that hiram was half-witted. he had had dealings with him and was wont to say that whoever bought hiram white for a fool made a fool's bargain. certainly, whether he had common wits or no, hiram had managed his mill to pretty good purpose and was fairly well off in the world as prosperity went in southern delaware and in those days. no doubt, had it come to the pinch, he might have bought some of his tormentors out three times over. hiram white had suffered quite a financial loss some six months before, through that very blueskin who was now lurking in indian river inlet. he had entered into a "venture" with josiah shippin, a philadelphia merchant, to the tune of seven hundred pounds sterling. the money had been invested in a cargo of flour and corn meal which had been shipped to jamaica by the bark nancy lee. the nancy lee had been captured by the pirates off currituck sound, the crew set adrift in the longboat, and the bark herself and all her cargo burned to the water's edge. five hundred of the seven hundred pounds invested in the unfortunate "venture" was money bequeathed by hiram's father, seven years before, to levi west. eleazer white had been twice married, the second time to the widow west. she had brought with her to her new home a good-looking, long-legged, black-eyed, black-haired ne'er-do-well of a son, a year or so younger than hiram. he was a shrewd, quick-witted lad, idle, shiftless, willful, ill-trained perhaps, but as bright and keen as a pin. he was the very opposite to poor, dull hiram. eleazer white had never loved his son; he was ashamed of the poor, slack-witted oaf. upon the other hand, he was very fond of levi west, whom he always called "our levi," and whom he treated in every way as though he were his own son. he tried to train the lad to work in the mill, and was patient beyond what the patience of most fathers would have been with his stepson's idleness and shiftlessness. "never mind," he was used to say. "levi'll come all right. levi's as bright as a button." it was one of the greatest blows of the old miller's life when levi ran away to sea. in his last sickness the old man's mind constantly turned to his lost stepson. "mebby he'll come back again," said he, "and if he does i want you to be good to him, hiram. i've done my duty by you and have left you the house and mill, but i want you to promise that if levi comes back again you'll give him a home and a shelter under this roof if he wants one." and hiram had promised to do as his father asked. after eleazer died it was found that he had bequeathed five hundred pounds to his "beloved stepson, levi west," and had left squire hall as trustee. levi west had been gone nearly nine years and not a word had been heard from him; there could be little or no doubt that he was dead. one day hiram came into squire hall's office with a letter in his hand. it was the time of the old french war, and flour and corn meal were fetching fabulous prices in the british west indies. the letter hiram brought with him was from a philadelphia merchant, josiah shippin, with whom he had had some dealings. mr. shippin proposed that hiram should join him in sending a "venture" of flour and corn meal to kingston, jamaica. hiram had slept upon the letter overnight and now he brought it to the old squire. squire hall read the letter, shaking his head the while. "too much risk, hiram!" said he. "mr shippin wouldn't have asked you to go into this venture if he could have got anybody else to do so. my advice is that you let it alone. i reckon you've come to me for advice?" hiram shook his head. "ye haven't? what have ye come for, then?" "seven hundred pounds," said hiram. "seven hundred pounds!" said squire hall. "i haven't got seven hundred pounds to lend you, hiram." "five hundred been left to levi--i got hundred--raise hundred more on mortgage," said hiram. "tut, tut, hiram," said squire hall, "that'll never do in the world. suppose levi west should come back again, what then? i'm responsible for that money. if you wanted to borrow it now for any reasonable venture, you should have it and welcome, but for such a wildcat scheme--" "levi never come back," said hiram--"nine years gone levi's dead." "mebby he is," said squire hall, "but we don't know that." "i'll give bond for security," said hiram. squire hall thought for a while in silence. "very well, hiram," said he by and by, "if you'll do that. your father left the money, and i don't see that it's right for me to stay his son from using it. but if it is lost, hiram, and if levi should come back, it will go well to ruin ye." so hiram white invested seven hundred pounds in the jamaica venture and every farthing of it was burned by blueskin, off currituck sound. iv sally martin was said to be the prettiest girl in lewes hundred, and when the rumor began to leak out that hiram white was courting her the whole community took it as a monstrous joke. it was the common thing to greet hiram himself with, "hey, hiram; how's sally?" hiram never made answer to such salutation, but went his way as heavily, as impassively, as dully as ever. the joke was true. twice a week, rain or shine, hiram white never failed to scrape his feet upon billy martin's doorstep. twice a week, on sundays and thursdays, he never failed to take his customary seat by the kitchen fire. he rarely said anything by way of talk; he nodded to the farmer, to his wife, to sally and, when he chanced to be at home, to her brother, but he ventured nothing further. there he would sit from half past seven until nine o'clock, stolid, heavy, impassive, his dull eyes following now one of the family and now another, but always coming back again to sally. it sometimes happened that she had other company--some of the young men of the neighborhood. the presence of such seemed to make no difference to hiram; he bore whatever broad jokes might be cracked upon him, whatever grins, whatever giggling might follow those jokes, with the same patient impassiveness. there he would sit, silent, unresponsive; then, at the first stroke of nine o'clock, he would rise, shoulder his ungainly person into his overcoat, twist his head into his three-cornered hat, and with a "good night, sally, i be going now," would take his departure, shutting the door carefully to behind him. never, perhaps, was there a girl in the world had such a lover and such a courtship as sally martin. v it was one thursday evening in the latter part of november, about a week after blueskin's appearance off the capes, and while the one subject of talk was of the pirates being in indian river inlet. the air was still and wintry; a sudden cold snap had set in and skims of ice had formed over puddles in the road; the smoke from the chimneys rose straight in the quiet air and voices sounded loud, as they do in frosty weather. hiram white sat by the dim light of a tallow dip, poring laboriously over some account books. it was not quite seven o'clock, and he never started for billy martin's before that hour. as he ran his finger slowly and hesitatingly down the column of figures, he heard the kitchen door beyond open and shut, the noise of footsteps crossing the floor and the scraping of a chair dragged forward to the hearth. then came the sound of a basket of corncobs being emptied on the smoldering blaze and then the snapping and crackling of the reanimated fire. hiram thought nothing of all this, excepting, in a dim sort of way, that it was bob, the negro mill hand, or old black dinah, the housekeeper, and so went on with his calculations. at last he closed the books with a snap and, smoothing down his hair, arose, took up the candle, and passed out of the room into the kitchen beyond. a man was sitting in front of the corncob fire that flamed and blazed in the great, gaping, sooty fireplace. a rough overcoat was flung over the chair behind him and his hands were spread out to the roaring warmth. at the sound of the lifted latch and of hiram's entrance he turned his head, and when hiram saw his face he stood suddenly still as though turned to stone. the face, marvelously altered and changed as it was, was the face of his stepbrother, levi west. he was not dead; he had come home again. for a time not a sound broke the dead, unbroken silence excepting the crackling of the blaze in the fireplace and the sharp ticking of the tall clock in the corner. the one face, dull and stolid, with the light of the candle shining upward over its lumpy features, looked fixedly, immovably, stonily at the other, sharp, shrewd, cunning--the red wavering light of the blaze shining upon the high cheek bones, cutting sharp on the nose and twinkling in the glassy turn of the black, ratlike eyes. then suddenly that face cracked, broadened, spread to a grin. "i have come back again, hi," said levi, and at the sound of the words the speechless spell was broken. hiram answered never a word, but he walked to the fireplace, set the candle down upon the dusty mantelshelf among the boxes and bottles, and, drawing forward a chair upon the other side of the hearth, sat down. his dull little eyes never moved from his stepbrother's face. there was no curiosity in his expression, no surprise, no wonder. the heavy under lip dropped a little farther open and there was more than usual of dull, expressionless stupidity upon the lumpish face; but that was all. as was said, the face upon which he looked was strangely, marvelously changed from what it had been when he had last seen it nine years before, and, though it was still the face of levi west, it was a very different levi west than the shiftless ne'er-do-well who had run away to sea in the brazilian brig that long time ago. that levi west had been a rough, careless, happy-go-lucky fellow; thoughtless and selfish, but with nothing essentially evil or sinister in his nature. the levi west that now sat in a rush-bottom chair at the other side of the fireplace had that stamped upon his front that might be both evil and sinister. his swart complexion was tanned to an indian copper. on one side of his face was a curious discoloration in the skin and a long, crooked, cruel scar that ran diagonally across forehead and temple and cheek in a white, jagged seam. this discoloration was of a livid blue, about the tint of a tattoo mark. it made a patch the size of a man's hand, lying across the cheek and the side of the neck. hiram could not keep his eyes from this mark and the white scar cutting across it. there was an odd sort of incongruity in levi's dress; a pair of heavy gold earrings and a dirty red handkerchief knotted loosely around his neck, beneath an open collar, displaying to its full length the lean, sinewy throat with its bony "adam's apple," gave to his costume somewhat the smack of a sailor. he wore a coat that had once been of fine plum color--now stained and faded--too small for his lean length, and furbished with tarnished lace. dirty cambric cuffs hung at his wrists and on his fingers were half a dozen and more rings, set with stones that shone, and glistened, and twinkled in the light of the fire. the hair at either temple was twisted into a spanish curl, plastered flat to the cheek, and a plaited queue hung halfway down his back. hiram, speaking never a word, sat motionless, his dull little eyes traveling slowly up and down and around and around his stepbrother's person. levi did not seem to notice his scrutiny, leaning forward, now with his palms spread out to the grateful warmth, now rubbing them slowly together. but at last he suddenly whirled his chair around, rasping on the floor, and faced his stepbrother. he thrust his hand into his capacious coat pocket and brought out a pipe which he proceeded to fill from a skin of tobacco. "well, hi," said he, "d'ye see i've come back home again?" "thought you was dead," said hiram, dully. levi laughed, then he drew a red-hot coal out of the fire, put it upon the bowl of the pipe and began puffing out clouds of pungent smoke. "nay, nay," said he; "not dead--not dead by odds. but [puff] by the eternal holy, hi, i played many a close game [puff] with old davy jones, for all that." hiram's look turned inquiringly toward the jagged scar and levi caught the slow glance. "you're lookin' at this," said he, running his finger down the crooked seam. "that looks bad, but it wasn't so close as this"--laying his hand for a moment upon the livid stain. "a cooly devil off singapore gave me that cut when we fell foul of an opium junk in the china sea four years ago last september. this," touching the disfiguring blue patch again, "was a closer miss, hi. a spanish captain fired a pistol at me down off santa catharina. he was so nigh that the powder went under the skin and it'll never come out again. ---- his eyes--he had better have fired the pistol into his own head that morning. but never mind that. i reckon i'm changed, ain't i, hi?" he took his pipe out of his mouth and looked inquiringly at hiram, who nodded. levi laughed. "devil doubt it," said he, "but whether i'm changed or no, i'll take my affidavy that you are the same old half-witted hi that you used to be. i remember dad used to say that you hadn't no more than enough wits to keep you out of the rain. and, talking of dad, hi, i hearn tell he's been dead now these nine years gone. d'ye know what i've come home for?" hiram shook his head. "i've come for that five hundred pounds that dad left me when he died, for i hearn tell of that, too." hiram sat quite still for a second or two and then he said, "i put that money out to venture and lost it all." levi's face fell and he took his pipe out of his mouth, regarding hiram sharply and keenly. "what d'ye mean?" said he presently. "i thought you was dead--and i put--seven hundred pounds--into nancy lee--and blueskin burned her--off currituck." "burned her off currituck!" repeated levi. then suddenly a light seemed to break upon his comprehension. "burned by blueskin!" he repeated, and thereupon flung himself back in his chair and burst into a short, boisterous fit of laughter. "well, by the holy eternal, hi, if that isn't a piece of your tarnal luck. burned by blueskin, was it?" he paused for a moment, as though turning it over in his mind. then he laughed again. "all the same," said he presently, "d'ye see, i can't suffer for blueskin's doings. the money was willed to me, fair and true, and you have got to pay it, hiram white, burn or sink, blueskin or no blueskin." again he puffed for a moment or two in reflective silence. "all the same, hi," said he, once more resuming the thread of talk, "i don't reckon to be too hard on you. you be only half-witted, anyway, and i sha'n't be too hard on you. i give you a month to raise that money, and while you're doing it i'll jest hang around here. i've been in trouble, hi, d'ye see. i'm under a cloud and so i want to keep here, as quiet as may be. i'll tell ye how it came about: i had a set-to with a land pirate in philadelphia, and somebody got hurt. that's the reason i'm here now, and don't you say anything about it. do you understand?" hiram opened his lips as though it was his intent to answer, then seemed to think better of it and contented himself by nodding his head. that thursday night was the first for a six-month that hiram white did not scrape his feet clean at billy martin's doorstep. vi within a week levi west had pretty well established himself among his old friends and acquaintances, though upon a different footing from that of nine years before, for this was a very different levi from that other. nevertheless, he was none the less popular in the barroom of the tavern and at the country store, where he was always the center of a group of loungers. his nine years seemed to have been crowded full of the wildest of wild adventures and happenings, as well by land as by sea, and, given an appreciative audience, he would reel off his yarns by the hour, in a reckless, devil-may-care fashion that set agape even old sea dogs who had sailed the western ocean since boyhood. then he seemed always to have plenty of money, and he loved to spend it at the tavern tap-room, with a lavishness that was at once the wonder and admiration of gossips. at that time, as was said, blueskin was the one engrossing topic of talk, and it added not a little to levi's prestige when it was found that he had actually often seen that bloody, devilish pirate with his own eyes. a great, heavy, burly fellow, levi said he was, with a beard as black as a hat--a devil with his sword and pistol afloat, but not so black as he was painted when ashore. he told of many adventures in which blueskin figured and was then always listened to with more than usual gaping interest. as for blueskin, the quiet way in which the pirates conducted themselves at indian river almost made the lewes folk forget what he could do when the occasion called. they almost ceased to remember that poor shattered schooner that had crawled with its ghastly dead and groaning wounded into the harbor a couple of weeks since. but if for a while they forgot who or what blueskin was, it was not for long. one day a bark from bristol, bound for cuba and laden with a valuable cargo of cloth stuffs and silks, put into lewes harbor to take in water. the captain himself came ashore and was at the tavern for two or three hours. it happened that levi was there and that the talk was of blueskin. the english captain, a grizzled old sea dog, listened to levi's yarns with not a little contempt. he had, he said, sailed in the china sea and the indian ocean too long to be afraid of any hog-eating yankee pirate such as this blueskin. a junk full of coolies armed with stink-pots was something to speak of, but who ever heard of the likes of blueskin falling afoul of anything more than a spanish canoe or a yankee coaster? levi grinned. "all the same, my hearty," said he, "if i was you i'd give blueskin a wide berth. i hear that he's cleaned the vessel that was careened awhile ago, and mebby he'll give you a little trouble if you come too nigh him." to this the englishman only answered that blueskin might be----, and that the next afternoon, wind and weather permitting, he intended to heave anchor and run out to sea. levi laughed again. "i wish i might be here to see what'll happen," said he, "but i'm going up the river to-night to see a gal and mebby won't be back again for three or four days." the next afternoon the english bark set sail as the captain promised, and that night lewes town was awake until almost morning, gazing at a broad red glare that lighted up the sky away toward the southeast. two days afterward a negro oysterman came up from indian river with news that the pirates were lying off the inlet, bringing ashore bales of goods from their larger vessel and piling the same upon the beach under tarpaulins. he said that it was known down at indian river that blueskin had fallen afoul of an english bark, had burned her and had murdered the captain and all but three of the crew, who had joined with the pirates. the excitement over this terrible happening had only begun to subside when another occurred to cap it. one afternoon a ship's boat, in which were five men and two women, came rowing into lewes harbor. it was the longboat of the charleston packet, bound for new york, and was commanded by the first mate. the packet had been attacked and captured by the pirates about ten leagues south by east of cape henlopen. the pirates had come aboard of them at night and no resistance had been offered. perhaps it was that circumstance that saved the lives of all, for no murder or violence had been done. nevertheless, officers, passengers and crew had been stripped of everything of value and set adrift in the boats and the ship herself had been burned. the longboat had become separated from the others during the night and had sighted henlopen a little after sunrise. it may be here said that squire hall made out a report of these two occurrences and sent it up to philadelphia by the mate of the packet. but for some reason it was nearly four weeks before a sloop of war was sent around from new york. in the meanwhile, the pirates had disposed of the booty stored under the tarpaulins on the beach at indian river inlet, shipping some of it away in two small sloops and sending the rest by wagons somewhere up the country. vii levi had told the english captain that he was going up-country to visit one of his lady friends. he was gone nearly two weeks. then once more he appeared, as suddenly, as unexpectedly, as he had done when he first returned to lewes. hiram was sitting at supper when the door opened and levi walked in, hanging up his hat behind the door as unconcernedly as though he had only been gone an hour. he was in an ugly, lowering humor and sat himself down at the table without uttering a word, resting his chin upon his clenched fist and glowering fixedly at the corn cake while dinah fetched him a plate and knife and fork. his coming seemed to have taken away all of hiram's appetite. he pushed away his plate and sat staring at his stepbrother, who presently fell to at the bacon and eggs like a famished wolf. not a word was said until levi had ended his meal and filled his pipe. "look'ee, hiram," said he, as he stooped over the fire and raked out a hot coal. "look'ee, hiram! i've been to philadelphia, d'ye see, a-settlin' up that trouble i told you about when i first come home. d'ye understand? d'ye remember? d'ye get it through your skull?" he looked around over his shoulder, waiting as though for an answer. but getting none, he continued: "i expect two gentlemen here from philadelphia to-night. they're friends of mine and are coming to talk over the business and ye needn't stay at home, hi. you can go out somewhere, d'ye understand?" and then he added with a grin, "ye can go to see sally." hiram pushed back his chair and arose. he leaned with his back against the side of the fireplace. "i'll stay at home," said he presently. "but i don't want you to stay at home, hi," said levi. "we'll have to talk business and i want you to go!" "i'll stay at home," said hiram again. levi's brow grew as black as thunder. he ground his teeth together and for a moment or two it seemed as though an explosion was coming. but he swallowed his passion with a gulp. "you're a----pig-headed, half-witted fool," said he. hiram never so much as moved his eyes. "as for you," said levi, whirling round upon dinah, who was clearing the table, and glowering balefully upon the old negress, "you put them things down and git out of here. don't you come nigh this kitchen again till i tell ye to. if i catch you pryin' around may i be----, eyes and liver, if i don't cut your heart out." in about half an hour levi's friends came; the first a little, thin, wizened man with a very foreign look. he was dressed in a rusty black suit and wore gray yarn stockings and shoes with brass buckles. the other was also plainly a foreigner. he was dressed in sailor fashion, with petticoat breeches of duck, a heavy pea-jacket, and thick boots, reaching to the knees. he wore a red sash tied around his waist, and once, as he pushed back his coat, hiram saw the glitter of a pistol butt. he was a powerful, thickset man, low-browed and bull-necked, his cheek, and chin, and throat closely covered with a stubble of blue-black beard. he wore a red kerchief tied around his head and over it a cocked hat, edged with tarnished gilt braid. levi himself opened the door to them. he exchanged a few words outside with his visitors, in a foreign language of which hiram understood nothing. neither of the two strangers spoke a word to hiram: the little man shot him a sharp look out of the corners of his eyes and the burly ruffian scowled blackly at him, but beyond that neither vouchsafed him any regard. levi drew to the shutters, shot the bolt in the outer door, and tilted a chair against the latch of the one that led from the kitchen into the adjoining room. then the three worthies seated themselves at the table which dinah had half cleared of the supper china, and were presently deeply engrossed over a packet of papers which the big, burly man had brought with him in the pocket of his pea-jacket. the confabulation was conducted throughout in the same foreign language which levi had used when first speaking to them--a language quite unintelligible to hiram's ears. now and then the murmur of talk would rise loud and harsh over some disputed point; now and then it would sink away to whispers. twice the tall clock in the corner whirred and sharply struck the hour, but throughout the whole long consultation hiram stood silent, motionless as a stock, his eyes fixed almost unwinkingly upon the three heads grouped close together around the dim, flickering light of the candle and the papers scattered upon the table. suddenly the talk came to an end, the three heads separated and the three chairs were pushed back, grating harshly. levi rose, went to the closet and brought thence a bottle of hiram's apple brandy, as coolly as though it belonged to himself. he set three tumblers and a crock of water upon the table and each helped himself liberally. as the two visitors departed down the road, levi stood for a while at the open door, looking after the dusky figures until they were swallowed in the darkness. then he turned, came in, shut the door, shuddered, took a final dose of the apple brandy and went to bed, without, since his first suppressed explosion, having said a single word to hiram. hiram, left alone, stood for a while, silent, motionless as ever, then he looked slowly about him, gave a shake of the shoulders as though to arouse himself, and taking the candle, left the room, shutting the door noiselessly behind him. viii this time of levi west's unwelcome visitation was indeed a time of bitter trouble and tribulation to poor hiram white. money was of very different value in those days than it is now, and five hundred pounds was in its way a good round lump--in sussex county it was almost a fortune. it was a desperate struggle for hiram to raise the amount of his father's bequest to his stepbrother. squire hall, as may have been gathered, had a very warm and friendly feeling for hiram, believing in him when all others disbelieved; nevertheless, in the matter of money the old man was as hard and as cold as adamant. he would, he said, do all he could to help hiram, but that five hundred pounds must and should be raised--hiram must release his security bond. he would loan him, he said, three hundred pounds, taking a mortgage upon the mill. he would have lent him four hundred but that there was already a first mortgage of one hundred pounds upon it, and he would not dare to put more than three hundred more atop of that. hiram had a considerable quantity of wheat which he had bought upon speculation and which was then lying idle in a philadelphia storehouse. this he had sold at public sale and at a very great sacrifice; he realized barely one hundred pounds upon it. the financial horizon looked very black to him; nevertheless, levi's five hundred pounds was raised, and paid into squire hall's hands, and squire hall released hiram's bond. the business was finally closed on one cold, gray afternoon in the early part of december. as hiram tore his bond across and then tore it across again and again, squire hall pushed back the papers upon his desk and cocked his feet upon its slanting top. "hiram," said he, abruptly, "hiram, do you know that levi west is forever hanging around billy martin's house, after that pretty daughter of his?" so long a space of silence followed the speech that the squire began to think that hiram might not have heard him. but hiram had heard. "no," said he, "i didn't know it." "well, he is," said squire hall. "it's the talk of the whole neighborhood. the talk's pretty bad, too. d'ye know that they say that she was away from home three days last week, nobody knew where? the fellow's turned her head with his sailor's yarns and his traveler's lies." hiram said not a word, but he sat looking at the other in stolid silence. "that stepbrother of yours," continued the old squire presently, "is a rascal--he is a rascal, hiram, and i mis-doubt he's something worse. i hear he's been seen in some queer places and with queer company of late." he stopped again, and still hiram said nothing. "and look'ee, hiram," the old man resumed, suddenly, "i do hear that you be courtin' the girl, too; is that so?" "yes," said hiram, "i'm courtin' her, too." "tut! tut!" said the squire, "that's a pity, hiram. i'm afraid your cakes are dough." after he had left the squire's office, hiram stood for a while in the street, bareheaded, his hat in his hand, staring unwinkingly down at the ground at his feet, with stupidly drooping lips and lackluster eyes. presently he raised his hand and began slowly smoothing down the sandy shock of hair upon his forehead. at last he aroused himself with a shake, looked dully up and down the street, and then, putting on his hat, turned and walked slowly and heavily away. the early dusk of the cloudy winter evening was settling fast, for the sky was leaden and threatening. at the outskirts of the town hiram stopped again and again stood for a while in brooding thought. then, finally, he turned slowly, not the way that led homeward, but taking the road that led between the bare and withered fields and crooked fences toward billy martin's. it would be hard to say just what it was that led hiram to seek billy martin's house at that time of day--whether it was fate or ill fortune. he could not have chosen a more opportune time to confirm his own undoing. what he saw was the very worst that his heart feared. along the road, at a little distance from the house, was a mock-orange hedge, now bare, naked, leafless. as hiram drew near he heard footsteps approaching and low voices. he drew back into the fence corner and there stood, half sheltered by the stark network of twigs. two figures passed slowly along the gray of the roadway in the gloaming. one was his stepbrother, the other was sally martin. levi's arm was around her, he was whispering into her ear, and her head rested upon his shoulder. hiram stood as still, as breathless, as cold as ice. they stopped upon the side of the road just beyond where he stood. hiram's eyes never left them. there for some time they talked together in low voices, their words now and then reaching the ears of that silent, breathless listener. suddenly there came the clattering of an opening door, and then betty martin's voice broke the silence, harshly, shrilly: "sal!--sal!--sally martin! you, sally martin! come in yere. where be ye?" the girl flung her arms around levi's neck and their lips met in one quick kiss. the next moment she was gone, flying swiftly, silently, down the road past where hiram stood, stooping as she ran. levi stood looking after her until she was gone; then he turned and walked away whistling. his whistling died shrilly into silence in the wintry distance, and then at last hiram came stumbling out from the hedge. his face had never looked before as it looked then. ix hiram was standing in front of the fire with his hands clasped behind his back. he had not touched the supper on the table. levi was eating with an appetite. suddenly he looked over his plate at his stepbrother. "how about that five hundred pounds, hiram?" said he. "i gave ye a month to raise it and the month ain't quite up yet, but i'm goin' to leave this here place day after to-morrow--by next day at the furd'st--and i want the money that's mine." "i paid it to squire hall to-day and he has it fer ye," said hiram, dully. levi laid down his knife and fork with a clatter. "squire hall!" said he, "what's squire hall got to do with it? squire hall didn't have the use of that money. it was you had it and you have got to pay it back to me, and if you don't do it, by g----, i'll have the law on you, sure as you're born." "squire hall's trustee--i ain't your trustee," said hiram, in the same dull voice. "i don't know nothing about trustees," said levi, "or anything about lawyer business, either. what i want to know is, are you going to pay me my money or no?" "no," said hiram, "i ain't--squire hall'll pay ye; you go to him." levi west's face grew purple red. he pushed back, his chair grating harshly. "you--bloody land pirate!" he said, grinding his teeth together. "i see through your tricks. you're up to cheating me out of my money. you know very well that squire hall is down on me, hard and bitter--writin' his----reports to philadelphia and doing all he can to stir up everybody agin me and to bring the bluejackets down on me. i see through your tricks as clear as glass, but ye shatn't trick me. i'll have my money if there's law in the land--ye bloody, unnatural thief ye, who'd go agin our dead father's will!" then--if the roof had fallen in upon him, levi west could not have been more amazed--hiram suddenly strode forward, and, leaning half across the table with his fists clenched, fairly glared into levi's eyes. his face, dull, stupid, wooden, was now fairly convulsed with passion. the great veins stood out upon his temples like knotted whipcords, and when he spoke his voice was more a breathless snarl than the voice of a christian man. "ye'll have the law, will ye?" said he. "ye'll--have the law, will ye? you're afeared to go to law--levi west--you try th' law--and see how ye like it. who 're you to call me thief--ye bloody, murderin' villain ye! you're the thief--levi west--you come here and stole my daddy from me ye did. you make me ruin--myself to pay what oughter to been mine then--ye ye steal the gal i was courtin', to boot." he stopped and his lips rithed for words to say. "i know ye," said he, grinding his teeth. "i know ye! and only for what my daddy made me promise i'd a-had you up to the magistrate's before this." then, pointing with quivering finger: "there's the door--you see it! go out that there door and don't never come into it again--if ye do--or if ye ever come where i can lay eyes on ye again--by th' holy holy i'll hale ye up to the squire's office and tell all i know and all i've seen. oh, i'll give ye your belly-fill of law if--ye want th' law! git out of the house, i say!" as hiram spoke levi seemed to shrink together. his face changed from its copper color to a dull, waxy yellow. when the other ended he answered never a word. but he pushed back his chair, rose, put on his hat and, with a furtive, sidelong look, left the house, without stopping to finish the supper which he had begun. he never entered hiram white's door again. x hiram had driven out the evil spirit from his home, but the mischief that it had brewed was done and could not be undone. the next day it was known that sally martin had run away from home, and that she had run away with levi west. old billy martin had been in town in the morning with his rifle, hunting for levi and threatening if he caught him to have his life for leading his daughter astray. and, as the evil spirit had left hiram's house, so had another and a greater evil spirit quitted its harborage. it was heard from indian river in a few days more that blueskin had quitted the inlet and had sailed away to the southeast; and it was reported, by those who seemed to know, that he had finally quitted those parts. it was well for himself that blueskin left when he did, for not three days after he sailed away the scorpion sloop-of-war dropped anchor in lewes harbor. the new york agent of the unfortunate packet and a government commissioner had also come aboard the scorpion. without loss of time, the officer in command instituted a keen and searching examination that brought to light some singularly curious facts. it was found that a very friendly understanding must have existed for some time between the pirates and the people of indian river, for, in the houses throughout that section, many things--some of considerable value--that had been taken by the pirates from the packet, were discovered and seized by the commissioner. valuables of a suspicious nature had found their way even into the houses of lewes itself. the whole neighborhood seemed to have become more or less tainted by the presence of the pirates. even poor hiram white did not escape the suspicions of having had dealings with them. of course the examiners were not slow in discovering that levi west had been deeply concerned with blueskin's doings. old dinah and black bob were examined, and not only did the story of levi's two visitors come to light, but also the fact that hiram was present and with them while they were in the house disposing of the captured goods to their agent. of all that he had endured, nothing seemed to cut poor hiram so deeply and keenly as these unjust suspicions. they seemed to bring the last bitter pang, hardest of all to bear. levi had taken from him his father's love; he had driven him, if not to ruin, at least perilously close to it. he had run away with the girl he loved, and now, through him, even hiram's good name was gone. neither did the suspicions against him remain passive; they became active. goldsmiths' bills, to the amount of several thousand pounds, had been taken in the packet and hiram was examined with an almost inquisitorial closeness and strictness as to whether he had or had not knowledge of their whereabouts. under his accumulated misfortunes, he grew not only more dull, more taciturn, than ever, but gloomy, moody, brooding as well. for hours he would sit staring straight before him into the fire, without moving so much as a hair. one night--it was a bitterly cold night in february, with three inches of dry and gritty snow upon the ground--while hiram sat thus brooding, there came, of a sudden, a soft tap upon the door. low and hesitating as it was, hiram started violently at the sound. he sat for a while, looking from right to left. then suddenly pushing back his chair, he arose, strode to the door, and flung it wide open. it was sally martin. hiram stood for a while staring blankly at her. it was she who first spoke. "won't you let me come in, hi?" said she. "i'm nigh starved with the cold and i'm fit to die, i'm so hungry. for god's sake, let me come in." "yes," said hiram, "i'll let you come in, but why don't you go home?" the poor girl was shivering and chattering with the cold; now she began crying, wiping her eyes with the corner of a blanket in which her head and shoulders were wrapped. "i have been home, hiram," she said, "but dad, he shut the door in my face. he cursed me just awful, hi--i wish i was dead!" "you better come in," said hiram. "it's no good standing out there in the cold." he stood aside and the girl entered, swiftly, gratefully. at hiram's bidding black dinah presently set some food before sally and she fell to eating ravenously, almost ferociously. meantime, while she ate, hiram stood with his back to the fire, looking at her face that face once so round and rosy, now thin, pinched, haggard. "are you sick, sally?" said he presently. "no," said she, "but i've had pretty hard times since i left home, hi." the tears sprang to her eyes at the recollection of her troubles, but she only wiped them hastily away with the back of her hand, without stopping in her eating. a long pause of dead silence followed. dinah sat crouched together on a cricket at the other side of the hearth, listening with interest. hiram did not seem to see her. "did you go off with levi?" said he at last, speaking abruptly. the girl looked up furtively under her brows. "you needn't be afeared to tell," he added. "yes," said she at last, "i did go off with him, hi." "where've you been?" at the question, she suddenly laid down her knife and fork. "don't you ask me that, hi," said she, agitatedly, "i can't tell you that. you don't know levi, hiram; i darsn't tell you anything he don't want me to. if i told you where i been he'd hunt me out, no matter where i was, and kill me. if you only knew what i know about him, hiram, you wouldn't ask anything about him." hiram stood looking broodingly at her for a long time; then at last he again spoke. "i thought a sight of you onc't, sally," said he. sally did not answer immediately, but, after a while, she suddenly looked up. "hiram," said she, "if i tell ye something will you promise on your oath not to breathe a word to any living soul?" hiram nodded. "then i'll tell you, but if levi finds i've told he'll murder me as sure as you're standin' there. come nigher--i've got to whisper it." he leaned forward close to her where she sat. she looked swiftly from right to left; then raising her lips she breathed into his ear: "i'm an honest woman, hi. i was married to levi west before i run away." xi the winter had passed, spring had passed, and summer had come. whatever hiram had felt, he had made no sign of suffering. nevertheless, his lumpy face had begun to look flabby, his cheeks hollow, and his loose-jointed body shrunk more awkwardly together into its clothes. he was often awake at night, sometimes walking up and down his room until far into the small hours. it was through such a wakeful spell as this that he entered into the greatest, the most terrible, happening of his life. it was a sulphurously hot night in july. the air was like the breath of a furnace, and it was a hard matter to sleep with even the easiest mind and under the most favorable circumstances. the full moon shone in through the open window, laying a white square of light upon the floor, and hiram, as he paced up and down, up and down, walked directly through it, his gaunt figure starting out at every turn into sudden brightness as he entered the straight line of misty light. the clock in the kitchen whirred and rang out the hour of twelve, and hiram stopped in his walk to count the strokes. the last vibration died away into silence, and still he stood motionless, now listening with a new and sudden intentness, for, even as the clock rang the last stroke, he heard soft, heavy footsteps, moving slowly and cautiously along the pathway before the house and directly below the open window. a few seconds more and he heard the creaking of rusty hinges. the mysterious visitor had entered the mill. hiram crept softly to the window and looked out. the moon shone full on the dusty, shingled face of the old mill, not thirty steps away, and he saw that the door was standing wide open. a second or two of stillness followed, and then, as he still stood looking intently, he saw the figure of a man suddenly appear, sharp and vivid, from the gaping blackness of the open doorway. hiram could see his face as clear as day. it was levi west, and he carried an empty meal bag over his arm. levi west stood looking from right to left for a second or two, and then he took off his hat and wiped his brow with the back of his hand. then he softly closed the door behind him and left the mill as he had come, and with the same cautious step. hiram looked down upon him as he passed close to the house and almost directly beneath. he could have touched him with his hand. fifty or sixty yards from the house levi stopped and a second figure arose from the black shadow in the angle of the worm fence and joined him. they stood for a while talking together, levi pointing now and then toward the mill. then the two turned, and, climbing over the fence, cut across an open field and through the tall, shaggy grass toward the southeast. hiram straightened himself and drew a deep breath, and the moon, shining full upon his face, snowed it twisted, convulsed, as it had been when he had fronted his stepbrother seven months before in the kitchen. great beads of sweat stood on his brow and he wiped them away with his sleeve. then, coatless, hatless as he was, he swung himself out of the window, dropped upon the grass, and, without an instant of hesitation, strode off down the road in the direction that levi west had taken. as he climbed the fence where the two men had climbed it he could see them in the pallid light, far away across the level, scrubby meadow land, walking toward a narrow strip of pine woods. a little later they entered the sharp-cut shadows beneath the trees and were swallowed in the darkness. with fixed eyes and close-shut lips, as doggedly, as inexorably as though he were a nemesis hunting his enemy down, hiram followed their footsteps across the stretch of moonlit open. then, by and by, he also was in the shadow of the pines. here, not a sound broke the midnight hush. his feet made no noise upon the resinous softness of the ground below. in that dead, pulseless silence he could distinctly hear the distant voices of levi and his companion, sounding loud and resonant in the hollow of the woods. beyond the woods was a cornfield, and presently he heard the rattling of the harsh leaves as the two plunged into the tasseled jungle. here, as in the woods, he followed them, step by step, guided by the noise of their progress through the canes. beyond the cornfield ran a road that, skirting to the south of lewes, led across a wooden bridge to the wide salt marshes that stretched between the town and the distant sand hills. coming out upon this road hiram found that he had gained upon those he followed, and that they now were not fifty paces away, and he could see that levi's companion carried over his shoulder what looked like a bundle of tools. he waited for a little while to let them gain their distance and for the second time wiped his forehead with his shirt sleeve; then, without ever once letting his eyes leave them, he climbed the fence to the roadway. for a couple of miles or more he followed the two along the white, level highway, past silent, sleeping houses, past barns, sheds, and haystacks, looming big in the moonlight, past fields, and woods, and clearings, past the dark and silent skirts of the town, and so, at last, out upon the wide, misty salt marshes, which seemed to stretch away interminably through the pallid light, yet were bounded in the far distance by the long, white line of sand hills. across the level salt marshes he followed them, through the rank sedge and past the glassy pools in which his own inverted image stalked beneath as he stalked above; on and on, until at last they had reached a belt of scrub pines, gnarled and gray, that fringed the foot of the white sand hills. here hiram kept within the black network of shadow. the two whom he followed walked more in the open, with their shadows, as black as ink, walking along in the sand beside them, and now, in the dead, breathless stillness, might be heard, dull and heavy, the distant thumping, pounding roar of the atlantic surf, beating on the beach at the other side of the sand hills, half a mile away. at last the two rounded the southern end of the white bluff, and when hiram, following, rounded it also, they were no longer to be seen. before him the sand hill rose, smooth and steep, cutting in a sharp ridge against the sky. up this steep hill trailed the footsteps of those he followed, disappearing over the crest. beyond the ridge lay a round, bowl-like hollow, perhaps fifty feet across and eighteen or twenty feet deep, scooped out by the eddying of the winds into an almost perfect circle. hiram, slowly, cautiously, stealthily, following their trailing line of footmarks, mounted to the top of the hillock and peered down into the bowl beneath. the two men were sitting upon the sand, not far from the tall, skeleton-like shaft of a dead pine tree that rose, stark and gray, from the sand in which it may once have been buried, centuries ago. xii levi had taken off his coat and waistcoat and was fanning himself with his hat. he was sitting upon the bag he had brought from the mill and which he had spread out upon the sand. his companion sat facing him. the moon shone full upon him and hiram knew him instantly--he was the same burly, foreign-looking ruffian who had come with the little man to the mill that night to see levi. he also had his hat off and was wiping his forehead and face with a red handkerchief. beside him lay the bundle of tools he had brought--a couple of shovels, a piece of rope, and a long, sharp iron rod. the two men were talking together, but hiram could not understand what they said, for they spoke in the same foreign language that they had before used. but he could see his stepbrother point with his finger, now to the dead tree and now to the steep, white face of the opposite side of the bowl-like hollow. at last, having apparently rested themselves, the conference, if conference it was, came to an end, and levi led the way, the other following, to the dead pine tree. here he stopped and began searching, as though for some mark; then, having found that which he looked for, he drew a tapeline and a large brass pocket compass from his pocket. he gave one end of the tape line to his companion, holding the other with his thumb pressed upon a particular part of the tree. taking his bearings by the compass, he gave now and then some orders to the other, who moved a little to the left or the right as he bade. at last he gave a word of command, and, thereupon, his companion drew a wooden peg from his pocket and thrust it into the sand. from this peg as a base they again measured, taking bearings by the compass, and again drove a peg. for a third time they repeated their measurements and then, at last, seemed to have reached the point which they aimed for. here levi marked a cross with his heel upon the sand. his companion brought him the pointed iron rod which lay beside the shovels, and then stood watching as levi thrust it deep into the sand, again and again, as though sounding for some object below. it was some while before he found that for which he was seeking, but at last the rod struck with a jar upon some hard object below. after making sure of success by one or two additional taps with the rod, levi left it remaining where it stood, brushing the sand from his hands. "now fetch the shovels, pedro," said he, speaking for the first time in english. the two men were busy for a long while, shoveling away the sand. the object for which they were seeking lay buried some six feet deep, and the work was heavy and laborious, the shifting sand sliding back, again and again, into the hole. but at last the blade of one of the shovels struck upon some hard substance and levi stooped and brushed away the sand with the palm of his hand. levi's companion climbed out of the hole which they had dug and tossed the rope which he had brought with the shovels down to the other. levi made it fast to some object below and then himself mounted to the level of the sand above. pulling together, the two drew up from the hole a heavy iron-bound box, nearly three feet long and a foot wide and deep. levi's companion stooped and began untying the rope which had been lashed to a ring in the lid. what next happened happened suddenly, swiftly, terribly. levi drew back a single step, and shot one quick, keen look to right and to left. he passed his hand rapidly behind his back, and the next moment hiram saw the moonlight gleam upon the long, sharp, keen blade of a knife. levi raised his arm. then, just as the other arose from bending over the chest, he struck, and struck again, two swift, powerful blows. hiram saw the blade drive, clean and sharp, into the back, and heard the hilt strike with a dull thud against the ribs--once, twice. the burly, black-bearded wretch gave a shrill, terrible cry and fell staggering back. then, in an instant, with another cry, he was up and clutched levi with a clutch of despair by the throat and by the arm. then followed a struggle, short, terrible, silent. not a sound was heard but the deep, panting breath and the scuffling of feet in the sand, upon which there now poured and dabbled a dark-purple stream. but it was a one-sided struggle and lasted only for a second or two. levi wrenched his arm loose from the wounded man's grasp, tearing his shirt sleeve from the wrist to the shoulder as he did so. again and again the cruel knife was lifted, and again and again it fell, now no longer bright, but stained with red. then, suddenly, all was over. levi's companion dropped to the sand without a sound, like a bundle of rags. for a moment he lay limp and inert; then one shuddering spasm passed over him and he lay silent and still, with his face half buried in the sand. levi, with the knife still gripped tight in his hand, stood leaning over his victim, looking down upon his body. his shirt and hand, and even his naked arm, were stained and blotched with blood. the moon lit up his face and it was the face of a devil from hell. at last he gave himself a shake, stooped and wiped his knife and hand and arm upon the loose petticoat breeches of the dead man. he thrust his knife back into its sheath, drew a key from his pocket and unlocked the chest. in the moonlight hiram could see that it was filled mostly with paper and leather bags, full, apparently of money. all through this awful struggle and its awful ending hiram lay, dumb and motionless, upon the crest of the sand hill, looking with a horrid fascination upon the death struggle in the pit below. now hiram arose. the sand slid whispering down from the crest as he did so, but levi was too intent in turning over the contents of the chest to notice the slight sound. hiram's face was ghastly pale and drawn. for one moment he opened his lips as though to speak, but no word came. so, white, silent, he stood for a few seconds, rather like a statue than a living man, then, suddenly, his eyes fell upon the bag, which levi had brought with him, no doubt, to carry back the treasure for which he and his companion were in search, and which still lay spread out on the sand where it had been flung. then, as though a thought had suddenly flashed upon him, his whole expression changed, his lips closed tightly together as though fearing an involuntary sound might escape, and the haggard look dissolved from his face. cautiously, slowly, he stepped over the edge of the sand hill and down the slanting face. his coming was as silent as death, for his feet made no noise as he sank ankle-deep in the yielding surface. so, stealthily, step by step, he descended, reached the bag, lifted it silently. levi, still bending over the chest and searching through the papers within, was not four feet away. hiram raised the bag in his hands. he must have made some slight rustle as he did so, for suddenly levi half turned his head. but he was one instant too late. in a flash the bag was over his head--shoulders--arms--body. then came another struggle, as fierce, as silent, as desperate as that other--and as short. wiry, tough, and strong as he was, with a lean, sinewy, nervous vigor, fighting desperately for his life as he was, levi had no chance against the ponderous strength of his stepbrother. in any case, the struggle could not have lasted long; as it was, levi stumbled backward over the body of his dead mate and fell, with hiram upon him. maybe he was stunned by the fall; maybe he felt the hopelessness of resistance, for he lay quite still while hiram, kneeling upon him, drew the rope from the ring of the chest and, without uttering a word, bound it tightly around both the bag and the captive within, knotting it again and again and drawing it tight. only once was a word spoken. "if you'll lemme go," said a muffled voice from the bag, "i'll give you five thousand pounds--it's in that there box." hiram answered never a word, but continued knotting the rope and drawing it tight. xiii the scorpion sloop-of-war lay in lewes harbor all that winter and spring, probably upon the slim chance of a return of the pirates. it was about eight o'clock in the morning and lieutenant maynard was sitting in squire hall's office, fanning himself with his hat and talking in a desultory fashion. suddenly the dim and distant noise of a great crowd was heard from without, coming nearer and nearer. the squire and his visitor hurried to the door. the crowd was coming down the street shouting, jostling, struggling, some on the footway, some in the roadway. heads were at the doors and windows, looking down upon them. nearer they came, and nearer; then at last they could see that the press surrounded and accompanied one man. it was hiram white, hatless, coatless, the sweat running down his face in streams, but stolid and silent as ever. over his shoulder he carried a bag, tied round and round with a rope. it was not until the crowd and the man it surrounded had come quite near that the squire and the lieutenant saw that a pair of legs in gray-yarn stockings hung from the bag. it was a man he was carrying. hiram had lugged his burden five miles that morning without help and with scarcely a rest on the way. he came directly toward the squire's office and, still sun rounded and hustled by the crowd, up the steep steps to the office within. he flung his burden heavily upon the floor without a word and wiped his streaming forehead. the squire stood with his knuckles on his desk, staring first at hiram and then at the strange burden he had brought. a sudden hush fell upon all, though the voices of those without sounded as loud and turbulent as ever. "what is it, hiram?" said squire hall at last. then for the first time hiram spoke, panting thickly. "it's a bloody murderer," said he, pointing a quivering finger at the motionless figure. "here, some of you!" called out the squire. "come! untie this man! who is he?" a dozen willing fingers quickly unknotted the rope and the bag was slipped from the head and body. hair and face and eyebrows and clothes were powdered with meal, but, in spite of all and through all the innocent whiteness, dark spots and blotches and smears of blood showed upon head and arm and shirt. levi raised himself upon his elbow and looked scowlingly around at the amazed, wonderstruck faces surrounding him. "why, it's levi west!" croaked the squire, at last finding his voice. then, suddenly, lieutenant maynard pushed forward, before the others crowded around the figure on the floor, and, clutching levi by the hair, dragged his head backward so as to better see his face. "levi west!" said he in a loud voice. "is this the levi west you've been telling me of? look at that scar and the mark on his cheek! this is blueskin himself." xiv in the chest which blueskin had dug up out of the sand were found not only the goldsmiths' bills taken from the packet, but also many other valuables belonging to the officers and the passengers of the unfortunate ship. the new york agents offered hiram a handsome reward for his efforts in recovering the lost bills, but hiram declined it, positively and finally. "all i want," said he, in his usual dull, stolid fashion, "is to have folks know i'm honest." nevertheless, though he did not accept what the agents of the packet offered, fate took the matter into its own hands and rewarded him not unsubstantially. blueskin was taken to england in the scorpion. but he never came to trial. while in newgate he hanged himself to the cell window with his own stockings. the news of his end was brought to lewes in the early autumn and squire hall took immediate measures to have the five hundred pounds of his father's legacy duly transferred to hiram. in november hiram married the pirate's widow. chapter vii. captain scarfield preface the author of this narrative cannot recall that, in any history of the famous pirates, he has ever read a detailed and sufficient account of the life and death of capt. john scarfield. doubtless some data concerning his death and the destruction of his schooner might be gathered from the report of lieutenant mainwaring, now filed in the archives of the navy department, out beyond such bald and bloodless narrative the author knows of nothing, unless it be the little chap-book history published by isaiah thomas in newburyport about the year - , entitled, "a true history of the life and death of captain jack scarfield." this lack of particularity in the history of one so notable in his profession it is the design of the present narrative in a measure to supply, and, if the author has seen fit to cast it in the form of a fictional story, it is only that it may make more easy reading for those who see fit to follow the tale from this to its conclusion. i eleazer cooper, or captain cooper, as was his better-known title in philadelphia, was a prominent member of the society of friends. he was an overseer of the meeting and an occasional speaker upon particular occasions. when at home from one of his many voyages he never failed to occupy his seat in the meeting both on first day and fifth day, and he was regarded by his fellow townsmen as a model of business integrity and of domestic responsibility. more incidental to this history, however, it is to be narrated that captain cooper was one of those trading skippers who carried their own merchandise in their own vessels which they sailed themselves, and on whose decks they did their own bartering. his vessel was a swift, large schooner, the eliza cooper, of philadelphia, named for his wife. his cruising grounds were the west india islands, and his merchandise was flour and corn meal ground at the brandywine mills at wilmington, delaware. during the war of he had earned, as was very well known, an extraordinary fortune in this trading; for flour and corn meal sold at fabulous prices in the french, spanish, dutch, and danish islands, cut off, as they were, from the rest of the world by the british blockade. the running of this blockade was one of the most hazardous maritime ventures possible, but captain cooper had met with such unvaried success, and had sold his merchandise at such incredible profit that, at the end of the war, he found himself to have become one of the wealthiest merchants of his native city. it was known at one time that his balance in the mechanics' bank was greater than that of any other individual depositor upon the books, and it was told of him that he had once deposited in the bank a chest of foreign silver coin, the exchanged value of which, when translated into american currency, was upward of forty-two thousand dollars--a prodigious sum of money in those days. in person, captain cooper was tall and angular of frame. his face was thin and severe, wearing continually an unsmiling, mask-like expression of continent and unruffled sobriety. his manner was dry and taciturn, and his conduct and life were measured to the most absolute accord with the teachings of his religious belief. he lived in an old-fashioned house on front street below spruce--as pleasant, cheerful a house as ever a trading captain could return to. at the back of the house a lawn sloped steeply down toward the river. to the south stood the wharf and storehouses; to the north an orchard and kitchen garden bloomed with abundant verdure. two large chestnut trees sheltered the porch and the little space of lawn, and when you sat under them in the shade you looked down the slope between two rows of box bushes directly across the shining river to the jersey shore. at the time of our story--that is, about the year --this property had increased very greatly in value, but it was the old home of the coopers, as eleazer cooper was entirely rich enough to indulge his fancy in such matters. accordingly, as he chose to live in the same house where his father and his grandfather had dwelt before him, he peremptorily, if quietly, refused all offers looking toward the purchase of the lot of ground--though it was now worth five or six times its former value. as was said, it was a cheerful, pleasant home, impressing you when you entered it with the feeling of spotless and all-pervading cleanliness--a cleanliness that greeted you in the shining brass door-knocker; that entertained you in the sitting room with its stiff, leather-covered furniture, the brass-headed tacks whereof sparkled like so many stars--a cleanliness that bade you farewell in the spotless stretch of sand-sprinkled hallway, the wooden floor of which was worn into knobs around the nail heads by the countless scourings and scrubbings to which it had been subjected and which left behind them an all-pervading faint, fragrant odor of soap and warm water. eleazer cooper and his wife were childless, but one inmate made the great, silent, shady house bright with life. lucinda fairbanks, a niece of captain cooper's by his only sister, was a handsome, sprightly girl of eighteen or twenty, and a great favorite in the quaker society of the city. it remains only to introduce the final and, perhaps, the most important actor of the narrative lieut. james mainwaring. during the past twelve months or so he had been a frequent visitor at the cooper house. at this time he was a broad-shouldered, red-cheeked, stalwart fellow of twenty-six or twenty-eight. he was a great social favorite, and possessed the added romantic interest of having been aboard the constitution when she fought the guerriere, and of having, with his own hands, touched the match that fired the first gun of that great battle. mainwaring's mother and eliza cooper had always been intimate friends, and the coming and going of the young man during his leave of absence were looked upon in the house as quite a matter of course. half a dozen times a week he would drop in to execute some little commission for the ladies, or, if captain cooper was at home, to smoke a pipe of tobacco with him, to sip a dram of his famous old jamaica rum, or to play a rubber of checkers of an evening. it is not likely that either of the older people was the least aware of the real cause of his visits; still less did they suspect that any passages of sentiment had passed between the young people. the truth was that mainwaring and the young lady were very deeply in love. it was a love that they were obliged to keep a profound secret, for not only had eleazer cooper held the strictest sort of testimony against the late war--a testimony so rigorous as to render it altogether unlikely that one of so military a profession as mainwaring practiced could hope for his consent to a suit for marriage, but lucinda could not have married one not a member of the society of friends without losing her own birthright membership therein. she herself might not attach much weight to such a loss of membership in the society, but her fear of, and her respect for, her uncle led her to walk very closely in her path of duty in this respect. accordingly she and mainwaring met as they could--clandestinely--and the stolen moments were very sweet. with equal secrecy lucinda had, at the request of her lover, sat for a miniature portrait to mrs. gregory, which miniature, set in a gold medallion, mainwaring, with a mild, sentimental pleasure, wore hung around his neck and beneath his shirt frill next his heart. in the month of april of the year mainwaring received orders to report at washington. during the preceding autumn the west india pirates, and notably capt. jack scarfield, had been more than usually active, and the loss of the packet marblehead (which, sailing from charleston, south carolina, was never heard of more) was attributed to them. two other coasting vessels off the coast of georgia had been looted and burned by scarfield, and the government had at last aroused itself to the necessity of active measures for repressing these pests of the west india waters. mainwaring received orders to take command of the yankee, a swift, light-draught, heavily armed brig of war, and to cruise about the bahama islands and to capture and destroy all the pirates' vessels he could there discover. on his way from washington to new york, where the yankee was then waiting orders, mainwaring stopped in philadelphia to bid good-by to his many friends in that city. he called at the old cooper house. it was on a sunday afternoon. the spring was early and the weather extremely pleasant that day, being filled with a warmth almost as of summer. the apple trees were already in full bloom and filled all the air with their fragrance. everywhere there seemed to be the pervading hum of bees, and the drowsy, tepid sunshine was very delightful. at that time eleazer was just home from an unusually successful voyage to antigua. mainwaring found the family sitting under one of the still leafless chestnut trees, captain cooper smoking his long clay pipe and lazily perusing a copy of the national gazette. eleazer listened with a great deal of interest to what mainwaring had to say of his proposed cruise. he himself knew a great deal about the pirates, and, singularly unbending from his normal, stiff taciturnity, he began telling of what he knew, particularly of captain scarfield--in whom he appeared to take an extraordinary interest. vastly to mainwaring's surprise, the old quaker assumed the position of a defendant of the pirates, protesting that the wickedness of the accused was enormously exaggerated. he declared that he knew some of the freebooters very well and that at the most they were poor, misdirected wretches who had, by easy gradation, slid into their present evil ways, from having been tempted by the government authorities to enter into privateering in the days of the late war. he conceded that captain scarfield had done many cruel and wicked deeds, but he averred that he had also performed many kind and benevolent actions. the world made no note of these latter, but took care only to condemn the evil that had been done. he acknowledged that it was true that the pirate had allowed his crew to cast lots for the wife and the daughter of the skipper of the northern rose, but there were none of his accusers who told how, at the risk of his own life and the lives of all his crew, he had given succor to the schooner halifax, found adrift with all hands down with yellow fever. there was no defender of his actions to tell how he and his crew of pirates had sailed the pest-stricken vessel almost into the rescuing waters of kingston harbor. eleazer confessed that he could not deny that when scarfield had tied the skipper of the baltimore belle naked to the foremast of his own brig he had permitted his crew of cutthroats (who were drunk at the time) to throw bottles at the helpless captive, who died that night of the wounds he had received. for this he was doubtless very justly condemned, but who was there to praise him when he had, at the risk of his life and in the face of the authorities, carried a cargo of provisions which he himself had purchased at tampa bay to the island of bella vista after the great hurricane of ? in this notable adventure he had barely escaped, after a two days' chase, the british frigate ceres, whose captain, had a capture been effected, would instantly have hung the unfortunate man to the yardarm in spite of the beneficent mission he was in the act of conducting. in all this eleazer had the air of conducting the case for the defendant. as he talked he became more and more animated and voluble. the light went out in his tobacco pipe, and a hectic spot appeared in either thin and sallow cheek. mainwaring sat wondering to hear the severely peaceful quaker preacher defending so notoriously bloody and cruel a cutthroat pirate as capt. jack scarfield. the warm and innocent surroundings, the old brick house looking down upon them, the odor of apple blossoms and the hum of bees seemed to make it all the more incongruous. and still the elderly quaker skipper talked on and on with hardly an interruption, till the warm sun slanted to the west and the day began to decline. that evening mainwaring stayed to tea and when he parted from lucinda fairbanks it was after nightfall, with a clear, round moon shining in the milky sky and a radiance pallid and unreal enveloping the old house, the blooming apple trees, the sloping lawn and the shining river beyond. he implored his sweetheart to let him tell her uncle and aunt of their acknowledged love and to ask the old man's consent to it, but she would not permit him to do so. they were so happy as they were. who knew but what her uncle might forbid their fondness? would he not wait a little longer? maybe it would all come right after a while. she was so fond, so tender, so tearful at the nearness of their parting that he had not the heart to insist. at the same time it was with a feeling almost of despair that he realized that he must now be gone--maybe for the space of two years--without in all that time possessing the right to call her his before the world. when he bade farewell to the older people it was with a choking feeling of bitter disappointment. he yet felt the pressure of her cheek against his shoulder, the touch of soft and velvet lips to his own. but what were such clandestine endearments compared to what might, perchance, be his--the right of calling her his own when he was far away and upon the distant sea? and, besides, he felt like a coward who had shirked his duty. but he was very much in love. the next morning appeared in a drizzle of rain that followed the beautiful warmth of the day before. he had the coach all to himself, and in the damp and leathery solitude he drew out the little oval picture from beneath his shirt frill and looked long and fixedly with a fond and foolish joy at the innocent face, the blue eyes, the red, smiling lips depicted upon the satinlike, ivory surface. ii for the better part of five months mainwaring cruised about in the waters surrounding the bahama islands. in that time he ran to earth and dispersed a dozen nests of pirates. he destroyed no less than fifteen piratical crafts of all sizes, from a large half-decked whaleboat to a three-hundred-ton barkentine. the name of the yankee became a terror to every sea wolf in the western tropics, and the waters of the bahama islands became swept almost clean of the bloody wretches who had so lately infested it. but the one freebooter of all others whom he sought--capt. jack scarfield--seemed to evade him like a shadow, to slip through his fingers like magic. twice he came almost within touch of the famous marauder, both times in the ominous wrecks that the pirate captain had left behind him. the first of these was the water-logged remains of a burned and still smoking wreck that he found adrift in the great bahama channel. it was the water witch, of salem, but he did not learn her tragic story until, two weeks later, he discovered a part of her crew at port maria, on the north coast of jamaica. it was, indeed, a dreadful story to which he listened. the castaways said that they of all the vessel's crew had been spared so that they might tell the commander of the yankee, should they meet him, that he might keep what he found, with captain scarfield's compliments, who served it up to him hot cooked. three weeks later he rescued what remained of the crew of the shattered, bloody hulk of the baltimore belle, eight of whose crew, headed by the captain, had been tied hand and foot and heaved overboard. again, there was a message from captain scarfield to the commander of the yankee that he might season what he found to suit his own taste. mainwaring was of a sanguine disposition, with fiery temper. he swore, with the utmost vehemence, that either he or john scarfield would have to leave the earth. he had little suspicion of how soon was to befall the ominous realization of his angry prophecy. at that time one of the chief rendezvous of the pirates was the little island of san jose, one of the southernmost of the bahama group. here, in the days before the coming of the yankee, they were wont to put in to careen and clean their vessels and to take in a fresh supply of provisions, gunpowder, and rum, preparatory to renewing their attacks upon the peaceful commerce circulating up and down outside the islands, or through the wide stretches of the bahama channel. mainwaring had made several descents upon this nest of freebooters. he had already made two notable captures, and it was here he hoped eventually to capture captain scarfield himself. a brief description of this one-time notorious rendezvous of freebooters might not be out of place. it consisted of a little settlement of those wattled and mud-smeared houses such as you find through the west indies. there were only three houses of a more pretentious sort, built of wood. one of these was a storehouse, another was a rum shop, and a third a house in which dwelt a mulatto woman, who was reputed to be a sort of left-handed wife of captain scarfield's. the population was almost entirely black and brown. one or two jews and a half dozen yankee traders, of hardly dubious honesty, comprised the entire white population. the rest consisted of a mongrel accumulation of negroes and mulattoes and half-caste spaniards, and of a multitude of black or yellow women and children. the settlement stood in a bight of the beach forming a small harbor and affording a fair anchorage for small vessels, excepting it were against the beating of a southeasterly gale. the houses, or cabins, were surrounded by clusters of coco palms and growths of bananas, and a long curve of white beach, sheltered from the large atlantic breakers that burst and exploded upon an outer bar, was drawn like a necklace around the semi-circle of emerald-green water. such was the famous pirates' settlement of san jose--a paradise of nature and a hell of human depravity and wickedness--and it was to this spot that mainwaring paid another visit a few days after rescuing the crew of the baltimore belle from her shattered and sinking wreck. as the little bay with its fringe of palms and its cluster of wattle huts opened up to view, mainwaring discovered a vessel lying at anchor in the little harbor. it was a large and well-rigged schooner of two hundred and fifty or three hundred tons burden. as the yankee rounded to under the stern of the stranger and dropped anchor in such a position as to bring her broadside battery to bear should the occasion require, mainwaring set his glass to his eye to read the name he could distinguish beneath the overhang of her stern. it is impossible to describe his infinite surprise when, the white lettering starting out in the circle of the glass, he read, the eliza cooper, of philadelphia. he could not believe the evidence of his senses. certainly this sink of iniquity was the last place in the world he would have expected to have fallen in with eleazer cooper. he ordered out the gig and had himself immediately rowed over to the schooner. whatever lingering doubts he might have entertained as to the identity of the vessel were quickly dispelled when he beheld captain cooper himself standing at the gangway to meet him. the impassive face of the friend showed neither surprise nor confusion at what must have been to him a most unexpected encounter. but when he stepped upon the deck of the eliza cooper and looked about him, mainwaring could hardly believe the evidence of his senses at the transformation that he beheld. upon the main deck were eight twelve-pound carronade neatly covered with tarpaulin; in the bow a long tom, also snugly stowed away and covered, directed a veiled and muzzled snout out over the bowsprit. it was entirely impossible for mainwaring to conceal his astonishment at so unexpected a sight, and whether or not his own thoughts lent color to his imagination, it seemed to him that eleazer cooper concealed under the immobility of his countenance no small degree of confusion. after captain cooper had led the way into the cabin and he and the younger man were seated over a pipe of tobacco and the invariable bottle of fine old jamaica rum, mainwaring made no attempt to refrain from questioning him as to the reason for this singular and ominous transformation. "i am a man of peace, james mainwaring," eleazer replied, "but there are men of blood in these waters, and an appearance of great strength is of use to protect the innocent from the wicked. if i remained in appearance the peaceful trader i really am, how long does thee suppose i could remain unassailed in this place?" it occurred to mainwaring that the powerful armament he had beheld was rather extreme to be used merely as a preventive. he smoked for a while in silence and then he suddenly asked the other point-blank whether, if it came to blows with such a one as captain scarfield, would he make a fight of it? the quaker trading captain regarded him for a while in silence. his look, it seemed to mainwaring, appeared to be dubitative as to how far he dared to be frank. "friend james," he said at last, "i may as well acknowledge that my officers and crew are somewhat worldly. of a truth they do not hold the same testimony as i. i am inclined to think that if it came to the point of a broil with those men of iniquity, my individual voice cast for peace would not be sufficient to keep my crew from meeting violence with violence. as for myself, thee knows who i am and what is my testimony in these matters." mainwaring made no comment as to the extremely questionable manner in which the quaker proposed to beat the devil about the stump. presently he asked his second question: "and might i inquire," he said, "what you are doing here and why you find it necessary to come at all into such a wicked, dangerous place as this?" "indeed, i knew thee would ask that question of me," said the friend, "and i will be entirely frank with thee. these men of blood are, after all, but human beings, and as human beings they need food. i have at present upon this vessel upward of two hundred and fifty barrels of flour which will bring a higher price here than anywhere else in the west indies. to be entirely frank with thee, i will tell thee that i was engaged in making a bargain for the sale of the greater part of my merchandise when the news of thy approach drove away my best customer." mainwaring sat for a while in smoking silence. what the other had told him explained many things he had not before understood. it explained why captain cooper got almost as much for his flour and corn meal now that peace had been declared as he had obtained when the war and the blockade were in full swing. it explained why he had been so strong a defender of captain scarfield and the pirates that afternoon in the garden. meantime, what was to be done? eleazer confessed openly that he dealt with the pirates. what now was his--mainwaring's--duty in the case? was the cargo of the eliza cooper contraband and subject to confiscation? and then another question framed itself in his mind: who was this customer whom his approach had driven away? as though he had formulated the inquiry into speech the other began directly to speak of it. "i know," he said, "that in a moment thee will ask me who was this customer of whom i have just now spoken. i have no desire to conceal his name from thee. it was the man who is known as captain jack or captain john scarfield." mainwaring fairly started from his seat. "the devil you say!" he cried. "and how long has it been," he asked, "since he left you?" the quaker skipper carefully refilled his pipe, which he had by now smoked out. "i would judge," he said, "that it is a matter of four or five hours since news was brought overland by means of swift runners of thy approach. immediately the man of wickedness disappeared." here eleazer set the bowl of his pipe to the candle flame and began puffing out voluminous clouds of smoke. "i would have thee understand, james mainwaring," he resumed, "that i am no friend of this wicked and sinful man. his safety is nothing to me. it is only a question of buying upon his part and of selling upon mine. if it is any satisfaction to thee i will heartily promise to bring thee news if i hear anything of the man of belial. i may furthermore say that i think it is likely thee will have news more or less directly of him within the space of a day. if this should happen, however, thee will have to do thy own fighting without help from me, for i am no man of combat nor of blood and will take no hand in it either way." it struck mainwaring that the words contained some meaning that did not appear upon the surface. this significance struck him as so ambiguous that when he went aboard the yankee he confided as much of his suspicions as he saw fit to his second in command, lieutenant underwood. as night descended he had a double watch set and had everything prepared to repel any attack or surprise that might be attempted. iii nighttime in the tropics descends with a surprising rapidity. at one moment the earth is shining with the brightness of the twilight; the next, as it were, all things are suddenly swallowed into a gulf of darkness. the particular night of which this story treats was not entirely clear; the time of year was about the approach of the rainy season, and the tepid, tropical clouds added obscurity to the darkness of the sky, so that the night fell with even more startling quickness than usual. the blackness was very dense. now and then a group of drifting stars swam out of a rift in the vapors, but the night was curiously silent and of a velvety darkness. as the obscurity had deepened, mainwaring had ordered lanthorns to be lighted and slung to the shrouds and to the stays, and the faint yellow of their illumination lighted the level white of the snug little war vessel, gleaming here and there in a starlike spark upon the brass trimmings and causing the rows of cannons to assume curiously gigantic proportions. for some reason mainwaring was possessed by a strange, uneasy feeling. he walked restlessly up and down the deck for a time, and then, still full of anxieties for he knew not what, went into his cabin to finish writing up his log for the day. he unstrapped his cutlass and laid it upon the table, lighted his pipe at the lanthorn and was about preparing to lay aside his coat when word was brought to him that the captain of the trading schooner was come alongside and had some private information to communicate to him. mainwaring surmised in an instant that the trader's visit related somehow to news of captain scarfield, and as immediately, in the relief of something positive to face, all of his feeling of restlessness vanished like a shadow of mist. he gave orders that captain cooper should be immediately shown into the cabin, and in a few moments the tall, angular form of the quaker skipper appeared in the narrow, lanthorn-lighted space. mainwaring at once saw that his visitor was strangely agitated and disturbed. he had taken off his hat, and shining beads of perspiration had gathered and stood clustered upon his forehead. he did not reply to mainwaring's greeting; he did not, indeed, seem to hear it; but he came directly forward to the table and stood leaning with one hand upon the open log book in which the lieutenant had just been writing. mainwaring had reseated himself at the head of the table, and the tall figure of the skipper stood looking down at him as from a considerable height. "james mainwaring," he said, "i promised thee to report if i had news of the pirate. is thee ready now to hear my news?" there was something so strange in his agitation that it began to infect mainwaring with a feeling somewhat akin to that which appeared to disturb his visitor. "i know not what you mean, sir!" he cried, "by asking if i care to hear your news. at this moment i would rather have news of that scoundrel than to have anything i know of in the world." "thou would? thou would?" cried the other, with mounting agitation. "is thee in such haste to meet him as all that? very well; very well, then. suppose i could bring thee face to face with him--what then? hey? hey? face to face with him, james mainwaring!" the thought instantly flashed into mainwaring's mind that the pirate had returned to the island; that perhaps at that moment he was somewhere near at hand. "i do not understand you, sir," he cried. "do you mean to tell me that you know where the villain is? if so, lose no time in informing me, for every instant of delay may mean his chance of again escaping." "no danger of that!" the other declared, vehemently. "no danger of that! i'll tell thee where he is and i'll bring thee to him quick enough!" and as he spoke he thumped his fist against the open log book. in the vehemence of his growing excitement his eyes appeared to shine green in the lanthorn light, and the sweat that had stood in beads upon his forehead was now running in streams down his face. one drop hung like a jewel to the tip of his beaklike nose. he came a step nearer to mainwaring and bent forward toward him, and there was something so strange and ominous in his bearing that the lieutenant instinctively drew back a little where he sat. "captain scarfield sent something to you," said eleazer, almost in a raucous voice, "something that you will be surprised to see." and the lapse in his speech from the quaker "thee" to the plural "you" struck mainwaring as singularly strange. as he was speaking eleazer was fumbling in a pocket of his long-tailed drab coat, and presently he brought something forth that gleamed in the lanthorn light. the next moment mainwaring saw leveled directly in his face the round and hollow nozzle of a pistol. there was an instant of dead silence and then, "i am the man you seek!" said eleazer cooper, in a tense and breathless voice. the whole thing had happened so instantaneously and unexpectedly that for the moment mainwaring sat like one petrified. had a thunderbolt fallen from the silent sky and burst at his feet he could not have been more stunned. he was like one held in the meshes of a horrid nightmare, and he gazed as through a mist of impossibility into the lineaments of the well-known, sober face now transformed as from within into the aspect of a devil. that face, now ashy white, was distorted into a diabolical grin. the teeth glistened in the lamplight. the brows, twisted into a tense and convulsed frown, were drawn down into black shadows, through which the eyes burned a baleful green like the eyes of a wild animal driven to bay. again he spoke in the same breathless voice. "i am john scarfield! look at me, then, if you want to see a pirate!" again there was a little time of silence, through which mainwaring heard his watch ticking loudly from where it hung against the bulkhead. then once more the other began speaking. "you would chase me out of the west indies, would you? g------ --you! what are you come to now? you are caught in your own trap, and you'll squeal loud enough before you get out of it. speak a word or make a movement and i'll blow your brains out against the partition behind you! listen to what i say or you are a dead man. sing out an order instantly for my mate and my bos'n to come here to the cabin, and be quick about it, for my finger's on the trigger, and it's only a pull to shut your mouth forever." it was astonishing to mainwaring, in afterward thinking about it all, how quickly his mind began to recover its steadiness after that first astonishing shock. even as the other was speaking he discovered that his brain was becoming clarified to a wonderful lucidity; his thoughts were becoming rearranged, and with a marvelous activity and an alertness he had never before experienced. he knew that if he moved to escape or uttered any outcry he would be instantly a dead man, for the circle of the pistol barrel was directed full against his forehead and with the steadiness of a rock. if he could but for an instant divert that fixed and deadly attention he might still have a chance for life. with the thought an inspiration burst into his mind and he instantly put it into execution; thought, inspiration, and action, as in a flash, were one. he must make the other turn aside his deadly gaze, and instantly he roared out in a voice that stunned his own ears: "strike, bos'n! strike, quick!" taken by surprise, and thinking, doubtless, that another enemy stood behind him, the pirate swung around like a flash with his pistol leveled against the blank boarding. equally upon the instant he saw the trick that had been played upon him and in a second flash had turned again. the turn and return had occupied but a moment of time, but that moment, thanks to the readiness of his own invention, had undoubtedly saved mainwaring's life. as the other turned away his gaze for that brief instant mainwaring leaped forward and upon him. there was a flashing flame of fire as the pistol was discharged and a deafening detonation that seemed to split his brain. for a moment, with reeling senses, he supposed himself to have been shot, the next he knew he had escaped. with the energy of despair he swung his enemy around and drove him with prodigious violence against the corner of the table. the pirate emitted a grunting cry and then they fell together, mainwaring upon the top, and the pistol clattered with them to the floor in their fall. even as he fell, mainwaring roared in a voice of thunder, "all hands repel boarders!" and then again, "all hands repel boarders!" whether hurt by the table edge or not, the fallen pirate struggled as though possessed of forty devils, and in a moment or two mainwaring saw the shine of a long, keen knife that he had drawn from somewhere about his person. the lieutenant caught him by the wrist, but the other's muscles were as though made of steel. they both fought in despairing silence, the one to carry out his frustrated purposes to kill, the other to save his life. again and again mainwaring felt that the knife had been thrust against him, piercing once his arm, once his shoulder, and again his neck. he felt the warm blood streaming down his arm and body and looked about him in despair. the pistol lay near upon the deck of the cabin. still holding the other by the wrist as he could, mainwaring snatched up the empty weapon and struck once and again at the bald, narrow forehead beneath him. a third blow he delivered with all the force he could command, and then with a violent and convulsive throe the straining muscles beneath him relaxed and grew limp and the fight was won. through all the struggle he had been aware of the shouts of voices, of trampling of feet and discharge of firearms, and the thought came to him, even through his own danger, that the yankee was being assaulted by the pirates. as he felt the struggling form beneath him loosen and dissolve into quietude, he leaped up, and snatching his cutlass, which still lay upon the table, rushed out upon the deck, leaving the stricken form lying twitching upon the floor behind him. it was a fortunate thing that he had set double watches and prepared himself for some attack from the pirates, otherwise the yankee would certainly have been lost. as it was, the surprise was so overwhelming that the pirates, who had been concealed in the large whaleboat that had come alongside, were not only able to gain a foothold upon the deck, but for a time it seemed as though they would drive the crew of the brig below the hatches. but as mainwaring, streaming with blood, rushed out upon the deck, the pirates became immediately aware that their own captain must have been overpowered, and in an instant their desperate energy began to evaporate. one or two jumped overboard; one, who seemed to be the mate, fell dead from a pistol shot, and then, in the turn of a hand, there was a rush of a retreat and a vision of leaping forms in the dusky light of the lanthorns and a sound of splashing in the water below. the crew of the yankee continued firing at the phosphorescent wakes of the swimming bodies, but whether with effect it was impossible at the time to tell. iv the pirate captain did not die immediately. he lingered for three or four days, now and then unconscious, now and then semi-conscious, but always deliriously wandering. all the while he thus lay dying, the mulatto woman, with whom he lived in this part of his extraordinary dual existence, nursed and cared for him with such rude attentions as the surroundings afforded. in the wanderings of his mind the same duality of life followed him. now and then he would appear the calm, sober, self-contained, well-ordered member of a peaceful society that his friends in his faraway home knew him to be; at other times the nether part of his nature would leap up into life like a wild beast, furious and gnashing. at the one time he talked evenly and clearly of peaceful things; at the other time he blasphemed and hooted with fury. several times mainwaring, though racked by his own wounds, sat beside the dying man through the silent watches of the tropical nights. oftentimes upon these occasions as he looked at the thin, lean face babbling and talking so aimlessly, he wondered what it all meant. could it have been madness--madness in which the separate entities of good and bad each had, in its turn, a perfect and distinct existence? he chose to think that this was the case. who, within his inner consciousness, does not feel that same ferine, savage man struggling against the stern, adamantine bonds of morality and decorum? were those bonds burst asunder, as it was with this man, might not the wild beast rush forth, as it had rushed forth in him, to rend and to tear? such were the questions that mainwaring asked himself. and how had it all come about? by what easy gradations had the respectable quaker skipper descended from the decorum of his home life, step by step, into such a gulf of iniquity? many such thoughts passed through mainwaring's mind, and he pondered them through the still reaches of the tropical nights while he sat watching the pirate captain struggle out of the world he had so long burdened. at last the poor wretch died, and the earth was well quit of one of its torments. a systematic search was made through the island for the scattered crew, but none was captured. either there were some secret hiding places upon the island (which was not very likely) or else they had escaped in boats hidden somewhere among the tropical foliage. at any rate they were gone. nor, search as he would, could mainwaring find a trace of any of the pirate treasure. after the pirate's death and under close questioning, the weeping mulatto woman so far broke down as to confess in broken english that captain scarfield had taken a quantity of silver money aboard his vessel, but either she was mistaken or else the pirates had taken it thence again and had hidden it somewhere else. nor would the treasure ever have been found but for a most fortuitous accident. mainwaring had given orders that the eliza cooper was to be burned, and a party was detailed to carry the order into execution. at this the cook of the yankee came petitioning for some of the wilmington and brandywine flour to make some plum duff upon the morrow, and mainwaring granted his request in so far that he ordered one of the men to knock open one of the barrels of flour and to supply the cook's demands. the crew detailed to execute this modest order in connection with the destruction of the pirate vessel had not been gone a quarter of an hour when word came back that the hidden treasure had been found. mainwaring hurried aboard the eliza cooper, and there in the midst of the open flour barrel he beheld a great quantity of silver coin buried in and partly covered by the white meal. a systematic search was now made. one by one the flour barrels were heaved up from below and burst open on the deck and their contents searched, and if nothing but the meal was found it was swept overboard. the breeze was whitened with clouds of flour, and the white meal covered the surface of the ocean for yards around. in all, upward of one hundred and fifty thousand dollars was found concealed beneath the innocent flour and meal. it was no wonder the pirate captain was so successful, when he could upon an instant's notice transform himself from a wolf of the ocean to a peaceful quaker trader selling flour to the hungry towns and settlements among the scattered islands of the west indies, and so carrying his bloody treasure safely into his quiet northern home. in concluding this part of the narrative it may be added that a wide strip of canvas painted black was discovered in the hold of the eliza cooper. upon it, in great white letters, was painted the name, "the bloodhound." undoubtedly this was used upon occasions to cover the real and peaceful title of the trading schooner, just as its captain had, in reverse, covered his sanguine and cruel life by a thin sheet of morality and respectability. this is the true story of the death of capt. jack scarfield. the newburyport chap-book, of which i have already spoken, speaks only of how the pirate disguised himself upon the ocean as a quaker trader. nor is it likely that anyone ever identified eleazer cooper with the pirate, for only mainwaring of all the crew of the yankee was exactly aware of the true identity of captain scarfield. all that was ever known to the world was that eleazer cooper had been killed in a fight with the pirates. in a little less than a year mainwaring was married to lucinda fairbanks. as to eleazer cooper's fortune, which eventually came into the possession of mainwaring through his wife, it was many times a subject of speculation to the lieutenant how it had been earned. there were times when he felt well assured that a part of it at least was the fruit of piracy, but it was entirely impossible to guess how much more was the result of legitimate trading. for a little time it seemed to mainwaring that he should give it all up, but this was at once so impracticable and so quixotic that he presently abandoned it, and in time his qualms and misdoubts faded away and he settled himself down to enjoy that which had come to him through his marriage. in time the mainwarings removed to new york, and ultimately the fortune that the pirate scarfield had left behind him was used in part to found the great shipping house of mainwaring & bigot, whose famous transatlantic packet ships were in their time the admiration of the whole world. [illustration: "'it was only the pearls you wanted.'"] the splendid idle forties _stories of old california_ by gertrude atherton author of "the conqueror," "senator north" "the aristocrats," etc. _with illustrations by harrison fisher_ to the bohemian club of san francisco as a slight acknowledgment of its courtesy in placing its fine library of californian literature at my disposal note this is a revised and enlarged edition of the volume which was issued some years ago under the title, "before the gringo came." contents the pearls of loreto the ears of twenty americans the wash-tub mail the conquest of doÑa jacoba a ramble with eulogia the isle of skulls the head of a priest la pÉrdida lukari's story natalie ivanhoff: a memory of fort ross the vengeance of padre arroyo the bells of san gabriel when the devil was well the pearls of loreto i within memory of the most gnarled and coffee-coloured montereño never had there been so exciting a race day. all essential conditions seemed to have held counsel and agreed to combine. not a wreath of fog floated across the bay to dim the sparkling air. every horse, every vaquero, was alert and physically perfect. the rains were over; the dust was not gathered. pio pico, governor of the californias, was in monterey on one of his brief infrequent visits. clad in black velvet, covered with jewels and ropes of gold, he sat on his big chestnut horse at the upper end of the field, with general castro, doña modeste castro, and other prominent montereños, his interest so keen that more than once the official dignity relaxed, and he shouted "brava!" with the rest. and what a brilliant sight it was! the flowers had faded on the hills, for june was upon them; but gayer than the hills had been was the race-field of monterey. caballeros, with silver on their wide gray hats and on their saddles of embossed leather, gold and silver embroidery on their velvet serapes, crimson sashes about their slender waists, silver spurs and buckskin botas, stood tensely in their stirrups as the racers flew by, or, during the short intervals, pressed each other with eager wagers. there was little money in that time. the golden skeleton within the sleeping body of california had not yet been laid bare. but ranchos were lost and won; thousands of cattle would pass to other hands at the next rodeo; many a superbly caparisoned steed would rear and plunge between the spurs of a new master. and caballeros were not the only living pictures of that memorable day of a time for ever gone. beautiful women in silken fluttering gowns, bright flowers holding the mantilla from flushed awakened faces, sat their impatient horses as easily as a gull rides a wave. the sun beat down, making dark cheeks pink and white cheeks darker, but those great eyes, strong with their own fires, never faltered. the old women in attendance grumbled vague remonstrances at all things, from the heat to intercepted coquetries. but their charges gave the good dueñas little heed. they shouted until their little throats were hoarse, smashed their fans, beat the sides of their mounts with their tender hands, in imitation of the vaqueros. "it is the gayest, the happiest, the most careless life in the world," thought pio pico, shutting his teeth, as he looked about him. "but how long will it last? curse the americans! they are coming." but the bright hot spark that convulsed assembled monterey shot from no ordinary condition. a stranger was there, a guest of general castro, don vicente de la vega y arillaga, of los angeles. not that a stranger was matter for comment in monterey, capital of california, but this stranger had brought with him horses which threatened to disgrace the famous winners of the north. two races had been won already by the black southern beasts. "dios de mi alma!" cried the girls, one to the other, "their coats are blacker than our hair! their nostrils pulse like a heart on fire! their eyes flash like water in the sun! ay! the handsome stranger, will he roll us in the dust? ay! our golden horses, with the tails and manes of silver--how beautiful is the contrast with the vaqueros in their black and silver, their soft white linen! the shame! the shame!--if they are put to shame! poor guido! will he lose this day, when he has won so many? but the stranger is so handsome! dios de mi vida! his eyes are like dark blue stars. and he is so cold! he alone--he seems not to care. madre de dios! madre de dios! he wins again! no! no! no! yes! ay! yi! yi! b-r-a-v-o!" guido cabañares dug his spurs into his horse and dashed to the head of the field, where don vicente sat at the left of general castro. he was followed hotly by several friends, sympathetic and indignant. as he rode, he tore off his serape and flung it to the ground; even his silk riding-clothes sat heavily upon his fury. don vicente smiled, and rode forward to meet him. "at your service, señor," he said, lifting his sombrero. "take your mustangs back to los angeles!" cried don guido, beside himself with rage, the politeness and dignity of his race routed by passion. "why do you bring your hideous brutes here to shame me in the eyes of monterey? why--" "yes! why? why?" demanded his friends, surrounding de la vega. "this is not the humiliation of a man, but of the north by the accursed south! you even would take our capital from us! los angeles, the capital of the californias!" "what have politics to do with horse-racing?" asked de la vega, coldly. "other strangers have brought their horses to your field, i suppose." "yes, but they have not won. they have not been from the south." by this time almost every caballero on the field was wheeling about de la vega. some felt with cabañares, others rejoiced in his defeat, but all resented the victory of the south over the north. "will you run again?" demanded cabañares. "certainly. do you think of putting your knife into my neck?" cabañares drew back, somewhat abashed, the indifference of the other sputtering like water on his passion. "it is not a matter for blood," he said sulkily; "but the head is hot and words are quick when horses run neck to neck. and, by the mother of god, you shall not have the last race. my best horse has not run. viva el rayo!" "viva el rayo!" shouted the caballeros. "and let the race be between you two alone," cried one. "the north or the south! los angeles or monterey! it will be the race of our life." "the north or the south!" cried the caballeros, wheeling and galloping across the field to the doñas. "twenty leagues to a real for guido cabañares." "what a pity that ysabel is not here!" said doña modeste castro to pio pico. "how those green eyes of hers would flash to-day!" "she would not come," said the governor. "she said she was tired of the race." "of whom do you speak?" asked de la vega, who had rejoined them. "of ysabel herrera, la favorita of monterey," answered pio pico. "the most beautiful woman in the californias, since chonita iturbi y moncada, my vicente. it is at her uncle's that i stay. you have heard me speak of my old friend; and surely you have heard of her." "ay!" said de la vega. "i have heard of her." "viva el rayo!" "ay, the ugly brute!" "what name? vitriolo? mother of god! diablo or demonio would suit him better. he looks as if he had been bred in hell. he will not stand the quirto; and el rayo is more lightly built. we shall beat by a dozen lengths." the two vaqueros who were to ride the horses had stripped to their soft linen shirts and black velvet trousers, cast aside their sombreros, and bound their heads with tightly knotted handkerchiefs. their spurs were fastened to bare brown heels; the cruel quirto was in the hand of each; they rode barebacked, winding their wiry legs in and out of a horse-hair rope encircling the body of the animal. as they slowly passed the crowd on their way to the starting-point at the lower end of the field, and listened to the rattling fire of wagers and comments, they looked defiant, and alive to the importance of the coming event. el rayo shone like burnished copper, his silver mane and tail glittering as if powdered with diamond-dust. he was long and graceful of body, thin of flank, slender of leg. with arched neck and flashing eyes, he walked with the pride of one who was aware of the admiration he excited. vitriolo was black and powerful. his long neck fitted into well-placed shoulders. he had great depth of girth, immense length from shoulder-points to hips, big cannon-bones, and elastic pasterns. there was neither amiability nor pride in his mien; rather a sullen sense of brute power, such as may have belonged to the knights of the middle ages. now and again he curled his lips away from the bit and laid his ears back as if he intended to eat of the elegant beau brummel stepping so daintily beside him. of the antagonistic crowd he took not the slightest notice. "the race begins! holy heaven!" the murmur rose to a shout--a deep hoarse shout strangely crossed and recrossed by long silver notes; a thrilling volume of sound rising above a sea of flashing eyes and parted lips and a vivid moving mass of colour. twice the horses scored, and were sent back. the third time they bounded by the starting-post neck and neck, nose to nose. josé abrigo, treasurer of monterey, dashed his sombrero, heavy with silver eagles, to the ground, and the race was begun. almost at once the black began to gain. inch by inch he fought his way to the front, and the roar with which the crowd had greeted the start dropped into the silence of apprehension. el rayo was not easily to be shaken off. a third of the distance had been covered, and his nose was abreast of vitriolo's flank. the vaqueros sat as if carved from sun-baked clay, as lightly as if hollowed, watching each other warily out of the corners of their eyes. the black continued to gain. halfway from home light was visible between the two horses. the pace became terrific, the excitement so intense that not a sound was heard but that of racing hoofs. the horses swept onward like projectiles, the same smoothness, the same suggestion of eternal flight. the bodies were extended until the tense muscles rose under the satin coats. vitriolo's eyes flashed viciously; el rayo's strained with determination. vitriolo's nostrils were as red as angry craters; el rayo's fluttered like paper in the wind. three-quarters of the race was run, and the rider of vitriolo could tell by the sound of the hoof-beats behind him that he had a good lead of at least two lengths over the northern champion. a smile curled the corners of his heavy lips; the race was his already. suddenly el rayo's vaquero raised his hand, and down came the maddening quirto, first on one side, then on the other. the spurs dug; the blood spurted. the crowd burst into a howl of delight as their favourite responded. startled by the sound, vitriolo's rider darted a glance over his shoulder, and saw el rayo bearing down upon him like a thunder-bolt, regaining the ground that he had lost, not by inches, but by feet. two hundred paces from the finish he was at the black's flanks; one hundred and fifty, he was at his girth; one hundred, and the horses were neck and neck; and still the quirto whirred down on el rayo's heaving flanks, the spurs dug deeper into his quivering flesh. the vaquero of vitriolo sat like an image, using neither whip nor spur, his teeth set, his eyes rolling from the goal ahead to the rider at his side. the breathless intensity of the spectators had burst. they had begun to click their teeth, to mutter hoarsely, then to shout, to gesticulate, to shake their fists in each other's face, to push and scramble for a better view. "holy god!" cried pio pico, carried out of himself, "the south is lost! vitriolo the magnificent! ah, who would have thought? the black by the gold! ay! what! no! holy mary! holy god!--" six strides more and the race is over. with the bark of a coyote the vaquero of the south leans forward over vitriolo's neck. the big black responds like a creature of reason. down comes the quirto once--only once. he fairly lifts his horse ahead and shoots into victory, winner by a neck. the south has vanquished the north. the crowd yelled and shouted until it was exhausted. but even cabañares made no further demonstration toward de la vega. not only was he weary and depressed, but the victory had been nobly won. it grew late, and they rode to the town, caballeros pushing as close to doñas as they dared, dueñas in close attendance, one theme on the lips of all. anger gave place to respect; moreover, de la vega was the guest of general castro, the best-beloved man in california. they were willing to extend the hand of friendship; but he rode last, between the general and doña modeste, and seemed to care as little for their good will as for their ill. pio pico rode ahead, and as the cavalcade entered the town he broke from it and ascended the hill to carry the news to ysabel herrera. monterey, rising to her pine-spiked hills, swept like a crescent moon about the sapphire bay. the surf roared and fought the white sand hills of the distant horn; on that nearest the town stood the fort, grim and rude, but pulsating with military life, and alert for american onslaught. in the valley the red-tiled white adobe houses studded a little city which was a series of corners radiating from a central irregular street. a few mansions were on the hillside to the right, brush-crowded sand banks on the left; the perfect curve of hills, thick with pine woods and dense green undergrowth, rose high above and around all, a rampart of splendid symmetry. "ay! ysabel! ysabel!" cried the young people, as they swept down the broad street. "bring her to us, excellency. tell her she shall not know until she comes down. we will tell her. ay! poor guido!" the governor turned and waved his hand, then continued the ascent of the hill, toward a long low house which showed no sign of life. he alighted and glanced into a room opening upon the corridor which traversed the front. the room was large and dimly lighted by deeply set windows. the floor was bare, the furniture of horse-hair; saints and family portraits adorned the white walls; on a chair lay a guitar; it was a typical californian sala of that day. the ships brought few luxuries, beyond raiment and jewels, to even the wealthy of that isolated country. "ysabel," called the governor, "where art thou? come down to the town and hear the fortune of the races. alvarado street streams like a comet. why should the star of monterey withhold her light?" a girl rose from a sofa and came slowly forward to the corridor. discontent marred her face as she gave her hand to the governor to kiss, and looked down upon the brilliant town. the señorita doña ysabel herrera was poor. were it not for her uncle she would not have where to lay her stately head--and she was la favorita of monterey, the proudest beauty in california! her father had gambled away his last acre, his horse, his saddle, the serape off his back; then sent his motherless girl to his brother, and buried himself in mexico. don antonio took the child to his heart, and sent for a widowed cousin to be her dueña. he bought her beautiful garments from the ships that touched the port, but had no inclination to gratify her famous longing to hang ropes of pearls in her soft black hair, to wind them about her white neck, and band them above her green resplendent eyes. "unbend thy brows," said pio pico. "wrinkles were not made for youth." ysabel moved her brows apart, but the clouds still lay in her eyes. "thou dost not ask of the races, o thou indifferent one! what is the trouble, my ysabel? will no one bring the pearls? the loveliest girl in all the californias has said, 'i will wed no man who does not bring me a lapful of pearls,' and no one has filled the front of that pretty flowered gown. but have reason, niña. remember that our alta california has no pearls on its shores, and that even the pearl fisheries of the terrible lower country are almost worn out. will nothing less content thee?" "no, señor." "dios de mi alma! thou hast ambition. no woman has had more offered her than thou. but thou art worthy of the most that man could give. had i not a wife myself, i believe i should throw my jewels and my ugly old head at thy little feet." ysabel glanced with some envy at the magnificent jewels with which the governor of the californias was hung, but did not covet the owner. an uglier man than pio pico rarely had entered this world. the upper lip of his enormous mouth dipped at the middle; the broad thick underlip hung down with its own weight. the nose was big and coarse, although there was a certain spirited suggestion in the cavernous nostrils. intelligence and reflectiveness were also in his little eyes, and they were far apart. a small white mustache grew above his mouth; about his chin, from ear to ear, was a short stubby beard, whiter by contrast with his copper-coloured skin. he looked much like an intellectual bear. and ysabel? in truth, she had reason for her pride. her black hair, unblemished by gloss or tinge of blue, fell waving to her feet. california, haughty, passionate, restless, pleasure-loving, looked from her dark green eyes; the soft black lashes dropped quickly when they became too expressive. her full mouth was deeply red, but only a faint pink lay in her white cheeks; the nose curved at bridge and nostrils. about her low shoulders she held a blue reboso, the finger-tips of each slim hand resting on the opposite elbow. she held her head a little back, and pio pico laughed as he looked at her. "dios!" he said, "but thou might be an estenega or an iturbi y moncada. surely that lofty head better suits old spain than the republic of mexico. draw the reboso about thy head now, and let us go down. they expect thee." she lifted the scarf above her hair, and walked down the steep rutted hill with the governor, her flowered gown floating with a silken rustle about her. in a few moments she was listening to the tale of the races. "ay, ysabel! dios de mi alma! what a day! a young señor from los angeles won the race--almost all the races--the señor don vicente de la vega y arillaga. he has never been here, before. his horses! madre de dios! they ran like hares. poor guido! válgame dios! even thou wouldst have been moved to pity. but he is so handsome! look! look! he comes now, side by side with general castro. dios! his serape is as stiff with gold as the vestments of the padre." ysabel looked up as a man rode past. his bold profile and thin face were passionate and severe; his dark blue eyes were full of power. such a face was rare among the languid shallow men of her race. "he rides with general castro," whispered benicia ortega. "he stays with him. we shall see him at the ball to-night." as don vicente passed ysabel their eyes met for a moment. his opened suddenly with a bold eager flash, his arched nostrils twitching. the colour left her face, and her eyes dropped heavily. love needed no kindling in the heart of the californian. ii the people of monterey danced every night of their lives, and went nowhere so promptly as to the great sala of doña modeste castro, their leader of fashion, whose gowns were made for her in the city of mexico. ysabel envied her bitterly. not because the doña modeste's skin was whiter than her own, for it could not be, nor her eyes greener, for they were not; but because her jewels were richer than pio pico's, and upon all grand occasions a string of wonderful pearls gleamed in her storm-black hair. but one feminine compensation had ysabel: she was taller; doña modeste's slight elegant figure lacked ysabel's graceful inches, and perhaps she too felt a pang sometimes as the girl undulated above her like a snake about to strike. at the fashionable hour of ten monterey was gathered for the dance. all the men except the officers wore black velvet or broadcloth coats and white trousers. all the women wore white, the waist long and pointed, the skirt full. ysabel's gown was of embroidered crêpe. her hair was coiled about her head, and held by a tortoise comb framed with a narrow band of gold. pio pico, splendid with stars and crescents and rings and pins, led her in, and with his unique ugliness enhanced her beauty. she glanced eagerly about the room whilst replying absently to the caballeros who surrounded her. don vicente de la vega was not there. the thick circle about her parted, and general castro bent over her hand, begging the honour of the contradanza. she sighed, and for the moment forgot the southerner who had flashed and gone like the beginning of a dream. here was a man--the only man of her knowledge whom she could have loved, and who would have found her those pearls. californians had so little ambition! then she gave a light audacious laugh. governor pico was shaking hands cordially with general castro, the man he hated best in california. no two men could have contrasted more sharply than josé castro and pio pico--with the exception of alvarado the most famous men of their country. the gold trimmings of the general's uniform were his only jewels. his hair and beard--the latter worn _à la basca_, a narrow strip curving from upper lip to ear--were as black as pio pico's once had been. the handsomest man in california, he had less consciousness than the least of the caballeros. his deep gray eyes were luminous with enthusiasm; his nose was sharp and bold; his firm sensitive mouth was cut above a resolute chin. he looked what he was, the ardent patriot of a doomed cause. "señorita," he said, as he led ysabel out to the sweet monotonous music of the contradanza, "did you see the caballero who rode with me to-day?" a red light rose to ysabel's cheek. "which one, commandante? many rode with you." "i mean him who rode at my right, the winner of the races, vicente, son of my old friend juan bautista de la vega y arillaga, of los angeles." "it may be. i think i saw a strange face." "he saw yours, doña ysabel, and is looking upon you now from the corridor without, although the fog is heavy about him. cannot you see him--that dark shadow by the pillar?" ysabel never went through the graceful evolutions of the contradanza as she did that night. her supple slender body curved and swayed and glided; her round arms were like lazy snakes uncoiling; her exquisitely poised head moved in perfect concord with her undulating hips. her eyes grew brighter, her lips redder. the young men who stood near gave as loud a vent to their admiration as if she had been dancing el son alone on the floor. but the man without made no sign. after the dance was over, general castro led her to her dueña, and handing her a guitar, begged a song. she began a light love-ballad, singing with the grace and style of her spanish blood; a little mocking thing, but with a wild break now and again. as she sang, she fixed her eyes coquettishly on the adoring face of guido cabañares, who stood beside her, but saw every movement of the form beyond the window. don guido kept his ardent eyes riveted upon her but detected no wandering in her glances. his lips trembled as he listened, and once he brushed the tears from his eyes. she gave him a little cynical smile, then broke her song in two. the man on the corridor had vaulted through the window. ysabel, clinching her hands the better to control her jumping nerves, turned quickly to cabañares, who had pressed behind her, and was pouring words into her ear. "ysabel! ysabel! hast thou no pity? dost thou not see that i am fit to set the world on fire for love of thee? the very water boils as i drink it--" she interrupted him with a scornful laugh, the sharper that her voice might not tremble. "bring me my pearls. what is love worth when it will not grant one little desire?" he groaned. "i have found a vein of gold on my rancho. i can pick the little shining pieces out with my fingers. i will have them beaten into a saddle for thee--" but she had turned her back flat upon him, and was making a deep courtesy to the man whom general castro presented. "i appreciate the honour of your acquaintance," she murmured mechanically. "at your feet, señorita," said don vicente. the art of making conversation had not been cultivated among the californians, and ysabel plied her large fan with slow grace, at a loss for further remark, and wondering if her heart would suffocate her. but don vicente had the gift of words. "señorita," he said, "i have stood in the chilling fog and felt the warmth of your lovely voice at my heart. the emotions i felt my poor tongue cannot translate. they swarm in my head like a hive of puzzled bees; but perhaps they look through my eyes," and he fixed his powerful and penetrating gaze on ysabel's green depths. a waltz began, and he took her in his arms without asking her indulgence, and regardless of the indignation of the mob of men about her. ysabel, whose being was filled with tumult, lay passive as he held her closer than man had ever dared before. "i love you," he said, in his harsh voice. "i wish you for my wife. at once. when i saw you to-day standing with a hundred other beautiful women, i said: 'she is the fairest of them all. i shall have her.' and i read the future in"--he suddenly dropped the formal "you"--"in thine eyes, cariña. thy soul sprang to mine. thy heart is locked in my heart closer, closer than my arms are holding thee now." the strength of his embrace was violent for a moment; but ysabel might have been cut from marble. her body had lost its swaying grace; it was almost rigid. she did not lift her eyes. but de la vega was not discouraged. the music finished, and ysabel was at once surrounded by a determined retinue. this intruding southerner was welcome to the honours of the race-field, but the star of monterey was not for him. he smiled as he saw the menace of their eyes. "i would have her," he thought, "if they were a regiment of castros--which they are not." but he had not armed himself against diplomacy. "señor don vicente de la vega y arillaga," said don guido cabañares, who had been selected as spokesman, "perhaps you have not learned during your brief visit to our capital that the señorita doña ysabel herrera, la favorita of alta california, has sworn by the holy virgin, by the blessed junipero serra, that she will wed no man who does not bring her a lapful of pearls. can you find those pearls on the sands of the south, don vicente? for, by the holy cross of god, you cannot have her without them!" for a moment de la vega was disconcerted. "is this true?" he demanded, turning to ysabel. "what, señor?" she asked vaguely. she had not listened to the words of her protesting admirer. a sneer bent his mouth. "that you have put a price upon yourself? that the man who ardently wishes to be your husband, who has even won your love, must first hang you with pearls like--" he stopped suddenly, the blood burning his dark face, his eyes opening with an expression of horrified hope. "tell me! tell me!" he exclaimed. "is this true?" for the first time since she had spoken with him ysabel was herself. she crossed her arms and tapped her elbows with her pointed fingers. "yes," she said, "it is true." she raised her eyes to his and regarded him steadily. they looked like green pools frozen in a marble wall. the harp, the flute, the guitar, combined again, and once more he swung her from a furious circle. but he was safe; general castro had joined it. he waltzed her down the long room, through one adjoining, then into another, and, indifferent to the iron conventions of his race, closed the door behind them. they were in the sleeping-room of doña modeste. the bed with its rich satin coverlet, the bare floor, the simple furniture, were in semi-darkness; only on the altar in the corner were candles burning. above it hung paintings of saints, finely executed by mexican hands; an ebony cross spread its black arms against the white wall; the candles flared to a golden christ. he caught her hands and led her over to the altar. "listen to me," he said. "i will bring you those pearls. you shall have such pearls as no queen in europe possesses. swear to me here, with your hands on this altar, that you will wed me when i return, no matter how or where i find those pearls." he was holding her hands between the candelabra. she looked at him with eyes of passionate surrender; the man had conquered worldly ambitions. but he answered her before she had time to speak. "you love me, and would withdraw the conditions. but i am ready to do a daring and a terrible act. furthermore, i wish to show you that i can succeed where all other men have failed. i ask only two things now. first, make me the vow i wish." "i swear it," she said. "now," he said, his voice sinking to a harsh but caressing whisper, "give me one kiss for courage and hope." she leaned slowly forward, the blood pulsing in her lips; but she had been brought up behind grated windows, and she drew back. "no," she said, "not now." for a moment he looked rebellious; then he laid his hands on her shoulders and pressed her to her knees. he knelt behind her, and together they told a rosary for his safe return. he left her there and went to his room. from his saddle-bag he took a long letter from an intimate friend, one of the younger franciscan priests of the mission of santa barbara, where he had been educated. he sought this paragraph:-- "thou knowest, of course, my vicente, of the pearl fisheries of baja california. it is whispered--between ourselves, indeed, it is quite true--that a short while ago the indian divers discovered an extravagantly rich bed of pearls. instead of reporting to any of the companies, they have hung them all upon our most sacred lady of loreto, in the mission of loreto; and there, by the grace of god, they will remain. they are worth the ransom of a king, my vicente, and the church has come to her own again." iii the fog lay thick on the bay at dawn next morning. the white waves hid the blue, muffled the roar of the surf. now and again a whale threw a volume of spray high in the air, a geyser from a phantom sea. above the white sands straggled the white town, ghostly, prophetic. de la vega, a dark sombrero pulled over his eyes, a dark serape enveloping his tall figure, rode, unattended and watchful, out of the town. not until he reached the narrow road through the brush forest beyond did he give his horse rein. the indolence of the californian was no longer in his carriage; it looked alert and muscular; recklessness accentuated the sternness of his face. as he rode, the fog receded slowly. he left the chaparral and rode by green marshes cut with sloughs and stained with vivid patches of orange. the frogs in the tules chanted their hoarse matins. through brush-covered plains once more, with sparsely wooded hills in the distance, and again the tules, the marsh, the patches of orange. he rode through a field of mustard; the pale yellow petals brushed his dark face, the delicate green leaves won his eyes from the hot glare of the ascending sun, the slender stalks, rebounding, smote his horse's flanks. he climbed hills to avoid the wide marshes, and descended into willow groves and fields of daisies. before noon he was in the san juan mountains, thick with sturdy oaks, bending their heads before the madroño, that belle of the forest, with her robes of scarlet and her crown of bronze. the yellow lilies clung to her skirts, and the buckeye flung his flowers at her feet. the last redwoods were there, piercing the blue air with their thin inflexible arms, gray as a dusty band of friars. out by the willows, whereunder crept the sluggish river, then between the hills curving about the valley of san juan bautista. at no time is california so beautiful as in the month of june. de la vega's wild spirit and savage purpose were dormant for the moment as he rode down the valley toward the mission. the hills were like gold, like mammoth fawns veiled with violet mist, like rich tan velvet. afar, bare blue steeps were pink in their chasms, brown on their spurs. the dark yellow fields were as if thick with gold-dust; the pale mustard was a waving yellow sea. not a tree marred the smooth hills. the earth sent forth a perfume of its own. below the plateau from which rose the white walls of the mission was a wide field of bright green corn rising against the blue sky. the padres in their brown hooded robes came out upon the long corridor of the mission and welcomed the traveller. their lands had gone from them, their mission was crumbling, but the spirit of hospitality lingered there still. they laid meat and fruit and drink on a table beneath the arches, then sat about him and asked him eagerly for news of the day. was it true that the united states of america were at war with mexico, or about to be? true that their beloved flag might fall, and the stars and stripes of an insolent invader rise above the fort of monterey? de la vega recounted the meagre and conflicting rumours which had reached california, but, not being a prophet, could not tell them that they would be the first to see the red-white-and-blue fluttering on the mountain before them. he refused to rest more than an hour, but mounted the fresh horse the padres gave him and went his way, riding hard and relentlessly, like all californians. he sped onward, through the long hot day, leaving the hills for the marshes and a long stretch of ugly country, traversing the beautiful san antonio valley in the night, reaching the mission of san miguel at dawn, resting there for a few hours. that night he slept at a hospitable ranch-house in the park-like valley of paso des robles, a grim silent figure amongst gay-hearted people who delighted to welcome him. the early morning found him among the chrome hills; and at the mission of san luis obispo the good padres gave him breakfast. the little valley, round as a well, its bare hills red and brown, gray and pink, violet and black, from fire, sloping steeply from a dizzy height, impressed him with a sense of being prisoned in an enchanted vale where no message of the outer world could come, and he hastened on his way. absorbed as he was, he felt the beauty he fled past. a line of golden hills lay against sharp blue peaks. a towering mass of gray rocks had been cut and lashed by wind and water, earthquake and fire, into the semblance of a massive castle, still warlike in its ruin. he slept for a few hours that night in the mission of santa ynes, and was high in the santa barbara mountains at the next noon. for brief whiles he forgot his journey's purpose as his horse climbed slowly up the steep trails, knocking the loose stones down a thousand feet and more upon a roof of tree-tops which looked like stunted brush. those gigantic masses of immense stones, each wearing a semblance to the face of man or beast; those awful chasms and stupendous heights, densely wooded, bare, and many-hued, rising above, beyond, peak upon peak, cutting through the visible atmosphere--was there no end? he turned in his saddle and looked over low peaks and cañons, rivers and abysms, black peaks smiting the fiery blue, far, far, to the dim azure mountains on the horizon. "mother of god!" he thought. "no wonder california still shakes! i would i could have stood upon a star and beheld the awful throes of this country's birth." and then his horse reared between the sharp spurs and galloped on. he avoided the mission of santa barbara, resting at a rancho outside the town. in the morning, supplied as usual with a fresh horse, he fled onward, with the ocean at his right, its splendid roar in his ears. the cliffs towered high above him; he saw no man's face for hours together; but his thoughts companioned him, savage and sinister shapes whirling about the figure of a woman. on, on, sleeping at ranchos or missions, meeting hospitality everywhere, avoiding los angeles, keeping close to the ponderous ocean, he left civilization behind him at last, and with an indian guide entered upon that desert of mountain-tops, baja california. rapid travelling was not possible here. there were no valleys worthy the name. the sharp peaks, multiplying mile after mile, were like teeth of gigantic rakes, black and bare. a wilderness of mountain-tops, desolate as eternity, arid, parched, baked by the awful heat, the silence never broken by the cry of a bird, a hut rarely breaking the barren monotony, only an infrequent spring to save from death. it was almost impossible to get food or fresh horses. many a night de la vega and his stoical guide slept beneath a cactus, or in the mocking bed of a creek. the mustangs he managed to lasso were almost unridable, and would have bucked to death any but a californian. sometimes he lived on cactus fruit and the dried meat he had brought with him; occasionally he shot a rabbit. again he had but the flesh of the rattlesnake roasted over coals. but honey-dew was on the leaves. he avoided the beaten trail, and cut his way through naked bushes spiked with thorns, and through groves of cacti miles in length. when the thick fog rolled up from the ocean he had to sit inactive on the rocks, or lose his way. a furious storm dashed him against a boulder, breaking his mustang's leg; then a torrent, rising like a tidal wave, thundered down the gulch, and catching him on its crest, flung him upon a tree of thorns. when dawn came he found his guide dead. he cursed his luck, and went on. lassoing another mustang, he pushed on, having a general idea of the direction he should take. it was a week before he reached loreto, a week of loneliness, hunger, thirst, and torrid monotony. a week, too, of thought and bitterness of spirit. in spite of his love, which never cooled, and his courage, which never quailed, nature, in her guise of foul and crooked hag, mocked at earthly happiness, at human hope, at youth and passion. if he had not spent his life in the saddle, he would have been worn out when he finally reached loreto, late one night. as it was, he slept in a hut until the following afternoon. then he took a long swim in the bay, and, later, sauntered through the town. the forlorn little city was hardly more than a collection of indians' huts about a church in a sandy waste. no longer the capital, even the barracks were toppling. when de la vega entered the mission, not a white man but the padre and his assistant was in it; the building was thronged with indian worshippers. the mission, although the first built in california, was in a fair state of preservation. the stations in their battered frames were mellow and distinct. the gold still gleamed in the vestments of the padre. for a few moments de la vega dared not raise his eyes to the lady of loreto, standing aloft in the dull blaze of adamantine candles. when he did, he rose suddenly from his knees and left the mission. the pearls were there. it took him but a short time to gain the confidence of the priest and the little population. he offered no explanation for his coming, beyond the curiosity of the traveller. the padre gave him a room in the mission, and spent every hour he could spare with the brilliant stranger. at night he thanked god for the sudden oasis in his life's desolation. the indians soon grew accustomed to the lonely figure wandering about the sand plains, or kneeling for hours together before the altar in the church. and whom their padre trusted was to them as sacred and impersonal as the wooden saints of their religion. iv the midnight stars watched over the mission. framed by the cross-shaped window sunk deep in the adobe wall above the entrance, a mass of them assumed the form of the crucifix, throwing a golden trail full upon the lady of loreto, proud in her shining pearls. the long narrow body of the church seemed to have swallowed the shadows of the ages, and to yawn for more. de la vega, booted and spurred, his serape folded about him, his sombrero on his head, opened the sacristy door and entered the church. in one hand he held a sack; in the other, a candle sputtering in a bottle. he walked deliberately to the foot of the altar. in spite of his intrepid spirit, he stood appalled for a moment as he saw the dim radiance enveloping the lady of loreto. he scowled over his shoulder at the menacing emblem of redemption and crossed himself. but had it been the finger of god, the face of ysabel would have shone between. he extinguished his candle, and swinging himself to the top of the altar plucked the pearls from the virgin's gown and dropped them into the sack. his hand trembled a little, but he held his will between his teeth. how quiet it was! the waves flung themselves upon the shore with the sullen wrath of impotence. a seagull screamed now and again, an exclamation-point in the silence above the waters. suddenly de la vega shook from head to foot, and snatched the knife from his belt. a faint creaking echoed through the hollow church. he strained his ears, holding his breath until his chest collapsed with the shock of outrushing air. but the sound was not repeated, and he concluded that it had been but a vibration of his nerves. he glanced to the window above the doors. the stars in it were no longer visible; they had melted into bars of flame. the sweat stood cold on his face, but he went on with his work. a rope of pearls, cunningly strung together with strands of sea-weed, was wound about the virgin's right arm. de la vega was too nervous to uncoil it; he held the sack beneath, and severed the strands with his knife. as he finished, and was about to stoop and cut loose the pearls from the hem of the virgin's gown, he uttered a hoarse cry and stood rigid. a cowled head, with thin lips drawn over yellow teeth, furious eyes burning deep in withered sockets, projected on its long neck from the virgin's right and confronted him. the body was unseen. "thief!" hissed the priest. "dog! thou wouldst rob the church? accursed! accursed!" there was not one moment for hesitation, one alternative. before the priest could complete his malediction, de la vega's knife had flashed through the fire of the cross. the priest leaped, screeching, then rolled over and down, and rebounded from the railing of the sanctuary. v ysabel sat in the low window-seat of her bedroom, pretending to draw the threads of a cambric handkerchief. but her fingers twitched, and her eyes looked oftener down the hill than upon the delicate work which required such attention. she wore a black gown flowered with yellow roses, and a slender ivory cross at her throat. her hair hung in two loose braids, sweeping the floor. she was very pale, and her pallor was not due to the nightly entertainments of monterey. her dueña sat beside her. the old woman was the colour of strong coffee; but she, too, looked as if she had not slept, and her straight old lips curved tenderly whenever she raised her eyes to the girl's face. there was no carpet on the floor of the bedroom of la favorita of monterey, the heiress of don antonio herrera, and the little bedstead in the corner was of iron, although a heavy satin coverlet trimmed with lace was on it. a few saints looked down from the walls; the furniture was of native wood, square and ugly; but it was almost hidden under fine linen elaborately worked with the deshalados of spain. the supper hour was over, and the light grew dim. ysabel tossed the handkerchief into doña juana's lap, and stared through the grating. against the faded sky a huge cloud, shaped like a fire-breathing dragon, was heavily outlined. the smoky shadows gathered in the woods. the hoarse boom of the surf came from the beach; the bay was uneasy, and the tide was high: the earth had quaked in the morning, and a wind-storm fought the ocean. the gay bright laughter of women floated up from the town. monterey had taken her siesta, enjoyed her supper, and was ready to dance through the night once more. "he is dead," said ysabel. "true," said the old woman. "he would have come back to me before this." "true." "he was so strong and so different, mamita." "i never forget his eyes. very bold eyes." "they could be soft, macheppa." "true. it is time thou dressed for the ball at the custom-house, niñita." ysabel leaned forward, her lips parting. a man was coming up the hill. he was gaunt; he was burnt almost black. something bulged beneath his serape. doña juana found herself suddenly in the middle of the room. ysabel darted through the only door, locking it behind her. the indignant dueña also recognized the man, and her position. she trotted to the door and thumped angrily on the panel; sympathetic she was, but she never could so far forget herself as to permit a young girl to talk with a man unattended. "thou shalt not go to the ball to-night," she cried shrilly. "thou shalt be locked in the dark room. thou shalt be sent to the rancho. open! open! thou wicked one. madre de dios! i will beat thee with my own hands." but she was a prisoner, and ysabel paid no attention to her threats. the girl was in the sala, and the doors were open. as de la vega crossed the corridor and entered the room she sank upon a chair, covering her face with her hands. he strode over to her, and flinging his serape from his shoulder opened the mouth of a sack and poured its contents into her lap. pearls of all sizes and shapes--pearls black and pearls white, pearls pink and pearls faintly blue, pearls like globes and pearls like pears, pearls as big as the lobe of pio pico's ear, pearls as dainty as bubbles of frost--a lapful of gleaming luminous pearls, the like of which caballero had never brought to doña before. for a moment ysabel forgot her love and her lover. the dream of a lifetime was reality. she was the child who had cried for the moon and seen it tossed into her lap. she ran her slim white fingers through the jewels. she took up handfuls and let them run slowly back to her lap. she pressed them to her face; she kissed them with little rapturous cries. she laid them against her breast and watched them chase each other down her black gown. then at last she raised her head and met the fierce sneering eyes of de la vega. "so it is as i might have known. it was only the pearls you wanted. it might have been an indian slave who brought them to you." she took the sack from his hand and poured back the pearls. then she laid the sack on the floor and stood up. she was no longer pale, and her eyes shone brilliantly in the darkening room. "yes," she said; "i forgot for a moment. but during many terrible weeks, señor, my tears have not been for the pearls." the sudden light that was de la vega's chiefest charm sprang to his eyes. he took her hands and kissed them passionately. "that sack of pearls would be a poor reward for one tear. but thou hast shed them for me? say that again. mi alma! mi alma!" "i never thought of the pearls--at least not often. at last, not at all. i have been very unhappy, señor. ay!" the maiden reserve which had been knit like steel about her plastic years burst wide. "thou art ill! what has happened to thee? ay, dios! what it is to be a woman and to suffer! thou wilt die! oh, mother of god!" "i shall not die. kiss me, ysabel. surely it is time now." but she drew back and shook her head. he exclaimed impatiently, but would not release her hand. "thou meanest that, ysabel?" "we shall be married soon--wait." "i had hoped you would grant me that. for when i tell you where i got those pearls you may drive me from you in spite of your promise--drive me from you with the curse of the devout woman on your lips. i might invent some excuse to persuade you to fly with me from california to-night, and you would never know. but i am a man--a spaniard--and a de la vega. i shall not lie to you." she looked at him with wide eyes, not understanding, and he went on, his face savage again, his voice harsh. he told her the whole story of that night in the mission. he omitted nothing--the menacing cross, the sacrilegious theft, the deliberate murder; the pictures were painted with blood and fire. she did not interrupt him with cry or gasp, but her expression changed many times. horror held her eyes for a time, then slowly retreated, and his own fierce pride looked back at him. she lifted her head when he had finished, her throat throbbing, her nostrils twitching. "thou hast done that--for me?" "ay, ysabel!" "thou hast murdered thy immortal soul--for me?" "ysabel!" "thou lovest me like that! o god, in what likeness hast thou made me? in whatsoever image it may have been, i thank thee--and repudiate thee!" she took the cross from her throat and broke it in two pieces with her strong white fingers. "thou art lost, eternally damned: but i will go down to hell with thee." and she threw herself upon him and kissed him on the mouth. for a moment he forgot the lesson thrust into his brain by the hideous fingers of the desert. he was almost happy. he put his hands about her warm face after a time. "we must go to-night," he said. "i went to general castro's to change my clothes, and learned that a ship sails for the united states to-night. we will go on that. i dare not delay twenty-four hours. it may be that they are upon my heels now. how can we meet?" her thoughts had travelled faster than his words, and she answered at once: "there is a ball at the custom-house to-night. i will go. you will have a boat below the rocks. you know that the custom-house is on the rocks at the end of the town, near the fort. no? it will be easier for me to slip from the ball-room than from this house. only tell me where you will meet me." "the ship sails at midnight. i too will go to the ball; for with me you can escape more easily. have you a maid you can trust?" "my luisa is faithful." "then tell her to be on the beach between the rocks of the custom-house and the fort with what you must take with you." again he kissed her many times, but softly. "wear thy pearls to-night. i wish to see thy triumphant hour in monterey." "yes," she said, "i shall wear the pearls." vi the corridor of the custom-house had been enclosed to protect the musicians and supper table from the wind and fog. the store-room had been cleared, the floor scrubbed, the walls hung with the colours of mexico. all in honour of pio pico, again in brief exile from his beloved los angeles. the governor, blazing with diamonds, stood at the upper end of the room by doña modeste castro's side. about them were castro and other prominent men of monterey, all talking of the rumoured war between the united states and mexico and prophesying various results. neither pico nor castro looked amiable. the governor had arrived in the morning to find that the general had allowed pasquinades representing his excellency in no complimentary light to disfigure the streets of monterey. castro, when taken to task, had replied haughtily that it was the governor's place to look after his own dignity; he, the commandante-general of the army of the californias, had more important matters to attend to. the result had been a furious war of words, ending in a lame peace. "tell us, excellency," said josé abrigo, "what will be the outcome?" "the americans can have us if they wish," said pio pico, bitterly. "we cannot prevent." "never!" cried castro. "what? we cannot protect ourselves against the invasion of bandoleros? do you forget what blood stings the veins of the californian? a spaniard stand with folded arms and see his country plucked from him! oh, sacrilege! they will never have our californias while a californian lives to cut them down!" "bravo! bravo!" cried many voices. "i tell you--" began pio pico, but doña modeste interrupted him. "no more talk of war to-night," she said peremptorily. "where is ysabel?" "she sent me word by doña juana that she could not make herself ready in time to come with me, but would follow with my good friend, don antonio, who of course had to wait for her. her gown was not finished, i believe. i think she had done something naughty, and doña juana had tried to punish her, but had not succeeded. the old lady looked very sad. ah, here is doña ysabel now!" "how lovely she is!" said doña modeste. "i think--what! what!--" "dios de mi alma!" exclaimed pio pico, "where did she get those pearls?" the crowd near the door had parted, and ysabel entered on the arm of her uncle. don antonio's form was bent, and she looked taller by contrast. his thin sharp profile was outlined against her white neck, bared for the first time to the eyes of monterey. her shawl had just been laid aside, and he was near-sighted and did not notice the pearls. she had sewn them all over the front of her white silk gown. she had wound them in the black coils of her hair. they wreathed her neck and roped her arms. never had she looked so beautiful. her great green eyes were as radiant as spring. her lips were redder than blood. a pink flame burned in her oval cheeks. her head moved like a californian lily on its stalk. no montereño would ever forget her. "el son!" cried the young men, with one accord. her magnificent beauty extinguished every other woman in the room. she must not hide her light in the contradanza. she must madden all eyes at once. ysabel bent her head and glided to the middle of the room. the other women moved back, their white gowns like a snowbank against the garish walls. the thin sweet music of the instruments rose above the boom of the tide. ysabel lifted her dress with curving arms, displaying arched feet clad in flesh-coloured stockings and white slippers, and danced el son. her little feet tapped time to the music; she whirled her body with utmost grace, holding her head so motionless that she could have balanced a glass of water upon it. she was inspired that night; and when, in the midst of the dance, de la vega entered the room, a sort of madness possessed her. she invented new figures. she glided back and forth, bending and swaying and doubling until to the eyes of her bewildered admirers the outlines of her lovely body were gone. even the women shouted their approval, and the men went wild. they pulled their pockets inside out and flung handfuls of gold at her feet. those who had only silver cursed their fate, but snatched the watches from their pockets, the rings from their fingers, and hurled them at her with shouts and cheers. they tore the lace ruffles from their shirts; they rushed to the next room and ripped the silver eagles from their hats. even pio pico flung one of his golden ropes at her feet, a hot blaze in his old ugly face, as he cried:-- "brava! brava! thou star of monterey!" guido cabañares, desperate at having nothing more to sacrifice to his idol, sprang upon a chair, and was about to tear down the mexican flag, when the music stopped with a crash, as if musicians and instruments had been overturned, and a figure leaped into the room. the women uttered a loud cry and crossed themselves. even the men fell back. ysabel's swaying body trembled and became rigid. de la vega, who had watched her with folded arms, too entranced to offer her anything but the love that shook him, turned livid to his throat. a friar, his hood fallen back from his stubbled head, his brown habit stiff with dirt, smelling, reeling with fatigue, stood amongst them. his eyes were deep in his ashen face. they rolled about the room until they met de la vega's. general castro came hastily forward. "what does this mean?" he asked. "what do you wish?" the friar raised his arm, and pointed his shaking finger at de la vega. "kill him!" he said, in a loud hoarse whisper. "he has desecrated the mother of god!" every caballero in the room turned upon de la vega with furious satisfaction. ysabel had quickened their blood, and they were willing to cool it in vengeance on the man of whom they still were jealous, and whom they suspected of having brought the wondrous pearls which covered their favorita to-night. "what? what?" they cried eagerly. "has he done this thing?" "he has robbed the church. he has stripped the blessed virgin of her jewels. he--has--murdered--a--priest of the holy catholic church." horror stayed them for a moment, and then they rushed at de la vega. "he does not deny it!" they cried. "is it true? is it true?" and they surged about him hot with menace. "it is quite true," said de la vega, coldly. "i plundered the shrine of loreto and murdered its priest." the women panted and gasped; for a moment even the men were stunned, and in that moment an ominous sound mingled with the roar of the surf. before the respite was over ysabel had reached his side. "he did it for me!" she cried, in her clear triumphant voice. "for me! and although you kill us both, i am the proudest woman in all the californias, and i love him." "good!" cried castro, and he placed himself before them. "stand back, every one of you. what? are you barbarians, indians, that you would do violence to a guest in your town? what if he has committed a crime? is he not one of you, then, that you offer him blood instead of protection? where is your pride of caste? your _hospitality_? oh, perfidy! fall back, and leave the guest of your capital to those who are compelled to judge him." the caballeros shrank back, sullen but abashed. he had touched the quick of their pride. "never mind!" cried the friar. "you cannot protect him from _that_. listen!" had the bay risen about the custom-house? "what is that?" demanded castro, sharply. "the poor of monterey; those who love their cross better than the aristocrats love their caste. they know." de la vega caught ysabel in his arms and dashed across the room and corridor. his knife cut a long rift in the canvas, and in a moment they stood upon the rocks. the shrieking crowd was on the other side of the custom-house. "marcos!" he called to his boatman, "marcos!" no answer came but the waves tugging at the rocks not two feet below them. he could see nothing. the fog was thick as night. "he is not here, ysabel. we must swim. anything but to be torn to pieces by those wild-cats. are you afraid?" "no," she said. he folded her closely with one arm, and felt with his foot for the edge of the rocks. a wild roar came from behind. a dozen pistols were fired into the air. de la vega reeled suddenly. "i am shot, ysabel," he said, his knees bending. "not in this world, my love!" she wound her arms about him, and dragging him to the brow of the rocks, hurled herself outward, carrying him with her. the waves tossed them on high, flung them against the rocks and ground them there, playing with them like a lion with its victim, then buried them. the ears of twenty americans i "god of my soul! do not speak of hope to me. hope? for what are those three frigates, swarming with a horde of foreign bandits, creeping about our bay? for what have the persons of general vallejo and judge leese been seized and imprisoned? why does a strip of cotton, painted with a gaping bear, flaunt itself above sonoma? oh, abomination! oh, execrable profanation! mother of god, open thine ocean and suck them down! smite them with pestilence if they put foot in our capital! shrivel their fingers to the bone if they dethrone our aztec eagle and flourish their stars and stripes above our fort! o california! that thy sons and thy daughters should live to see thee plucked like a rose by the usurper! and why? why? not because these piratical americans have the right to one league of our land; but because, holy evangelists! they want it! our lands are rich, our harbours are fine, gold veins our valleys, therefore we must be plucked. the united states of america are mightier than mexico, therefore they sweep down upon us with mouths wide open. holy god! that i could choke but one with my own strong fingers. oh!" doña eustaquia paused abruptly and smote her hands together,--"o that i were a man! that the women of california were men!" on this pregnant morning of july seventh, eighteen hundred and forty-six, all aristocratic monterey was gathered in the sala of doña modeste castro. the hostess smiled sadly. "that is the wish of my husband," she said, "for the men of our country want the americans." "and why?" asked one of the young men, flicking a particle of dust from his silken riding jacket. "we shall then have freedom from the constant war of opposing factions. if general castro and governor pico are not calling juntas in which to denounce each other, a carillo is pitting his ambition against an alvarado. the gringos will rule us lightly and bring us peace. they will not disturb our grants, and will give us rich prices for our lands--" "oh, fool!" interrupted doña eustaquia. "thrice fool! a hundred years from now, fernando altimira, and our names will be forgotten in california. fifty years from now and our walls will tumble upon us whilst we cook our beans in the rags that charity--american charity--has flung us! i tell you that the hour the american flag waves above the fort of monterey is the hour of the californians' doom. we have lived in arcadia--ingrates that you are to complain--they will run over us like ants and sting us to death!" "that is the prediction of my husband," said doña modeste. "liberty, independence, decency, honour, how long will they be his watch-words?" "not a day longer!" cried doña eustaquia, "for the men of california are cowards." "cowards! we? no man should say that to us!" the caballeros were on their feet, their eyes flashing, as if they faced in uniform the navy of the united states, rather than confronted, in lace ruffles and silken smallclothes, an angry scornful woman. "cowards!" continued fernando altimira. "are not men flocking about general castro at san juan bautista, willing to die in a cause already lost? if our towns were sacked or our women outraged would not the weakest of us fight until we died in our blood? but what is coming is for the best, doña eustaquia, despite your prophecy; and as we cannot help it--we, a few thousand men against a great nation--we resign ourselves because we are governed by reason instead of by passion. no one reverences our general more than fernando altimira. no grander man ever wore a uniform! but he is fighting in a hopeless cause, and the fewer who uphold him the less blood will flow, the sooner the struggle will finish." doña modeste covered her beautiful face and wept. many of the women sobbed in sympathy. bright eyes, from beneath gay rebosas or delicate mantillas, glanced approvingly at the speaker. brown old men and women stared gloomily at the floor. but the greater number followed every motion of their master-spirit, doña eustaquia ortega. she walked rapidly up and down the long room, too excited to sit down, flinging the mantilla back as it brushed her hot cheek. she was a woman not yet forty, and very handsome, although the peachness of youth had left her face. her features were small but sharply cut; the square chin and firm mouth had the lines of courage and violent emotions, her piercing intelligent eyes interpreted a terrible power of love and hate. but if her face was so strong as to be almost unfeminine, it was frank and kind. doña eustaquia might watch with joy her bay open and engulf the hated americans, but she would nurse back to life the undrowned bodies flung upon the shore. if she had been born a queen she would have slain in anger, but she would not have tortured. general castro had flung his hat at her feet many times, and told her that she was born to command. even the nervous irregularity of her step to-day could not affect the extreme elegance of her carriage, and she carried her small head with the imperious pride of a sovereign. she did not speak again for a moment, but as she passed the group of young men at the end of the room her eyes flashed from one languid face to another. she hated their rich breeches and embroidered jackets buttoned with silver and gold, the lace handkerchiefs knotted about their shapely throats. no man was a man who did not wear a uniform. don fernando regarded her with a mischievous smile as she approached him a second time. "i predict, also," he said, "i predict that our charming doña eustaquia will yet wed an american--" "what!" she turned upon him with the fury of a lioness. "hold thy prating tongue! i marry an american? god! i would give every league of my ranchos for a necklace made from the ears of twenty americans. i would throw my jewels to the pigs, if i could feel here upon my neck the proof that twenty american heads looked ready to be fired from the cannon on the hill!" everybody in the room laughed, and the atmosphere felt lighter. muslin gowns began to flutter, and the seal of disquiet sat less heavily upon careworn or beautiful faces. but before the respite was a moment old a young man entered hastily from the street, and throwing his hat on the floor burst into tears. "what is it?" the words came mechanically from every one in the room. the herald put his hand to his throat to control the swelling muscles. "two hours ago," he said, "commander sloat sent one captain william mervine on shore to demand of our commandante the surrender of the town. don mariano walked the floor, wringing his hands, until a quarter of an hour ago, when he sent word to the insolent servant of a pirate-republic that he had no authority to deliver up the capital, and bade him go to san juan bautista and confer with general castro. whereupon the american thief ordered two hundred and fifty of his men to embark in boats--do not you hear?" a mighty cheer shook the air amidst the thunder of cannon; then another, and another. every lip in the room was white. "what is that?" asked doña eustaquia. her voice was hardly audible. "they have raised the american flag upon the custom-house," said the herald. for a moment no one moved; then as by one impulse, and without a word, doña modeste castro and her guests rose and ran through the streets to the custom-house on the edge of the town. in the bay were three frigates of twenty guns each. on the rocks, in the street by the custom-house and on its corridors, was a small army of men in the naval uniform of the united states, respectful but determined. about them and the little man who read aloud from a long roll of paper, the aristocrats joined the rabble of the town. men with sunken eyes who had gambled all night, leaving even serape and sombrero on the gaming table; girls with painted faces staring above cheap and gaudy satins, who had danced at fandangos in the booths until dawn, then wandered about the beach, too curious over the movements of the american squadron to go to bed; shopkeepers, black and rusty of face, smoking big pipes with the air of philosophers; indians clad in a single garment of calico, falling in a straight line from the neck; eagle-beaked old crones with black shawls over their heads; children wearing only a smock twisted about their little waists and tied in a knot behind; a few american residents, glancing triumphantly at each other; caballeros, gay in the silken attire of summer, sitting in angry disdain upon their plunging, superbly trapped horses; last of all, the elegant women in their lace mantillas and flowered rebosas, weeping and clinging to each other. few gave ear to the reading of sloat's proclamation. benicia, the daughter of doña eustaquia, raised her clasped hands, the tears streaming from her eyes. "oh, these americans! how i hate them!" she cried, a reflection of her mother's violent spirit on her sweet face. doña eustaquia caught the girl's hands and flung herself upon her neck. "ay! california! california!" she cried wildly. "my country is flung to its knees in the dirt." a rose from the upper corridor of the custom-house struck her daughter full in the face. ii the same afternoon benicia ran into the sala where her mother was lying on a sofa, and exclaimed excitedly: "my mother! my mother! it is not so bad. the americans are not so wicked as we have thought. the proclamation of the commodore sloat has been pasted on all the walls of the town and promises that our grants shall be secured to us under the new government, that we shall elect our own alcaldes, that we shall continue to worship god in our own religion, that our priests shall be protected, that we shall have all the rights and advantages of the american citizen--" "stop!" cried doña eustaquia, springing to her feet. her face still burned with the bitter experience of the morning. "tell me of no more lying promises! they will keep their word! ay, i do not doubt but they will take advantage of our ignorance, with their yankee sharpness! i know them! do not speak of them to me again. if it must be, it must; and at least i have thee." she caught the girl in her arms, and covered the flower-like face with passionate kisses. "my little one! my darling! thou lovest thy mother--better than all the world? tell me!" the girl pressed her soft, red lips to the dark face which could express such fierceness of love and hate. "my mother! of course i love thee. it is because i have thee that i do not take the fate of my country deeper heart. so long as they do not put their ugly bayonets between us, what difference whether the eagle or the stars wave above the fort?" "ah, my child, thou hast not that love of country which is part of my soul! but perhaps it is as well, for thou lovest thy mother the more. is it not so, my little one?" "surely, my mother; i love no one in the world but you." doña eustaquia leaned back and tapped the girl's fair cheek with her finger. "not even don fernando altimira?" "no, my mother." "nor flujencio hernandez? nor juan perez? nor any of the caballeros who serenade beneath thy window?" "i love their music, but it comes as sweetly from one throat as from another." her mother gave a long sigh of relief. "and yet i would have thee marry some day, my little one. i was happy with thy father--thanks to god he did not live to see this day--i was as happy, for two little years, as this poor nature of ours can be, and i would have thee be the same. but do not hasten to leave me alone. thou art so young! thine eyes have yet the roguishness of youth; i would not see love flash it aside. thy mouth is like a child's; i shall shed the saddest tears of my life the day it trembles with passion. dear little one! thou hast been more than a daughter to me; thou hast been my only companion. i have striven to impart to thee the ambition of thy mother and the intellect of thy father. and i am proud of thee, very, very proud of thee!" benicia pinched her mother's chin, her mischievous eyes softening. "ay, my mother, i have done my little best, but i never shall be you. i am afraid i love to dance through the night and flirt my breath away better than i love the intellectual conversation of the few people you think worthy to sit about you in the evenings. i am like a little butterfly sitting on the mane of a mountain lion--" "tush! tush! thou knowest more than any girl in monterey, and i am satisfied with thee. think of the books thou hast read, the languages thou hast learned from the señor hartnell. ay, my little one, nobody but thou wouldst dare to say thou cared for nothing but dancing and flirting, although i will admit that even ysabel herrera could scarce rival thee at either." "ay, my poor ysabel! my heart breaks every night when i say a prayer for her." she tightened the clasp of her arms and pressed her face close to her mother's. "mamacita, darling," she said coaxingly, "i have a big favour to beg. ay, an enormous one! how dare i ask it?" "aha! what is it? i should like to know. i thought thy tenderness was a little anxious." "ay, mamacita! do not refuse me or it will break my heart. on wednesday night don thomas larkin gives a ball at his house to the officers of the american squadron. oh, mamacita! mamacita! _darling!_ do, do let me go!" "benicia! thou wouldst meet those men? válgame dios! and thou art a child of mine!" she flung the girl from her, and walked rapidly up and down the room, benicia following with her little white hands outstretched. "dearest one, i know just how you feel about it! but think a moment. they have come to stay. they will never go. we shall meet them everywhere--every night--every day. and my new gown, mamacita! the beautiful silver spangles! there is not such a gown in monterey! ay, i must go. and they say the americans hop like puppies when they dance. how i shall laugh at them! and it is not once in the year that i have a chance to speak english, and none of the other girls can. and all the girls, all the girls, all the girls, will go to this ball. oh, mamacita!" her mother was obliged to laugh. "well, well, i cannot refuse you anything; you know that! go to the ball! ay, yi, do not smother me! as you have said--that little head can think--we must meet these insolent braggarts sooner or later. so i would not--" her cheeks blanched suddenly, she caught her daughter's face between her hands, and bent her piercing eyes above the girl's soft depths. "mother of god! that could not be. my child! thou couldst never love an american! a gringo! a protestant! holy mary!" benicia threw back her head and gave a long laugh--the light rippling laugh of a girl who has scarcely dreamed of lovers. "i love an american? oh, my mother! a great, big, yellow-haired bear! when i want only to laugh at their dancing! no, mamacita, when i love an american thou shalt have his ears for thy necklace." iii thomas o. larkin, united states consul to california until the occupation left him without duties, had invited monterey to meet the officers of the _savannah, cyane,_ and _levant_, and only doña modeste castro had declined. at ten o'clock the sala of his large house on the rise of the hill was thronged with robed girls in every shade and device of white, sitting demurely behind the wide shoulders of coffee-coloured dowagers, also in white, and blazing with jewels. the young matrons were there, too, although they left the sala at intervals to visit the room set apart for the nurses and children; no montereña ever left her little ones at home. the old men and the caballeros wore the black coats and white trousers which monterey fashion dictated for evening wear; the hair of the younger men was braided with gay ribbons, and diamonds flashed in the lace of their ruffles. the sala was on the second floor; the musicians sat on the corridor beyond the open windows and scraped their fiddles and twanged their guitars, awaiting the coming of the american officers. before long the regular tramp of many feet turning from alvarado street up the little primera del este, facing mr. larkin's house, made dark eyes flash, lace and silken gowns flutter. benicia and a group of girls were standing by doña eustaquia. they opened their large black fans as if to wave back the pink that had sprung to their cheeks. only benicia held her head saucily high, and her large brown eyes were full of defiant sparkles. "why art thou so excited, blandina?" she asked of a girl who had grasped her arm. "i feel as if the war between the united states and mexico began tonight." "ay, benicia, thou hast so gay a spirit that nothing ever frightens thee! but, mary! how many they are! they tramp as if they would go through the stair. ay, the poor flag! no wonder--" "now, do not cry over the flag any more. ah! there is not one to compare with general castro!" the character of the californian sala had changed for ever; the blue and gold of the united states had invaded it. the officers, young and old, looked with much interest at the faces, soft, piquant, tropical, which made the effect of pansies looking inquisitively over a snowdrift. the girls returned their glances with approval, for they were as fine and manly a set of men as ever had faced death or woman. ten minutes later california and the united states were flirting outrageously. mr. larkin presented a tall officer to benicia. that the young man was very well-looking even benicia admitted. true, his hair was golden, but it was cut short, and bore no resemblance to the coat of a bear; his mustache and brows were brown; his gray eyes were as laughing as her own. "i suppose you do not speak any english, señorita," he said helplessly. "no? i spik eenglish like the spanish. the spanish people no have difficult at all to learn the other langues. but señor hartnell he say it no is easy at all for the eenglish to spik the french and the spanish, so i suppose you no spik one word our langue, no?" he gallantly repressed a smile. "thankfully i may say that i do not, else would i not have the pleasure of hearing you speak english. never have i heard it so charmingly spoken before." benicia took her skirt between the tips of her fingers and swayed her graceful body forward, as a tule bends in the wind. "you like dip the flag of the conqueror in honey, señor. ay! we need have one compliment for every tear that fall since your eagle stab his beak in the neck de ours." "ah, the loyal women of monterey! i have no words to express my admiration for them, señorita. a thousand compliments are not worth one tear." benicia turned swiftly to her mother, her eyes glittering with pleasure. "mother, you hear! you hear!" she cried in spanish. "these americans are not so bad, after all." doña eustaquia gave the young man one of her rare smiles; it flashed over her strong dark face, until the light of youth was there once more. "very pretty speech," she said, with slow precision. "i thank you, señor russell, in the name of the women of monterey." "by jove! madam--señora--i assure you i never felt so cut up in my life as when i saw all those beautiful women crying down there by the custom-house. i am a good american, but i would rather have thrown the flag under your feet than have seen you cry like that. and i assure you, dear señora, every man among us felt the same. as you have been good enough to thank me in the name of the women of monterey, i, in behalf of the officers of the united states squadron, beg that you will forgive us." doña eustaquia's cheek paled again, and she set her lips for a moment; then she held out her hand. "señor," she said, "we are conquered, but we are californians; and although we do not bend the head, neither do we turn the back. we have invite you to our houses, and we cannot treat you like enemies. i will say with--how you say it--truth?--we did hate the thought that you come and take the country that was ours. but all is over and cannot be changed. so, it is better we are good friends than poor ones; and--and--my house is open to you, señor." russell was a young man of acute perceptions; moreover, he had heard of doña eustaquia; he divined in part the mighty effort by which good breeding and philosophy had conquered bitter resentment. he raised the little white hand to his lips. "i would that i were twenty men, señora. each would be your devoted servant." "and then she have her necklace!" cried benicia, delightedly. "what is that?" asked russell; but doña eustaquia shook her fan threateningly and turned away. "i no tell you everything," said benicia, "so no be too curiosa. you no dance the contradanza, no?" "i regret to say that i do not. but this is a plain waltz; will you not give it to me?" benicia, disregarding the angry glances of approaching caballeros, laid her hand on the officer's shoulder, and he spun her down the room. "why, you no dance so bad!" she said with surprise. "i think always the americanos dance so terreeblay." "who could not dance with a fairy in his arms?" "what funny things you say. i never been called fairy before." "you have never been interpreted." and then, in the whirl-waltz of that day, both lost their breath. when the dance was over and they stood near doña eustaquia, he took the fan from benicia's hand and waved it slowly before her. she laughed outright. "you think i am so tired i no can fan myself?" she demanded. "how queer are these americanos! why, i have dance for three days and three nights and never estop." "señorita!" "si, señor. oh, we estop sometimes, but no for long. it was at sonoma two months ago. at the house de general vallejo." "you certainly are able to fan yourself; but it is no reflection upon your muscle. it is only a custom we have." "then i think much better you no have the custom. you no look like a man at all when you fan like a girl." he handed her back the fan with some choler. "really, señorita, you are very frank. i suppose you would have a man lie in a hammock all day and roll cigaritos." "much better do that than take what no is yours." "which no american ever did!" "excep' when he pulled california out the pocket de mexico." "and what did mexico do first? did she not threaten the united states with hostilities for a year, and attack a small detachment of our troops with a force of seven thousand men--" "no make any difference what she do. si she do wrong, that no is excuse for you do wrong." two angry young people faced each other. "you steal our country and insult our men. but they can fight, madre de dios! i like see general castro take your little commodore sloat by the neck. he look like a little gray rat." "commodore sloat is a brave and able man, miss ortega, and no officer in the united states navy will hear him insulted." "then much better you lock up the ears." "my dear captain russell! benicia! what is the matter?" mr. larkin stood before them, an amused smile on his thin intellectual face. "come, come, have we not met to-night to dance the waltz of peace? benicia, your most humble admirer has a favour to crave of you. i would have my countrymen learn at once the utmost grace of the californian. dance el jarabe, please, and with don fernando altimira." benicia lifted her dainty white shoulders. she was not unwilling to avenge herself upon the american by dazzling him with her grace and beauty. her eye's swift invitation brought don fernando, scowling, to her side. he led her to the middle of the room, and the musicians played the stately jig. benicia swept one glance of defiant coquetry at russell from beneath her curling lashes, then fixed her eyes upon the floor, nor raised them again. she held her reed-like body very erect and took either side of her spangled skirt in the tips of her fingers, lifting it just enough to show the arched little feet in their embroidered stockings and satin slippers. don fernando crossed his hands behind him, and together they rattled their feet on the floor with dexterity and precision, whilst the girls sang the words of the dance. the officers gave genuine applause, delighted with this picturesque fragment of life on the edge of the pacific. don fernando listened to their demonstrations with sombre contempt on his dark handsome face; benicia indicated her pleasure by sundry archings of her narrow brows, or coquettish curves of her red lips. suddenly she made a deep courtesy and ran to her mother, with a long sweeping movement, like the bending and lifting of grain in the wind. as she approached russell he took a rose from his coat and threw it at her. she caught it, thrust it carelessly in one of her thick braids, and the next moment he was at her side again. iv doña eustaquia slipped from the crowd and out of the house. drawing a reboso about her head she walked swiftly down the street and across the plaza. sounds of ribaldry came from the lower end of the town, but the aristocratic quarter was very quiet, and she walked unmolested to the house of general castro. the door was open, and she went down the long hall to the sleeping room of doña modeste. there was no response to her knock, and she pushed open the door and entered. the room was dimly lit by the candles on the altar. doña modeste was not in the big mahogany bed, for the heavy satin coverlet was still over it. doña eustaquia crossed the room to the altar and lifted in her arms the small figure kneeling there. "pray no more, my friend," she said. "our prayers have been unheard, and thou art better in bed or with thy friends." doña modeste threw herself wearily into a chair, but took doña eustaquia's hand in a tight clasp. her white skin shone in the dim light, and with her black hair and green tragic eyes made her look like a little witch queen, for neither suffering nor humiliation could bend that stately head. "religion is my solace," she said, "my only one; for i have not a brain of iron nor a soul of fire like thine. and, eustaquia, i have more cause to pray to-night." "it is true, then, that josé is in retreat? ay, mary!" "my husband, deserted by all but one hundred men, is flying southward from san juan bautista. i have it from the wash-tub mail. that never is wrong." "ingrates! traitors! but it is true, modeste--surely, no?--that our general will not surrender? that he will stand against the americans?" "he will not yield. he would have marched upon monterey and forced them to give him battle here but for this base desertion. now he will go to los angeles and command the men of the south to rally about him." "i knew that he would not kiss the boots of the americans like the rest of our men! oh, the cowards! i could almost say to-night that i like better the americans than the men of my own race. _they_ are castros! i shall hate their flag so long as life is in me; but i cannot hate the brave men who fight for it. but my pain is light to thine. thy heart is wrung, and i am sorry for thee." "my day is over. misfortune is upon us. even if my husband's life is spared--ay! shall i ever see him again?--his position will be taken from him, for the americans will conquer in the end. he will be commandante-general of the army of the californias no longer, but--holy god!--a ranchero, a caballero! he at whose back all california has galloped! thou knowest his restless aspiring soul, eustaquia, his ambition, his passionate love of california. can there be happiness for such a man humbled to the dust--no future! no hope? ay!"--she sprang to her feet with arms uplifted, her small slender form looking twice its height as it palpitated against the shadows, "i feel the bitterness of that spirit! i know how that great heart is torn. and he is alone!" she flung herself across doña eustaquia's knees and burst into violent sobbing. doña eustaquia laid her strong arm about her friend, but her eyes were more angry than soft. "weep no more, modeste," she said. "rather, arise and curse those who have flung a great man into the dust. but comfort thyself. who can know? thy husband, weary with fighting, disgusted with men, may cling the closer to thee, and with thee and thy children forget the world in thy redwood forests or between the golden hills of thy ranchos." doña modeste shook her head. "thou speakest the words of kindness, but thou knowest josé. thou knowest that he would not be content to be as other men. and, ay! eustaquia, to think that it was opposite our own dear home, our favourite home, that the american flag should first have been raised! opposite the home of josé castro!" "to perdition with frémont! why did he, of all places, select san juan bautista in which to hang up his american rag?" "we never can live there again. the gabilan mountains would shut out the very face of the sun from my husband." "do not weep, my modeste; remember thy other beautiful ranchos. dios de mi alma!" she added with a flash of humour, "i revere san juan bautista for your husband's sake, but i weep not that i shall visit you there no more. every day i think to hear that the shaking earth of that beautiful valley has opened its jaws and swallowed every hill and adobe. god grant that frémont's hair stood up more than once. but go to bed, my friend. look, i will put you there." as if doña modeste were an infant, she undressed and laid her between the linen sheets with their elaborate drawn work, then made her drink a glass of angelica, folded and laid away the satin coverlet, and left the house. she walked up the plaza slowly, holding her head high. monterey at that time was infested by dogs, some of them very savage. doña eustaquia's strong soul had little acquaintance with fear, and on her way to general castro's house she had paid no attention to the snarling muzzles thrust against her gown. but suddenly a cadaverous creature sprang upon her with a savage yelp and would have caught her by the throat had not a heavy stick cracked its skull. a tall officer in the uniform of the united states navy raised his cap from iron-gray hair and looked at her with blue eyes as piercing as her own. "you will pardon me, madam," he said, "if i insist upon attending you to your door. it is not safe for a woman to walk alone in the streets of monterey at night." doña eustaquia bent her head somewhat haughtily. "i thank you much, señor, for your kind rescue. i would not like, at all, to be eaten by the dogs. but i not like to trouble you to walk with me. i go only to the house of the señor larkin. it is there, at the end of the little street beyond the plaza." "my dear madam, you must not deprive the united states of the pleasure of protecting california. pray grant my humble request to walk behind you and keep off the dogs." her lips pressed each other, but pride put down the bitter retort. "walk by me, if you wish," she said graciously. "why are you not at the house of don thomas larkin?" "i am on my way there now. circumstances prevented my going earlier." his companion did not seem disposed to pilot the conversation, and he continued lamely, "have you noticed, madam, that the english frigate _collingwood_ is anchored in the bay?" "i saw it in the morning." she turned to him with sudden hope. "have they--the english--come to help california?" "i am afraid, dear madam, that they came to capture california at the first whisper of war between mexico and the united states; you know that england has always cast a covetous eye upon your fair land. it is said that the english admiral stormed about the deck in a mighty rage to-day when he saw the american flag flying on the fort." "all are alike!" she exclaimed bitterly, then controlled herself. "you--do you admeer our country, señor? have you in america something more beautiful than monterey?" the officer looked about him enthusiastically, glad of a change of topic, for he suspected to whom he was talking. "madam, i have never seen anything more perfect than this beautiful town of monterey. what a situation! what exquisite proportions! that wide curve of snow-white sand about the dark blue bay is as exact a crescent as if cut with a knife. and that semicircle of hills behind the town, with its pine and brush forest tapering down to the crescent's points! nor could anything be more picturesque than this scattered little town with its bright red tiles above the white walls of the houses and the gray walls of the yards; its quaint church surrounded by the ruins of the old presidio; its beautiful, strangely dressed women and men who make this corner of the earth resemble the pages of some romantic old picture-book--" "ay!" she interrupted him. "much better you feel proud that you conquer us; for surely, señor, california shall shine like a diamond in the very centre of america's crown." then she held out her hand impulsively. "mucho gracias, señor--pardon--thank you very much. if you love my country, señor, you must be my friend and the friend of my daughter. i am the señora doña eustaquia carillo de ortega, and my house is there on the hill--you can see the light, no? always we shall be glad to see you." he doffed his cap again and bent over her hand. "and i, john brotherton, a humble captain in the united states navy, do sincerely thank the most famous woman of monterey for her gracious hospitality. and if i abuse it, lay it to the enthusiasm of the american who is not the conqueror but the conquered." "that was very pretty--speech. when you abuse me i put you out the door. this is the house of don thomas larkin, where is the ball. you come in, no? you like i take your arm? very well" and so the articles of peace were signed. v "yes, yes, indeed, blandina," exclaimed benicia, "they had no chance at all last night, for we danced until dawn, and perhaps they were afraid of don thomas larkin. but we shall talk and have music to-night, and those fine new tables that came on the last ship from boston must not be destroyed." "well, if you really think--" said blandina, who always thought exactly as benicia did. she opened a door and called:-- "flujencio." "well, my sister?" a dreamy-looking young man in short jacket and trousers of red silk entered the room, sombrero in one hand, a cigarito in the other. "flujencio, you know it is said that these 'yankees' always 'whittle' everything. we are afraid they will spoil the furniture to-night; so tell one of the servants to cut a hundred pine slugs, and you go down to the store and buy a box of penknives. then they will have plenty to amuse themselves with and will not cut the furniture." "true! true! what a good idea! was it benicia's?" he gave her a glance of languid adoration. "i will buy those knives at once, before i forget it," and he tossed the sombrero on his curls and strode out of the house. "how dost thou like the señor lieutenant russell, benicia?" benicia lifted her chin, but her cheeks became very pink. "well enough. but he is like all the americans, very proud, and thinks too well of his hateful country. but i shall teach him how to flirt. he thinks he can, but he cannot." "thou canst do it, benicia--look! look!" lieutenant russell and a brother officer were sauntering slowly by and looking straight through the grated window at the beautiful girls in their gayly flowered gowns. they saluted, and the girls bent their slender necks, but dared not speak, for doña francesca hernandez was in the next room and the door was open. immediately following the american officers came don fernando altimira on horseback. he scowled as he saw the erect swinging figures of the conquerors, but benicia kissed the tips of her fingers as he flung his sombrero to the ground, and he galloped, smiling, on his way. that night the officers of the united states squadron met the society of monterey at the house of don jorje hernandez. after the contradanza, to which they could be admiring spectators only, much to the delight of the caballeros, benicia took the guitar presented by flujencio, and letting her head droop a little to one side like a lily bent on its stalk by the breeze, sang the most coquettish song she knew. her mahogany brown hair hung unconfined over her white shoulders and gown of embroidered silk with its pointed waist and full skirt. her large brown eyes were alternately mischievous and tender, now and again lighted by a sudden flash. her cheeks were pink; her round babylike arms curved with all the grace of the spanish woman. as she finished the song she dropped her eyelids for a moment, then raised them slowly and looked straight at russell. "by jove, ned, you are a lucky dog!" said a brother officer. "she's the prettiest girl in the room! why don't you fling your hat at her feet, as these ardent californians do?" [illustration: "russell crossed the room and sat beside benicia."] "my cap is in the next room, but i will go over and fling myself there instead." russell crossed the room and sat down beside benicia. "i should like to hear you sing under those cypresses out on the ocean about six or eight miles from here," he said to her. "i rode down the coast yesterday. jove! what a coast it is!" "we will have a merienda there on some evening," said doña eustaquia, who sat beside her daughter. "it is very beautiful on the big rocks to watch the ocean, under the moonlight." "a merienda?" "a peek-neek." "good! you will not forget that?" she smiled at his boyishness. "it will be at the next moon. i promise." benicia sang another song, and a half-dozen caballeros stood about her, regarding her with glances languid, passionate, sentimental, reproachful, determined, hopeless. russell, leaning back in his chair, listened to the innocent thrilling voice of the girl, and watched her adorers, amused and stimulated. the californian beauty was like no other woman he had known, and the victory would be as signal as the capture of monterey. "more blood, perhaps," he thought, "but a victory is a poor affair unless painted in red. it will do these seething caballeros good to learn that american blood is quite as swift as californian." as the song finished, the musicians began a waltz; russell took the guitar from benicia's hand and laid it on the floor. "this waltz is mine, señorita," he said. "i no know--" "señorita!" said don fernando altimira, passionately, "the first waltz is always mine. thou wilt not give it to the american?" "and the next is mine!" "and the next contradanza!" the girl's faithful retinue protested for their rights. russell could not understand, but he translated their glances, and bent his lips to benicia's ear. that ear was pink and her eyes were bright with roguish triumph. "i want this dance, dear señorita. i may go away any day. orders may come to-morrow which will send me where i never can see you again. you can dance with these men every night of the year--" "i give to you," said benicia, rising hurriedly. "we must be hospitable to the stranger who comes to-day and leaves to-morrow," she said in spanish to the other men. "i have plenty more dances for you." after the dance, salads and cakes, claret and water, were brought to the women by indian girls, who glided about the room with borrowed grace, their heads erect, the silver trays held well out. they wore bright red skirts and white smocks of fine embroidered linen, open at the throat, the sleeves very short. their coarse hair hung in heavy braids; their bright little eyes twinkled in square faces scrubbed until they shone like copper. "captain," said russell to brotherton, as the men followed the host into the supper room, "let us buy a ranch, marry two of these stunning girls, and lie round in hammocks whilst these western houris bring us aguardiente and soda. what an improvement on byron and tom moore! it is all so unhackneyed and unexpected. in spite of dana and robinson i expected mud huts and whooping savages. this is arcadia, and the women are the most elegant in america." "look here, ned," said his captain, "you had better do less flirting and more thinking while you are in this odd country. your talents will get rusty, but you can rub them up when you get home. neither californian men nor women are to be trifled with. this is the land of passion, not of drawing-room sentiment." "perhaps i am more serious than you think. what is the matter?" he spoke to a brother officer who had joined them and was laughing immoderately. "do you see those californians grinning over there?" the speaker beckoned to a group of officers, who joined him at once. "what job do you suppose they have put up on us? what do you suppose that mysterious table in the sala means, with its penknives and wooden sticks? i thought it was a charity bazaar. well, it is nothing more nor less than a trick to keep us from whittling up the furniture. we are all yankees to them, you know. preserve my spanish!" the officers shouted with delight. they marched solemnly back into the sala, and seating themselves in a deep circle about the table, whittled the slugs all over the floor, much to the satisfaction of the californians. vi after the entertainment was over, russell strolled about the town. the new moon was on the sky, the stars thick and bright; but dark corners were everywhere, and he kept his hand on his pistol. he found himself before the long low house of doña eustaquia ortega. not a light glimmered; the shutters were of solid wood. he walked up and down, trying to guess which was benicia's room. "i am growing as romantic as a californian," he thought; "but this wonderful country pours its colour all through one's nature. if i could find her window, i believe i should serenade her in true spanish fashion. by jove, i remember now, she said something about looking through her window at the pines on the hill. it must be at the back of the house, and how am i going to get over that great adobe wall? that gate is probably fastened with an iron bar--ah!" he had walked to the corner of the wall surrounding the large yard behind and at both sides of doña eustaquia's house, and he saw, ascending a ladder, a tall figure, draped in a serape, its face concealed by the shadow of a sombrero. he drew his pistol, then laughed at himself, although not without annoyance. "a rival; and he has got ahead of me. he is going to serenade her." the caballero seated himself uncomfortably on the tiles that roofed the wall, removed his sombrero, and russell recognized fernando altimira. a moment later the sweet thin chords of the guitar quivered in the quiet air, and a tenor, so fine that even russell stood entranced, sang to benicia one of the old songs of monterey:-- el suspiro una mirada un suspiro, una lagrima querida, es balsamo à la herida que abriste en mi corazón. por esa lagrima cara objeto de mi termina, yo te amé bella criatura desde que te vi llorar. te acuerdas de aquella noche en que triste y abatida una lagrima querida vi de tus ojos brotar. although russell was at the base of the high wall he saw that a light flashed. the light was followed by the clapping of little hands. "jove!" he thought, "am i really jealous? but damn that californian!" altimira sang two more songs and was rewarded by the same demonstrations. as he descended the ladder and reached the open street he met russell face to face. the two men regarded each other for a moment. the californian's handsome face was distorted by a passionate scowl; russell was calmer, but his brows were lowered. altimira flung the ladder to the ground, but fire-blooded as he was, the politeness of his race did not desert him, and his struggle with english flung oil upon his passion. "señor," he said, "i no know what you do it by the house of the señorita benicia so late in the night. i suppose you have the right to walk in the town si it please yourself." "have i not the same right as you--to serenade the señorita benicia? if i had known her room, i should have been on the wall before you." altimira's face flushed with triumph. "i think the señorita benicia no care for the english song, señor. she love the sweet words of her country: she no care for words of ice." russell smiled. "our language may not be as elastic as yours, don fernando, but it is a good deal more sincere. and it can express as much and perhaps--" "you love benicia?" interrupted altimira, fiercely. "i admire the señorita ortega tremendously. but i have seen her twice only, and although we may love longer, we take more time to get there, perhaps, than you do." "ay! dios de mi vida! you have the heart of rock! you chip it off in little pieces, one to-day, another to-morrow, and give to the woman. i, señor, i love benicia, and i marry her. you understand? si you take her, i cut the heart from your body. you understand?" "i understand. we understand each other." russell lifted his cap. the californian took his sombrero from his head and made a long sweeping bow; and the two men parted. vii on the twenty-third of july, commodore sloat transferred his authority to commodore stockton, and the new commander of the pacific squadron organized the california battalion of mounted riflemen, appointing frémont major and gillespie captain. he ordered them south at once to intercept castro. on the twenty-eighth, stockton issued a proclamation in which he asserted that mexico was the instigator of the present difficulties, and justified the united states in seizing the californias. he denounced castro in violent terms as an usurper, a boasting and abusive chief, and accused him of having violated every principle of national hospitality and good faith toward captain frémont and his surveying party. stockton sailed for the south the same day in the _congress_, leaving a number of officers to monterey and the indignation of the people. "by jove, i don't dare to go near doña eustaquia," said russell to brotherton. "and i'm afraid we won't have our picnic. it seems to me the commodore need not have used such strong language about california's idol. the very people in the streets are ready to unlimb us; and as for the peppery doña--" "speak more respectfully of doña eustaquia, young man," said the older officer, severely. "she is a very remarkable woman and not to be spoken slightingly of by young men who are in love with her daughter." "god forbid that i should slight her, dear captain. never have i so respected a woman. she frightens the life out of me every time she flashes those eyes of hers. but let us go and face the enemy at once, like the brave americans we are." "very well." and together they walked along alvarado street from the harbour, then up the hill to the house of doña eustaquia. that formidable lady and her daughter were sitting on the corridor dressed in full white gowns, slowly wielding large black fans, for the night was hot. benicia cast up her eyes expressively as she rose and courtesied to the officers, but her mother merely bent her head; nor did she extend her hand. her face was very dark. brotherton went directly to the point. "dear doña eustaquia, we deeply regret that our commodore has used such harsh language in regard to general castro. but remember that he has been here a few days only and has had no chance to learn the many noble and valiant qualities of your general. he doubtless has been prejudiced against him by some enemy, and he adores frémont:--there is the trouble. he resents castro's treating frémont as an enemy before the united states had declared its intentions. but had he been correctly informed, he undoubtedly would have conceived the same admiration and respect for your brave general that is felt by every other man among us." doña eustaquia looked somewhat mollified, but shook her head sternly. "much better he took the trouble to hear true. he insult all californians by those shemful words. all the enemies of our dear general be glad. and the poor wife! poor my modeste! she fold the arms and raise the head, but the heart is broken." "jove! i almost wish they had driven us out! dear señora--" russell and benicia were walking up and down the corridor--"we have become friends, true friends, as sometimes happens--not often--between man and woman. cease to think of me as an officer of the united states navy, only as a man devoted to your service. i have already spent many pleasant hours with you. let me hope that while i remain here neither commodore stockton nor party feeling will exclude me from many more." she raised her graceful hand to her chin with a gesture peculiar to her, and looked upward with a glance half sad, half bitter. "i much appreciate your friendship, capitan brotherton. you give me much advice that is good for me, and tell me many things. it is like the ocean wind when you have live long in the hot valley. yes, dear friend, i forget you are in the navy of the conqueror." "mamacita," broke in benicia's light voice, "tell us now when we can have the peek-neek." "to-morrow night." "surely?" "surely, niñita." "castro," said russell, lifting his cap, "peace be with thee." viii the great masses of rock on the ocean's coast shone white in the moonlight. through the gaunt outlying rocks, lashed apart by furious storms, boiled the ponderous breakers, tossing aloft the sparkling clouds of spray, breaking in the pools like a million silver fishes. high above the waves, growing out of the crevices of the massive rocks of the shore, were weird old cypresses, their bodies bent from the ocean as if petrified in flight before the mightier foe. on their gaunt outstretched arms and gray bodies, seamed with time, knobs like human muscles jutted; between the broken bark the red blood showed. from their angry hands, clutching at the air or doubled in imprecation, long strands of gray-green moss hung, waving and coiling, in the night wind. only one old man was on his hands and knees as if to crawl from the field; but a comrade spurned him with his foot and wound his bony hand about the coward's neck. another had turned his head to the enemy, pointing his index finger in scorn, although he stood alone on high. all along the cliffs ran the ghostly army, sometimes with straining arms fighting the air, sometimes thrust blankly outward, all with life quivering in their arrested bodies, silent and scornful in their defeat. who shall say what winter winds first beat them, what great waves first fought their deathless trunks, what young stars first shone over them? they have outstood centuries of raging storm and rending earthquake. tradition says that until convulsion wrenched the golden gate apart the san franciscan waters rolled through the long valleys and emptied into the bay of monterey. but the old cypresses were on the ocean just beyond; the incoming and the outgoing of the inland ocean could not trouble them; and perhaps they will stand there until the end of time. down the long road by the ocean rode a gay cavalcade. the caballeros had haughtily refused to join the party, and the men wore the blue and gold of the united states. but the women wore fluttering mantillas, and their prancing high-stepping horses were trapped with embossed leather and silver. in a lumbering "wagon of the country," drawn by oxen, running on solid wheels cut from the trunks of trees, but padded with silk, rode some of the older people of the town, disapproving, but overridden by the impatient enthusiasm of doña eustaquia. through the pine woods with their softly moving shadows and splendid aisles, out between the cypresses and rocky beach, wound the stately cavalcade, their voices rising above the sociable converse of the seals and the screeching of the seagulls spiking the rocks where the waves fought and foamed. the gold on the shoulders of the men flashed in the moonlight; the jewels of the women sparkled and winked. two by two they came like a conquering army to the rescue of the cypresses. brotherton, who rode ahead with doña eustaquia, half expected to see the old trees rise upright with a deep shout of welcome. when they reached a point where the sloping rocks rose high above surf and spray, they dismounted, leaving the indian servants to tether the horses. they climbed down the big smooth rocks and sat about in groups, although never beyond the range of older eyes, the cypresses lowering above them, the ocean tearing through the outer rocks to swirl and grumble in the pools. the moon was so bright, its light so broad and silver, they almost could imagine they saw the gorgeous mass of colour in the pools below. "you no have seaweed like that in boston," said benicia, who had a comprehensive way of symbolizing the world by the city from which she got many of her clothes and all of her books. "indeed, no!" said russell. "the other day i sat for hours watching those great bunches and strands that look like richly coloured chenille. and there were stones that looked like big opals studded with vivid jewels. god of my soul, as you say, it was magnificent! i never saw such brilliant colour, such delicate tints! and those great rugged defiant rocks out there, lashed by the waves! look at that one; misty with spray one minute, bare and black the next! they look like an old castle which has been battered down with cannon. captain, do you not feel romantic?" "i feel that i never want to go into an art gallery again. no wonder the women of california are original." "benicia," said russell, "i have tried in vain to learn a spanish song. but teach me a spanish phrase of endearment. all our 'darlings' and 'dearests' are too flat for california." "bueno; i teach you. say after me: mi muy querida prima. that is very sweet. say." "mi muy--" "querida prima." "que--what is it in english?" "my--very--darling--first. it no sound so pretty in english." "it does very well. my--very--darling--first--if all these people were not about us, i should kiss you. you look exactly like a flower." "si you did, señor impertinencio, you get that for thanks." russell jumped to his feet with a shout, and shook from his neck a little crab with a back like green velvet and legs like carven garnet. "did you put that crab on my neck, señorita?" "si, señor." a sulky silence of ten minutes ensued, during which benicia sent little stones skipping down into the silvered pools, and russell, again recumbent, stared at the horizon. "si you no can talk," she said finally, "i wish you go way and let don henry tallant come talk to me. he look like he want." "no doubt he does; but he can stay where he is. let me kiss your hand, benicia, and i will forgive you." benicia hit his mouth lightly with the back of her hand, but he captured it and kissed it several times. "your mustache feels like the cat's," said she. he flung the hand from him, but laughed in a moment. "how sentimental you are! making love to you is like dragging a cannon uphill! will you not at least sing me a love-song? and please do not make faces in the tender parts." benicia tossed her spirited head, but took her guitar from its case and called to the other girls to accompany her. they withdrew from their various flirtations with audible sighs, but it was benicia's merienda, and in a moment a dozen white hands were sweeping the long notes from the strings. russell moved to a lower rock, and lying at benicia's feet looked upward. the scene was all above him--the great mass of white rocks, whiter in the moonlight; the rigid cypresses aloft; the beautiful faces, dreamy, passionate, stolid, restless, looking from the lace mantillas; the graceful arms holding the guitars; the sweet rich voices threading through the roar of the ocean like the melody in a grand recitativo; the old men and women crouching like buzzards on the stones, their sharp eyes never closing; enfolding all with an almost palpable touch, the warm voluptuous air. now and again a bird sang a few notes, a strange sound in the night, or the soft wind murmured like the ocean's echo through the pines. the song finished. "benicia, i love you," whispered russell. "we will now eat," said benicia. "mamma,"--she raised her voice,--"shall i tell raphael to bring down the supper?" "yes, niña." the girl sprang lightly up the rocks, followed by russell. the indian servants were some distance off, and as the young people ran through a pine grove the bold officer of the united states squadron captured the californian and kissed her on the mouth. she boxed his ears and escaped to the light. benicia gave her orders, raphael and the other indians followed her with the baskets, and spread the supper of tomales and salads, dulces and wine, on a large table-like rock, just above the threatening spray; the girls sang each in turn, whilst the others nibbled the dainties doña eustaquia had provided, and the americans wondered if it were not a vision that would disappear into the fog bearing down upon them. a great white bank, writhing and lifting, rolling and bending, came across the ocean slowly, with majestic stealth, hiding the swinging waves on which it rode so lightly, shrouding the rocks, enfolding the men and women, wreathing the cypresses, rushing onward to the pines. "we must go," said doña eustaquia, rising. "there is danger to stay. the lungs, the throat, my children. look at the poor old cypresses." the fog was puffing through the gaunt arms, festooning the rigid hands. it hung over the green heads, it coiled about the gray trunks. the stern defeated trees looked like the phantoms of themselves, a long silent battalion of petrified ghosts. even benicia's gay spirit was oppressed, and during the long ride homeward through the pine woods she had little to say to her equally silent companion. ix doña eustaquia seldom gave balls, but once a week she opened her salas to the more intellectual people of the town. a few americans were ever attendant; general vallejo often came from sonoma to hear the latest american and mexican news in her house; castro rarely had been absent; alvarado, in the days of his supremacy, could always be found there, and she was the first woman upon whom pio pico called when he deigned to visit monterey. a few young people came to sit in a corner with benicia, but they had little to say. the night after the picnic some fifteen or twenty people were gathered about doña eustaquia in the large sala on the right of the hall; a few others were glancing over the mexican papers in the little sala on the left. the room was ablaze with many candles standing, above the heads of the guests, in twisted silver candelabra, the white walls reflecting their light. the floor was bare, the furniture of stiff mahogany and horse-hair, but no visitor to that quaint ugly room ever thought of looking beyond the brilliant face of doña eustaquia, the lovely eyes of her daughter, the intelligence and animation of the people she gathered about her. as a rule doña modeste castro's proud head and strange beauty had been one of the living pictures of that historical sala, but she was not there to-night. as captain brotherton and lieutenant russell entered, doña eustaquia was waging war against mr. larkin. "and what hast thou to say to that proclamation of thy little american hero, thy commodore"--she gave the word a satirical roll, impossible to transcribe--"who is heir to a conquest without blood, who struts into history as the commander of the united states squadron of the pacific, holding a few hundred helpless californians in subjection? o warlike name of sloat! o heroic name of stockton! o immortal frémont, prince of strategists and tacticians, your country must be proud of you! your newspapers will glorify you! sometime, perhaps, you will have a little history bound in red morocco all to yourselves; whilst castro--" she sprang to her feet and brought her open palm down violently upon the table, "castro, the real hero of this country, the great man ready to die a thousand deaths for the liberty of the californians, a man who was made for great deeds and born for fame, he will be left to rust and rot because we have no newspapers to glorify him, and the gringos send what they wish to their country! oh, profanation! that a great man should be covered from sight by an army of red ants!" "by jove!" said russell, "i wish i could understand her! doesn't she look magnificent?" captain brotherton made no reply. he was watching her closely, gathering the sense of her words, full of passionate admiration for the woman. her tall majestic figure was quivering under the lash of her fiery temper, quick to spring and strike. the red satin of her gown and the diamonds on her finely moulded neck and in the dense coils of her hair grew dim before the angry brilliancy of her eyes. the thin sensitive lips of mr. larkin curled with their accustomed humour, but he replied sincerely, "yes, castro is a hero, a great man on a small canvas--" "and they are little men on a big canvas!" interrupted doña eustaquia. mr. larkin laughed, but his reply was non-committal. "remember, they have done all that they have been called upon to do, and they have done it well. who can say that they would not be as heroic, if opportunity offered, as they have been prudent?" doña eustaquia shrugged her shoulders disdainfully, but resumed her seat. "you will not say, but you know what chance they would have with castro in a fair fight. but what chance has even a great man, when at the head of a few renegades, against the navy of a big nation? but frémont! is he to cast up his eyes and draw down his mouth to the world, whilst the man who acted for the safety of his country alone, who showed foresight and wisdom, is denounced as a violator of international courtesy?" "no," said one of the american residents who stood near, "history will right all that. some day the world will know who was the great and who the little man." "some day! when we are under our stones! this swaggering commodore stockton adores frémont and hates castro. his lying proclamation will be read in his own country--" the door opened suddenly and don fernando altimira entered the room. "have you heard?" he cried. "all the south is in arms! the departmental assembly has called the whole country to war, and men are flocking to the standard! castro has sworn that he will never give up the country under his charge. now, mother of god! let our men drive the usurper from the country." even mr. larkin sprang to his feet in excitement. he rapidly translated the news to brotherton and russell. "ah! there will be a little blood, then," said the younger officer. "it was too easy a victory to count." every one in the room was talking at once. doña eustaquia smote her hands together, then clasped and raised them aloft. "thanks to god!" she cried. "california has come to her senses at last!" altimira bent his lips to her ear. "i go to fight the americans," he whispered. she caught his hand between both her own and pressed it convulsively to her breast. "go," she said, "and may god and mary protect thee. go, my son, and when thou returnest i will give thee benicia. thou art a son after my heart, a brave man and a good catholic." benicia, standing near, heard the words. for the first time russell saw the expression of careless audacity leave her face, her pink colour fade. "what is that man saying to your mother?" he demanded. "she promise me to him when he come back; he go to join general castro." "benicia!" he glanced about. altimira had left the house. every one was too excited to notice them. he drew her across the hall and into the little sala, deserted since the startling news had come. "benicia," he said hurriedly, "there is no time to be lost. you are such a butterfly i hardly know whether you love me or not." "i no am such butterfly as you think," said the girl, pathetically. "i often am very gay, for that is my spirit, señor; but i cry sometimes in the night." "well, you are not to cry any more, my very darling first!" he took her in his arms and kissed her, and she did not box his ears. "i may be ordered off at any moment, and what may they not do with you while i am gone? so i have a plan! marry me to-morrow!" "ay! señor!" "to-morrow. at your friend blandina's house. the hernandez like the americans; in fact, as we all know, tallant is in love with blandina and the old people do not frown. they will let us marry there." "ay! cielo santo! what my mother say? she kill me!" "she will forgive you, no matter how angry she may be at first. she loves you--almost as much as i do." the girl withdrew from his arms and walked up and down the room. her face was very pale, and she looked older. on one side of the room hung a large black cross, heavily mounted with gold. she leaned her face against it and burst into tears. "ay, my home! my mother!" she cried under her breath. "how i can leave you? ay, triste de mi!" she turned suddenly to russell, whose face was as white as her own, and put to him the question which we have not yet answered. "what is this love?" she said rapidly. "i no can understand. i never feel before. always i laugh when men say they love me; but i never laugh again. in my heart is something that shake me like a lion shake what it go to kill, and make me no care for my mother or my god--and you are a protestant! i have love my mother like i have love that cross; and now a man come--a stranger! a conqueror! a protestant! an american! and he twist my heart out with his hands! but i no can help. i love you and i go." x the next morning, doña eustaquia looked up from her desk as benicia entered the room. "i am writing to alvarado," she said. "i hope to be the first to tell him the glorious news. ay! my child, go to thy altar and pray that the bandoleros may be driven wriggling from the land like snakes out of a burning field!" "but, mother, i thought you had learned to like the gringos." "i like the gringos well enough, but i hate their flag! ay! i will pull it down with my own hands if castro and pico roll stockton and frémont in the dust!" "i am sorry for that, my mother, for i am going to marry an american to-day." her mother laughed and glanced over the closely written page. "i am going to marry the lieutenant russell at blandina's house this morning." "ay, run, run. i must finish my letter." benicia left the sala and crossing her mother's room entered her own. from the stout mahogany chest she took white silk stockings and satin slippers, and sitting down on the floor put them on. then she opened the doors of her wardrobe and looked for some moments at the many pretty frocks hanging there. she selected one of fine white lawn, half covered with deshalados, and arrayed herself. she took from the drawer of the wardrobe a mantilla of white spanish lace, and draped it about her head and shoulders, fastening it back above one ear with a pink rose. around her throat she clasped a string of pearls, then stood quietly in the middle of the room and looked about her. in one corner was a little brass bedstead covered with a heavy quilt of satin and lace. the pillow-cases were almost as fine and elaborate as her gown. in the opposite corner was an altar with little gold candlesticks and an ivory crucifix. the walls and floor were bare but spotless. the ugly wardrobe built into the thick wall never had been empty: doña eustaquia's generosity to the daughter she worshipped was unbounded. benicia drew a long hysterical breath and went over to the window. it looked upon a large yard enclosed by the high adobe wall upon which her lovers so often had sat and sung to her. no flowers were in the garden, not even a tree. it was as smooth and clean as the floor of a ballroom. about the well in the middle were three or four indian servants quarrelling good-naturedly. the house stood on the rise of one of the crescent's horns. benicia looked up at the dark pine woods on the hill. what days she had spent there with her mother! she whirled about suddenly and taking a large fan from the table returned to the sala. doña eustaquia laughed. "thou silly child, to dress thyself like a bride. what nonsense is this?" "i will be a bride in an hour, my mother." "go! go, with thy nonsense! i have spoiled thee! what other girl in monterey would dare to dress herself like this at eleven in the morning? go! and do not ruin that mantilla, for thou wilt not get another. thou art going to blandina's, no? be sure thou goest no farther! i would not let thee go there alone were it not so near. and be sure thou speakest to no man in the street." "no, mamacita, i will speak to no man in the street, but one awaits me in the house. hasta luego." and she flitted out of the door and up the street. xi a few hours later doña eustaquia sat in the large and cooler sala with captain brotherton. he read shakespeare to her whilst she fanned herself, her face aglow with intelligent pleasure. she had not broached to him the uprising in the south lest it should lead to bitter words. although an american and a protestant, few friends had ever stood so close to her. he laid down the book as russell and benicia entered the room. doña eustaquia's heavy brows met. "thou knowest that i do not allow thee to walk with on the street," she said in spanish. "but, mamacita, he is my husband. we were married this morning at blandina's," excitement had tuned benicia's spirit to its accustomed pitch, and her eyes danced with mischief. moreover, although she expected violent reproaches, she knew the tenacious strength of her mother's affection, and had faith in speedy forgiveness. brotherton opened his eyes, but doña eustaquia moved back her head impatiently. "that silly joke!" then she smiled at her own impatience. what was benicia but a spoiled child, and spoiled children would disobey at times. "welcome, my son," she said to russell, extending her hand. "we celebrate your marriage at the supper to-night, and the captain helps us, no? my friend." "let us have chicken with red pepper and tomato sauce," cried russell. "and rice with saffron; and that delightful dish with which i remonstrate all night--olives and cheese and hard-boiled eggs and red peppers all rolled up in corn-meal cakes." "enchiladas? you have them! now, both you go over to the corner and talk not loud, for i wish to hear my friend read." russell, lifting his shoulders, did as he was bidden. benicia, with a gay laugh, kissed her mother and flitted like a butterfly about the room, singing gay little snatches of song. "oh, mamacita, mamacita," she chanted. "thou wilt not believe thou hast lost thy little daughter. thou wilt not believe thou hast a son. thou wilt not believe i shall sleep no more in the little brass bed--" "benicia, hold thy saucy tongue! sit down!" and this benicia finally consented to do, although smothered laughter came now and again from the corner. dona eustaquia sat easily against the straight back of her chair, looking very handsome and placid as brotherton read and expounded "as you like it" to her. her gown of thin black silk threw out the fine gray tones of her skin; about her neck and chest was a heavy chain of californian gold; her dense lustreless hair was held high with a shell comb banded with gold; superb jewels weighted her little white hands; in her small ears were large hoops of gold studded with black pearls. she was perfectly contented in that hour. her woman's vanity was at peace and her eager mind expanding. the party about the supper table in the evening was very gay. the long room was bare, but heavy silver was beyond the glass doors of the cupboard; a servant stood behind each chair; the wines were as fine as any in america, and the favourite dishes of the americans had been prepared. even brotherton, although more nervous than was usual with him, caught the contagion of the hour and touched his glass more than once to that of the woman whose overwhelming personality had more than half captured a most indifferent heart. after supper they sat on the corridor, and benicia sang her mocking love-songs and danced el son to the tinkling of her own guitar. "is she not a light-hearted child?" asked her mother. "but she has her serious moments, my friend. we have been like the sisters. every path of the pine woods we walk together, arm in arm. we ride miles on the beach and sit down on the rocks for hours and try to think what the seals say one to the other. before you come i have friends, but no other companion; but it is good for me you come, for she think only of flirting since the americans take monterey. mira! look at her flash the eyes at señor russell. it is well he has the light heart like herself." brotherton made no reply. "give to me the guitar," she continued. benicia handed her the instrument and doña eustaquia swept the chords absently for a moment then sang the song of the troubadour. her rich voice was like the rush of the wind through the pines after the light trilling of a bird, and even russell sat enraptured. as she sang the colour came into her face, alight with the fire of youth. her low notes were voluptuous, her high notes rang with piercing sadness. as she finished, a storm of applause came from alvarado street, which pulsed with life but a few yards below them. "no american woman ever sang like that," said brotherton. he rose and walked to the end of the corridor. "but it is a part of monterey." "most enchanting of mothers-in-law," said russell, "you have made it doubly hard for us to leave you; but it grows late and my wife and i must go. good night," and he raised her hand to his lips. "good night, my son." "mamacita, good night," and benicia, who had fluttered into the house and found a reboso, kissed her mother, waved her hand to brotherton, and stepped from the corridor to the street. "come here, señorita!" cried her mother. "no walk to-night, for i have not the wish to walk myself." "but i go with my husband, mamma." "oh, no more of that joke without sense! señor russell, go home, that she have reason for one moment." "but, dear doña eustaquia, won't you understand that we are really married?" doña eustaquia's patience was at an end. she turned to brotherton and addressed a remark to him. russell and benicia conferred a moment, then the young man walked rapidly down the street. "has he gone?" asked doña eustaquia. "then let us go in the house, for the fog comes from the bay." they went into the little sala and sat about the table. doña eustaquia picked up a silver dagger she used as a paper cutter and tapped a book with it. "ay, this will not last long," she said to brotherton. "i much am afraid your commodore send you to the south to fight with our men." "i shall return," said brotherton, absently. his eyes were fixed on the door. "but it will not be long that you will be there, my friend. many people are not killed in our wars. once there was a great battle at point rincon, near santa barbara, between castro and carillo. carillo have been appointed governor by mejico, and alvarado refuse to resign. they fight for three days, and castro manage so well he lose only one man, and the others run away and not lose any." brotherton laughed. "i hope all our battles may be as bloodless," he said, and then drew a short breath. russell, accompanied by don jorje and doña francesca hernandez and the priest of monterey, entered the room. doña eustaquia rose and greeted her guests with grace and hospitality. "but i am glad to see you, my father, my friends. and you always are welcome, señor russell; but no more joke. where is our blandina? sit down--why, what is it?" the priest spoke. "i have that to tell you, doña eustaquia, which i fear will give you great displeasure. i hoped not to be the one to tell it. i was weak to consent, but these young people importuned me until i was weary. doña eustaquia, i married benicia to the señor russell to-day." doña eustaquia's head had moved forward mechanically, her eyes staring incredulously from the priest to the other members of the apprehensive group. suddenly her apathy left her, her arm curved upward like the neck of a snake; but as she sprang upon benicia her ferocity was that of a tiger. "what!" she shrieked, shaking the girl violently by the shoulder. "what! ingrate! traitor! thou hast married an american, a protestant!" benicia burst into terrified sobs. russell swung the girl from her mother's grasp and placed his arm around her. "she is mine now," he said. "you must not touch her again." "yours! yours!" screamed doña eustaquia, beside herself. "oh, mother of god!" she snatched the dagger from the table and, springing backward, plunged it into the cross. "by that sign i curse thee," she cried. "accursed be the man who has stolen my child! accursed be the woman who has betrayed her mother and her country! god! god!--i implore thee, let her die in her happiest hour." xii on august twelfth commodore hull arrived on the frigate _warren_, from mazatlan, and brought the first positive intelligence of the declaration of war between mexico and the united states. before the middle of the month news came that castro and pico, after gallant defence, but overwhelmed by numbers, had fled, the one to sonora, the other to baja california. a few days after, stockton issued a proclamation to the effect that the flag of the united states was flying over every town in the territory of california; and alcalde colton announced that the rancheros were more than satisfied with the change of government. a month later a mounted courier dashed into monterey with a note from the alcalde of los angeles, wrapped about a cigarito and hidden in his hair. the note contained the information that all the south was in arms again, and that los angeles was in the hands of the californians. russell was ordered to go with captain mervine, on the _savannah_, to join gillespie at san pedro; brotherton was left at monterey with lieutenant maddox and a number of men to quell a threatened uprising. later came the news of mervine's defeat and the night of talbot from santa barbara; and by november california was in a state of general warfare, each army receiving new recruits every day. doña eustaquia, hard and stern, praying for the triumph of her people, lived alone in the old house. benicia, praying for the return of her husband and the relenting of her mother, lived alone in her little house on the hill. friends had interceded, but doña eustaquia had closed her ears. brotherton went to her one day with the news that lieutenant russell was wounded. "i must tell benicia," he said, "but it is you who should do that." "she betray me, my friend." "oh, eustaquia, make allowance for the lightness of youth. she barely realized what she did. but she loves him now, and suffers bitterly. she should be with you." "ay! she suffer for another! she love a strange man--an american--better than her mother! and it is i who would die for her! ay, you cold americans! never you know how a mother can love her child." "the americans know how to love, señora. and benicia was thoroughly spoiled by her devoted mother. she was carried away by her wild spirits, nothing more." "then much better she live on them now." doña eustaquia sat with her profile against the light. it looked severe and a little older, but she was very handsome in her rich black gown and the gold chain about her strong throat. her head, as usual, was held a little back. brotherton sat down beside her and took her hand. "eustaquia," he said, "no friendship between man and woman was ever deeper and stronger than ours. in spite of the anxiety and excitement of these last months we have found time to know each other very intimately. so you will forgive me if i tell you that the more a friend loves you the more he must be saddened by the terrible iron in your nature. only the great strength of your passions has saved you from hardening into an ugly and repellent woman. you are a mother; forgive your child; remember that she, too, is about to be a mother--" she caught his hand between both of hers with a passionate gesture. "oh, my friend," she said, "do not too much reproach me! you never have a child, you cannot know! and remember we all are not make alike. if you are me, you act like myself. if i am you, i can forgive more easy. but i am eustaquia ortega, and as i am make, so i do feel now. no judge too hard, my friend, and--_infelez de mi!_ do not forsake me." "i will never forsake you, eustaquia." he rose suddenly. "i, too, am a lonely man, if not a hard one, and i recognize that cry of the soul's isolation." he left her and went up the hill to benicia's little house, half hidden by the cypress trees that grew before it. she was sitting in her sala working an elaborate deshalados on a baby's gown. her face was pale, and the sparkle had gone out of it; but she held herself with all her mother's pride, and her soft eyes were deeper. she rose as captain brotherton entered, and took his hand in both of hers. "you are so good to come to me, and i love you for your friendship for my mother. tell me how she is." "she is well, benicia." then he exclaimed suddenly: "poor little girl! what a child you are--not yet seventeen." "in a few months, señor. sit down. no? and i no am so young now. when we suffer we grow more than by the years; and now i go to have the baby, that make me feel very old." "but it is very sad to see you alone like this, without your husband or your mother. she will relent some day, benicia, but i wish she would do it now, when you most need her." "yes, i wish i am with her in the old house," said the girl, pathetically, although she winked back the tears. "never i can be happy without her, even si _he_ is here, and you know how i love him. but i have love her so long; she is--how you say it?--like she is part of me, and when she no spik to me, how i can be happy with all myself when part is gone. you understand, señor?" "yes, benicia, i understand." he looked through the bending cypresses, down the hill, upon the fair town. he had no relish for the task which had brought him to her. she looked up and caught the expression of his face. "señor!" she cried sharply. "what you go to tell me?" "there is a report that ned is slightly wounded; but it is not serious. it was altimira who did it, i believe." she shook from head to foot, but was calmer than he had expected. she laid the gown on a chair and stood up. "take me to him. si he is wound, i go to nurse him." "my child! you would die before you got there. i have sent a special courier to find out the truth. if ned is wounded, i have arranged to have him sent home immediately." "i wait for the courier come back, for it no is right i hurt the baby si i can help. but si he is wound so bad he no can come, then i go to him. it no is use for you to talk at all, señor, i go." brotherton looked at her in wonderment. whence had the butterfly gone? its wings had been struck from it and a soul had flown in. "let me send blandina to you," he said. "you must not be alone." "i am alone till he or my mother come. i no want other. i love blandina before, but now she make me feel tired. she talk so much and no say anything. i like better be alone." "poor child!" said brotherton, bitterly, "truly do love and suffering age and isolate." he motioned with his hand to the altar in her bedroom, seen through the open door. "i have not your faith, i am afraid i have not much of any; but if i cannot pray for you, i can wish with all the strength of a man's heart that happiness will come to you yet, benicia." she shook her head. "i no know; i no believe much happiness come in this life. before, i am like a fairy; but it is only because i no am _un_happy. but when the heart have wake up, señor, and the knife have gone in hard, then, after that, always, i think, we are a little sad." xiii general kearney and lieutenant beale walked rapidly up and down before the tents of the wretched remnant of united states troops with which the former had arrived overland in california. it was bitterly cold in spite of the fine drizzling rain. lonely buttes studded the desert, whose palms and cacti seemed to spring from the rocks; high on one of them was the american camp. on the other side of a river flowing at the foot of the butte, the white tents of the californians were scattered among the dark huts of the little pueblo of san pasqual. "let me implore you, general," said beale, "not to think of meeting andres pico. why, your men are half starved; your few horses are broken-winded; your mules are no match for the fresh trained mustangs of the enemy. i am afraid you do not appreciate the californians. they are numerous, brave, and desperate. if you avoid them now, as commodore stockton wishes, and join him at san diego, we stand a fair chance of defeating them. but now pico's cavalry and foot are fresh and enthusiastic--in painful contrast to yours. and, moreover, they know every inch of the ground." kearney impatiently knocked the ashes out of his pipe. he had little regard for stockton, and no intention of being dictated to by a truculent young lieutenant who spoke his mind upon all occasions. "i shall attack them at daybreak," he said curtly. "i have one hundred and thirty good men; and has not captain gillespie joined me with his battalion? never shall it be said that i turned aside to avoid a handful of boasting californians. now go and get an hour's sleep before we start." the young officer shrugged his shoulders, saluted, and walked down the line of tents. a man emerged from one of them, and he recognized russell. "hello, ned," he said. "how's the arm?" "'twas only a scratch. is altimira down there with pico, do you know? he is a brave fellow! i respect that man; but we have an account to settle, and i hope it will be done on the battle-field." "he is with pico, and he has done some good fighting. most of the californians have. they know how to fight and they are perfectly fearless. kearney will find it out to-morrow. he is mad to attack them. why, his men are actually cadaverous. bueno! as they say here; stockton sent me to guide him to san diego. if he prefers to go through the enemy's lines, there is nothing for me to do but take him." "yes, but we may surprise them. i wish to god this imitation war were over!" "it will be real enough before you get through. don't worry. well, good night. luck to your skin." at daybreak the little army marched down the butte, shivering with cold, wet to the skin. those on horseback naturally proceeded more rapidly than those mounted upon the clumsy stubborn mules; and captain johnson, who led the advance guard of twelve dragoons, found himself, when he came in sight of the enemy's camp, some distance ahead of the main body of kearney's small army. to his surprise he saw that the californians were not only awake, but horsed and apparently awaiting him. whether he was fired by valour or desperation at the sight is a disputed point; but he made a sudden dash down the hill and across the river, almost flinging himself upon the lances of the californians. captain moore, who was ambling down the hill on an old white horse at the head of fifty dragoons mounted on mules, spurred his beast as he witnessed the foolish charge of the advance, and arrived upon the field in time to see johnson fall dead and to take his place. pico, seeing that reënforcements were coming, began to retreat, followed hotly by moore and the horsed dragoons. suddenly, however, fernando altimira raised himself in his stirrups, looked back, laughed and galloped across the field to general pico. "look!" he said. "only a few men on horses are after us. the mules are stumbling half a mile behind." pico wheeled about, gave the word of command, and bore down upon the americans. then followed a hand-to-hand conflict, the californians lancing and using their pistols with great dexterity, the americans doing the best they could with their rusty sabres and clubbed guns. they were soon reënforced by moore's dragoons and gillespie's battalion, despite the unwilling mules; but the brutes kicked and bucked at every pistol shot and fresh cloud of smoke. the poor old horses wheezed and panted, but stood their ground when not flung out of position by the frantic mules. the officers and soldiers of the united states army were a sorry sight, and in pointed contrast to the graceful californians on their groomed steeds, handsomely trapped, curvetting and rearing and prancing as lightly as if on the floor of a circus. kearney cursed his own stupidity, and pico laughed in his face. beale felt satisfaction and compunction in saturating the silk and silver of one fine saddle with the blood of its owner. the point of the dying man's lance pierced his face, but he noted the bleaching of kearney's, as one dragoon after another was flung upon the sharp rocks over which his bewildered brute stumbled, or was caught and held aloft in the torturing arms of the cacti. on the edge of the battle two men had forgotten the aztec eagle and the stars and stripes; they fought for love of a woman. neither had had time to draw his pistol; they fought with lance and sabre, thrusting and parrying. both were skilful swordsmen, but altimira's horse was far superior to russell's, and he had the advantage of weapons. "one or the other die on the rocks," said the californian, "and si i kill you, i marry benicia." russell made no reply. he struck aside the man's lance and wounded his wrist. but altimira was too excited to feel pain. his face was quivering with passion. it is not easy to parry a lance with a sabre, and still more difficult to get close enough to wound the man who wields it. russell rose suddenly in his stirrups, described a rapid half-circle with his weapon, brought it down midway upon the longer blade, and snapped the latter in two. altimira gave a cry of rage, and spurring his horse sought to ride his opponent down; but russell wheeled, and the two men simultaneously snatched their pistols from the holsters. altimira fired first, but his hand was unsteady and his ball went through a cactus. russell raised his pistol with firm wrist, and discharged it full in the face of the californian. then he looked over the field. moore, fatally lanced, lay under a palm, and many of his men were about him. gillespie was wounded, kearney had received an ugly thrust. the californians, upon the arrival of the main body of the enemy's troops, had retreated unpursued; the mules attached to one of the american howitzers were scampering over to the opposite ranks, much to the consternation of kearney. the sun, looking over the mountain, dissipated the gray smoke, and cast a theatrical light on the faces of the dead. russell bent over altimira. his head was shattered, but his death was avenged. never had an american troop suffered a more humiliating defeat. only six californians lay on the field; and when the american surgeon, after attending to his own wounded, offered his services to pico's, that indomitable general haughtily replied that he had none. "by jove!" said russell to beale that night, "you know your californians! i am prouder than ever of having married one! that army is of the stuff of which my mother-in-law is made!" xiv that was a gay christmas at monterey, despite the barricades in the street. news had come of the defeat of kearney at san pasqual, and the montereños, inflated with hope and pride, gave little thought to the fact that his forces were now joined with stockton's at san diego. on christmas eve light streamed from every window, bonfires flared on the hills; the streets were illuminated, and every one was abroad. the clear warm night was ablaze with fireworks; men and women were in their gala gowns; rockets shot upward amidst shrieks of delight which mingled oddly with the rolling of drums at muster; even the children caught the enthusiasm, religious and patriotic. "i suppose you would be glad to see even your friends driven out," said brotherton to doña eustaquia, as they walked through the brilliant town toward the church: bells called them to witness the dramatic play of "the shepherds." "i be glad to see the impertinent flag come down," said she, frankly; "but you can make resignation from the army, and have a little store on alvarado street. you can have beautiful silks and crêpes from america. i buy of you." "thanks," he said grimly. "you would put a dunce cap on poor america, and stand her in a corner. if i resign, doña eustaquia, it will be to become a ranchero, not a shopkeeper. to tell the truth, i have little desire to leave california again." "but you were make for the fight," she said, looking up with some pride at the tall military figure, the erect head and strong features. "you not were make to lie in the hammock and horseback all day." "but i should do a good deal else, señora. i should raise cattle with some method; and i should have a library--and a wife." "ah! you go to marry?" "some day, i hope. it would be lonely to be a ranchero without a wife." "truly." "what is the matter with those women?" a group of old women stood by the roadside. their forms were bent, their brown faces gnarled like apples. some were a shapeless mass of fat, others were parchment and bone; about the head and shoulders of each was a thick black shawl. near them stood a number of young girls clad in muslin petticoats, flowered with purple and scarlet. bright satin shoes were on their feet, cotton rebosas covered their pretty, pert little heads. all were looking in one direction, whispering and crossing themselves. doña eustaquia glanced over her shoulder, then leaned heavily on brotherton's arm. "it is benicia," she said. "it is because she was cursed and is with child that they cross themselves." brotherton held her arm closely and laid his hand on hers, but he spoke sternly. "the curse is not likely to do her any harm. you prayed that she should die when happiest, and you have done your best to make her wretched." she did not reply, and they walked slowly onward. benicia followed, leaning on the arm of an indian servant. her friends avoided her, for they bitterly resented altimira's death. but she gave them little regret. since her husband could not be with her on this christmas eve, she wished only for reconciliation with her mother. in spite of the crowd she followed close behind doña eustaquia and brotherton, holding her head proudly, but ready to fall at the feet of the woman she worshipped. "my friend," said doña eustaquia, after a moment, "perhaps it is best that i do not forgive her. were she happy, then might the curse come true." "she has enough else to make her unhappy. besides, who ever heard of a curse coming true? it has worked its will already for the matter of that. you kept your child from happiness with her husband during the brief time she had him. the bitterness of death is a small matter beside the bitterness of life. you should be satisfied." "you are hard, my friend." "i see your other faults only to respect and love them." "does she look ill, captain?" "she cannot be expected to look like the old benicia. of course she looks ill, and needs care." "look over the shoulder. does she walk heavily?" "very. but as haughtily as do you." "talk of other things for a little while, my friend." "truly there is much to claim the interest to-night. this may be an old scene to you, but it is novel and fascinating to me. how lovely are those stately girls, half hidden by their rebosas, telling their beads as they hurry along. it is the very coquetry of religion. and those--but here we are." the church was handsomer without than within, for the clever old padres that built it had more taste than their successors. about the whitewashed walls of the interior were poor copies of celebrated paintings--the passion of christ, and an extraordinary group of nude women and grinning men representing the temptation of st. anthony. in a glass case a beautiful figure of the saviour reclined on a stiff couch clumsily covered with costly stuffs. the virgin was dressed much like the aristocratic ladies of monterey, and the altar was a rainbow of tawdry colours. but the ceremonies were interesting, and brotherton forgot benicia for the hour. after the mass the priest held out a small waxen image of the infant jesus, and all approached and kissed it. then from without came the sound of a guitar; the worshippers arose and ranged themselves against the wall; six girls dressed as shepherdesses; a man representing lucifer; two others, a hermit and the lazy vagabond bartola; a boy, the archangel gabriel, entered the church. they bore banners and marched to the centre of the building, then acted their drama with religious fervour. the play began with the announcement by gabriel of the birth of the saviour, and exhortations to repair to the manger. on the road came the temptation of lucifer; the archangel appeared once more; a violent altercation ensued in which all took part, and finally the prince of darkness was routed. songs and fanciful by-play, brief sermons, music, gay and solemn, diversified the strange performance. when all was over, the players were followed by an admiring crowd to the entertainment awaiting them. "is it not beautiful--our los pastores?" demanded doña eustaquia, looking up at brotherton, her fine face aglow with enthusiasm. "do not you feel the desire to be a catholic, my friend?" "rather would i see two good catholics united, dear señora," and he turned suddenly to benicia, who also had remained in the church, almost at her mother's side. "mamacita!" cried benicia. doña eustaquia opened her arms and caught the girl passionately to her heart; and brotherton left the church. xv the april flowers were on the hills. beds of gold-red poppies and silver-blue baby eyes were set like tiles amidst the dense green undergrowth beneath the pines, and on the natural lawns about the white houses. although hope of driving forth the intruder had gone forever in january, monterey had resumed in part her old gayety; despair had bred philosophy. but monterey was monterey no longer. an american alcalde with a power vested in no judge of the united states ruled over her; to add injury to insult, he had started a newspaper. the town was full of americans; the united states was constructing a fort on the hill; above all, worse than all, the californians were learning the value of money. their sun was sloping to the west. a thick india shawl hung over the window of benicia's old room in her mother's house, shutting out the perfume of the hills. a carpet had been thrown on the floor, candles burned in the pretty gold candlesticks that had stood on the altar since benicia's childhood. on the little brass bedstead lay benicia, very pale and very pretty, her transparent skin faintly reflecting the pink of the satin coverlet. by the bed sat an old woman of the people. her ragged white locks were bound about by a fillet of black silk; her face, dark as burnt umber, was seamed and lined like a withered prune; even her long broad nose was wrinkled; her dull eyes looked like mud-puddles; her big underlip was pursed up as if she had been speaking mincing words, and her chin was covered with a short white stubble. over her coarse smock and gown she wore a black cotton reboso. in her arms she held an infant, muffled in a white lace mantilla. doña eustaquia came in and bent over the baby, her strong face alight with joy. "didst thou ever nurse so beautiful a baby?" she demanded. the old woman grunted; she had heard that question before. "see how pink and smooth it is--not red and wrinkled like other babies! how becoming is that mantilla! no, she shall not be wrapped in blankets, cap, and shawls." "she catch cold, most likely," grunted the nurse. "in this weather? no; it is soft as midsummer. i cannot get cool. ay, she looks like a rosebud lying in a fog-bank!" she touched the baby's cheek with her finger, then sat on the bed, beside her daughter. "and how dost thou feel, my little one? thou wert a baby thyself but yesterday, and thou art not much more to-day." "i feel perfectly well, my mother, and--ay, dios, so happy! where is edourdo?" "of course! always the husband! they are all alike! hast thou not thy mother and thy baby?" "i adore you both, mamacita, but i want edourdo. where is he?" her mother grimaced. "i suppose it is no use to protest. well, my little one, i think he is at this moment on the hill with lieutenant ord." "why did he not come to see me before he went out?" "he did, my daughter, but thou wert asleep. he kissed thee and stole away." "where?" "right there on your cheek, one inch below your eyelashes." "when will he return?" "holy mary! for dinner, surely, and that will be in an hour." "when can i get up?" "in another week. thou art so well! i would not have thee draw too heavily on thy little strength. another month and thou wilt not remember that thou hast been ill. then we will go to the rancho, where thou and thy little one will have sun all day and no fog." "have i not a good husband, mamacita?" "yes; i love him like my own son. had he been unkind to thee, i should have killed him with my own hands; but as he has his lips to thy little slipper, i forgive him for being an american." "and you no longer wish for a necklace of american ears! oh, mamma!" doña eustaquia frowned, then sighed. "i do not know the american head for which i have not more like than hate, and they are welcome to their ears; but _the spirit_ of that wish is in my heart yet, my child. our country has been taken from us; we are aliens in our own land; it is the american's. they--holy god!--permit us to live here!" "but they like us better than their own women." "perhaps; they are men and like what they have not had too long." "mamacita, i am thirsty." "what wilt thou have? a glass of water?" "water has no taste." "i know!" doña eustaquia left the room and returned with an orange. "this will be cool and pleasant on so warm a day. it is just a little sour," she said; but the nurse raised her bony hand. "do not give her that," she said in her harsh voice. "it is too soon." "nonsense! the baby is two weeks old. why, i ate fruit a week after childing. look how dry her mouth is! it will do her good." she pared the orange and gave it to benicia, who ate it gratefully. "it is very good, mamita. you will spoil me always, but that is because you are so good. and one day i hope you will be as happy as your little daughter; for there are other good americans in the world. no? mamma. i think--mamacita!" she sprang upward with a loud cry, the body curving rigidly; her soft brown eyes stared horribly; froth gathered about her mouth; she gasped once or twice, her body writhing from the agonized arms that strove to hold it, then fell limply down, her features relaxing. "she is dead," said the nurse. "benicia!" whispered doña eustaquia. "benicia!" "you have killed her," said the old woman, as she drew the mantilla about the baby's face. doña eustaquia dropped the body and moved backward from the bed. she put out her hands and went gropingly from the room to her own, and from thence to the sala. brotherton came forward to meet her. "eustaquia!" he cried. "my friend! _my dear_! what has happened? what--" she raised her hand and pointed to the cross. the mark of the dagger was still there. "benicia!" she uttered. "the curse!" and then she fell at his feet. the wash-tub mail part i "mariquita! thou good-for-nothing, thou art wringing that smock in pieces! thy señora will beat thee! holy heaven, but it is hot!" "for that reason i hurry, old faquita. were i as slow as thou, i should cook in my own tallow." "aha, thou art very clever! but i have no wish to go back to the rancho and wash for the cooks. ay, yi! i wonder will la tulita ever give me her bridal clothes to wash. i have no faith that little flirt will marry the señor don ramon garcia. he did not well to leave monterey until after the wedding. and to think--ay! yi!" "thou hast a big letter for the wash-tub mail, faquita." "aha, my francesca, thou hast interest! i thought thou wast thinking only of the bandits." francesca, who was holding a plunging child between her knees, actively inspecting its head, grunted but did not look up, and the oracle of the wash-tubs, provokingly, with slow movements of her knotted coffee-coloured arms, flapped a dainty skirt, half-covered with drawn work, before she condescended to speak further. twenty women or more, young and old, dark as pine cones, stooped or sat, knelt or stood, about deep stone tubs sunken in the ground at the foot of a hill on the outskirts of monterey. the pines cast heavy shadows on the long slope above them, but the sun was overhead. the little white town looked lifeless under its baking red tiles, at this hour of siesta. on the blue bay rode a warship flying the american colours. the atmosphere was so clear, the view so uninterrupted, that the younger women fancied they could read the name on the prow: the town was on the right; between the bay and the tubs lay only the meadow, the road, the lake, and the marsh. a few yards farther down the road rose a hill where white slabs and crosses gleamed beneath the trees. the roar of the surf came refreshingly to their hot ears. it leaped angrily, they fancied, to the old fort on the hill where men in the uniform of the united states moved about with unsleeping vigilance. it was the year . the americans had come and conquered. war was over, but the invaders guarded their new possessions. the women about the tubs still bitterly protested against the downfall of california, still took an absorbing interest in all matters, domestic, social, and political. for those old women with grizzled locks escaping from a cotton handkerchief wound bandwise about their heads, their ample forms untrammelled by the flowing garment of calico, those girls in bright skirts and white short-sleeved smock and young hair braided, knew all the news of the country, past and to come, many hours in advance of the dons and doñas whose linen they washed in the great stone tubs: the indians, domestic and roving, were their faithful friends. "sainted mary, but thou art more slow than a gentleman that walks!" cried mariquita, an impatient-looking girl. "read us the letter. la tulita is the prettiest girl in monterey now that the señorita ysabel herrera lies beneath the rocks, and benicia ortega has died of her childing. but she is a flirt--that tulita! four of the gringos are under her little slipper this year, and she turn over the face and roll in the dirt. but don ramon, so handsome, so rich--surely she will marry him." faquita shook her head slowly and wisely. "there--come --yesterday--from--the--south--a--young--lieutenant--of--america." she paused a moment, then proceeded leisurely, though less provokingly. "he come over the great american deserts with general kearney last year and help our men to eat the dust in san diego. he come only yesterday to monterey, and la tulita is like a little wild-cat ever since. she box my ears this morning when i tell her that the americans are bandoleros, and say she never marry a californian. and never don ramon garcia, ay, yi!" by this time the fine linen was floating at will upon the water, or lying in great heaps at the bottom of the clear pools. the suffering child scampered up through the pines with whoops of delight. the washing-women were pressed close about faquita, who stood with thumbs on her broad hips, the fingers contracting and snapping as she spoke, wisps of hair bobbing back and forth about her shrewd black eyes and scolding mouth. "who is he? where she meet him?" cried the audience. "oh, thou old carreta! why canst thou not talk faster?" "if thou hast not more respect, señorita mariquita, thou wilt hear nothing. but it is this. there is a ball last night at doña maria ampudia's house for la tulita. she look handsome, that witch! holy mary! when she walk it was like the tule in the river. you know. why she have that name? she wear white, of course, but that frock--it is like the cobweb, the cloud. she has not the braids like the other girls, but the hair, soft like black feathers, fall down to the feet. and the eyes like blue stars! you know the eyes of la tulita. the lashes so long, and black like the hair. and the sparkle! no eyes ever sparkle like those. the eyes of ysabel herrera look like they want the world and never can get it. benicia's, pobrecita, just dance like the child's. but la tulita's! they sparkle like the devil sit behind and strike fire out red-hot iron--" "mother of god!" cried mariquita, impatiently, "we all know thou art daft about that witch! and we know how she looks. tell us the story." "hush thy voice or thou wilt hear nothing. it is this way. la tulita have the castanets and just float up and down the sala, while all stand back and no breathe only when they shout. i am in the garden in the middle the house, and i stand on a box and look through the doors. ay, the roses and the nasturtiums smell so sweet in that little garden! well! she dance so beautiful, i think the roof go to jump off so she can float up and live on one the gold stars all by herself. her little feet just twinkle! well! the door open and lieutenant ord come in. he have with him another young man, not so handsome, but so straight, so sharp eye and tight mouth. he look at la tulita like he think she belong to america and is for him. lieutenant ord go up to doña maria and say, so polite: 'i take the liberty to bring lieutenant'--i no can remember that name, so american! 'he come to-day from san diego and will stay with us for a while.' and doña maria, she smile and say, very sweet, 'very glad when i have met all of our conquerors.' and he turn red and speak very bad spanish and look, look, at la tulita. then lieutenant ord speak to him in english and he nod the head, and lieutenant ord tell doña maria that his friend like be introduced to la tulita, and she say, 'very well,' and take him over to her who is now sit down. he ask her to waltz right away, and he waltz very well, and then they dance again, and once more. and then they sit down and talk, talk. god of my soul, but the caballeros are mad! and doña maria! by and by she can stand it no more and she go up to la tulita and take away from the american and say, 'do you forget--and for a bandolero--that you are engage to my nephew?' and la tulita toss the head and say: 'how can i remember ramon garcia when he is in yerba buena? i forget he is alive.' and doña maria is very angry. the eyes snap. but just then the little sister of la tulita run into the sala, the face red like the american flag. 'ay, herminia!' she just gasp. 'the donas! the donas! it has come!'" "the donas!" cried the washing-women, old and young. "didst thou see it, faquita? oh, surely. tell us, what did he send? is he a generous bridegroom? were there jewels? and satins? of what was the rosary?" "hush the voice or you will hear nothing. the girls all jump and clap their hands and they cry: 'come, herminia. come quick! let us go and see.' only la tulita hold the head very high and look like the donas is nothing to her, and the lieutenant look very surprise, and she talk to him very fast like she no want him to know what they mean. but the girls just take her hands and pull her out the house. i am after. la tulita look very mad, but she cannot help, and in five minutes we are at the casa rivera, and the girls scream and clap the hands in the sala for doña carmen she have unpack the donas and the beautiful things are on the tables and the sofas and the chairs, mother of god!" "go on! go on!" cried a dozen exasperated voices. "well! such a donas. ay, he is a generous lover. a yellow crepe shawl embroidered with red roses. a white one with embroidery so thick it can stand up. a string of pearls from baja california. (ay, poor ysabel herrera!) hoops of gold for the little ears of la tulita. a big chain of california gold. a set of topaz with pearls all round. a rosary of amethyst--purple like the violets. a big pin painted with the ascension, and diamonds all round. silks and satins for gowns. a white lace mantilla, dios de mi alma! a black one for the visits. and the night-gowns like cobwebs. the petticoats!" she stopped abruptly. "and the smocks?" cried her listeners, excitedly. "the smocks? they are more beautiful than blandina's? they were pack in rose-leaves--" "ay! yi! yi! yi!" the old woman dropped her head on her breast and waved her arms. she was a study for despair. even she did not suspect how thoroughly she was enjoying herself. "what! what! tell us! quick, thou old snail. they were not fine? they had not embroidery?" "hush the voices. i tell you when i am ready. the girls are like crazy. they look like they go to eat the things. only la tulita sit on the chair in the door with her back to all and look at the windows of doña maria. they look like a long row of suns, those windows. "i am the one. suddenly i say: 'where are the smocks?' and they all cry: 'yes, where are the smocks? let us see if he will be a good husband. doña carmen, where are the smocks?' "doña carmen turn over everything in a hurry. 'i did not think of the smocks,' she say. 'but they must be here. everything was unpack in this room.' she lift all up, piece by piece. the girls help and so do i. la tulita sit still but begin to look more interested. we search everywhere--everywhere--for twenty minutes. there--are--no--smocks!" "god of my life! the smocks! he did not forget!" "he forget the smocks!" there was an impressive pause. the women were too dumfounded to comment. never in the history of monterey had such a thing happened before. faquita continued: "the girls sit down on the floor and cry. doña carmen turn very white and go in the other room. then la tulita jump up and walk across the room. the lashes fall down over the eyes that look like she is california and have conquer america, not the other way. the nostrils just jump. she laugh, laugh, laugh. 'so!' she say, 'my rich and generous and ardent bridegroom, he forget the smocks of the donas. he proclaim as if by a poster on the streets that he will be a bad husband, a thoughtless, careless, indifferent husband. he has vow by the stars that he adore me. he has serenade beneath my window until i have beg for mercy. he persecute my mother. and now he flings the insult of insults in my teeth. and he with six married sisters!' "the girls just sob. they can say nothing. no woman forgive that. then she say loud, 'ana,' and the girl run in. 'ana,' she say, 'pack this stuff and tell josé and marcos take it up to the house of the señor don ramon garcia. i have no use for it.' then she say to me: 'faquita, walk back to doña maria's with me, no? i have engagement with the american.' and i go with her, of course; i think i go jump in the bay if she tell me; and she dance all night with that american. he no look at another girl--all have the eyes so red, anyhow. and doña maria is crazy that her nephew do such a thing, and la tulita no go to marry him now. ay, that witch! she have the excuse and she take it." for a few moments the din was so great that the crows in a neighbouring grove of willows sped away in fear. the women talked all at once, at the top of their voices and with no falling inflections. so rich an assortment of expletives, secular and religious, such individuality yet sympathy of comment, had not been called upon for duty since the seventh of july, a year before, when commodore sloat had run up the american flag on the custom-house. finally they paused to recover breath. mariquita's young lungs being the first to refill, she demanded of faquita:-- "and don ramon--when does he return?" "in two weeks, no sooner." part ii two weeks later they were again gathered about the tubs. for a time after arrival they forgot la tulita--now the absorbing topic of monterey--in a new sensation. mariquita had appeared with a basket of unmistakable american underwear. "what!" cried faquita, shrilly. "thou wilt defile these tubs with the linen of bandoleros? hast thou had thy silly head turned with a kiss? not one shirt shall go in this water." mariquita tossed her head defiantly. "captain brotherton say the indian women break his clothes in pieces. they know not how to wash anything but dish-rags. and does he not go to marry our doña eustaquia?" "the captain is not so bad," admitted faquita. the indignation of the others also visibly diminished: the captain had been very kind the year before when gloom lay heavy on the town. "but," continued the autocrat, with an ominous pressing of her lips, "sure he must change three times a day. is all that captain brotherton's?" "he wear many shirts," began mariquita, when faquita pounced upon the basket and shook its contents to the grass. "aha! it seems that the captain has sometimes the short legs and sometimes the long. sometimes he put the tucks in his arms, i suppose. what meaning has this? thou monster of hypocrisy!" the old women scowled and snorted. the girls looked sympathetic: more than one midshipman had found favour in the lower quarter. "well," said mariquita, sullenly, "if thou must know, it is the linen of the lieutenant of la tulita. ana ask me to wash it, and i say i will." at this announcement faquita squared her elbows and looked at mariquita with snapping eyes. "oho, señorita, i suppose thou wilt say next that thou knowest what means this flirtation! has la tulita lost her heart, perhaps? and don ramon--dost thou know why he leaves monterey one hour after he comes?" her tone was sarcastic, but in it was a note of apprehension. mariquita tossed her head, and all pressed close about the rivals. "what dost thou know, this time?" inquired the girl, provokingly. "hast thou any letter to read today? thou dost forget, old faquita, that ana is my friend--" "throw the clothes in the tubs," cried faquita, furiously. "do we come here to idle and gossip? mariquita, thou hussy, go over to that tub by thyself and wash the impertinent american rags. quick. no more talk. the sun goes high." no one dared to disobey the queen of the tubs, and in a moment the women were kneeling in irregular rows, tumbling their linen into the water, the brown faces and bright attire making a picture in the colorous landscape which some native artist would have done well to preserve. for a time no sound was heard but the distant roar of the surf, the sighing of the wind through the pines on the hill, the less romantic grunts of the women and the swish of the linen in the water. suddenly mariquita, the proscribed, exclaimed from her segregated tub:-- "look! look!" heads flew up or twisted on their necks. a party of young people, attended by a dueña, was crossing the meadow to the road. at the head of the procession were a girl and a man, to whom every gaze which should have been intent upon washing-tubs alone was directed. the girl wore a pink gown and a reboso. her extraordinary grace made her look taller than she was; the slender figure swayed with every step. her pink lips were parted, her blue starlike eyes looked upward into the keen cold eyes of a young man wearing the uniform of a lieutenant of the united states army. the dominant characteristics of the young man's face, even then, were ambition and determination, and perhaps the remarkable future was foreshadowed in the restless scheming mind. but to-day his deep-set eyes were glowing with a light more peculiar to youth, and whenever bulging stones afforded excuse he grasped the girl's hand and held it as long as he dared. the procession wound past the tubs and crossing the road climbed up the hill to the little wooded cemetery of the early fathers, the cemetery where so many of those bright heads were to lie forgotten beneath the wild oats and thistles. "they go to the grave of benicia ortega and her little one," said francesca. "holy mary! la tulita never look in a man's eyes like that before." "but she have in his," said mariquita, wisely. "no more talk!" cried faquita, and once more silence came to her own. but fate was stronger than faquita. an hour later a little girl came running down, calling to the old woman that her grandchild, the consolation of her age, had been taken ill. after she had hurried away the women fairly leaped over one another in their efforts to reach mariquita's tub. "tell us, tell us, chiquita," they cried, fearful lest faquita's snubbing should have turned her sulky, "what dost thou know?" but mariquita, who had been biting her lips to keep back her story, opened them and spoke fluently. "ay, my friends! doña eustaquia and benicia ortega are not the only ones to wed americans. listen! la tulita is mad for this man, who is no more handsome than the palm of my hand when it has all day been in the water. yesterday morning came don ramon. i am in the back garden of the casa rivera with ana, and la tulita is in the front garden sitting under the wall. i can look through the doors of the sala and see and hear all. such a handsome caballero, my friends! the gold six inches deep on the serape. silver eagles on the sombrero. and the botas! stamp with birds and leaves, ay, yi! he fling open the gates so bold, and when he see la tulita he look like the sun is behind his face. (such curls, my friends, tied with a blue ribbon!) but listen! "'mi querida!' he cry, 'mi alma!' (ay, my heart jump in my throat like he speak to me.) then he fall on one knee and try to kiss her hand. but she throw herself back like she hate him. her eyes are like the bay in winter. and then she laugh. when she do that, he stand up and say with the voice that shake:-- "'what is the matter, herminia? do you not love me any longer?' "'i never love you,' she say. 'they give me no peace until i say i marry you, and as i love no one else--i do not care much. but now that you have insult me, i have the best excuse to break the engagement, and i do it.' "'i insult you?' he hardly can speak, my friends, he is so surprised and unhappy. "'yes; did you not forget the smocks?' "'the--smocks!' he stammer, like that. 'the smocks?' "'no one can be blame but you,' she say. 'and you know that no bride forgive that. you know all that it means.' "'herminia!' he say. 'surely you will not put me; away for a little thing like that!' "'i have no more to say,' she reply, and then she get up and go in the house and shut the door so i cannot see how he feel, but i am very sorry for him if he did forget the smocks. well! that evening i help ana water the flowers in the front garden, and every once in the while we look through the windows at la tulita and the lieutenant. they talk, talk, talk. he look so earnest and she--she look so beautiful. not like a devil, as when she talk to don ramon in the morning, but like an angel. sure, a woman can be both! it depends upon the man. by and by ana go away, but i stay there, for i like look at them. after a while they get up and come out. it is dark in the garden, the walls so high, and the trees throw the shadows, so they cannot see me. they walk up and down, and by and by the lieutenant take out his knife and cut a shoot from the rose-bush that climb up the house. "'these castilian roses,' he say, very soft, but in very bad spanish, 'they are very beautiful and a part of monterey--a part of you. look, i am going to plant this here, and long before it grow to be a big bush i come back and you will wear its buds in your hair when we are married in that lovely old church. now help me,' and then they kneel down and he stick it in the ground, and all their fingers push the earth around it. then she give a little sob and say, 'you must go?' "he lift her up and put his arms around her tight. 'i must go,' he say. 'i am not my own master, you know, and the orders have come. but my heart is here, in this old garden, and i come back for it.' and then she put her arms around him and he kiss her, and she love him so i forget to be sorry for don ramon. after all, it is the woman who should be happy. he hold her a long time, so long i am afraid doña carmen come out to look for her. i lift up on my knees (i am sit down before) and look in the window and i see she is asleep, and i am glad. well! after a while they walk up and down again, and he tell her all about his home far away, and about some money he go to get when the law get ready, and how he cannot marry on his pay. then he say how he go to be a great general some day and how she will be the more beautiful woman in--how you call it?--washington, i think. and she cry and say she does not care, she only want him. and he tell her water the rose-bush every day and think of him, and he will come back before it is large, and every time a bud come out she can know he is thinking of her very hard." "ay, pobrecita!" said francesca, "i wonder will he come back. these men!" "surely. are not all men mad for la tulita?" "yes--yes, but he go far away. to america! dios de mi alma! and men, they forget." francesca heaved a deep sigh. her youth was far behind her, but she remembered many things. "he return," said mariquita, the young and romantic. "when does he go?" mariquita pointed to the bay. a schooner rode at anchor. "he go to yerba buena on that to-morrow morning. from there to the land of the american. ay, yi! poor la tulita! but his linen is dry. i must take it to iron for i have it promised for six in the morning." and she hastily gathered the articles from the low bushes and hurried away. that evening as the women returned to town, talking gayly, despite the great baskets on their heads, they passed the hut of faquita and paused at the window to inquire for the child. the little one lay gasping on the bed. faquita sat beside her with bowed head. an aged crone brewed herbs over a stove. the dingy little house faced the hills and was dimly lighted by the fading rays of the sun struggling through the dark pine woods. "holy mary, faquita!" said francesca, in a loud whisper. "does liseta die?" faquita sprang to her feet. her cross old face was drawn with misery. "go, go!" she said, waving her arms, "i want none of you." the next evening she sat in the same position, her eyes fixed upon the shrinking features of the child. the crone had gone. she heard the door open, and turned with a scowl. but it was la tulita that entered and came rapidly to the head of the bed. the girl's eyes were swollen, her dress and hair disordered. "i have come to you because you are in trouble," she said. "i, too, am in trouble. ay, my faquita!" the old woman put up her arms and drew the girl down to her lap. she had never touched her idol before, but sorrow levels even social barriers. "pobrecita!" she said, and the girl cried softly on her shoulder. "will he come back, faquita?" "surely, niñita. no man could forget you." "but it is so far." "think of what don vicente do for doña ysabel, mijita." "but he is an american. oh, no, it is not that i doubt him. he loves me! it is so far, like another world. and the ocean is so big and cruel." "we ask the priest to say a mass." "ah, my faquita! i will go to the church to-morrow morning. how glad i am that i came to thee." she kissed the old woman warmly, and for the moment faquita forgot her trouble. but the child threw out its arms and moaned. la tulita pushed the hair out of her eyes and brought the medicine from the stove, where it simmered unsavourily. the child swallowed it painfully, and faquita shook her head in despair. at the dawn it died. as la tulita laid her white fingers on the gaping eyelids, faquita rose to her feet. her ugly old face was transfigured. even the grief had gone out of it. for a moment she was no longer a woman, but one of the most subtle creations of the catholic religion conjoined with racial superstitions. "as the moon dieth and cometh to life again," she repeated with a sort of chanting cadence, "so man, though he die, will live again. is it not better that she will wander forever through forests where crystal streams roll over golden sands, than grow into wickedness, and go out into the dark unrepenting, perhaps, to be bitten by serpents and scorched by lightning and plunged down cataracts?" she turned to la tulita. "will you stay here, señorita, while i go to bid them make merry?" the girl nodded, and the woman went out. la tulita watched the proud head and erect carriage for a moment, then bound up the fallen jaw of the little corpse, crossed its hands and placed weights on the eyelids. she pushed the few pieces of furniture against the wall, striving to forget the one trouble that had come into her triumphant young life. but there was little to do, and after a time she knelt by the window and looked up at the dark forest upon which long shafts of light were striking, routing the fog that crouched in the hollows. the town was as quiet as a necropolis. the white houses, under the black shadows of the hills, lay like tombs. suddenly the roar of the surf came to her ears, and she threw out her arms with a cry, dropping her head upon them and sobbing convulsively. she heard the ponderous waves of the pacific lashing the keel of a ship. she was aroused by shouting and sounds of merriment. she raised her head dully, but remembered in a moment what faquita had left her to await. the dawn lay rosily on the town. the shimmering light in the pine woods was crossed and recrossed by the glare of rockets. down the street came the sound of singing voices, the words of the song heralding the flight of a child-spirit to a better world. la tulita slipped out of the back door and went to her home without meeting the procession. but before she shut herself in her room she awakened ana, and giving her a purse of gold, bade her buy a little coffin draped with white and garlanded with white flowers. part iii "tell us, tell us, mariquita, does she water the rose-tree every night?" "every night, ay, yi!" "and is it big yet? ay, but that wall is high! not a twig can i see!" "yes, it grows!" "and he comes not?" "he write. i see the letters." "but what does he say?" "how can i know?" "and she goes to the balls and meriendas no more. surely, they will forget her. it is more than a year now. some one else will be la favorita." "she does not care." "hush the voices," cried faquita, scrubbing diligently. "it is well that she stay at home and does not dance away her beauty before he come. she is like a lily." "but lilies turn brown, old faquita, when the wind blow on them too long. dost thou think he will return?" "surely," said faquita, stoutly. "could any one forget that angel?" "ay, these men, these men!" said francesca, with a sigh. "oh, thou old raven!" cried mariquita. "but truly--truly--she has had no letter for three months." "aha, señorita, thou didst not tell us that just now." "nor did i intend to. the words just fell from my teeth." "he is ill," cried faquita, angrily. "ay, my probrecita! sometimes i think ysabel is more happy under the rocks." "how dost thou know he is ill? will he die?" the wash-tub mail had made too few mistakes in its history to admit of doubt being cast upon the assertion of one of its officials. "i hear captain brotherton read from a letter to doña eustaquia. ay, they are happy!" "when?" "two hours ago." "then we know before the town--like always." "surely. do we not know all things first? hist!" the women dropped their heads and fumbled at the linen in the water. la tulita was approaching. she came across the meadow with all her old swinging grace, the blue gown waving about her like the leaves of a california lily when the wind rustled the forest. but the reboso framed a face thin and pale, and the sparkle was gone from her eyes. she passed the tubs and greeted the old women pleasantly, walked a few steps up the hill, then turned as if in obedience to an afterthought, and sat down on a stone in the shade of a willow. "it is cool here," she said. "yes, señorita." they were not deceived, but they dared not stare at her, with faquita's scowl upon them. "what news has the wash-tub mail to-day?" asked the girl, with an attempt at lightness. "did an enemy invade the south this morning, and have you heard it already, as when general kearney came? is general castro still in baja california, or has he fled to mexico? has doña prudencia iturbi y moncada given a ball this week at santa barbara? have don diego and doña chonita--?" "the young lieutenant is ill," blurted out one of the old women, then cowered until she almost fell into her tub. faquita sprang forward and caught the girl in her arms. "thou old fool!" she cried furiously. "thou devil! mayst thou find a tarantula in thy bed to-night. mayst thou dream thou art roasting in hell." she carried la tulita rapidly across the meadow. "ah, i thought i should hear there," said the girl, with a laugh. "thank heaven for the wash-tub mail." faquita nursed her through a long illness. she recovered both health and reason, and one day the old woman brought her word that the young lieutenant was well again--and that his illness had been brief and slight. the last "ay, but the years go quick!" said mariquita, as she flapped a piece of linen after taking it from the water. "i wonder do all towns sleep like this. who can believe that once it is so gay? the balls! the grand caballeros! the serenades! the meriendas! no more! no more! almost i forget the excitement when the americanos coming. i no am young any more. ay, yi!" "poor faquita, she just died of old age," said a woman who had been young with mariquita, spreading an article of underwear on a bush. "her life just drop out like her teeth. no one of the old women that taught us to wash is here now, mariquita. we are the old ones now, and we teach the young, ay, yi!" "well, it is a comfort that the great grow old like the low people. high birth cannot keep the skin white and the body slim. ay, look! who can think she is so beautiful before?" a woman was coming down the road from the town. a woman, whom passing years had browned, although leaving the fine strong features uncoarsened. she was dressed simply in black, and wore a small american bonnet. the figure had not lost the slimness of its youth, but the walk was stiff and precise. the carriage evinced a determined will. "ay, who can think that once she sway like the tule!" said mariquita, with a sigh. "well, when she come to-day i have some news. a letter, we used to call it, dost thou remember, brígida? who care for the wash-tub mail now? these americanos never hear of it, and our people--triste de mi--have no more the interest in anything." "tell us thy news," cried many voices. the older women had never lost their interest in la tulita. the younger ones had heard her story many times, and rarely passed the wall before her house without looking at the tall rose-bush which had all the pride of a young tree. "no, you can hear when she come. she will come to-day. six months ago to-day she come. ay, yi, to think she come once in six months all these years! and never until to-day has the wash-tub mail a letter for her." "very strange she did not forget a gringo and marry with a caballero," said one of the girls, scornfully. "they say the caballeros were so beautiful, so magnificent. the americans have all the money now, but she been rich for a little while." "all women are not alike. sometimes i think she is more happy with the memory." and mariquita, who had a fat lazy husband and a swarm of brown children, sighed heavily. "she live happy in the old house and is not so poor. and always she have the rose-bush. she smile, now, sometimes, when she water it." "well, it is many years," said the girl, philosophically. "here she come." la tulita, or doña herminia, as she now was called, walked briskly across the meadow and sat down on the stone which had come to be called for her. she spoke to each in turn, but did not ask for news. she had ceased long since to do that. she still came because the habit held her, and because she liked the women. "ah, mariquita," she said, "the linen is not as fine as when we were young. and thou art glad to get the shirts of the americans now. my poor faquita!" "coarse things," said mariquita, disdainfully. then a silence fell, so sudden and so suggestive that doña herminia felt it and turned instinctively to mariquita. "what is it?" she asked rapidly. "is there news to-day? of what?" mariquita's honest face was grave and important. "there is news, señorita," she said. "what is it?" the washing-women had dropped back from the tubs and were listening intently. "ay!" the oracle drew a long breath. "there is war over there, you know, señorita," she said, making a vague gesture toward the atlantic states. "yes, i know. is it decided? is the north or the south victorious? i am glad that the wash-tub mail has not--" "it is not that, señorita." "then what?" "the lieutenant--he is a great general now." "ay!" "he has won a great battle--and--they speak of his wife, señorita." doña herminia closed her eyes for a moment. then she opened them and glanced slowly about her. the blue bay, the solemn pines, the golden atmosphere, the cemetery on the hill, the women washing at the stone tubs--all was unchanged. only the flimsy wooden houses of the americans scattered among the adobes of the town and the aging faces of the women who had been young in her brief girlhood marked the lapse of years. there was a smile on her lips. her monotonous life must have given her insanity or infinite peace, and peace had been her portion. in a few minutes she said good-by to the women and went home. she never went to the tubs again. the conquest of doÑa jacoba i a forest of willows cut by a forking creek, and held apart here and there by fields of yellow mustard blossoms fluttering in their pale green nests, or meadows carpeted with the tiny white and yellow flowers of early summer. wide patches of blue where the willows ended, and immense banks of daisies bordering fields of golden grain, bending and shimmering in the wind with the deep even sweep of rising tide. then the lake, long, irregular, half choked with tules, closed by a marsh. the valley framed by mountains of purplish gray, dull brown, with patches of vivid green and yellow; a solitary gray peak, barren and rocky, in sharp contrast to the rich californian hills; on one side fawn-coloured slopes, and slopes with groves of crouching oaks in their hollows; opposite and beyond the cold peak, a golden hill rising to a mount of earthy green; still lower, another peak, red and green, mulberry and mould; between and afar, closing the valley, a line of pink-brown mountains splashed with blue. such was a fragment of don roberto duncan's vast rancho, los quervos, and on a plateau above the willows stood the adobe house, white and red-tiled, shaped like a solid letter h. on the deep veranda, sunken between the short forearms of the h, doña jacoba could stand and issue commands in her harsh imperious voice to the indians in the rancheria among the willows, whilst the long sala behind overflowed with the gay company her famous hospitality had summoned, the bare floor and ugly velvet furniture swept out of thought by beautiful faces and flowered silken gowns. behind the sala was an open court, the grass growing close to the great stone fountain. on either side was a long line of rooms, and above the sala was a library opening into the sleeping room of doña jacoba on one side, and into that of elena, her youngest and loveliest daughter, on the other. beyond the house were a dozen or more buildings: the kitchen; a room in which steers and bullocks, sheep and pigs, were hanging; a storehouse containing provisions enough for a hotel; and the manufactories of the indians. somewhat apart was a large building with a billiard-room in its upper story and sleeping rooms below. from her window elena could look down upon the high-walled corral with its prancing horses always in readiness for the pleasure-loving guests, and upon the broad road curving through the willows and down the valley. the great house almost shook with life on this brilliant day of the month of june, . don roberto duncan, into whose shrewd scotch hands california had poured her wealth for forty years, had long ago taken to himself a wife of castilian blood; to-morrow their eldest remaining daughter was to be married to a young englishman, whose father had been a merchant in california when san francisco was yerba buena. not a room was vacant in the house. young people had come from monterey and san francisco, santa barbara and los angeles. beds had been put up in the library and billiard-room, in the store-rooms and attics. the corral was full of strange horses, and the huts in the willows had their humbler guests. francisca sat in her room surrounded by a dozen chattering girls. the floor beneath the feet of the californian heiress was bare, and the heavy furniture was of uncarved mahogany. but a satin quilt covered the bed, lavish spanish needlework draped chest and tables, and through the open window came the june sunshine and the sound of the splashing fountain. francisca was putting the last stitches in her wedding-gown, and the girls were helping, advising, and commenting. "art thou not frightened, panchita," demanded one of the girls, "to go away and live with a strange man? just think, thou hast seen him but ten times." "what of that?" asked francisca, serenely, holding the rich corded silk at arm's length, and half closing her eyes as she readjusted the deep flounce of spanish lace. "remember, we shall ride and dance and play games together for a week with all of you, dear friends, before i go away with him. i shall know him quite well by that time. and did not my father know him when he was a little boy? surely, he cannot be a cruel man, or my father would not have chosen him for my husband." "i like the americans and the germans and the russians," said the girl who had spoken, "particularly the americans. but these english are so stern, so harsh sometimes." "what of that?" asked francisca again. "am i not used to my father?" she was a singular-looking girl, this compound of scotch and spanish. her face was cast in her father's hard mould, and her frame was large and sturdy, but she had the black luxuriant hair of spain, and much grace of gesture and expression. "i would not marry an englishman," said a soft voice. francisca raised her eyebrows and glanced coldly at the speaker, a girl of perfect loveliness, who sat behind a table, her chin resting on her clasped hands. "thou wouldst marry whom our father told thee to marry, elena," said her sister, severely. "what hast thou to say about it?" "i will marry a spaniard," said elena, rebelliously. "a spaniard, and no other." "thou wilt do what?" asked a cold voice from the door. the girls gave a little scream. elena turned pale, even francisca's hands twitched. doña jacoba was an impressive figure as she stood in the doorway; a tall unbowed woman with a large face and powerful penetrating eyes. a thin mouth covering white teeth separated the prominent nose and square chin. a braid of thick black hair lay over her fine bust, and a black silk handkerchief made a turban for her lofty head. she wore a skirt of heavy black silk and a shawl of chinese crêpe, one end thrown gracefully over her shoulder. "what didst thou say?" she demanded again, a sneer on her lips. elena made no answer. she stared through the window at the servants laying the table in the dining room on the other side of the court, her breath shortening as if the room had been exhausted of air. "let me hear no more of that nonsense," continued her mother. "a strange remark, truly, to come from the lips of a californian! thy father has said that his daughters shall marry men of his race--men who belong to that island of the north; and i have agreed, and thy sisters are well married. no women are more virtuous, more industrious, more religious, than ours; but our men--our young men--are a set of drinking gambling vagabonds. go to thy room and pray there until supper." elena ran out of an opposite door, and doña jacoba sat down on a high-backed chair and held out her hand for the wedding-gown. she examined it, then smiled brilliantly. "the lace is beautiful," she said. "there is no richer in california, and i have seen doña trinidad iturbi y moncada's and doña modeste castro's. let me see thy mantilla once more." francisca opened a chest nearly as large as her bed, and shook out a long square of superb spanish lace. it had arrived from the city of mexico but a few days before. the girls clapped their admiring hands, as if they had not looked at it twenty times, and doña jacoba smoothed it tenderly with her strong hands. then she went over to the chest and lifted the beautiful silk and crêpe gowns, one by one, her sharp eyes detecting no flaw. she opened another chest and examined the piles of underclothing and bed linen, all of finest woof, and deeply bordered with the drawn work of spain. "all is well," she said, returning to her chair. "i see nothing more to be done. thy brother will bring the emeralds, and the english plate will come before the week is over." "is it sure that santiago will come in time for the wedding?" asked a half-english granddaughter, whose voice broke suddenly at her own temerity. but doña jacoba was in a gracious mood. "surely. has not don roberto gone to meet him? he will be here at four to-day." "how glad i shall be to see him!" said francisca. "just think, my friends, i have not seen him for seven years. not since he was eleven years old. he has been on that cold dreadful island in the north all this time. i wonder has he changed!" "why should he change?" asked doña jacoba. "is he not a cortez and a duncan? is he not a californian and a catholic? can a few years in an english school make him of another race? he is seven years older, that is all." "true," assented francisca, threading her needle; "of course he could not change." doña jacoba opened a large fan and wielded it with slow curves of her strong wrist. she had never been cold in her life, and even a june day oppressed her. "we have another guest," she said in a moment--"a young man, don dario castañares of los robles rancho. he comes to buy cattle of my husband, and must remain with us until the bargain is over." several of the girls raised their large black eyes with interest. "don dario castañares," said one; "i have heard of him. he is very rich and very handsome, they say." "yes," said doña jacoba, indifferently. "he is not ugly, but much too dark. his mother was an indian. he is no husband, with all his leagues, for any californian of pure castilian blood." ii elena had gone up to her room, and would have locked the door had she possessed a key. as it was, she indulged in a burst of tears at the prospect of marrying an englishman, then consoled herself with the thought that her best-beloved brother would be with her in a few hours. she bathed her face and wound the long black coils about her shapely head. the flush faded out of her white cheeks, and her eyelids were less heavy. but the sadness did not leave her eyes nor the delicate curves of her mouth. she had the face of the madonna, stamped with the heritage of suffering; a nature so keenly capable of joy and pain that she drew both like a magnet, and would so long as life stayed in her. she curled herself in the window-seat, looking down the road for the gray cloud of dust that would herald her brother. but only black flocks of crows mounted screaming from the willows, to dive and rise again. suddenly she became conscious that she was watched, and her gaze swept downward to the corral. a stranger stood by the gates, giving orders to a vaquero but looking hard at her from beneath his low-dropped sombrero. he was tall, this stranger, and very slight. his face was nearly as dark as an indian's, but set with features so perfect that no one but doña jacoba had ever found fault with his skin. below his dreaming ardent eyes was a straight delicate nose; the sensuous mouth was half parted over glistening teeth and but lightly shaded by a silken mustache. about his graceful figure hung a dark red serape embroidered and fringed with gold, and his red velvet trousers were laced, and his yellow riding-boots gartered, with silver. elena rose quickly and pulled the curtain across the window; the blood had flown to her hair, and a smile chased the sadness from her mouth. then she raised her hands and pressed the palms against the slope of the ceiling, her dark upturned eyes full of terror. for many moments she stood so, hardly conscious of what she was doing, seeing only the implacable eyes of her mother. then down the road came the loud regular hoof-falls of galloping horses, and with an eager cry she flung aside the curtain, forgetting the stranger. down the road, half hidden by the willows, came two men. when they reached the rancheria, elena saw the faces: a sandy-haired hard-faced old scotsman, with cold blue eyes beneath shaggy red brows, and a dark slim lad, every inch a californian. elena waved her handkerchief and the lad his hat. then the girl ran down the stairs and over to the willows. santiago sprang from his horse, and the brother and sister clung together kissing and crying, hugging each other until her hair fell down and his hat was in the dust. "thou hast come!" cried elena at last, holding him at arm's length that she might see him better, then clinging to him again with all her strength. "thou never wilt leave me again--promise me! promise me, my santiago! ay, i have been so lonely." "never, my little one. have i not longed to come home that i might be with you? o my elena! i know so much. i will teach you everything." "ay, i am proud of thee, my santiago! thou knowest more than any boy in california--i know." "perhaps that would not be much," with fine scorn. "but come, elena mia, i must go to my mother; she is waiting. she looks as stern as ever; but how i have longed to see her!" they ran to the house, passing the stranger, who had watched them with folded arms and scowling brows. santiago rushed impetuously at his mother; but she put out her arm, stiff and straight, and held him back. then she laid her hand, with its vice-like grip, on his shoulder, and led him down the sala to the chapel at the end. it was arranged for the wedding, with all the pomp of velvet altar-cloth and golden candelabra. he looked at it wonderingly. why had she brought him to look upon this before giving him a mother's greeting? "kneel down," she said, "and repeat the prayers of thy church--prayers of gratitude for thy safe return." the boy folded his hands deprecatingly. "but, mother, remember it is seven long years since i have said the catholic prayers. remember i have been educated in an english college, in a protestant country." her tall form curved slowly toward him, the blood blazed in her dark cheeks. "what!" she screamed incredulously. "thou hast forgotten the prayers of thy church--the prayers thou learned at my knee?" "yes, mother, i have," he said desperately. "i cannot--" "god! god! mother of god! my son says this to me!" she caught him by the shoulder again and almost hurled him from the room. then she locked her hand about his arm and dragged him down the sala to his father's room. she took a greenhide reata from the table and brought it down upon his back with long sweeps of her powerful arm, but not another word came from her rigid lips. the boy quivered with the shame and pain, but made no resistance--for he was a californian, and she was his mother. iii joaquin, the eldest son, who had been hunting bear with a number of his guests, returned shortly after his brother's arrival and was met at the door by his mother. "where is santiago?" he asked. "i hear he has come." "santiago has been sent to bed, where he will remain for the present. we have an unexpected guest, joaquin. he leans there against the tree--don dario castañares. thou knowest who he is. he comes to buy cattle of thy father, and will remain some days. thou must share thy room with him, for there is no other place--even on the billiard-table." joaquin liked the privacy of his room, but he had all the hospitality of his race. he went at once to the stranger, walking a little heavily, for he was no longer young and slender, but with a cordial smile on his shrewd warmly coloured face. "the house is at your service, don dario," he said, shaking the newcomer's hand. "we are honoured that you come in time for my sister's wedding. it distresses me that i cannot offer you the best room in the house, but, dios! we have a company here. i have only the half of my poor bed to offer you, but if you will deign to accept that--" "i am miserable, wretched, to put you to such inconvenience--" "never think of such a thing, my friend. nothing could give me greater happiness than to try to make you comfortable in my poor room. will you come now and take a siesta before supper?" dario followed him to the house, protesting at every step, and joaquin threw open the door of one of the porch rooms. "at your service, señor--everything at your service." he went to one corner of the room and kicked aside a pile of saddles, displaying a small hillock of gold in ten-and fifty-dollar slugs. "you will find about thirty thousand dollars there. we sold some cattle a days ago. i beg that you will help yourself. it is all at your service. i will now go and send you some aguardiente, for you must be thirsty." and he went out and left his guest alone. dario threw himself face downward on the bed. he was in love, and the lady had kissed another man as if she had no love to spare. true, it was but her brother she had kissed, but would she have eyes for any one else during a stranger's brief visit? and how, in this crowded house, could he speak a word with her alone? and that terrible dragon of a mother! he sprang to his feet as an indian servant entered with a glass of aguardiente. when he had burnt his throat, he felt better. "i will stay until i have won her, if i remain a month," he vowed. "it will be some time before don roberto will care to talk business." but don roberto was never too occupied to talk business. after he had taken his bath and siesta, he sent a servant to request don dario castañares to come up to the library, where he spent most of his time, received all his visitors, reprimanded his children, and took his after-dinner naps. it was a luxurious room for the californian of that day. a thick red english carpet covered the floor; one side of the room was concealed by a crowded bookcase, and the heavy mahogany furniture was handsomely carved, although upholstered with horse-hair. in an hour every detail of the transaction had been disposed of, and dario had traded a small rancho for a herd of cattle. the young man's face was very long when the last detail had been arranged, but he had forgotten that his host was as californian as himself. don roberto poured him a brimming glass of angelica and gave him a hearty slap on the back. "the cattle will keep for a few days, don dario," he said, "and you shall not leave this house until the festivities are over. not until a week from to-morrow--do you hear? i knew your father. we had many a transaction together, and i take pleasure in welcoming his son under my roof. now get off to the young people, and do not make any excuses." dario made none. iv the next morning at eight, francisca stood before the altar in the chapel, looking very handsome in her rich gown and soft mantilla. the bridegroom, a sensible-looking young englishman, was somewhat nervous, but francisca might have been married every morning at eight o'clock. behind them stood don roberto in a new suit of english broadcloth, and doña jacoba in heavy lilac silk, half covered with priceless lace. the six bridesmaids looked like a huge bouquet, in their wide delicately coloured skirts. their dark eyes, mischievous, curious, thoughtful, flashed more brilliantly than the jewels they wore. the sala and don roberto's room beyond were so crowded that some of the guests stood in the windows, and many could not enter the doors; every family within a hundred leagues had come to the wedding. the veranda was crowded with girls, the sparkling faces draped in black mantillas or bright rebosos, the full gay gowns fluttering in the breeze. men in jingling spurs and all the bravery of gold-laced trousers and short embroidered jackets respectfully elbowed their way past brown and stout old women that they might whisper a word into some pretty alert little ear. they had all ridden many leagues that morning, but there was not a trace of fatigue on any face. the court behind the sala was full of indian servants striving to catch a glimpse of the ceremony. dario stood just within the front door, his eyes eagerly fixed upon elena. she looked like a california lily in her white gown; even her head drooped a little as if a storm had passed. her eyes were absent and heavy; they mirrored nothing of the solemn gayety of the morning; they saw only the welts on her brother's back. dario had not seen her since santiago's arrival. she had not appeared at supper, and he had slept little in consequence; in fact, he had spent most of the night playing _monte_ with joaquin and a dozen other young men in the billiard-room. during the bridal mass the padre gave communion to the young couple, and to those that had made confession the night before. elena was not of the number, and during the intense silence she drew back and stood and knelt near dario. they were not close enough to speak, had they dared; but the californian had other speech than words, and dario and elena made their confession that morning. during breakfast they were at opposite ends of the long table in the dining room, but neither took part in the songs and speeches, the toasts and laughter. both had done some manoeuvring to get out of sight of the old people, and sit at one of the many other tables in the sala, on the corridor, in the court; but elena had to go with the bridesmaids, and joaquin insisted upon doing honour to the uninvited guest. the indian servants passed the rich and delicate, the plain and peppered, dishes, the wines and the beautiful cakes for which doña jacoba and her daughters were famous. the massive plate that had done duty for generations in spain was on the table; the crystal had been cut in england. it was the banquet of a grandee, and no one noticed the silent lovers. after breakfast the girls flitted to their rooms and changed their gowns, and wound rebosos or mantillas about their heads; the men put off their jackets for lighter ones of flowered calico, and the whole party, in buggies or on horseback, started for a bull-fight which was to take place in a field about a mile behind the house. elena went in a buggy with santiago, who was almost as pale as she. dario, on horseback, rode as near her as he dared; but when they reached the fence about the field careless riders crowded between, and he could only watch her from afar. the vaqueros in their broad black hats shining with varnish, their black velvet jackets, their crimson sashes, and short, black velvet trousers laced with silver cord over spotless linen, looked very picturesque as they dashed about the field jingling their spurs and shouting at each other. when the bulls trotted in and greeted each other pleasantly, the vaqueros swung their hissing reatas and yelled until the maddened animals wreaked their vengeance on each other, and the serious work of the day began. elena leaned back with her fan before her eyes, but santiago looked on eagerly in spite of his english training. "caramba!" he cried, "but that old bull is tough. look, elena! the little one is down. no, no! he has the big one. ay! yi, yi! by jove! he is gone--no, he has run off--he is on him again! he has ripped him up! brava! brava!" a cheer as from one throat made the mountains echo, but elena still held her fan before the field. "how canst thou like such bloody sport?" she asked disgustedly. "the poor animals! what pleasure canst thou take to see a fine brute kicking in his death-agony, his bowels trailing on the ground?" "fie, elena! art thou not a californian? dost thou not love the sport of thy country? why, look at the other girls! they are mad with excitement. by jove! i never saw so many bright eyes. i wonder if i shall be too stiff to dance to-night. elena, she gave me a beating! but tell me, little one, why dost thou not like the bull-fight? i feel like another man since i have seen it." "i cannot be pleased with cruelty. i shall never get used to see beasts killed for amusement. and don dario castañares does not like it either. he never smiled once, nor said 'brava!'" "aha! and how dost thou know whether he did or not? i thought thy face was behind that big black fan." "i saw him through the sticks. what does 'by jove' mean, my santiago?" he enlightened her, then stood up eagerly. another bull had been brought in, and one of the vaqueros was to fight him. during the next two hours santiago gave little thought to his sister, and sometimes her long black lashes swept above the top of her fan. when five or six bulls had stamped and roared and gored and died, the guests of los quervos went home to chocolate and siesta, the others returned to their various ranchos. but dario took no nap that day. twice he had seen an indian girl at elena's window, and as the house settled down to temporary calm, he saw the girl go to the rancheria among the willows. he wrote a note, and followed her as soon as he dared. she wore a calico frock, exactly like a hundred others, and her stiff black hair cut close to her neck in the style enforced by doña jacoba; but dario recognized her imitation of elena's walk and carriage. he was very nervous, but he managed to stroll about and make his visit appear one of curiosity. as he passed the girl he told her to follow him, and in a few moments they were alone in a thicket. he had hard work to persuade her to take the note to her mistress, for she stood in abject awe of doña jacoba; but love of elena and sympathy for the handsome stranger prevailed, and the girl went off with the missive. the staircase led from don roberto's room to doña jacoba's; but the lady's all-seeing eyes were closed, and the master was snoring in his library. malia tiptoed by both, and elena, who had been half asleep, sat up, trembling with excitement, and read the impassioned request for an interview. she lifted her head and listened, panting a little. then she ran to the door and looked into the library. her father was sound asleep; there could he no doubt of that. she dared not write an answer, but she closed the door and put her lips to the girl's ear. "tell him," she murmured, horrified at her own boldness--"tell him to take me out for the contradanza tonight. there is no other chance." and the girl went back and delivered the message. v the guests and family met again at supper; but yards of linen and mounds of plate, spirited, quickly turning heads, flowered muslin gowns and silken jackets, again separated dario and elena. he caught a glimpse now and again of her graceful head turning on its white throat, or of her sad pure profile shining before her mother's stern old face. immediately after supper the bride and groom led the way to the sala, the musicians tuned their violins and guitars, and after an hour's excited comment upon the events of the day the dancing began. doña jacoba could be very gracious when she chose, and she moved among her guests like a queen to-night, begging them to be happy, and electrifying them with her brilliant smile. she dispelled their awe of her with magical tact, and when she laid her hand on one young beauty's shoulder, and told her that her eyes put out the poor candles of los quervos, the girl was ready to fling herself on the floor and kiss the tyrant's feet. elena watched her anxiously. her father petted her in his harsh abrupt way. if she had ever received a kiss from her mother, she did not remember it; but she worshipped the blinding personality of the woman, although she shook before the relentless will. but that her mother was pleased to be gracious tonight was beyond question, and she gave dario a glance of timid encouragement, which brought him to her side at once. "at your feet, señorita," he said; "may i dare to beg the honour of the contradanza?" she bent her slender body in a pretty courtesy. "it is a small favour to grant a guest who deigns to honour us with his presence." he led her out, and when he was not gazing enraptured at the graceful swaying and gliding of her body, he managed to make a few conventional remarks. "you did not like bull-fighting, señorita?" "he watched me," she thought. "no, señor. i like nothing that is cruel." "those soft eyes could never be cruel. ay, you are so beautiful, señorita." "i am but a little country girl, señor. you must have seen far more beautiful women in the cities. have you ever been in monterey?" "yes, señorita, many times. i have seen all the beauties, even doña modeste castro. once, too--that was before the americans came--i saw the señorita ysabel herrera, a woman so beautiful that a man robbed a church and murdered a priest for her sake. but she was not so beautiful as you, señorita." the blood throbbed in the girl's fair cheeks. "he must love me," she told herself, "to think me more beautiful than ysabel herrera. joaquin says she was the handsomest woman that ever was seen." "you compliment me, señor," she answered vaguely. "she had wonderful green eyes. so has the señora castro. mine are only brown, like so many other girls'." "they are the most beautiful eyes in california. they are like the madonna's. i do not care for green eyes." his black ones flashed their language to hers, and elena wondered if she had ever been unhappy. she barely remembered where she was, forgot that she was a helpless bird in a golden cage. her mate had flown through the open door. the contradanza ends with a waltz, and as dario held her in his arms his last remnant of prudence gave way. "elena, elena," he murmured passionately, "i love thee. dost thou not know it? dost thou not love me a little? ay, elena! i have not slept one hour since i saw thee." she raised her eyes to his face. the sadness still dwelt in their depths, but above floated the soft flame of love and trust. she had no coquetry in her straightforward and simple nature. "yes," she whispered, "i love thee." "and thou art happy, querida mia? thou art happy here in my arms?" she let her cheek rest for a moment against his shoulder. "yes, i am very happy." "and thou wilt marry me?" the words brought her back to reality, and the light left her face. "ay," she said, "why did you say that? it cannot ever be." "but it shall be! why not? i will speak with don roberto in the morning." the hand that lay on his shoulder clutched him suddenly. "no, no," she said hurriedly; "promise me that you will not speak to him for two or three days at least. my father wants us all to marry englishmen. he is kind, and he loves me, but he is mad for englishmen. and we can be happy meanwhile." the music stopped, and he could only murmur his promises before leading her back to her mother. he dared not take her out again, but he danced with no one else in spite of many inviting eyes, and spent the rest of the night on the corridor, where he could watch her unobserved. the walls were so thick at los quervos that each window had a deep seat within and without. dario ensconced himself, and was comfortable, if tumultuous. vi with dawn the dancing ended, and quiet fell upon los quervos. but at twelve gay voices and laughter came through every window. the family and guests were taking their cold bath, ready for another eighteen hours of pleasure. shortly after the long dinner, the iron-barred gates of the corral were thrown open and a band of horses, golden bronze in colour, with silvern mane and tail, silken embroidered saddles on their slender backs, trotted up to the door. the beautiful creatures shone in the sun like burnished armour; they arched their haughty necks and lifted their small feet as if they were californian beauties about to dance el son. the girls wore short riding-skirts, gay sashes, and little round hats. the men wore thin jackets of brightly coloured silk, gold-laced knee-breeches, and silver spurs. they tossed the girls upon their saddles, vaulted into their own, and all started on a wild gallop for the races. dario, with much manoeuvring, managed to ride by elena's side. it was impossible to exchange a word with her, for keen and mischievous ears were about them; but they were close together, and a kind of ecstasy possessed them both. the sunshine was so golden, the quivering visible air so full of soft intoxication! they were filled with a reckless animal joy of living--the divine right of youth to exist and be happy. the bars of elena's cage sank into the warm resounding earth; she wanted to cry aloud her joy to the birds, to hold and kiss the air as it passed. her face sparkled, her mouth grew full. she looked at dario, and he dug his spurs into his horse's flanks. the representatives of many ranchos, their wives and daughters, awaited the party from los quervos. but none pushed his way between dario and elena that day. and they both enjoyed the races; they were in a mood to enjoy anything. they became excited and shouted with the rest as the vaqueros flew down the field. dario bet and lost a ranchita, then bet and won another. he won a herd of cattle, a band of horses, a saddle-bag of golden slugs. surely, fortune smiled on him from the eyes of elena. when the races were over they galloped down to the ocean and over the cliffs and sands, watching the ponderous waves fling themselves on the rocks, then retreat and rear their crests, to thunder on again. "the fog!" cried some one. "the fog!" and with shrieks of mock terror they turned their horses' heads and raced down the valley, the fog after them like a phantom tidal wave; but they outstripped it, and sprang from their horses at the corridor of los quervos with shouts of triumph and lightly blown kisses to the enemy. after supper they found eggs piled upon silver dishes in the sala, and with cries of "cascaron! cascaron!" they flung them at each other, the cologne and flour and tinsel with which the shells were filled deluging and decorating them. doña jacoba again was in a most gracious mood, and leaned against the wall, an amused smile on her strong serene face. her husband stood by her, and she indicated elena by a motion of her fan. "is she not beautiful to-night, our little one?" she asked proudly. "see how pink her cheeks are! her eyes shine like stars. she is the handsomest of all our children, viejo." "yes," he said, something like tenderness in his cold blue eyes, "there is no prettier girl on twenty ranchos. she shall marry the finest englishman of them all." elena threw a cascaron directly into dario's mouth, and although the cologne scalded his throat, he heroically swallowed it, and revenged himself by covering her black locks with flour. the guests, like the children they were, chased each other all over the house, up and down the stairs; the men hid under tables, only to have a sly hand break a cascaron on the back of their heads, and to receive a deluge down the spinal column. the bride chased her dignified groom out into the yard, and a dozen followed. then dario found his chance. elena was after him, and as they passed beneath a tree he turned like a flash and caught her in his arms and kissed her. for a second she tried to free herself, mindful that her sisters had not kissed their lovers until they stood with them in the chapel; but she was made for love, and in a moment her white arms were clinging about his neck. people were shouting around them; there was time for but few of the words dario wished to say. "thou must write me a little note every day," he commanded. "thy brother's coat, one that he does not wear, hangs behind the door in my room. to-morrow morning thou wilt find a letter from me in the pocket. let me find one there, too. kiss me again, consuelo de mi alma!" and they separated suddenly, to speak no more that night. vii the next morning, when elena went to joaquin's room to make the bed, she found dario's note in the pocket of the coat, but she had had no opportunity to write one herself. nor did she have time to read his until after dinner, although it burned her neck and took away her appetite. when the meal was over, she ran down to the willows and read it there, then went straight to the favourite lounging-place of an old vaquero who had adored her from the days when she used to trot about the rancho holding his forefinger, or perch herself upon his shoulder and command him to gallop. he was smoking his pipe, and he looked up in some wonder as she stood before him, flushed and panting, her eyes-darting apprehensive glances. "pedro," she said imperiously, "get down on thy hands and knees." pedro was the colour of tanned leather and very hairy, but his face beamed with good-nature. he put his pipe between his teeth and did as he was bidden. elena produced the pencil and paper she had managed to purloin from her father's table, and kneeling beside her faithful vaquero, wrote a note on his back. it took her a long time to coin that simple epistle, for she never had written a love-letter before. but pedro knelt like a rock, although his old knees ached. when the note was finished she thrust it into her gown, and patted pedro on the head. "i love thee, my old man. i will make thee a new salve for thy rheumatism, and a big cake." as she approached the house her mother stood on the corridor watching the young people mount, and elena shivered as she met a fiery and watchful eye. yesterday had been a perfect day, but the chill of fear touched this. she sprang on her horse and went with the rest to the games. her brother joaquin kept persistently by her side, and dario thought it best not to approach her. she took little interest in the games. the young men climbed the greased pole amidst soft derisive laughter. the greased pig was captured by his tail in a tumult of excitement, which rivalled the death of the bull, but elena paid no attention. it was not until dario, restive with inaction, entered the lists for the buried rooster, and by its head twisted it from the ground as his horse flew by, that she was roused to interest; and as many had failed, and as his was the signal victory of the day, he rode home somewhat consoled. that night, as dario and elena danced the contradanza together, they felt the eyes of dona jacoba upon them, but he dared to whisper:-- "to-morrow morning i speak with thy father. our wedding-day must be set before another sun goes down." "no, no!" gasped elena; but for once dario would not listen. viii as soon as elena had left his room next morning, dario returned and read the note she had put in her brother's pocket. it gave him courage, his dreamy eyes flashed, his sensitive mouth curved proudly. as soon as dinner was over he followed don roberto up to the library. the old man stretched himself out in the long brass and leather chair which had been imported from england for his comfort, and did not look overjoyed when his guest begged a few moments' indulgence. "i am half asleep," he said. "is it about those cattle? joaquin knows as much about them as i do." dario had not been asked to sit down, and he stood before don roberto feeling a little nervous, and pressing his hand against the mantelpiece. "i do not wish to speak of cattle, señor." "no? what then?" the old man's face was flushed with wine, and his shaggy brows were drooping heavily. "it is--it is about elena." the brows lifted a little. "elena?" "yes, señor. we love each other very much. i wish to ask your permission that we may be married." the brows went up with a rush; the stiff hairs stood out like a roof above the cold angry eyes. for a moment don roberto stared at the speaker as if he had not heard; then he sprang to his feet, his red face purple. "get out of my house, you damned vagabond!" he shouted. "go as fast as god almighty'll let you. you marry my daughter,--you damned indian! i wouldn't give her to you if you were pure-blooded castilian, much less to a half-breed whelp. and you have dared to make love to her. go! do you hear? or i'll kick you down the stairs!" dario drew himself up and looked back at his furious host with a pride that matched his own. the blood was smarting in his veins, but he made no sign and walked down the stair. don roberto went at once in search of his wife. failing to find her, he walked straight into the sala, and taking elena by the arm before the assembled guests, marched her upstairs and into her room, and locked the door with his key. elena fell upon the floor and sobbed with rebellious mortification and terror. her father had not uttered a word, but she knew the meaning of his summary act, and other feelings soon gave way to despair. that she should never see dario castañares again was certain, and she wept and prayed with all the abandon of her spanish nature. a picture of the virgin hung over the bed, and she raised herself on her knees and lifted her clasped hands to it beseechingly. with her tumbled hair and white face, her streaming upturned eyes and drawn mouth, she looked more like the mater dolorosa than the expressionless print she prayed to. "mary! mother!" she whispered, "have mercy on thy poor little daughter. give him to me. i ask for nothing else in this world. i do not care for gold or ranchos, only to be his wife. i am so lonely, my mother, for even santiago thinks of so many other things than of me. i only want to be loved, and no one else will ever love me who can make me love him. ay! give him to me! give him to me!" and she threw herself on her face once more, and sobbed until her tears were exhausted. then she dragged herself to the window and leaned over the deep seat. perhaps she might have one glimpse of him as he rode away. she gave a little cry of agony and pleasure. he was standing by the gates of the corral whilst the vaqueros rounded up the cattle he had bought. his arms were folded, his head hung forward. as he heard her cry, he lifted his face, and elena saw the tears in his eyes. for the moment they gazed at each other, those lovers of california's long-ago, while the very atmosphere quivering between them seemed a palpable barrier. elena flung out her arms with a sudden passionate gesture; he gave a hoarse cry, and paced up and down like a race-horse curbed with a spanish bit. how to have one last word with her? if she were behind the walls of the fort of monterey it would be as easy. he dared not speak from where he was. already the horses were at the door to carry the eager company to a fight between a bull and a bear. but he could write a note if only he had the materials. it was useless to return to his room, for joaquin was there; and he hoped never to see that library again. but was there ever a lover in whom necessity did not develop the genius of invention? dario flashed upward a glance of hope, then took from his pocket a slip of the rice-paper used for making cigaritos. he burnt a match, and with the charred stump scrawled a few lines. "elena! mine! star of my life! my sweet! beautiful and idolized. farewell! farewell, my darling! my heart is sad. god be with thee. "dario." he wrapped the paper about a stone, and tied it with a wisp of grass. with a sudden flexile turn of a wrist that had thrown many a reata, he flung it straight through the open window. elena read the meaningless phrases, then fell insensible to the floor. ix it was the custom of doña jacoba personally to oversee her entire establishment every day, and she always went at a different hour, that laziness might never feel sure of her back. to-day she visited the rancheria immediately after dinner, and looked through every hut with her piercing eyes. if the children were dirty, she peremptorily ordered their stout mammas to put them into the clean clothes which her bounty had provided. if a bed was unmade, she boxed the ears of the owner and sent her spinning across the room to her task. but she found little to scold about; her discipline was too rigid. when she was satisfied that the huts were in order, she went down to the great stone tubs sunken in the ground, where the women were washing in the heavy shade of the willows. in their calico gowns they made bright bits of colour against the drooping green of the trees. "maria," she cried sharply, "thou art wringing that fine linen too harshly. dost thou wish to break in pieces the bridal clothes of thy señorita? be careful, or i will lay the whip across thy shoulders." she walked slowly through the willows, enjoying the shade. her fine old head was held sternly back, and her shoulders were as square as her youngest son's; but she sighed a little, and pressed a willow branch to her face with a caressing motion. she looked up to the gray peak standing above its fellows, bare, ugly, gaunt. she was not an imaginative woman, but she always had felt in closer kinship with that solitary peak than with her own blood. as she left the wood and saw the gay cavalcade about to start--the burnished horses, the dashing caballeros, the girls with their radiant faces and jaunty habits--she sighed again. long ago she had been the bride of a brilliant young mexican officer for a few brief years; her youth had gone with his life. she avoided the company and went round to the buildings at the back of the house. approving here, reproaching there, she walked leisurely through the various rooms where the indians were making lard, shoes, flour, candles. she was in the chocolate manufactory when her husband found her. "come--come at once," he said. "i have good news for thee." she followed him to his room, knowing by his face that tragedy had visited them. but she was not prepared for the tale he poured forth with violent interjections of english and spanish oaths. she had detected a flirtation between her daughter and the uninvited guest, and not approving of flirtations, had told joaquin to keep his eyes upon them when hers were absent; but that the man should dare and the girl should stoop to think of marriage wrought in her a passion to which her husband's seemed the calm flame of a sperm-candle. "what!" she cried, her hoarse voice breaking. "what! a half-breed aspire to a cortez!" she forgot her husband's separateness with true californian pride. "my daughter and the son of an indian! holy god! and she has dared!--she has dared! the little imbecile! the little--but," and she gave a furious laugh, "she will not forget again." she caught the greenhide reata from the nail and went up the stair. crossing the library with heavy tread, as if she would stamp her rage through the floor, she turned the key in the door of her daughter's room and strode in. the girl still lay on the floor, although consciousness had returned. as elena saw her mother's face she cowered pitifully. that terrible temper seldom dominated the iron will of the woman, but santiago had shaken it a few days ago, and elena knew that her turn had come. doña jacoba shut the door and towered above her daughter, red spots on her face, her small eyes blazing, an icy sneer on her mouth. she did not speak a word. she caught the girl by her delicate shoulder, jerked her to her feet, and lashed her with the heavy whip until screams mingled with the gay laughter of the parting guests. when she had beaten her until her own arm ached, she flung her on the bed and went out and locked the door. elena was insensible again for a while, then lay dull and inert for hours. she had a passive longing for death. after the suffering and the hideous mortification of that day there seemed no other climax. the cavalcade rode beneath her windows once more, with their untired laughter, their splendid vitality. they scattered to their rooms to don their bright evening gowns, then went to the dining room and feasted. after supper francisca unlocked elena's door and entered with a little tray on her hand. elena refused to eat, but her sister's presence roused her, and she turned her face to the wall and burst into tears. "nonsense!" said francisca, kindly. "do not cry, my sister. what is a lover? the end of a little flirtation? my father will find thee a husband--a strong fair english husband like mine. dost thou not prefer blondes to brunettes, my sister? i am sorry my mother beat thee, but she has such a sense of her duty. she did it for thy good, my elena. let me dress thee in thy new gown, the white silk with the pale blue flowers. it is high in the neck and long in the sleeves, and will hide the marks of the whip. come down and play cascarones and dance until dawn and forget all about it." but elena only wept on, and francisca left her for more imperative duties. the next day the girl still refused to eat, although doña jacoba opened her mouth and poured a cup of chocolate down her throat. late in the afternoon santiago slipped into the room and bent over her. "elena," he whispered hurriedly. "look! i have a note for thee." elena sat upright on the bed, and he thrust a piece of folded paper into her hand. "here it is. he is in san luis obispo and says he will stay there. remember it is but a few miles away. my--" elena sank back with a cry, and santiago blasphemed in english. doña jacoba unlocked her daughter's hand, took the note, and led santiago from the room. when she reached her own, she opened a drawer and handed him a canvas bag full of gold. "go to san francisco and enjoy yourself," she said. "interfere no farther between your sister and your parents, unless you prefer that reata to gold. your craft cannot outwit mine, and she will read no notes. you are a foolish boy to set your sense against your mother's. i may seem harsh to my children, but i strive on my knees for their good. and when i have made up my mind that a thing is right to do, you know that my nature is of iron. no child of mine shall marry a lazy vagabond who can do nothing but lie in a hammock and bet and gamble and make love. and a half-breed! mother of god! now go to san francisco, and send for more money when this is gone." santiago obeyed. there was nothing else for him to do. elena lay in her bed, scarcely touching food. poor child! her nature demanded nothing of life but love, and that denied her, she could find no reason for living. she was not sport-loving like joaquín, nor practical like francisca, nor learned like santiago, nor ambitious to dance through life like her many nieces. she was but a clinging unreasoning creature, with warm blood and a great heart. but she no longer prayed to have dario given her. it seemed to her that after such suffering her saddened and broken spirit would cast its shadows over her happiest moments, and she longed only for death. her mother, becoming alarmed at her increasing weakness, called in an old woman who had been midwife and doctor of the county for half a century. she came, a bent and bony woman who must have been majestic in her youth. her front teeth were gone, her face was stained with dark splashes like the imprint of a pre-natal hand. over her head she wore a black shawl; and she looked enough like a witch to frighten her patients into eternity had they not been so well used to her. she prodded elena all over as if the girl were a loaf of bread and her knotted fingers sought a lump of flour in the dough. "the heart," she said to doña jacoba with sharp emphasis, her back teeth meeting with a click, as if to proclaim their existence. "i have no herbs for that," and she went back to her cabin by the ocean. that night elena lifted her head suddenly. from the hill opposite her window came the sweet reverberation of a guitar: then a voice, which, though never heard by her in song before, was as unmistakable as if it had serenaded beneath her window every night since she had known darío castañares. el ultimo adiÓs "si dos con el alma se amaron en vida, y al fin se separan en vida las dos; sabeis que es tan grande le pena sentida que con esa palabra se dicen adios. y en esa palabra que breve murmura, ni verse prometen niamarse se juran; que en esa palabra se dicen adios. no hay queja mas honda, suspiro mas largo; que aquellas palabras que dicen adios. al fin ha llegado, la muerte en la vida; al fin para entrambos muramos los dos: al fin ha llegado la hora cumplida, del ultimo adios. ya nunca en la vida, gentil compañera ya nunca volveremos a vernos los dos: por eso es tan triste mi acento postrere, por eso es tan triste el ultimo adios."-- they were dancing downstairs; laughter floated through the open windows. francisca sang a song of the bull-fight, in her strong high voice; the frogs chanted their midnight mass by the creek in the willows; the coyotes wailed; the owls hooted. but nothing could drown that message of love. elena lit a candle and held it at arm's length before the window. she knew that its ray went straight through the curtains to the singer on the hill, for his voice broke suddenly, then swelled forth in passionate answer. he sat there until dawn singing to her; but the next night he did not come, and elena knew that she had not been his only audience. x the week of festivity was over; the bridal pair, the relatives, the friends went away. quiet would have taken temporary possession of los quervos had it not been for the many passing guests lavishly entertained by don roberto. and still elena lay in her little iron bed, refusing to get out of it, barely eating, growing weaker and thinner every day. at the end of three weeks doña jacoba was thoroughly alarmed, and don roberto sent joaquin to san francisco for a physician. the man of science came at the end of a week. he asked many questions, and had a long talk with his patient. when he left the sick-room, he found don roberto and doña jacoba awaiting him in the library. they were ready to accept his word as law, for he was an englishman, and had won high reputation during his short stay in the new country. he spoke with curt directness. "my dear sir, your child is dying because she does not wish to live. people who write novels call it dying of a broken heart; but it does not make much difference about the name. your child is acutely sensitive, and has an extremely delicate constitution--predisposition to consumption. separation from the young man she desires to marry has prostrated her to such an extent that she is practically dying. under existing circumstances she will not live two months, and, to be brutally frank, you will have killed her. i understand that the young man is well-born on his father's side, and possessed of great wealth. i see no reason why she should not marry him. i shall leave her a tonic, but you can throw it out of the window unless you send for the young man," and he walked down the stair and made ready for his departure. don roberto translated the verdict to his wife. she turned very gray, and her thin lips pressed each other. but she bent her head. "so be it," she said; "i cannot do murder. send for dario castañares." "and tell him to take her to perdition," roared the old man. "never let me see her again." he went down the stair, filled a small bag with gold, and gave it to the doctor. he found joaquin and bade him go for dario, then shut himself in a remote room, and did not emerge until late that day. doña jacoba sent for the maid, malia. "bring me one of your frocks," she said, "a set of your undergarments, a pair of your shoes and stockings." she walked about the room until the girl's return, her face terrible in its repressed wrath, its gray consciousness of defeat. when malia came with the garments she told her to follow, and went into elena's room and stood beside the bed. "get up," she said. "dress thyself in thy bridal clothes. thou art going to marry dario castañares to-day." the girl looked up incredulously, then closed her eyes wearily. "get up," said her mother. "the doctor has said that we must let our daughter marry the half-breed or answer to god for her murder." she turned to the maid: "malia, go downstairs and make a cup of chocolate and bring it up. bring, too, a glass of angelica." but elena needed neither. she forgot her desire for death, her misgivings of the future; she slipped out of bed, and would have taken a pair of silk stockings from the chest, but her mother stopped her with an imperious gesture, and handed her the coarse shoes and stockings the maid had brought. elena raised her eyes wonderingly, but drew them on her tender feet without complaint. then her mother gave her the shapeless undergarments, the gaudy calico frock, and she put them on. when the maid returned with the chocolate and wine, she drank both. they gave her colour and strength; and as she stood up and faced her mother, she had never looked more beautiful nor more stately in the silken gowns that were hers no longer. [illustration: "he bent down and caught her in his arms."] "there are horses' hoofs," said doña jacoba. "leave thy father's house and go to thy lover." elena followed her from the room, walking steadily, although she was beginning to tremble a little. as she passed the table in the library, she picked up an old silk handkerchief of her father's and tied it about her head and face. a smile was on her lips, but no joy could crowd the sadness from her eyes again. her spirit was shadowed; her nature had come to its own. they walked through the silent house, and to elena's memory came the picture of that other bridal, when the very air shook with pleasure and the rooms were jewelled with beautiful faces; but she would not have exchanged her own nuptials for her sister's calm acceptance. when she reached the veranda she drew herself up and turned to her mother with all that strange old woman's implacable bearing. "i demand one wedding present," she said. "the greenhide reata. i wish it as a memento of my mother." doña jacoba, without the quiver of a muscle, walked into her husband's room and returned with the reata and handed it to her. then elena turned her back upon her father's house and walked down the road through the willows. darío did not notice the calico frock or the old handkerchief about her head. he bent down and caught her in his arms and kissed her, then lifting her to his saddle, galloped down the road to san luis obispo. doña jacoba turned her hard old face to the wall. a ramble with eulogia[ ] [footnote : pronounced a-oo-lo-hia.] i dona pomposa crossed her hands on her stomach and twirled her thumbs. a red spot was in each coffee-coloured cheek, and the mole in her scanty eyebrow jerked ominously. her lips were set in a taut line, and her angry little eyes were fixed upon a girl who sat by the window strumming a guitar, her chin raised with an air of placid impertinence. "thou wilt stop this nonsense and cast no more glances at juan tornel!" commanded doña pomposa. "thou little brat! dost thou think that i am one to let my daughter marry before she can hem? thank god we have more sense than our mothers! no child of mine shall marry at fifteen. now listen--thou shalt be locked in a dark room if i am kept awake again by that hobo serenading at thy window. to-morrow, when thou goest to church, take care that thou throwest him no glance. dios de mi alma! i am worn out! three nights have i been awakened by that _tw-a-n-g, tw-a-n-g."_ "you need not be afraid," said her daughter, digging her little heel into the floor. "i shall not fall in love. i have no faith in men." her mother laughed outright in spite of her anger. "indeed, my eulogia! thou art very wise. and why, pray, hast thou no faith in men?" eulogia tossed the soft black braid from her shoulder, and fixed her keen roguish eyes on the old lady's face. "because i have read all the novels of the señor dumas, and i well know all those men he makes. and they never speak the truth to women; always they are selfish, and think only of their own pleasure. if the women suffer, they do not care; they do not love the women--only themselves. so i am not going to be fooled by the men. i shall enjoy life, but i shall think of _myself_, not of the men." her mother gazed at her in speechless amazement. she never had read a book in her life, and had not thought of locking from her daughter the few volumes her dead husband had collected. then she gasped with consternation. "por dios, señorita, a fine woman thou wilt make of thyself with such ideas! a nice wife and mother--when the time comes. what does padro flores say to that, i should like to know? it is very strange that he has let you read those books." "i have never told him," said eulogia, indifferently. "what!" screamed her mother. "you never told at confession?" "no, i never did. it was none of his business what i read. reading is no sin. i confessed all--" "mother of god!" cried doña pomposa, and she rushed at eulogia with uplifted hand; but her nimble daughter dived under her arm with a provoking laugh, and ran out of the room. that night eulogia pushed aside the white curtain of her window and looked out. the beautiful bare hills encircling san luis obispo were black in the silvered night, but the moon made the town light as day. the owls were hooting on the roof of the mission; eulogia could see them flap their wings. a few indians were still moving among the dark huts outside the walls, and within, the padre walked among his olive trees. beyond the walls the town was still awake. once a horseman dashed down the street, and eulogia wondered if murder had been done in the mountains; the bandits were thick in their fastnesses. she did wish she could see one. then she glanced eagerly down the road beneath her window. in spite of the wisdom she had accepted from the french romanticist, her fancy was just a little touched by juan tornel. his black flashing eyes could look so tender, and he rode so beautifully. she twitched the curtain into place and ran across the room, her feet pattering on the bare floor, jumped into her little iron bed, and drew the dainty sheet to her throat. a ladder had fallen heavily against the side of the house. she heard an agile form ascend and seat itself on the deep window-sill. then the guitar vibrated under the touch of master fingers, and a rich sweet tenor sang to her:-- el corazon "el corazon del amor palpita, al oir de tu dulce voz, cuando mi sangre se pone en agitación, tu eres la mas hermosa, tu eres la luz del dia, tu eres la gloria mia, tu eres mi dulce bien. "negro tienes el cabello, talle lineas hermosas, mano blanca, pie precioso, no hay que decir en ti:--tu eres la mas hermosa, tu eres la luz del dia, tu eres la prenda mía, tu me harás morir. "que importa que noche y dia, en ti sola estoy pensando, el corazón palpitante no cesa de repetir:-- tu eres la mas hermosa, tu eres la luz del dia, tu eres la prenda mía, tu me harás morir--eulogia!" eulogia lay as quiet as a mouse in the daytime, not daring to applaud, hoping fatigue had sent her mother to sleep. her lover tuned his guitar and began another song, but she did not hear it; she was listening to footfalls in the garret above. with a presentiment of what was about to happen she sprang out of bed with a warning cry; but she was too late. there was a splash and rattle on the window-seat, a smothered curse, a quick descent, a triumphant laugh from above. eulogia stamped her foot with rage. she cautiously raised the window and passed her hand along the outer sill. this time she beat the casement with both hands: they were covered with warm ashes. "well, my daughter, have i not won the battle?" said a voice behind her, and eulogia sat down on the window-seat and swung her feet in silent wrath. doña pomposa wore a rather short night-gown, and her feet were encased in a pair of her husband's old boots. her hair was twisted under a red silk kerchief, and again she crossed her hands on her stomach, but the thumbs upheld a candle. eulogia giggled suddenly. "what dost thou laugh at, señorita? at the way i have served thy lover? dost thou think he will come soon again?" "no, mamma, you have proved the famous hospitality of the californians which the americans are always talking about. you need have no more envy of the magnificence of los quervos." and then she kicked her heels against the wall. "oh, thou canst make sharp speeches, thou impertinent little brat; but juan tornel will serenade under thy window no more. dios! the ashes must look well on his pretty mustachios. go to bed. i will put thee to board in the convent to-morrow." and she shuffled out of the room, her ample figure swinging from side to side like a large pendulum. ii the next day eulogia was sitting on her window-seat, her chin resting on her knees, a volume of dumas beside her, when the door was cautiously opened and her aunt anastacia entered the room. aunt anastacia was very large; in fact she nearly filled the doorway; she also disdained whalebones and walked with a slight roll. her ankles hung over her feet, and her red cheeks and chin were covered with a short black down. her hair was twisted into a tight knot and protected by a thick net, and she wore a loose gown of brown calico, patterned with large red roses. but good-nature beamed all over her indefinite features, and her little eyes dwelt adoringly upon eulogia, who gave her an absent smile. "poor little one," she said in her indulgent voice. "but it was cruel in my sister to throw ashes on thy lover. not but what thou art too young for lovers, my darling,--although i had one at twelve. but times have changed. my little one--i have a note for thee. thy mother is out, and he has gone away, so there can be no harm in reading it--" "give it to me at once"--and eulogia dived into her aunt's pocket and found the note. "beautiful and idolized eulogia.--adios! adios! i came a stranger to thy town. i fell blinded at thy feet. i fly forever from the scornful laughter in thine eyes. ay, eulogia, how couldst thou? but no! i will not believe it was thou! the dimples that play in thy cheeks, the sparks that fly in thine eyes--dios de mi vida! i cannot believe that they come from a malicious soul. no, enchanting eulogia! consolation of my soul! it was thy mother who so cruelly humiliated me, who drives me from thy town lest i be mocked in the streets. ay, eulogia! ay, misericordia! adios! adios! "juan tornel." eulogia shrugged her shoulders. "well, my mother is satisfied, perhaps. she has driven him away. at least, i shall not have to go to the convent." "thou art so cold, my little one," said aunt anastacia, disapprovingly. "thou art but fifteen years, and yet thou throwest aside a lover as if he were an old reboso. madre de dios! in your place i should have wept and beaten the air. but perhaps that is the reason all the young men are wild for thee. not but that i had many lovers--" "it is too bad thou didst not marry one," interrupted eulogia, maliciously. "perhaps thou wouldst"--and she picked up her book--"if thou hadst read the señor dumas." "thou heartless baby!" cried her indignant aunt, "when i love thee so, and bring thy notes at the risk of my life, for thou knowest that thy mother would pull the hair from my head. thou little brat! to say i could not marry, when i had twenty--" eulogia jumped up and pecked her on the chin like a bird. "twenty-five, my old mountain. i only joked with thee. thou didst not marry because thou hadst more sense than to trot about after a man. is it not so, my old sack of flour? i was but angry because i thought thou hadst helped my mother last night." "never! i was sound asleep." "i know, i know. now trot away. i hear my mother coming," and aunt anastacia obediently left her niece to the more congenial company of the señor dumas. iii the steep hills of san luis obispo shot upward like the sloping sides of a well, so round was the town. scarlet patches lay on the slopes--the wide blossoms of the low cacti. a gray-green peak and a mulberry peak towered, kithless and gaunt, in the circle of tan-coloured hills brushed with purple. the garden of the mission was green with fruit trees and silver with olive groves. on the white church and long wing lay the red tiles; beyond the wall the dull earth huts of the indians. then the straggling town with its white adobe houses crouching on the grass. eulogia was sixteen. a year had passed since juan tornel serenaded beneath her window, and, if the truth must be told, she had almost forgotten him. many a glance had she shot over her prayer-book in the mission church; many a pair of eyes, dreamy or fiery, had responded. but she had spoken with no man. after a tempestuous scene with her mother, during which aunt anastacia had wept profusely, a compromise had been made: eulogia had agreed to have no more flirtations until she was sixteen, but at that age she should go to balls and have as many lovers as she pleased. she walked through the olive groves with padre moraga on the morning of her sixteenth birthday. the new padre and she were the best of friends. "well," said the good old man, pushing the long white hair from his dark face--it fell forward whenever he stooped--"well, my little one, thou goest to thy first ball to-night. art thou happy?" eulogia lifted her shoulder. her small nose also tilted. "happy? there is no such thing as happiness, my father. i shall dance, and flirt, and make all the young men fall in love with me. i shall enjoy myself, that is enough." the padre smiled; he was used to her. "thou little wise one!" he collected himself suddenly. "but thou art right to build thy hopes of happiness on the next world alone." then he continued, as if he merely had broken the conversation to say the angelus: "and thou art sure that thou wilt be la favorita? truly, thou hast confidence in thyself--an inexperienced chit who has not half the beauty of many other girls." "perhaps not; but the men shall love me better, all the same. beauty is not everything, my father. i have a greater attraction than soft eyes and a pretty mouth." "indeed! thou baby! why, thou art no bigger than a well-grown child, and thy mouth was made for a woman twice thy size. where dost thou keep that extraordinary charm?" not but that he knew, for he liked her better than any girl in the town, but he felt it his duty to act the part of curb-bit now and again. "you know, my father," said eulogia, coolly; "and if you have any doubt, wait until to-morrow." the ball was given in the long sala of doña antonia ampudia, on the edge of the rambling town. as the night was warm, the young people danced through the low windows on to the wide corridor; and, if watchful eyes relaxed their vigilance, stepped off to the grass and wandered among the trees. the brown old women in dark silks sat against the wall, as dowagers do to-day. most of the girls wore bright red or yellow gowns, although softer tints blossomed here and there. silken black hair was braided close to the neck, the coiffure finished with a fringe of chenille. as they whirled in the dance, their full bright gowns looked like an agitated flower-bed suddenly possessed by a wandering tribe of dusky goddesses. eulogia came rather late. at the last moment her mother had wavered in her part of the contract, and it was not until eulogia had sworn by every saint in the calendar that she would not leave the sala, even though she stifled, that doña pomposa had reluctantly consented to take her. eulogia's perfect little figure was clad in a prim white silk gown, but her cold brilliant eyes were like living jewels, her large mouth was as red as the cactus patches on the hills, and a flame burned in either cheek. in a moment she was surrounded by the young men who had been waiting for her. it might be true that twenty girls in the room were more beautiful than she, but she had a quiet manner more effective than animation, a vigorous magnetism of which she was fully aware, and a cool coquetry which piqued and fired the young men, who were used to more sentimental flirtations. she danced as airily as a flower on the wind, but with untiring vitality. "señorita!" exclaimed don carmelo peña, "thou takest away my breath. dost thou never weary?" "never. i am not a man." "ay, señorita, thou meanest--" "that women were made to make the world go round, and men to play the guitar." "ay, i can play the guitar. i will serenade thee to-morrow night." "thou wilt get a shower of ashes for thy pains. better stay at home, and prepare thy soul with three-card _monte_" "ay, señorita, but thou art cruel! does no man please thee?" "_men_ please me. how tiresome to dance with a woman!" "and that is all the use thou hast for us? for us who would die for thee?" "in a barrel of aguardiente? i prefer thee to dance with. to tell the truth, thy step suits mine." "ay, señorita mia! thou canst put honey on thy tongue. god of my life, señorita--i fling my heart at thy feet!" "i fear to break it, señor, for i have faith that it is made of thin glass. it would cut my feet. i like better this smooth floor. who is that standing by the window? he has not danced to-night?" "don pablo ignestria of monterey. he says the women of san luis are not half so beautiful nor so elegant as the women of monterey; he says they are too dark and too small. he does not wish to dance with any one; nor do any of the girls wish to dance with him. they are very angry." "i wish to dance with him. bring him to me." "but, señorita, i tell thee thou wouldst not like him. holy heaven! why do those eyes flash so? thou lookest as if thou wouldst fight with thy little fists." "bring him to me." don carmelo walked obediently over to don pablo, although burning with jealousy. "señor, at your service," he said. "i wish to introduce you to the most charming señorita in the room." "which?" asked ignestria, incuriously. don carmelo indicated eulogia with a grand sweep of his hand. "that little thing? why, there are a dozen prettier girls in the room than she, and i have not cared to meet any of them!" "but she has commanded me to take you to her, señor, and--look at the men crowding about her--do you think i dare to disobey?" the stranger's dark gray eyes became less insensible. he was a handsome man, with a tall figure, and a smooth strong face; but about him hung the indolence of the californian. "very well," he said, "take me to her." he asked her to dance, and after a waltz eulogia said she was tired, and they sat down within a proper distance of doña pomposa's eagle eye. "what do you think of the women of san luis obispo?" asked eulogia, innocently. "are not they handsome?" "they are not to be compared with the women of monterey--since you ask me." "because they find the men of san luis more gallant than the señor don pablo ignestria!" "do they? one, i believe, asked to have me introduced to her!" "true, señor. i wished to meet you that you might fall in love with me, and that the ladies of san luis might have their vengeance." he stared at her. "truly, señorita, but you do not hide your cards. and why, then, should i fall in love with you?" "because i am different from the women of monterey." "a good reason why i should not. i have been in every town in california, and i admire no women but those of my city." "and because you will hate me first." "and if i hate you, how can i love you?" "it is the same. you hate one woman and love another. each is the same passion, only to a different person out goes a different side. let the person loved or hated change his nature, and the passion will change." he looked at her with more interest. "in truth i think i shall begin with love and end with hate, señorita. but that wisdom was not born in your little head; for sixteen years, i think, have not sped over it, no? it went in, if i mistake not, through those bright eyes." "yes, señor, that is true. i am not content to be just like other girls of sixteen. i want to _know_--_to know._ have you ever read any books, señor?" "many." he looked at her with a lively interest now. "what ones have you read?" "only the beautiful romances of the señor dumas. i have seen no others, for there are not many books in san luis. have you read others?" "a great many others. two wonderful spanish books--'don quixote de la mancha' and 'gil blas,' and the romances of sir waltere scote--a man of england, and some lives of famous men, señorita. a great man lent them to me--the greatest of our governors--alvarado." "and you will lend them to me?" cried eulogia, forgetting her coquetry, "i want to read them." "aha! those cool eyes can flash. that even little voice can break in two. by the holy evangelists, señorita, thou shalt have every book i possess." "will the señorita doña eulogia favour us with a song?" don carmelo was bowing before her, a guitar in his hand, his wrathful eyes fixed upon don pablo. "yes," said eulogia. she took the guitar and sang a love-song in a manner which can best be described as no manner at all; her expression never changed, her voice never warmed. at first the effect was flat, then the subtle fascination of it grew until the very memory of impassioned tones was florid and surfeiting. when she finished, ignestria's heart was hammering upon the steel in which he fancied he had prisoned it. iv "well," said eulogia to padre moraga two weeks later, "am i not la favorita?" "thou art, thou little coquette. thou hast a power over men which thou must use with discretion, my eulogia. tell thy beads three times a day and pray that thou mayest do no harm." "i wish to do harm, my father, for men have broken the hearts of women for ages--" "chut, chut, thou baby! men are not so black as they are painted. harm no one, and the world will be better that thou hast lived in it." "if i scratch, fewer women will be scratched," and she raised her shoulders beneath the flowered muslin of her gown, swung her guitar under her arm, and walked down the grove, the silver leaves shining above her smoky hair. the padre had bidden all the young people of the upper class to a picnic in the old mission garden. girls in gay muslins and silk rebosos were sitting beneath the arches of the corridor or flitting under the trees where the yellow apricots hung among the green leaves. languid and sparkling faces coquetted with caballeros in bright calico jackets and knee-breeches laced with silken cord, their slender waists girt with long sashes hanging gracefully over the left hip. the water rilled in the winding creek, the birds carolled in the trees; but above all rose the sound of light laughter and sweet strong voices. they took their dinner behind the arches, at a table the length of the corridor, and two of the young men played the guitar and sang, whilst the others delighted their keen palates with the goods the padre had provided. don pablo sat by eulogia, a place he very often managed to fill; but he never had seen her for a moment alone. "i must go soon, eulogia," he murmured, as the voices waxed louder. "duty calls me back to monterey." "i am glad to know thou hast a sense of thy duty." "nothing but that would take me away from san luis obispo. but both my mother and--and--a dear friend are ill, and wish to see me." "thou must go to-night. how canst thou eat and be gay when thy mother and--and--a dear friend are ill?" "ay, eulogia! wouldst thou scoff over my grave? i go, but it is for thee to say if i return." "do not tell me that thou adorest me here at the table. i shall blush, and all will be about my smarting ears like the bees down in the padre's hive." "i shall not tell thee that before all the world, eulogia. all i ask is this little favour: i shall send thee a letter the night i leave. promise me that thou wilt answer it--to monterey." "no, sir! long ago, when i was twelve, i made a vow i would never write to a man. i never break that vow." "thou wilt break it for me, eulogia." "and why for you, señor? half the trouble in the world has been made on paper." "oh, thou wise one! what trouble can a piece of paper make when it lies on a man's heart?" "it can crackle when another head lies on it." "no head will ever lie here but--" "mine?" "eulogia!" "to thee, señorita doña eulogia," cried a deep voice. "may the jewels in thine eyes shine by the stars when thou art above them. may the tears never dim them while they shine for us below," and a caballero pushed back his chair, leaned forward, and touched her glass with his, then went down on one knee and drank the red wine. eulogia threw him a little absent smile, sipped her wine, and went on talking to ignestria in her soft monotonous voice. "my friend--graciosa la cruz--went a few weeks ago to monterey for a visit. you will tell her i think of her, no?" "i will dance with her often because she is your friend--until i return to san luis obispo." "will that be soon, señor?" "i told thee that would be as soon as thou wished. thou wilt answer my letter--promise me, eulogia." "i will not, señor. i intend to be wiser than other women. at the very least, my follies shall not burn paper. if you want an answer, you will return." "i will _not_ return without that answer. i never can see thee alone, and if i could, thy coquetry would not give me a plain answer. i must see it on paper before i will believe." "thou canst wait for the day of resurrection for thy knowledge, then!" v once more aunt anastacia rolled her large figure through eulogia's doorway and handed her a letter. "from don pablo ignestria, my baby," she said. "oh, what a man! what a caballero! and so smart. he waited an hour by the creek in the mission gardens until he saw thy mother go out, and then he brought the note to me. he begged to see thee, but i dared not grant that, niñita, for thy mother will be back in ten minutes." "go downstairs and keep my mother there," commanded eulogia, and aunt anastacia rolled off, whilst her niece with unwonted nervousness opened the letter. "sweet of my soul! day-star of my life! i dare not speak to thee of love because, strong man as i am, still am i a coward before those mocking eyes. therefore if thou laugh the first time thou readest that i love thee, i shall not see it, and the second time thou mayest be more kind. beautiful and idolized eulogia, men have loved thee, but never will be cast at thy little feet a heart stronger or truer than mine. ay, dueño adorada, i love thee! without hope? no! i believe that thou lovest me, thou cold little one, although thou dost not like to think that the heart thou hast sealed can open to let love in. but, eulogia! star of my eyes! i love thee so i will break that heart in pieces, and give thee another so soft and warm that it will beat all through the old house to which i will take thee. for thou wilt come to me, thou little coquette? thou wilt write to me to come back and stand with thee in the mission while the good padre asks the saints to bless us? eulogia, thou hast sworn thou wilt write to no man, but thou wilt write to me, my little one. thou wilt not break the heart that lives in thine. "i kiss thy little feet. i kiss thy tiny hands. i kiss--ay, eulogia! adios! adios! "pablo." eulogia could not resist that letter. her scruples vanished, and, after an entire day of agonized composition, she sent these lines:-- "you can come back to san luis obispo. "eulogia amata francisca guadalupe carillo." vi another year had passed. no answer had come from pablo ignestria. nor had he returned to san luis obispo. two months after eulogia had sent her letter, she received one from graciosa la cruz, containing the information that ignestria had married the invalid girl whose love for him had been the talk of monterey for many years. and eulogia? her flirtations had earned her far and wide the title of doña coquetta, and she was cooler, calmer, and more audacious than ever. "dost thou never intend to marry?" demanded doña pomposa one day, as she stood over the kitchen stove stirring red peppers into a saucepan full of lard. eulogia was sitting on the table swinging her small feet. "why do you wish me to marry? i am well enough as i am. was elena castañares so happy with the man who was mad for her that i should hasten to be a neglected wife? poor my elena! four years, and then consumption and death. three children and an indifferent husband, who was dying of love when he could not get her." "thou thinkest of unhappy marriages because thou hast just heard of elena's death. but there are many others." "did you hear of the present she left her mother?" "no." doña pomposa dropped her spoon; she dearly loved a bit of gossip. "what was it?" "you know that a year ago elena went home to los quervos and begged don roberto and doña jacoba on her knees to forgive her, and they did, and were glad to do it. doña jacoba was with her when she was so ill at the last, and just before she died elena said: 'mother, in that chest you will find a legacy from me. it is all of my own that i have in the world, and i leave it to you. do not take it until i am dead.' and what do you think it was? the greenhide reata." "mother of god! but jacoba must have felt as if she were already in purgatory." "it is said that she grew ten years older in the night." "may the saints be praised, my child can leave me no such gift. but all men are not like dario castañares. i would have thee marry an american. they are smart and know how to keep the gold. remember, i have little now, and thou canst not be young forever." "i have seen no american i would marry." "there is don abel hudson." "i do not trust that man. his tongue is sweet and his face is handsome, but always when i meet him i feel a little afraid, although it goes away in a minute. the señor dumas says that a woman's instincts--" "to perdition with señor dumas! does he say that a chit's instincts are better than her mother's? don abel throws about the money like rocks. he has the best horses at the races. he tells me that he has a house in yerba buena--" "san francisco. and i would not live in that bleak and sandy waste. did you notice how he limped at the ball last night?" "no. what of that? but i am not in love with don abel hudson if thou art so set against him. it is true that no one knows just who he is, now i think of it. i had not made up my mind that he was the husband for thee. but let it be an american, my eulogia. even when they have no money they will work for it, and that is what no californian will do--" but eulogia had run out of the room: she rarely listened to the end of her mother's harangues. she draped a reboso about her head, and went over to the house of graciosa la cruz. her friend was sitting by her bedroom window, trimming a yellow satin bed-spread with lace, and eulogia took up a half-finished sheet and began fastening the drawn threads into an intricate pattern. "only ten days more, my graciosa," she said mischievously. "art thou going to run back to thy mother in thy night-gown, like josefita olvera?" "never will i be such a fool! eulogia, i have a husband for thee." "to the tunnel of the mission with husbands! i shall be an old maid like aunt anastacia, fat, with black whiskers." graciosa laughed. "thou wilt marry and have ten children." "by every station in the mission i will not. why bring more women into the world to suffer?" "ay, eulogia! thou art always saying things i cannot understand and that thou shouldst not think about. but i have a husband for thee. he came from los angeles this morning, and is a friend of my carlos. his name is not so pretty--tomas garfias. there he rides now." eulogia looked out of the window with little curiosity. a small young man was riding down the street on a superb horse coloured like golden bronze, with silver mane and tail. his saddle of embossed leather was heavily mounted with silver; the spurs were inlaid with gold and silver, and the straps of the latter were worked with gleaming metal threads. he wore a light red serape, heavily embroidered and fringed. his botas of soft deerskin, dyed a rich green and stamped with aztec eagles, were tied at the knee by a white silk cord wound about the leg and finished with heavy silver tassels. his short breeches were trimmed with gold lace. as he caught graciosa's eye he raised his sombrero, then rode through the open door of a neighbouring saloon and tossed off an american drink without dismounting from his horse. eulogia lifted her shoulders. "i like his saddle and his horse, but he is too small. still, a new man is not disagreeable. when shall i meet him?" "to-night, my eulogia. he goes with us to miramar." vii a party of young people started that night for a ball at miramar, the home of don polycarpo quijas. many a caballero had asked the lady of his choice to ride on his saddle while he rode on the less comfortable aquera behind and guided his horse with arm as near her waist as he dared. doña pomposa, with a small brood under her wing, started last of all in an american wagon. the night was calm, the moon was high, the party very gay. abel hudson and the newcomer, don tomas garfias, sat on either side of eulogia, and she amused herself at the expense of both. "don tomas says that he is handsomer than the men of san luis," she said to hudson. "do not you think he is right? see what a beautiful curl his mustachios have, and what a droop his eyelids. holy mary!--how that yellow ribbon becomes his hair! ay, señor! why have you come to dazzle the eyes of the poor girls of san luis obispo?" "ah, señorita," said the little dandy, "it will do their eyes good to see an elegant young man from the city. and they should see my sister. she would teach them how to dress and arrange their hair." "bring her to teach us, señor, and for reward we will find her a tall and modest husband such as the girls of san luis obispo admire. don abel, why do you not boast of your sisters? have you none, nor mother, nor father, nor brother? i never hear you speak of them. maybe you grow alone out of the earth." hudson's gaze wandered to the canon they were approaching. "i am alone, señorita; a lonely man in a strange land." "is that the reason why you are such a traveller, señor? are you never afraid, in your long lonely rides over the mountains, of that dreadful bandit, john power, who murders whole families for the sack of gold they have under the floor? i hope you always carry plenty of pistols, señor." "true, dear señorita. it is kind of you to put me on my guard. i never had thought of this man." "this devil, you mean. when last night i saw you come limping into the room--" "ay, yi, yi, dios!" "maria!" "dios de mi alma!" "dios de mi vida!" "cielo santo!" a wheel had given way, and the party was scattered about the road. no one was hurt, but loud were the lamentations. no californian had ever walked six miles, and the wheel was past repair. but abel hudson came to the rescue. "leave it to me," he said. "i pledge myself to get you there," and he went off in the direction of a ranch-house. "ay! the good american! the good american!" cried the girls. "eulogia! how canst thou be so cold to him? the handsome stranger with the kind heart!" "his heart is like the sacramento valley, veined with gold instead of blood." "holy mary!" she cried some moments later, "what is he bringing? the wagon of the country!" abel hudson was standing erect on the low floor of a wagon drawn by two strong black mules. the wagon was a clumsy affair,--a large wooden frame covered with rawhide, and set upon a heavy axle. the wheels were made of solid sections of trees, and the harness was of greenhide. an indian boy sat astride one of the mules. on either side rode a vaquero, with his reata fastened to the axle-tree. "this is the best i can do," said hudson. "there is probably not another american wagon between san luis and miramar. do you think you can stand it?" the girls shrugged their pretty shoulders. the men swore into their mustachios. doña pomposa groaned at the prospect of a long ride in a springless wagon. but no one was willing to return, and when eulogia jumped lightly in, all followed, and hudson placed them as comfortably as possible, although they were obliged to sit on the floor. the wagon jolted down the cañon, the mules plunging, the vaqueros shouting; but the moon glittered like a silvered snow peak, the wild green forest was about them, and even eulogia grew a little sentimental as abel hudson's blue eyes bent over hers and his curly head cut off doña pomposa's view. "dear señorita," he said, "thy tongue is very sharp, but thou hast a kind heart. hast thou no place in it for abel hudson?" "in the sala, señor--where many others are received--with mamma and aunt anastacia sitting in the corner." he laughed. "thou wilt always jest! but i would take all the rooms, and turn every one out, even to doña pomposa and doña anastacia!" "and leave me alone with you! god of my soul! how i should yawn!" "oh, yes, doña coquetta, i am used to such pretty little speeches. when you began to yawn i should ride away, and you would be glad to see me when i returned." "what would you bring me from the mountains, señor?" he looked at her steadily. "gold, señorita. i know of many rich veins. i have a little cañon suspected by no one else, where i pick out a sack full of gold in a day. gold makes the life of a beloved wife very sweet, señorita." "in truth i should like the gold better than yourself, señor," said eulogia, frankly. "for if you will have the truth--ay! holy heaven! this is worse than the other!" a lurch, splash, and the party with shrill cries sprang to their feet; the low cart was filling with water. they had left the cañon and were crossing a slough; no one had remembered that it would be high tide. the girls, without an instant's hesitation, whipped their gowns up round their necks; but their feet were wet and their skirts draggled. they made light of it, however, as they did of everything, and drove up to miramar amidst high laughter and rattling jests. doña luisa quijas, a handsome shrewd-looking woman, magnificently dressed in yellow satin, the glare and sparkle of jewels on her neck, came out upon the corridor to meet them. "what is this? in a wagon of the country! an accident? ay, dios de mi vida, the slough! come in--quick! quick! i will give you dry clothes. trust these girls to take care of their gowns. mary! what wet feet! quick! quick! this way, or you will have red noses to-morrow," and she led them down the corridor, past the windows through which they could see the dancers in the sala, and opened the door of her bedroom. "there, my children, help yourselves," and she pulled out the capacious drawers of her chest. "all is at your service." she lifted out an armful of dry underclothing, then went to the door of an adjoining room and listened, her hand uplifted. "didst thou have to lock him up?" asked doña pomposa, as she drew on a pair of doña luisa's silk stockings. "yes! yes! and such a time, my friend! thou knowest that after i fooled him the last time he swore i never should have another ball. but, dios de mi alma! i never was meant to be bothered with a husband, and have i not given him three children twenty times handsomer than himself? is not that enough? by the soul of saint luis the bishop, i will continue to promise, and then get absolution at the mission, but i will not perform! well, he was furious, my friend; he had spent a sack of gold on that ball, and he swore i never should have another. so this time i invited my guests, and told him nothing. at seven to-night i persuaded him into his room, and locked the door. but, madre de dios! diego had forgotten to screw down the window, and he got out. i could not get him back, pomposa, and his big nose was purple with rage. he swore that he would turn every guest away from the door; he swore that he would be taking a bath on the corridor when they came up, and throw insults in their faces. ay, pomposa! i went down on my knees. i thought i should not have my ball--such cakes as i had made, and such salads! but diego saved me. he went into don polycarpo's room and cried 'fire!' of course the old man ran there, and then we locked him in. diego had screwed down the window first. dios de mi vida! but he is terrible, that man! what have i done to be punished with him?" "thou art too handsome and too cruel, my luisa. but, in truth, he is an old wild-cat. the saints be praised that he is safe for the night. did he swear?" "swear! he has cursed the skin off his throat and is quiet now. come, my little ones, are you ready? the caballeros are dry in diego's clothes by this time, and waiting for their waltzes;" and she drove them through the door into the sala with a triumphant smile on her dark sparkling face. the rest of the party had been dancing for an hour, and all gathered about the girls to hear the story of the accident, which was told with many variations. eulogia as usual was craved for dances, but she capriciously divided her favours between abel hudson and don tomas garfias. during the intervals, when the musicians were silent and the girls played the guitar or threw cascarones at their admirers, she sat in the deep window-seat watching the ponderous waves of the pacific hurl themselves against the cliffs, whilst hudson pressed close to her side, disregarding the insistence of garfias. finally, the little don from the city of the angels went into the dining room to get a glass of angelica, and hudson caught at his chance. "señorita," he exclaimed, interrupting one of her desultory remarks, "for a year i have loved you, and, for many reasons, i have not dared to tell you. i must tell you now. i have no reason to think you care more for me than for a dozen other men, but if you will marry me, señorita, i will build you a beautiful american house in san luis obispo, and you can then be with your friends when business calls me away." "and where will you live when you are away from me?" asked eulogia, carelessly. "in a cave in the mountains? be careful of the bandits." "señorita," he replied calmly, "i do not know what you mean by the things you say sometimes. perhaps you have the idea that i am another person--john power, or pio lenares, for instance. do you wish me to bring you a certificate to the effect that i am abel hudson? i can do so, although i thought that californians disdained the written form and trusted to each other's honour, even to the selling of cattle and lands." "you are not a californian." "ah, señorita--god! what is that?" a tremendous knocking at the outer door sounded above the clear soprano of graciosa la cruz. "a late guest, no doubt. you are white like the wall. i think the low ceilings are not so good for your health, señor, as the sharp air of the mountains. ay, dios!" the last words came beneath her breath, and she forgot abel hudson. the front doors had been thrown open, and a caballero in riding-boots and a dark scrape wound about his tall figure had entered the room and flung his sombrero and saddle-bags into a corner. it was pablo ignestria. "at your feet, señora," he said to doña luisa, who held out both hands, welcome on her charming face. "i am an uninvited guest, but when i arrived at san luis and found that all the town had come to one of doña luisa's famous balls, i rode on, hoping that for friendship's sake she would open her hospitable doors to a wanderer, and let him dance off the stiffness of a long ride." "you are welcome, welcome, pablo," said doña luisa. "go to the dining room and get a glass of aguardiente; then come back and dance until dawn." ignestria left the room with diego quijas, but returned in a few moments and walked directly over to eulogia, ignoring the men who stood about her. "give me this dance," he whispered eagerly. "i have something to say to thee. i have purposely come from monterey to say it." eulogia was looking at him with angry eyes, her brain on fire. but curiosity triumphed, and she put her hand on his shoulder as the musicians swept their guitars with lithe fingers, scraped their violins, and began the waltz. "eulogia!" exclaimed ignestria; "dost thou suspect why i have returned?" "why should i suspect what i have not thought about?" "ay, eulogia! art thou as saucy as ever? but i will tell thee, beloved one. the poor girl who bore my name is dead, and i have come to beg an answer to my letter. ay, little one, i _feel_ thy love. why couldst thou not have sent me one word? i was so angry when passed week after week and no answer came, that in a fit of spleen i married the poor sick girl. and what i suffered, eulogia, after that mad act! long ago i told myself that i should have come back for my answer, that you had sworn you would write no letter; i should have let you have your little caprices, but i did not reason until--" "i answered your letter!" exclaimed eulogia, furiously. "you know that i answered it! you only wished to humble me because i had sworn i would write to no man. traitor! i hate you! you were engaged to the girl all the time you were here." "eulogia! believe! believe!" "i would not believe you if you kissed the cross! you said to yourself, 'that little coquette, i will teach her a lesson. to think the little chit should fancy an elegant montereño could fall in love with her!' ah! ha! oh, dios! i hate thee, thou false man-of-the-world! thou art the very picture of the men i have read about in the books of the señor dumas; and yet i was fooled by thy first love-word! but i never loved you. never, never! it was only a fancy--because you were from monterey. i am glad you did not get my letter, for i hate you! mother of christ! i hate you!" he whirled her into the dining room. no one else was there. he kissed her full on the mouth. "dost thou believe me now?" he asked. she raised her little hand and struck him on the face, but the sting was not hotter than her lips had been. "may the saints roll you in perdition!" she cried hoarsely. "may they thrust burning coals into the eyes that lied to me! may the devils bite off the fingers that made me shame myself! god! god! i hate you! i--i, who have fooled so many men, to have been rolled in the dust by you!" he drew back and regarded her sadly. "i see that it is no use to try to convince you," he said; "and i have no proof to show that i never received your letter. but while the stars jewel the heavens, eulogia, i shall love thee and believe that thou lovest me." he opened the door, and she swept past him into the sala. abel hudson stepped forward to offer his arm, and for the moment pablo forgot eulogia. "john power!" he cried. hudson, with an oath, leaped backward, sprang upon the window-seat, and smashing the pane with his powerful hand disappeared before the startled men thought of stopping him. "catch him! catch him!" cried ignestria, excitedly. "it is john power. he stood me up a year ago." he whipped his pistol from the saddle-bags in the corner, and opening the door ran down the road, followed by the other men, shouting and firing their pistols into the air. but they were too late. power had sprung upon ignestria's horse, and was far on his way. viii the next day eulogia went with her mother and aunt anastacia to pay a visit of sympathy to doña jacoba at los quervos. eulogia's eyes were not so bright nor her lips so red as they had been the night before, and she had little to say as the wagon jolted over the rough road, past the cypress fences, then down between the beautiful tinted hills of los quervos. doña pomposa sat forward on the high seat, her feet dangling just above the floor, her hands crossed as usual over her stomach, a sudden twirl of thumbs punctuating her remarks. she wore a loose black gown trimmed with ruffles, and a black reboso about her head. aunt anastacia was attired in a like manner, but clutched the side of the wagon with one hand and an american sunshade with the other. "poor jacoba!" exclaimed doña pomposa; "her stern heart is heavy this day. but she has such a sense of her duty, anastacia. only that makes her so stern." "o-h-h-h, y-e-e-s." when aunt anastacia was preoccupied or excited, these words came from her with a prolonged outgoing and indrawing. "i must ask her for the recipe for those cakes--the lard ones, anastacia. i have lost it." "o-h-h, y-e-e-s. i love those cakes. madre de dios! it is hot!" "i wonder will she give eulogia a mantilla when the chit marries. she has a chest full." "surely. jacoba is generous." "poor my friend! ay, her heart--holy mary! what is that?" she and aunt anastacia stumbled to their feet. the sound of pistol shots was echoing between the hills. smoke was rising from the willow forest that covered the centre of the valley. the indian whipped up his horses with an excited grunt, the two old women reeling and clutching wildly at each other. at the same time they noticed a crowd of horsemen galloping along the hill which a sudden turn in the road had opened to view. "it is the vigilantes," said eulogia, calmly, from the front seat. "they are after john power and pio lenares and their lieutenants. after that awful murder in the mountains the other day, the men of san luis and the ranchos swore they would hunt them out, and this morning they traced them to los quervos. i suppose they have made a barricade in the willows, and the vigilantes are trying to fire them out." "heart of saint peter! thou little brat! why didst thou not tell us of this before, and not let us come here to be shot by flying bullets?" "i forgot," said eulogia, indifferently. they could see nothing; but curiosity, in spite of fear, held them to the spot. smoke and cries, shouts and curses, came from the willows; flocks of agitated crows circled screaming through the smoke. the men on the hill, their polished horses and brilliant attire flashing in the sun, kept up a ceaseless galloping, hallooing, and waving of sombreros. the beautiful earth-green and golden hills looked upon a far different scene from the gay cavalcades to which they were accustomed. even don roberto duncan, a black silk handkerchief knotted about his head, was dashing, on his gray horse, up and down the valley between the hills and the willows, regardless of chance bullets. and over all shone the same old sun, indifferent alike to slaughter and pleasure. "surely, anastacia, all those bullets must shoot some one." "o--h--h, y--e--e--s." her sister was grasping the sunshade with both hands, her eyes starting from her head, although she never removed their gaze from the central volume of smoke. "ay, we can sleep in peace if those murdering bandits are killed!" exclaimed doña pomposa. "i have said a rosary every night for five years that they might be taken. and, holy heaven! to think that we have been petting the worst of them as if he were general castro or juan alvarado. to think, my eulogia!--that thirsty wild-cat has had his arm about thy waist more times than i can count." "he danced very well--aha!" aunt anastacia gurgled like an idiot. doña pomposa gave a terrific shriek, which eulogia cut in two with her hand. a man had crawled out of the brush near them. his face was black with powder, one arm hung limp at his side. doña pomposa half raised her arm to signal the men on the hill, but her daughter gave it such a pinch that she fell back on the seat, faint for a moment. "let him go," said eulogia. "do you want to see a man cut in pieces before your eyes? you would have to say rosaries for the rest of your life." she leaned over the side of the wagon and spoke to the dazed man, whose courage seemed to have deserted him. "don abel hudson, you do not look so gallant as at the ball last night, but you helped us to get there, and i will save you now. get into the wagon, and take care you crawl in like a snake that you may not be seen." "no--no!" cried the two older women, but in truth they were too terrified not to submit. power swung himself mechanically over the wheel, and lay on the floor of the wagon. eulogia, in spite of a protesting whimper from aunt anastacia, loosened that good dame's ample outer skirt and threw it over the fallen bandit. then the faithful benito turned his horse and drove as rapidly toward the town as the rough roads would permit. they barely had started when they heard a great shouting behind them, and turned in apprehension, whilst the man on the floor groaned aloud in his fear. but the vigilantes rode by them unsuspecting. across their saddles they carried the blackened and dripping bodies of lenares and his lieutenants; through the willows galloped the caballeros in search of john power. but they did not find him, then nor after. doña pomposa hid him in her woodhouse until midnight, when he stole away and was never seen near san luis again. a few years later came the word that he had been assassinated by one of his lieutenants in lower california, and his body eaten by wild hogs. ix "al contado plasentero del primer beso de amor, un fuego devorador que en mi pecho siento ardor. "y no me vuelvas a besar por que me quema tu aliento, ya desfayeserme siento, mas enbriagada de amor. "si a cuantas estimas, das beso en pruebas de amor; si me amas hasme el favor de no besarme jamas." a caballero on a prancing horse sang beneath eulogia's window, his jingling spurs keeping time to the tinkling of his guitar. eulogia turned over in bed, pulling the sheet above her ears, and went to sleep. the next day, when don tomas garfias asked her hand of her mother, doña coquetta accepted him with a shrug of her shoulders. "and thou lovest me, eulogia?" murmured the enraptured little dandy as doña pomposa and aunt anastacia good-naturedly discussed the composition of american pies. "no." "ay! señorita! why, then, dost thou marry me? no one compels thee." "it pleases me. what affair of thine are my reasons if i consent to marry you?" "oh, eulogia, i believe thou lovest me! why not? many pretty girls have done so before thee. thou wishest only to tease me a little." "well, do not let me see too much of you before the wedding-day, or i may send you back to those who admire you more than i do." "perhaps it is well that i go to san francisco to remain three months," said the young man, sulkily; he had too much vanity to be enraged. "wilt thou marry me as soon as i return?" "as well then as any other time." garfias left san luis a few days later to attend to important business in san francisco, and although doña pomposa and aunt anastacia began at once to make the wedding outfit, eulogia appeared to forget that she ever had given a promise of marriage. she was as great a belle as ever, for no one believed that she would keep faith with any man, much less with such a ridiculous scrap as garfias. her flirtations were more calmly audacious than ever, her dancing more spirited; in every frolic she was the leader. suddenly doña pomposa was smitten with rheumatism. she groaned by night and shouted by day. eulogia, whose patience was not great, organized a camping party to the sulphur springs of the great rancho, paso des robles. the young people went on horseback; doña pomposa and aunt anastacia in the wagon with the tents and other camping necessities. groans and shrieks mingled with the careless laughter of girls and caballeros, who looked upon rheumatism as the inevitable sister of old age; but when they entered the park-like valley after the ride over the beautiful chrome mountains, doña pomposa declared that the keen dry air had already benefited her. that evening, when the girls left their tents, hearts fluttered, and gay muslin frocks waved like agitated banners. several americans were pitching their tents by the spring. they proved to be a party of mining engineers from san francisco, and although there was only one young man among them, the greater was the excitement. many of the girls were beautiful, with their long braids and soft eyes, but eulogia, in her yellow gown, flashed about like a succession of meteors, as the americans drew near and proffered their services to doña pomposa. the young man introduced himself as charles rogers. he was a good-looking little fellow, in the lighter american style. his well-attired figure was slim and active, his mouse-coloured hair short and very straight, his shrewd eyes were blue. after a few moments' critical survey of the charming faces behind doña pomposa, he went off among the trees, and returning with a bunch of wild flowers walked straight over to eulogia and handed them to her. she gave him a roguish little courtesy. "much thanks, señor. you must scuse my english; i no spik often. the americanos no care for the flores?" "i like them well enough, but i hope you will accept these." "si, señor." she put them in her belt. "you like california?" "very much. it is full of gold, and, i should say, excellent for agriculture." "but it no is beautiful country?" "oh, yes, it does very well, and the climate is pretty fair in some parts." "you living in san francisco?" "i am a mining engineer, and we have got hold of a good thing near here." "the mine--it is yours?" "only a part of it." "the americanos make all the money now." "the gold was put here for some one to take out. you californians had things all your own way for a hundred years, but you let it stay there." "tell me how you take it out." he entered into a detailed and somewhat technical description, but her quick mind grasped the meaning of unfamiliar words. "you like make the money?" she asked, after he had finished. "of course. what else is a man made for? life is a pretty small affair without money." "we no have much now, but we live very happy. the americanos love the money, though. alway i see that." "americans have sense." he devoted himself to her during the ten days of their stay, and his business shrewdness and matter-of-fact conversation attracted the keen-witted girl, satiated with sighs and serenades. always eager for knowledge, she learned much from him of the eastern world. she did not waste a glance on her reproachful caballeros, but held long practical conversations with rogers under the mending wing of doña pomposa, who approved of the stranger, having ascertained his abilities and prospects from the older men of his party. on the morning of their return to san luis obispo, rogers and eulogia were standing somewhat apart, whilst the vaqueros rounded up the horses that had strayed at will through the valley. rogers plucked one of the purple autumn lilies and handed it to her. "señorita," he said, "suppose you marry me. it is a good thing for a man to be married in a wild country like this; he is not so apt to gamble and drink. and although i've seen a good many pretty girls, i've seen no one so likely to keep me at home in the evening as yourself. what do you say?" eulogia laughed. his wooing interested her. "i promise marry another man; not i think much i ever go to do it." "well, let him go, and marry me." "i no think i like you much better. but i spose i must get marry some day. here my mother come. ask her. i do what she want." doña pomposa was trotting toward them, and while she struggled for her lost breath eulogia repeated the proposal of the american, twanging her guitar the while. the old lady took but one moment to make up her mind. "the american," she said rapidly in spanish. "garfias is rich now, but in a few years the americans will have everything. garfias will be poor; this man will be rich. marry the american," and she beamed upon rogers. eulogia shrugged her shoulders and turned to her practical wooer. "my mother she say she like you the best." "then i may look upon that little transaction as settled?" "si you like it." "_which_ art thou going to marry, eulogia?" asked one of the girls that night, as they rode down the mountain. "neither," said eulogia, serenely. x eulogia had just passed through an animated interview with her mother. doña pomposa had stormed and eulogia had made an occasional reply in her cool monotonous voice, her gaze absently fixed on the gardens of the mission. "thou wicked little coquette!" cried doña pomposa, her voice almost worn out. "thou darest repeat to me that thou wilt not marry the señor rogers!" "i will not. it was amusing to be engaged to him for a time, but now i am tired. you can give him what excuse you like, but tell him to go." "and the clothes i have made--the chests of linen with the beautiful deshalados that nearly put out aunt anastacia's eyes! the new silk gowns! dias de mi vida! the magnificent bed-spread with the lace as deep as my hand!" "they will keep until i do marry. besides, i need some new clothes." "dost thou indeed, thou little brat! thou shalt not put on a smock or a gown in that chest if thou goest naked! but thou shalt marry him, i say!" "no." "oh, thou ice-hearted little devil!" even doña pomposa's stomach was trembling with rage, and her fingers were jumping. "whom then wilt thou marry? garfias?" "no." "thou wilt be an old maid like aunt anastacia." "perhaps." "o--h--h--who is this?" a stranger in travelling scrape and riding-boots had dashed up to the house, and flung himself from his horse. he knocked loudly on the open door, then entered without waiting for an invitation, and made a deep reverence to doña pomposa. "at your service, señora. at your service, señorita. i come from the señor don tomas garfias. word has reached him that the señorita eulogia is about to marry an american. i humbly ask you to tell me if this be true or not. i have been told in town that the wedding is set for the day after to-morrow." "ask her!" cried doña pomposa, tragically, and she swung herself to the other end of the room. "señorita, at your feet." "you can tell your friend that i have no more intention of marrying the american than i have of marrying him." "señorita! but he expected to return next week and marry you." "we expect many things in this world that we do not get." "but--a thousand apologies for my presumption, señorita--why did you not write and tell him?" "i never write letters." "but you could have sent word by some friend travelling to san francisco, señorita." "he would find it out in good time. why hurry?" "ay, señorita, well are you named doña coquetta. you are famous even to san francisco. i will return to my poor friend. at your service, señora. at your service, señorita," and he bowed himself out, and galloped away. doña pomposa threw herself into her chair, and wept aloud. "mother of god! i had thought to see her married to a thrifty american! what have i done to be punished with so heartless a child? and the americans will have all the money! the little i have will go, too! we shall be left sitting in the street. and we might have a wooden house in san francisco, and go to the theatre! oh, mother of god, why dost thou not soften the heart of the wicked--" eulogia slipped out of the window, and went into the mission gardens. she walked slowly through the olive groves, lifting her arms to part the branches where the little purple spheres lay in their silver nests. suddenly she came face to face with pablo ignestria. her cynical brain informed her stormy heart that any woman must succumb finally to the one man who had never bored her. the isle of skulls i the good priests of santa barbara sat in grave conference on the long corridor of their mission. it was a winter's day, and they basked in the sun. the hoods of their brown habits peaked above faces lean and ascetic, fat and good-tempered, stern, intelligent, weak, commanding. one face alone was young. but for the subject under discussion they would have been at peace with themselves and with nature. in the great square of the mission the indians they had christianized worked at many trades. the great aqueduct along the brow of one of the lower hills, the wheat and corn fields on the slopes, the trim orchards and vegetable gardens in the cañons of the great bare mountains curving about the valley, were eloquent evidence of their cleverness and industry. from the open door of the church came the sound of lively and solemn tunes: the choir was practising for mass. the day was as peaceful as only those long drowsy shimmering days before the americans came could be. and yet there was dissent among the padres. several had been speaking together, when one of the older men raised his hand with cold impatience. "there is only one argument," he said. "we came here, came to the wilderness out of civilization, for one object only--to lead the heathen to god. we have met with a fair success. shall we leave these miserable islanders to perish, when we have it in our power to save?" "but no one knows exactly where this island is, father jiméno," replied the young priest. "and we know little of navigation, and may perish before we find it. our lives are more precious than those of savages." "in the sight of god one soul is of precisely the same value as another, father carillo." the young priest scowled. "we can save. they cannot." "if we refuse to save when the power is ours, then the savage in his extremest beastiality has more hope of heaven than we have." father carillo looked up at the golden sun riding high in the dark blue sky, down over the stately oaks and massive boulders of the valley where quail flocked like tame geese. he had no wish to leave his paradise, and as the youngest and hardiest of the priests, he knew that he would be ordered to take charge of the expedition. "it is said also," continued the older man, "that once a ship from the continent of europe was wrecked among those islands--" "no? no?" interrupted several of the priests. "it is more than probable that there were survivors, and that their descendants live on this very island to-day. think of it, my brother! men and women of our own blood, perhaps, living like beasts of the field! worshipping idols! destitute of morality! can we sit here in hope of everlasting life while our brethren perish?" "no!" the possibility of rescuing men of european blood had quenched dissent. even carillo spoke as spontaneously as the others. as he had anticipated, the expedition was put in his charge. don guillermo iturbi y moncada, the magnate of the south, owned a small schooner, and placed it at the disposal of the priests. through the wide portals of the mission church, two weeks later, rolled the solemn music of high mass. the church was decorated as for a festival. the aristocrats of the town knelt near the altar, the people and indians behind. father carillo knelt and took communion, the music hushing suddenly to rise in more sonorous volume. then father jiméno, bearing a cross and chanting the rosary, descended the altar steps and walked toward the doors. on either side of him a page swung a censer. four women neophytes rose from among the worshippers, and shouldering a litter on which rested a square box containing an upright figure of the holy virgin followed with bent heads. the virgin's gown was of yellow satin, covered with costly spanish lace; strands of baja californian pearls bedecked the front of her gown. behind this resplendent image came the other priests, two and two, wearing their white satin embroidered robes, chanting the sacred mysteries. father carillo walked last and alone. his thin clever face wore an expression of nervous exaltation. as the procession descended the steps of the church, the bells rang out a wild inspiring peal. the worshippers rose, and forming in line followed the priests down the valley. when they reached the water's edge, father jiméno raised the cross above his head, stepped with the other priests into a boat, and was rowed to the schooner. he sprinkled holy water upon the little craft; then father carillo knelt and received the blessing of each of his brethren. when he rose all kissed him solemnly, then returned to the shore, where the whole town knelt. the boat brought back the six indians who were to give greeting and confidence to their kinsmen on the island, and the schooner was ready to sail. as she weighed anchor, the priests knelt in a row before the people, father jiméno alone standing and holding the cross aloft with rigid arms. father carillo stood on deck and watched the white mission under the mountain narrow to a thread, the kneeling priests become dots of reflected light. his exaltation vanished. he was no longer the chief figure in a picturesque panorama. he set his lips and his teeth behind them. he was a very ambitious man. his dreams leapt beyond california to the capital of spain. if he returned with his savages, he might make success serve as half the ladder. but would he return? wind and weather favoured him. three days after leaving santa barbara he sighted a long narrow mountainous island. he had passed another of different proportions in the morning, and before night sighted still another, small and oval. but the lofty irregular mass, some ten miles long and four miles wide, which he approached at sundown, was the one he sought. the night world was alight under the white blaze of the moon; the captain rode into a small harbour at the extreme end of the island and cast anchor, avoiding reefs and shoals as facilely as by midday. father carillo gave his indians orders to be ready to march at dawn. the next morning the priest arrayed himself in his white satin garments, embroidered about the skirt with gold and on the chest with a purple cross pointed with gold. the brown woollen habit of his voyage was left behind. none knew better than he the value of theatric effect upon the benighted mind. his indians wore gayly striped blankets of their own manufacture, and carried baskets containing presents and civilized food. bearing a large gilt cross, father carillo stepped on shore, waved farewell to the captain, and directed his indians to keep faithfully in the line of march: they might come upon the savages at any moment. they toiled painfully through a long stretch of white sand, then passed into a grove of banana trees, dark, cold, noiseless, but for the rumble of the ocean. when they reached the edge of the grove, father carillo raised his cross and commanded the men to kneel. rumour had told him what to expect, and he feared the effect on his simple and superstitious companions. he recited a chaplet, then, before giving them permission to rise, made a short address. "my children, be not afraid at what meets your eyes. the ways of all men are not our ways. these people have seen fit to leave their dead unburied on the surface of the earth. but these poor bones can do you no more harm than do those you have placed beneath the ground in santa barbara. now rise and follow me, nor turn back as you fear the wrath of god." he turned and strode forward, with the air of one to whom fear had no meaning; but even he closed his eyes for a moment in horror. the poor creatures behind mumbled and crossed themselves and clung to each other. the plain was a vast charnel-house. the sun, looking over the brow of an eastern hill, threw its pale rays upon thousands of crumbling skeletons, bleached by unnumbered suns, picked bare by dead and gone generations of carrion, white, rigid, sinister. detached skulls lay in heaps, grinning derisively. stark digits pointed threateningly, as if the old warriors still guarded their domain. other frames lay face downward, as though the broken teeth had bitten the dust in battle. slender forms lay prone, their arms encircling cooking utensils, beautiful in form and colour. great bowls and urns, toy canoes, mortars and pestles, of serpentine, sandstone, and steatite, wrought with a lost art,--if, indeed, the art had ever been known beyond this island,--and baked to richest dyes, were placed at the head and feet of skeletons more lofty in stature than their fellows. father carillo sprinkled holy water right and left, bidding his indians chant a rosary for the souls which once had inhabited these appalling tenements. the indians obeyed with clattering teeth, keeping their eyes fixed stonily upon the ground lest they stumble and fall amid yawning ribs. the ghastly tramp lasted two hours. the sun spurned the hill-top and cast a flood of light upon the ugly scene. the white bones grew whiter, dazzling the eyes of the living. they reached the foot of a mountain and began a toilsome ascent through a dark forest. here new terrors awaited them. skeletons sat propped against trees, grinning out of the dusk, gleaming in horrid relief against the mass of shadow. father carillo, with one eye over his shoulder, managed by dint of command, threats, and soothing words to get his little band to the top of the hill. once, when revolt seemed imminent, he asked them scathingly if they wished to retrace their steps over the plain unprotected by the cross, and they clung to his skirts thereafter. when they reached the summit, they lay down to rest and eat their luncheon, father carillo reclining carefully on a large mat: his fine raiment was a source of no little anxiety. no skeletons kept them company here. they had left the last many yards below. "anacleto," commanded the priest, at the end of an hour, "crawl forward on thy hands and knees and peer over the brow of the mountain. then come back and tell me if men like thyself are below." anacleto obeyed, and returned in a few moments with bulging eyes and a broad smile of satisfaction. people were in the valley--a small band. they wore feathers like birds, and came and went from the base of the hill. there were no wigwams, no huts. father carillo rose at once. bidding his indians keep in the background, he walked to the jutting brow of the hill, and throwing a rapid glance downward came to a sudden halt. with one hand he held the cross well away from him and high above his head. the sun blazed down on the burnished cross; on the white shining robes of the priest; on his calm benignant face thrown into fine relief by the white of the falling sleeve. in a moment a low murmur arose from the valley, then a sudden silence. father carillo, glancing downward, saw that the people had prostrated themselves. he began the descent, holding the cross aloft, chanting solemnly; his indians, to whom he had given a swift signal, following and lifting up their voices likewise. the mountain on this side was bare, as if from fire, the incline shorter and steeper. the priest noted all things, although he never forgot his lines. below was a little band of men and women. a broad plain swept from the mountain's foot, a forest broke its sweep, and the ocean thundered near. the people were clad in garments made from the feathered skins of birds, and were all past middle age. the foot of the mountain was perforated with caves. when he stood before the trembling awe-struck savages, he spoke to them kindly and bade them rise. they did not understand, but lifted their heads and stared appealingly. he raised each in turn. as they once more looked upon his full magnificence, they were about to prostrate themselves again when they caught sight of the indians. those dark stolid faces, even that gay attire, they could understand. glancing askance at the priest, they drew near to their fellow-beings, touched their hands to the strangers' breasts, and finally kissed them. father carillo was a man of tact. "my children," he said to his flock, "do you explain as best you-can to these our new friends what it is we have come to do. i will go into the forest and rest." he walked swiftly across the plain, and parting the clinging branches of two gigantic ferns, entered the dim wood. he laid the heavy cross beneath a tree, and strolled idly. it was a forest of fronds. lofty fern trees waved above wide-leaved palms. here and there a little marsh with crowding plant life held the riotous groves apart. down the mountain up which the forest spread tumbled a creek over coloured rocks, then wound its way through avenues, dark in the shadows, sparkling where the sunlight glinted through the tall tree-tops. red lilies were everywhere. the aisles were vocal with whispering sound. the priest threw himself down on a bed of dry leaves by the creek. after a time his eyes closed. he was weary, and slept. he awoke suddenly, the power of a steadfast gaze dragging his brain from its rest. a girl sat on a log in the middle of the creek. father carillo stared incredulously, believing himself to be dreaming. the girl's appearance was unlike anything he had ever seen. like the other members of her tribe, she wore a garment of feathers, and her dark face was cast in the same careless and gentle mould; but her black eyes had a certain intelligence, unusual to the indians of california, and the hair that fell to her knees was the colour of flame. apparently she was not more than eighteen years old. father carillo, belonging to a period when bleached brunettes were unknown, hastily crossed himself. "who are you?" he asked. his voice was deep and musical. it had charmed many a woman's heart, despite the fact that he had led a life of austerity and sought no woman's smiles. but this girl at the sound of it gave a loud cry and bounded up the mountain, leaping through the brush like a deer. [illustration: "he awoke suddenly, the power of a steadfast gaze dragging his brain from its rest."] the priest rose, drank of the bubbles in the stream, and retraced his steps. he took up the burden of the cross again and returned to the village. there he found the savage and the christianized sitting together in brotherly love. the islanders were decked with the rosaries presented to them, and the women in their blankets were swollen with pride. all had eaten of bread and roast fowl, and made the strangers offerings of strange concoctions in magnificent earthen dishes. as the priest appeared the heathen bowed low, then gathered about him. their awe had been dispelled, and they responded to the magnetism of his voice and smile. he knew many varieties of the indian language, and succeeded in making them understand that he wished them to return with him, and that he would make them comfortable and happy. they nodded their heads vigorously as he spoke, but pointed to their venerable chief, who sat at the entrance of his cave eating of a turkey's drumstick. father carillo went over to the old man and saluted him respectfully. the chief nodded, waved his hand at a large flat stone, and continued his repast, his strong white teeth crunching bone as well as flesh. the priest spread his handkerchief on the stone, seated himself, and stated the purpose of his visit. he dwelt at length upon the glories of civilization. the chief dropped his bone after a time and listened attentively. when the priest finished, he uttered a volley of short sentences. "good. we go. great sickness come. all die but us. many, many, many. we are strong no more. no children come. we are old--all. one young girl not die. the young men die. the young women die. the children die. no more will come. yes, we go." "and this young girl with the hair--" the priest looked upward. the sun had gone. he touched the gold of the cross, then his own hair. "dorthe," grunted the old man, regarding his bare drumstick regretfully. "who is she? where did she get such a name? why has she that hair?" out of another set of expletives father carillo gathered that dorthe was the granddaughter of a man who had been washed ashore after a storm, and who had dwelt on the island until he died. he had married a woman of the tribe, and to his daughter had given the name of dorthe--or so the indians had interpreted it--and his hair, which was like the yellow fire. this girl had inherited both. he had been very brave and much beloved, but had died while still young. their ways were not his ways, father carillo inferred, and barbarism had killed him. the priest did not see dorthe again that day. when night came, he was given a cave to himself. he hung up his robes on a jutting point of rock, and slept the sleep of the weary. at the first shaft of dawn he rose, intending to stroll down to the beach in search of a bay where he could bathe; but as he stepped across the prostrate californians, asleep at the entrance of his cave, he paused abruptly, and changed his plans. on the far edge of the ocean the rising diadem of the sun sent great bubbles of colour up through a low bank of pale green cloud to the gray night sky and the sulky stars. and, under the shadow of the cacti and palms, in rapt mute worship, knelt the men and women the priest had come to save, their faces and clasped hands uplifted to the waking sun. father carillo awoke his indians summarily. "gather a dozen large stones and build an altar--quick!" he commanded. the sleepy indians stumbled to their feet, obeyed orders, and in a few moments a rude altar was erected. the priest propped the cross on the apex, and, kneeling with his indians, slowly chanted a mass. the savages gathered about curiously; then, impressed by the solemnity of the priest's voice and manner, sank to their knees once more, although directing to the sun an occasional glance of anxiety. when the priest rose, he gave them to understand that he was deeply gratified by their response to the religion of civilization, and pointed to the sun, now full-orbed, amiably swimming in a jewelled mist. again they prostrated themselves, first to him, then to their deity, and he knew that the conquest was begun. after breakfast they were ready to follow him. they had cast their feathered robes into a heap, and wore the blankets, one and all. still dorthe had not appeared. the chief sent a man in search of her, and when, after some delay, she entered his presence, commanded her to make herself ready to go with the tribe. for a time she protested angrily. but when she found that she must go or remain alone, she reluctantly joined the forming procession, although refusing to doff her bird garment, and keeping well in the rear that she might not again look upon that terrible presence in white and gold, that face with its strange pallor and piercing eyes. father carillo, who was very much bored, would have been glad to talk to her, but recognized that he must keep his distance if he wished to include her among his trophies. the natives knew of a shorter trail to the harbour, and one of them led the way, father carillo urging his footsteps, for the green cloud of dawn was now high and black and full. a swift wind was rustling the tree-tops and tossing the ocean white. as they skirted the plain of the dead, the priest saw a strange sight. the wind had become a gale. it caught up great armfuls of sand from the low dunes, and hurled them upon the skeletons, covering them from sight. sometimes a gust would snatch the blanket from one to bury another more deeply; and for a moment the old bones would gleam again, to be enveloped in the on-rushing pillar of whirling sand. through the storm leaped the wild dogs, yelping dismally. when the party reached the stretch beyond the banana grove, they saw the schooner tossing and pulling at her anchor. the captain shouted to them to hurry. the boat awaiting them at the beach was obliged to make three trips. father carillo went in the first boat; dorthe remained for the last. she was the last, also, to ascend the ladder at the ship's side. as she put her foot on deck, and confronted again the pale face and shining robes of the young priest, she screamed, and leapt from the vessel into the waves. the chief and his tribe shouted their entreaties to return. but she had disappeared, and the sky was black. the captain refused to lower the boat again. he had already weighed anchor, and he hurriedly represented that to remain longer in the little bay, with its reefs and rocks, its chopping waves, would mean death to all. the priest was obliged to sacrifice the girl to the many lives in his keep. ii dorthe darted through the hissing waves, undismayed by the darkness or the screaming wind; she and the ocean had been friends since her baby days. when a breaker finally tossed her on the shore, she scrambled to the bank, then stood long endeavouring to pierce the rain for sight of the vessel. but it was far out in the dark. dorthe was alone on the island. for a time she howled in dismal fashion. she was wholly without fear, but she had human needs and was lonesome. then reason told her that when the storm was over the ship would return to seek her; and she fled and hid in the banana grove. the next morning the storm had passed; but the ship was nowhere to be seen, and she started for home. the wind still blew, but it had veered. this time it caught the sand from the skeletons, and bore it rapidly back to the dunes. dorthe watched the old bones start into view. sometimes a skull would thrust itself suddenly forth, sometimes a pair of polished knees; and once a long finger seemed to beckon. but it was an old story to dorthe, and she pursued her journey undisturbed. she climbed the mountain, and went down into the valley and lived alone. her people had left their cooking utensils. she caught fish in the creek, and shot birds with her bow and arrow. wild fruits and nuts were abundant. of creature comforts she lacked nothing. but the days were long and the island was very still. for a while she talked aloud in the limited vocabulary of her tribe. after a time she entered into companionship with the frogs and birds, imitating their speech. restlessness vanished, and she existed contentedly enough. two years passed. the moon flooded the valley one midnight. dorthe lay on the bank of the creek in the fern forest. she and the frogs had held long converse, and she was staring up through the feathery branches, waving in the night wind, at the calm silver face which had ignored her overtures. upon this scene entered a man. he was attenuated and ragged. hair and beard fell nearly to his waist. he leaned on a staff, and tottered like an old man. he stared about him sullenly. "curse them!" he said aloud. "why could they not have died and rotted before we heard of them?" dorthe, at the sound of a human voice, sprang to her feet with a cry. the man, too, gave a cry--the ecstatic cry of the unwilling hermit who looks again upon the human face. "dorthe! thou? i thought thou wast dead--drowned in the sea." dorthe had forgotten the meaning of words, but her name came to her familiarly. then something stirred within her, filling her eyes with tears. she went forward and touched the stranger, drawing her hand over his trembling arms. "do you not remember me, dorthe?" asked the man, softly. "i am the priest--was, for i am not fit for the priesthood now. i have forgotten how to pray." she shook her head, but smiling, the instinct of gregariousness awakening. he remembered his needs, and made a gesture which she understood. she took his hand, and led him from the forest to her cave. she struck fire from flint into a heap of fagots beneath a swinging pot. in a little time she set before him a savoury mess of birds. he ate of it ravenously. dorthe watched him with deep curiosity. she had never seen hunger before. she offered him a gourd of water, and he drank thirstily. when he raised his face his cheeks were flushed, his eyes brighter. he took her hand and drew her down beside him. "i must talk," he said. "even if you cannot understand, i must talk to a human being. i must tell some one the story of these awful years. the very thought intoxicates me. we were shipwrecked, dorthe. the wind drove us out of our course, and we went to pieces on the rocks at the foot of this island. until to-night i did not know that it was this island. i alone was washed on shore. in the days that came i grew to wish that i, too, had perished. you know nothing of what solitude and savagery mean to the man of civilization--and to the man of ambition. oh, my god! i dared not leave the shore lest i miss the chance to signal a passing vessel. there was scarcely anything to maintain life on that rocky coast. now and again i caught a seagull or a fish. sometimes i ventured inland and found fruit, running back lest a ship should pass. there i stayed through god knows how many months and years. i fell ill many times. my limbs are cramped and twisted with rheumatism. finally, i grew to hate the place beyond endurance. i determined to walk to the other end of the island. it was only when i passed, now and again, the unburied dead and the pottery that i suspected i might be on your island. oh, that ghastly company! when night came, they seemed to rise and walk before me. i cried aloud and cursed them. my manhood has gone, i fear. i cannot tell how long that terrible journey lasted,--months and months, for my feet are bare and my legs twisted. what kind fate guided me to you?" he gazed upon her, not as man looks at woman, but as mortal looks adoringly upon the face of mortal long withheld. dorthe smiled sympathetically. his speech and general appearance struck a long-dormant chord; but in her mind was no recognition of him. he fell asleep suddenly and profoundly. as dorthe watched, she gradually recalled the appearance of the old who had lain screaming on the ground drawing up their cramped limbs. she also recalled the remedy. not far from the edge of the forest was a line of temascals, excavations covered with mud huts, into which her people had gone for every ill. she ran to one, and made a large fire within; the smoke escaped through an aperture in the roof. then she returned, and, taking the emaciated figure in her arms, bore him to the hut and placed him in the corner farthest from the fire. she went out and closed the door, but thrust her head in from time to time. he did not awaken for an hour. when he did, he thought he had entered upon the fiery sequel of unfaith. the sweat was pouring from his body. the atmosphere could only be that of the nether world. as his brain cleared he understood, and made no effort to escape: he knew the virtues of the temascal. as the intense heat sapped his remaining vitality he sank into lethargy. he was aroused by the shock of cold water, and opened his eyes to find himself struggling in the creek, dorthe holding him down with firm arms. after a moment she carried him back to the plain and laid him in the sun to dry. his rags still clung to him. she regarded them with disfavour, and fetched the chief's discarded plumage. as soon as he could summon strength he tottered into the forest and made his toilet. as he was a foot and a half taller than the chief had been, he determined to add a flounce as soon as his health would permit. dorthe, however, looked approval when he emerged, and set a bowl of steaming soup before him. he took the temascal twice again, and at the end of a week the drastic cure had routed his rheumatism. although far from strong, he felt twenty years younger. his manhood returned, and with it his man's vanity. he did not like the appearance of his reflected image in the still pools of the wood. the long beard and head locks smote him sorely. he disliked the idea of being a fright, even though dorthe had no standards of comparison; but his razors were at the bottom of the sea. after much excogitation he arrived at a solution. one day, when dorthe was on the other side of the mountain shooting birds,--she would kill none of her friends in the fern forest,--he tore dried palm leaves into strips, and setting fire to them singed his hair and beard to the roots. it was a long and tedious task. when it was finished the pool told him that his chin and head were like unto a stubbled field. but he was young and well-looking once more. he went out and confronted dorthe. she dropped her birds, her bow and arrow, and stared at him. then he saw recognition leap to her eyes; but this time no fear. he was far from being the gorgeous apparition of many moons ago. and, so quickly does solitude forge its links, she smiled brightly, approvingly, and he experienced a glow of content. the next day he taught her the verbal synonym of many things, and she spoke the words after him with rapt attention. when he finished the lesson, she pounded, in a wondrous mortar, the dried flour of the banana with the eggs of wild fowl, then fried the paste over the fire he had built. she brought a dish of nuts and showed him gravely how to crack them with a stone, smiling patronizingly at his ready skill. when the dinner was cooked, she offered him one end of the dish as usual, but he thought it was time for another lesson. he laid a flat stone with palm leaves, and set two smaller dishes at opposite ends. then with a flat stick he lifted the cakes from the fry-pan, and placed an equal number on each plate. dorthe watched these proceedings with expanded eyes, but many gestures of impatience. she was hungry. he took her hand and led her ceremoniously to the head of the table, motioning to her to be seated. she promptly went down on her knees, and dived at the cakes with both hands. but again he restrained her. he had employed a part of his large leisure fashioning rude wood forks with his ragged pocket-knife. there were plenty of bone knives on the island. he sat himself opposite, and gave her a practical illustration of the use of the knife and fork. she watched attentively, surreptitiously whisking morsels of cake into her mouth. finally, she seized the implements of civilization beside her plate, and made an awkward attempt to use them. the priest tactfully devoted himself to his own dinner. suddenly he heard a cry of rage, and simultaneously the knife and fork flew in different directions. dorthe seized a cake in each hand, and stuffed them into her mouth, her eyes flashing defiance. the priest looked at her reproachfully, then lowered his eyes. presently she got up, found the knife and fork, and made a patient effort to guide the food to its proper place by the new and trying method this time the attempt resulted in tears--a wild thunder shower. the priest went over, knelt beside her, and guided the knife through the cake, the fork to her mouth. dorthe finished the meal, then put her head on his shoulder and wept bitterly. the priest soothed her, and made her understand that she had acquitted herself with credit; and the sun shone once more. an hour later she took his hand, and led him to the creek in the forest. "c--c--ruck! c--c--ruck!" she cried. "c--c--ruck! c--c--ruck!" came promptly from the rushes. she looked at him triumphantly. "curruck," he said, acknowledging the introduction. she laughed outright at his poor attempt, startling even him with the discordant sound. she sprang to his side, her eyes rolling with terror. but he laughed himself, and in a few moments she was attempting to imitate him. awhile later she introduced him to the birds; but he forbore to trill, having a saving sense of humour. the comrades of her solitude were deserted. she made rapid progress in human speech. gradually her voice lost its cross between a croak and a trill and acquired a feminine resemblance to her instructor's. at the end of a month they could speak together after a fashion. when she made her first sentence, haltingly but surely, she leaped to her feet and executed a wild war dance. they were on the plain of the dead. she flung her supple legs among the skeletons, sending the bones flying, her bright hair tossing about her like waves of fire. the priest watched her with bated breath, half expecting to see the outraged warriors arise in wrath. the gaunt dogs that were always prowling about the plain fled in dismay. the month had passed very agreeably to the priest. after the horrors of his earlier experience it seemed for a time that he had little more to ask of life. dorthe knew nothing of love; but he knew that if no ship came, she would learn, and he would teach her. he had loved no woman, but he felt that in this vast solitude he could love dorthe and be happy with her. in the languor of convalescence he dreamed of the hour when he should take her in his arms and see the frank regard in her eyes for the last time. the tranquil air was heavy with the perfumes of spring. the palms were rigid. the blue butterflies sat with folded wings. the birds hung their drowsy heads. but with returning strength came the desire for civilization, the awakening of his ambitions, the desire for intellectual activity. he stood on the beach for hours at a time, straining his eyes for passing ships. he kept a fire on the cliffs constantly burning. dorthe's instincts were awakening, and she was vaguely troubled. the common inheritance was close upon her. the priest now put all thoughts of love sternly from him. love meant a lifetime on the island, for he would not desert her, and to take her to santa barbara would mean the death of all his hopes. and yet in his way he loved her, and there were nights when he sat by the watch-fire and shed bitter tears. he had read the story of juan and haidée, by no means without sympathy, and he wished more than once that he had the mind and nature of the poet; but to violate his own would be productive of misery to both. he was no amorous youth, but a man with a purpose, and that, for him, was the end of it. but he spent many hours with her, talking to her of life beyond the island, a story to which she listened with eager interest. one night as he was about to leave her, she dropped her face into her hands and cried heavily. instinctively he put his arms about her, and she as instinctively clung to him, terrified and appealing. he kissed her, not once, but many times, intoxicated and happy. she broke from him suddenly and ran to her cave; and he, chilled and angry, went to his camp-fire. it was a very brilliant night. an hour later he saw something skim the horizon. later still he saw that the object was closer, and that it was steering for the harbour. he ran to meet it. twice he stopped. the magnetism of the only woman that had ever awakened his love drew him back. he thought of her despair, her utter and, this time, unsupportable loneliness; the careless girl with the risen sun would be a broken-hearted woman. but he ran on. spain beckoned. the highest dignities of the church were his. he saw his political influence a byword in europe. he felt dorthe's arms about him, her soft breath on his cheek, and uttered a short savage scream; but he went on. when he reached the harbour three men had already landed. they recognized him, and fell at his feet. and when he told them that he was alone on the island, they reëmbarked without question. and he lived, and forgot, and realized his great ambitions. thirty years later a sloop put into the harbour of the island for repairs. several of the men went on shore. they discovered footprints in the sand. wondering, for they had sailed the length of the island and seen no sign of habitation, they followed the steps. they came upon a curious creature which was scraping with a bone knife the blubber from a seal. at first they thought it was a bird of some unknown species, so sharp was its beak, so brilliant its plumage. but when they spoke to it and it sprang aside and confronted them, they saw that the creature was an aged woman. her face was like an old black apple, within whose skin the pulp had shrunk and withered as it lay forgotten on the ground. her tawny hair hung along her back like a ragged mat. there was no light in the dim vacuous eyes. she wore a garment made of the unplucked skins of birds. they spoke to her. she uttered a gibberish unknown to them with a voice that croaked like a frog's, then went down on her creaking knees and lifted her hands to the sun. the head of a priest i "doña concepción had the greatest romance of us all; so she should not chide too bitterly." "but she has such a sense of her duty! such a sense of her duty! ay, dios de mi alma! shall we ever grow like that?" "if we have a russian lover who is killed in the far north, and we have a convent built for us, and teach troublesome girls. surely, if one goes through fire, one can become anything--" "ay, yi! look! look!" six dark heads were set in a row along the edge of a secluded corner of the high adobe wall surrounding the convent of monterey. they looked for all the world like a row of charming gargoyles--every mouth was open--although there was no blankness in those active mischief-hunting eyes. their bodies, propped on boxes, were concealed by the wall from the passer-by, and from the sharp eyes of dueñas by a group of trees just behind them. their section of the wall faced the presidio, which in the early days of the eighteenth century had not lost an adobe, and was full of active life. at one end was the house of the governor of all the californias, at another the church, which is all that stands to-day. under other walls of the square were barracks, quarters for officers and their families, store-rooms for ammunition and general supplies in case of a raid by hostile tribes (when all the town must be accommodated within the security of those four great walls), and a large hall in which many a ball was given. the aristocratic pioneers of california loved play as well as work. beyond were great green plains alive with cattle, and above all curved the hills dark with pines. three soldiers had left the presidio and were sauntering toward the convent. "it is enrico ortega!" whispered eustaquia carillo, excitedly. "and ramon de castro!" scarcely breathed elena estudillo. "and josé yorba!" "not pepe gomez? ay, yi!" "nor manuel ameste!" the only girl who did not speak stood at the end of the row. her eyes were fixed on the church, whose windows were dazzling with the reflected sunlight of the late afternoon. the officers, who apparently had been absorbed in conversation and their fragrant cigaritos, suddenly looked up and saw the row of handsome and mischievous faces. they ran forward, and dashed their sombreros into the dust before the wall. "at your feet, señoritas! at your feet!" they cried. "have they any?" whispered one. "how unreal they look! how symbolical!" "the rose in your hair, señorita eustaquia, for the love of heaven!" cried ortega, in a loud whisper. she detached the rose, touched it with her lips, and cast it to the officer. he almost swallowed it in the ardour of his caresses. none of the girls spoke. that would have seemed to them the height of impropriety. but elena extended her arm over the wall so that her little hand hung just above young castro's head. he leaped three times in the air, and finally succeeded in brushing his mustache against those coveted finger-tips: rewarded with an approving but tantalizing laugh. meanwhile, josé yorba had torn a silver eagle from his sombrero, and flung it to lola de castro, who caught and thrust it in her hair. "ay, dios! dios! that the cruel wall divides us," cried yorba. "we will mount each upon the other's shoulder--" "we will make a ladder from the limbs of the pines on the mountain--" "_señoritas_!" the six heads dropped from the wall like so many humpty-dumpties. as they flashed about the officers caught a glimpse of horror in twelve expanded eyes. a tall woman, serenely beautiful, clad in a long gray gown fastened at her throat with a cross, stood just within the trees. the six culprits thought of the tragic romance which had given them the honour of being educated by concepción de arguello, and hoped for some small measure of mercy. the girl who had looked over the heads of the officers, letting her gaze rest on the holy walls of the church, alone looked coldly unconcerned, and encountered steadily the sombre eyes of the convent's mistress. "was thy lover in the road below, pilar?" asked doña concepción, with what meaning five of the girls could not divine. for pilar, the prettiest and most studious girl in the convent, cared for no man. pilar's bosom rose once, but she made no reply. "come," said doña concepción, and the six followed meekly in her wake. she led them to her private sala, a bare cold room, even in summer. it was uncarpeted; a few religious prints were on the whitewashed walls; there were eight chairs, and a table covered with books and papers. the six shivered. to be invited to this room meant the greatest of honours or a lecture precursory to the severest punishment in the system of the convent. doña concepción seated herself in a large chair, but her guests were not invited to relieve their weakened knees. "did you speak--any of you?" she asked in a moment. five heads shook emphatically. "but?" eustaquia, elena, and lola drew a long breath, then confessed their misdoings glibly enough. "and the others?" "they had no chance," said eustaquia, with some sarcasm. "thou wouldst have found a chance," replied the lady superior, coldly. "thou art the first in all naughtiness, and thy path in life will be stormy if thou dost not curb thy love of adventure and insubordination." she covered her face with her hand and regarded the floor for some moments in silence. it was the first performance of the kind that had come to her knowledge, and she was at a loss what to do. finally she said severely: "go each to your bed and remain there on bread and water for twenty-four hours. your punishment shall be known at the presidio. and if it ever happens again, i shall send you home in disgrace. now go." the luckless six slunk out of the room. only pilar stole a hasty glance at the lady superior. doña concepción half rose from her chair, and opened her lips as if to speak again; then sank back with a heavy sigh. the girls were serenaded that night; but the second song broke abruptly, and a heavy gate clanged just afterward. concepción de arguëllo was still young, but suffering had matured her character, and she knew how to deal sternly with those who infringed her few but inflexible rules. it was by no means the first serenade she had interrupted, for she educated the flower of california, and it was no simple matter to prevent communication between the girls in her charge and the ardent caballeros. she herself had been serenaded more than once since the sudden death of her russian lover; for she who had been the belle of california for three years before the coming of rezánof was not lightly relinquished by the impassioned men of her own race; but both at casa grande, in santa barbara, where she found seclusion until her convent was built, and after her immolation in monterey, she turned so cold an ear to all men's ardours that she soon came to be regarded as a part of four gray walls. how long it took her to find actual serenity none but herself and the dead priests know, but the old women who are dying off to-day remember her as consistently placid as she was firm. she was deeply troubled by the escapade of the little wretches on the wall, although she had dealt with it summarily and feared no further outbreak of the sort. but she was haunted by a suspicion that there was more behind, and to come. pilar de la torre and eustaquia carillo were the two most notable girls in the convent, for they easily took precedence of their more indolent mates and were constantly racing for honours. there the resemblance ended. eustaquia, with her small brilliant eyes, irregular features, and brilliant colour, was handsome rather than beautiful, but full of fire, fascination, and spirit. half the presidio was in love with her, and that she was a shameless coquette she would have been the last to deny. pilar was beautiful, and although the close long lashes of her eyes hid dreams, rather than fire, and her profile and poise of head expressed all the pride of the purest aristocracy california has had, nothing could divert attention from the beauty of her contours of cheek and figure, and of her rich soft colouring. the officers in church stood up to look at her; and at the balls and meriendas she attended in vacations the homage she received stifled and annoyed her. she was as cold and unresponsive as concepción de arguello. people shrugged their shoulders and said it was as well. her mother, doña brígida de la torre of the great rancho diablo, twenty miles from monterey, was the sternest old lady in california. it was whispered that she had literally ruled her husband with a greenhide reata, and certain it was that two years after the birth of pilar (the thirteenth, and only living child) he had taken a trip to mexico and never returned. it was known that he had sent his wife a deed of the rancho; and that was the last she ever heard of him. her daughter, according to her imperious decree, was to marry ygnacio piña, the heir of the neighbouring rancho. doña brígida anticipated no resistance, not only because her will had never been crossed, but because pilar was the most docile of daughters. pilar was doña concepción's favourite pupil, and when at home spent her time reading, embroidering, or riding about the rancho, closely attended. she rarely talked, even to her mother. she paid not the slightest attention to ygnacio's serenades, and greeted him with scant courtesy when he dashed up to the ranch-house in all the bravery of silk and fine lawn, silver and lace. but he knew the value of doña brígida as an ally, and was content to amuse himself elsewhere. the girls passed their twenty-four hours of repressed energy as patiently as necessity compelled. pilar, alone, lay impassive in her bed, rarely opening her eyes. the others groaned and sighed and rolled and bounced about; but they dared not speak, for stern sister augusta was in close attendance. when the last lagging minute had gone and they were bidden to rise, they sprang from the beds, flung on their clothes, and ran noisily down the long corridors to the refectory. doña concepción stood at the door and greeted them with a forgiving smile. pilar followed some moments later. there was something more than coldness in her eyes as she bent her head to the lady superior, who drew a quick breath. "she feels that she has been humiliated, and she will not forgive," thought doña concepción. "ay de mi! and she may need my advice and protection. i should have known better than to have treated her like the rest." after supper the girls went at once to the great sala of the convent, and sat in silence, with bent heads and folded hands and every appearance of prayerful revery. it was saturday evening, and the good priest of the presidio church would come to confess them, that they might commune on the early morrow. they heard the loud bell of the convent gate, then the opening and shutting of several doors; and many a glance flashed up to the ceiling as the brain behind scurried the sins of the week together. it had been arranged that the six leading misdemeanants were to go first and receive much sound advice, before the old priest had begun to feel the fatigue of the confessional. the door opened, and doña concepción stood on the threshold. her face was whiter than usual, and her manner almost ruffled. "it is padre domínguez," she said. "padre estudillo is ill. if---if--any of you are tired, or do not wish to confess to the strange priest, you may go to bed." not a girl moved. padre domínguez was twenty-five and as handsome as the marble head of the young augustus which stood on a shelf in the governor's sala. during the year of his work in monterey more than one of the older girls had met and talked with him; for he went into society, as became a priest, and holidays were not unfrequent. but, although he talked agreeably, it was a matter for comment that he loved books and illuminated manuscripts more than the world, and that he was as ambitious as his superior abilities justified. "very well," said doña concepción, impatiently. "eustaquia, go in." eustaquia made short work of her confession. she was followed by elena, lola, mariana, and amanda. when the last appeared for a moment at the door, then courtesied a good night and vanished, doña concepción did not call the expected name, and several of the girls glanced up in surprise. pilar raised her eyes at last and looked steadily at the lady superior. the blood rose slowly up the nun's white face, but she said carelessly:-- "thou art tired, mijita, no? wilt thou not go to bed?" "not without making my confession, if you will permit me." "very well; go." pilar left the room and closed the door behind her. alone in the hall, she shook suddenly and twisted her hands together. but, although she could not conquer her agitation, she opened the door of the chapel resolutely and entered. the little arched whitewashed room was almost dark. a few candles burned on the altar, shadowing the gorgeous images of virgin and saints. pilar walked slowly down the narrow body of the chapel until she stood behind a priest who knelt beside a table with his back to the door. he wore the brown robes of the franciscan, but his lean finely proportioned figure manifested itself through the shapeless garment. he looked less like a priest than a masquerading athlete. his face was hidden in his hands. pilar did not kneel. she stood immovable and silent, and in a moment it was evident that she had made her presence felt. the priest stirred uneasily. "kneel, my daughter," he said. but he did not look up. pilar caught his hands in hers and forced them down upon the table. the priest, throwing back his head in surprise, met the flaming glance of eyes that dreamed no longer. he sprang to his feet, snatching back his hands. "doña pilar!" he exclaimed. "i choose to make my confession standing," she said. "i love you!" the priest stared at her in consternation. "you knew it--unless you never think at all. you are the only man i have ever thought it worth while to talk to. you have seen how i have treated others with contempt, and that i have been happy with you--and we have had more than one long talk together. you, too, have been happy--" "i am a priest!" "you are a man and i am a woman." "what is it you would have me do?" "fling off that hideous garment which becomes you not at all, and fly with me to my father in the city of mexico. i hear from him constantly, and he is wealthy and will protect us. the barque, _joven guipuzcoanoa,_ leaves monterey within a week after the convent closes for vacation." the priest raised his clasped hands to heaven. "she is mad! she is mad!" he said. then he turned on her fiercely. "go! go!" he cried. "i hate you!" "ay, you love me! you love me!" the priest slowly set his face. there was no gleam of expression to indicate whether the words that issued through his lips came from his soul or from that section of his brain instinct with self-protection. he spoke slowly:-- "i am a priest, and a priest i shall die. what is more, i shall denounce you to doña concepción, the clergy, and--to your mother. the words that have just violated this chapel were not said under the seal of the confessional, and i shall deal with them as i have said. you shall be punished, that no other man's soul may be imperilled." pilar threw out her hands wildly. it was her turn to stare; and her eyes were full of horror and disgust. "what?" she cried. "you are a coward? a traitor? you not only dare not acknowledge that you love me, but you would betray me--and to my mother? ah, madre de dios!" "i do not love you. how dare you use such a word to me,--to me, an anointed priest! i shall denounce--and to-night." "_and i loved you_!" he shrank a little under the furious contempt of her eyes. her whole body quivered with passion. then, suddenly, she sprang forward and struck him so violent a blow on his cheek that he reeled and clutched the table. but his foot slipped, and he went down with the table on top of him. she laughed into his red unmasked face. "you look what you are down there," she said,--"less than a man, and only fit to be a priest. i hate you! do your worst." she rushed out of the chapel and across the hall, flinging open the door of the sala. as she stood there with blazing eyes and cheeks, shaking from head to foot, the girls gave little cries of amazement, and doña concepción, shaking, came forward hastily; but she reached the door too late. "go to the priest," cried pilar. "you will find him on his back squirming under a table, with the mark of my hand on his cheek. he has a tale to tell you." and she flung off the hand of the nun and ran through the halls, striking herself against the walls. doña concepción did not leave her sala that night. the indignant young aspirant for honours in mexico had vowed that he would tell doña brígida and the clergy before dawn, and all her arguments had entered smarting ears. she had finally ordered him to leave the convent and never darken its doors again. "and the self-righteous shall not enter the kingdom of heaven," she had exclaimed in conclusion. "who are you that you should judge and punish this helpless girl and ruin a brilliant future? and why? because she was so inexperienced in men as to trust you." "she has committed a deadly sin, and shall suffer," cried the young man, violently. it was evident that his outraged virtue as well as his face was in flames. "women were born to be good and meek and virtuous, to teach and to rear children. such creatures as pilar de la torre should be kept under lock and key until they are old and hideous." "and men were made strong, that they might protect women. but i have said enough. go." pilar appeared at the refectory table in the morning, but she exchanged a glance with no one, and ate little. she looked haggard, and it was plain that she had not slept; but her manner was as composed as ever. when doña concepción sent for her to come to the little sala, she went at once. "sit down, my child," said the nun. "i said all i could to dissuade him, but he would not listen. i will protect thee if i can. thou hast made a terrible mistake; but it is too late for reproaches. we must think of the future." "i have no desire to escape the consequences. i staked all and lost. and nothing can affect me now. he has proved a dog, a cur, a coward, a brute. i can suffer no more than when i made that discovery; and if my mother chooses to kill me, i shall make no resistance." "thou art young and clever and will forget him. he is not worth remembering. he shall not go unpunished. i shall use my influence to have him sent to the poorest hamlet in california. he is worthy to do only the meanest work of the church, and my influence with the clergy is stronger than his. but thou? i shall receive your mother when she comes, and beg her to leave you with me during the vacation. then, later, when her wrath is appeased, i will suggest that she send you to live for two years with your relatives at santa barbara." pilar lifted her shoulders and stared out of the window. suddenly she gave a start and trembled. the bell of the gate was pealing vociferously. doña concepción sprang to her feet. "stay here," she said; "i will receive her in the grand sala." but her interview with doña brígida lasted two minutes. "give her to me!" cried the terrible old woman, her furious tones ringing through the convent. "give her to me! i came not here to talk with nuns. stand aside!" doña concepción was forced to lead her to the little sala. she strode into the room, big and brown and bony, looking like an avenging amazon, this mother of thirteen children. her small eyes were blazing, and the thick wrinkles about them quivered. her lips twitched, her cheeks burned with a dull dark red. in one hand she carried a greenhide reata. with the other she caught her daughter's long unbound hair, twisted it about her arm like a rope, then brought the reata down on the unprotected shoulders with all her great strength doña concepción fled from the room. pilar made no sound. she had expected this, and had vowed that it should not unseal her lips. the beating stopped abruptly. doña brígida, still with the rope of hair about her arm, pushed pilar through the door, out of the convent and its gates, then straight down the hill. for the first time the girl faltered. "not to the presidio!" she gasped. her mother struck her shoulder with a fist as hard as iron, and pilar stumbled on. she knew that if she refused to walk, her mother would carry her. they entered the presidio. pilar, raising her eyes for one brief terrible moment, saw that tomaso, her mother's head vaquero, stood in the middle of the square holding two horses, and that every man, woman, and child of the presidio was outside the buildings. the commandante and the alcalde were with the governor and his staff, and padre estudillo. they had the air of being present at an important ceremony. amidst a silence so profound that pilar heard the mingled music of the pines on the hills above the presidio and of the distant ocean, doña brígida marched her to the very middle of the square, then by a dexterous turn of her wrist forced her to her knees. with both hands she shook her daughter's splendid silken hair from the tight rope into which she had coiled it, then stepped back for a moment that all might appreciate the penalty a woman must pay who disgraced her sex. the breeze from the hills lifted the hair of pilar, and it floated and wreathed upward for a moment--a warm dusky cloud. suddenly the intense silence was broken by a loud universal hiss. pilar, thinking that it was part of her punishment, cowered lower, then, obeying some impulse, looked up, and saw the back of the young priest. he was running. as her dull gaze was about to fall again, it encountered for a moment the indignant blue eyes of a red-haired, hard-featured, but distinguished-looking young man, clad in sober gray. she knew him to be the american, malcolm sturges, the guest of the governor. but her mind rapidly shed all impressions but the wretched horror of her own plight. in another moment she felt the shears at her neck, and knew that her disgrace was passing into the annals of monterey, and that half her beauty was falling from her. then she found herself seated on the horse in front of her mother, who encircled her waist with an arm that pressed her vitals like iron. after that there was an interval of unconsciousness. when she awoke, her first impulse was to raise her head from her mother's bony shoulder, where it bumped uncomfortably. her listless brain slowly appreciated the fact that she was not on her way to the rancho diablo. the mustang was slowly ascending a steep mountain trail. but her head ached, and she dropped her face into her hands. what mattered where she was going? she was shorn, and disgraced, and disillusioned, and unspeakably weary of body and soul. they travelled through dense forests of redwoods and pine, only the soft footfalls of the unshod mustang or the sudden cry of the wild-cat breaking the primeval silence. it was night when doña brígida abruptly dismounted, dragging pilar with her. they were halfway up a rocky height, surrounded by towering peaks black with rigid trees. just in front of them was an opening in the ascending wall. beside it, with his hand on a huge stone, stood the vaquero. pilar knew that she had nothing to hope from him: her mother had beaten him into submission long since. doña brígida, without a word, drove pilar into the cave, and she and the vaquero, exerting their great strength to the full, pushed the stone into the entrance. there was a narrow rift at the top. the cave was as black as a starless midnight. then doña brígida spoke for the first time:-- "once a week i shall come with food and drink. there thou wilt stay until thy teeth fall, the skin bags from thy bones, and thou art so hideous that all men will run from thee. then thou canst come forth and go and live on the charity of the father to whom thou wouldst have taken a polluted priest." pilar heard the retreating footfalls of the mustangs. she was too stunned to think, to realize the horrible fate that had befallen her. she crouched down against the wall of the cave nearest the light, her ear alert for the growl of a panther or the whir of a rattler's tail. ii the night after the close of school the governor gave a grand ball, which was attended by the older of the convent girls who lived in monterey or were guests in the capital. the dowagers sat against the wall, a coffee-coloured dado; the girls in white, the caballeros in black silk small-clothes, the officers in their uniforms, danced to the music of the flute and the guitar. when elena estudillo was alone in the middle of the room dancing el son and the young men were clapping and shouting and flinging gold and silver at her feet, sturges and eustaquia slipped out into the corridor. it was a dark night, the dueñas were thinking of naught but the dance and the days of their youth, and the violators of a stringent social law were safe for the moment. a chance word, dropped by sturges in the dance, and eustaquia's eager interrogations, had revealed the american's indignation at the barbarous treatment of pilar, and his deep interest in the beautiful victim. "señor," whispered eustaquia, excitedly, as soon as they reached the end of the corridor, "if you feel pity and perhaps love for my unhappy friend, go to her rescue for the love of mary. i have heard to-day that her punishment is far worse than what you saw. it is so terrible that i hardly have dared--" "surely, that old fiend could think of nothing else," said sturges. "what is she made of, anyhow?" "ay, yi! her heart is black like the redwood tree that has been burnt out by fire. before don enrique ran away, she beat him many times; but, after, she was a thousand times worse, for it is said that she loved him in her terrible way, and that her heart burnt up when she was left alone--" "but doña pilar, señorita?" "ay, yi! benito, one of the vaqueros of doña erigida, was in town to-day, and he told me (i bribed him with whiskey and cigaritos--the commandante's, whose guest i am, ay, yi!)--he told me that doña erigida did not take my unhappy friend home, but--" "well?" exclaimed sturges, who was a man of few words. eustaquia jerked down his ear and whispered, "she took her to a cave in the mountains and pushed her in, and rolled a huge stone as big as a house before the entrance, and there she will leave her till she is thirty--or dead!" "good god! does your civilization, such as you've got, permit such things?" "the mother may discipline the child as she will. it is not the business of the alcalde. and no one would dare interfere for poor pilar, for she has committed a mortal sin against the church--" "i'll interfere. where is the cave?" "ay, señor, i knew you would. for that i told you all. i know not where the cave is; but the vaquero--he is in town till to-morrow. but he fears doña erigida, señor, as he fears the devil. you must tell him that not only will you give him plenty of whiskey and cigars, but that you will send him to mexico. doña brígida would kill him." "i'll look out for him." "do not falter, señor, for the love of god; for no californian will go to her rescue. she has been disgraced and none will marry her. but you can take her far away where no one knows--" "where is this vaquero to be found?" "in a little house on the beach, under the fort, where his sweetheart lives." "good night!" and he sprang from the corridor and ran toward the nearest gate. he found the vaquero, and after an hour's argument got his way. the man, who had wormed the secret out of tomaso, had only a general idea of the situation of the cave; but he confessed to a certain familiarity with the mountains. he was not persuaded to go until sturges had promised to send not only himself but his sweetheart to mexico. doña brígida was violently opposed to matrimony, and would have none of it on her rancho. sturges promised to ship them both off on the _joven guipuzcoanoa_, and to keep them comfortably for a year in mexico. it was not an offer to be refused. they started at dawn. sturges, following benito's advice, bought a long gray cloak with a hood, and filled his saddle-bags with nourishing food. the vaquero sent word to doña brígida that the horses he had brought in to sell to the officers had escaped and that he was hastening down the coast in pursuit. in spite of his knowledge of the mountains, it was only after two days of weary search in almost trackless forests, and more than one encounter with wild beasts, that they came upon the cave. they would have passed it then but for the sharp eyes of sturges, who detected the glint of stone behind the branches which doña brígida had piled against it. he sprang down, tossed the brush aside, and inserted his fingers between the side of the stone and the wall of the cave. but he could not move it alone, and was about to call benito, who was watering the mustangs at a spring, when he happened to glance upward. a small white hand was hanging over the top of the stone. sturges was not a californian, but he sprang to his feet and pressed his lips to that hand. it was cold and nerveless, and clasping it in his he applied his gaze to the rift above the stone. in a moment he distinguished two dark eyes and a gleam of white brow above. then a faint voice said:-- "take me out! take me out, señor, for the love of god!" "i have come for that. cheer up," said sturges, in his best spanish. "you'll be out in five minutes." "and then you'll bring me his head," whispered pilar. "ay, dios, what i have suffered! i have been years here, señor, and i am nearly mad." "well, i won't promise you his head, but i've thrashed the life out of him, if that will give you any satisfaction. i caught him in the woods, and i laid on my riding-whip until he bit the grass and yelled for mercy." the eyes in the cave blazed with a light which reminded him uncomfortably of doña erigida. "that was well! that was well!" said pilar. "but it is not enough. i must have his head. i never shall sleep again till then, señor. ay, dios, what i have suffered!" "well, we'll see about the head later. to get you out of this is the first thing on the program. benito!" benito ran forward, and together they managed to drag the stone aside. but pilar retreated into the darkness and covered her face with her hands. "ay, dios! dios! i cannot go out into the sunlight. i am old and hideous." "make some coffee," said sturges to benito. he went within and took her hands. "come," he said. "you have been here a week only. your brain is a little turned, and no wonder. you've put a lifetime of suffering into that week. but i'm going to take care of you hereafter, and that she-devil will have no more to say about it. i'll either take you to your father, or to my mother in boston--whichever you like." benito brought in the coffee and some fresh bread and dried meat. pilar ate and drank ravenously. she had found only stale bread and water in the cave. when she had finished, she looked at sturges with a more intelligent light in her eyes, then thrust her straggling locks behind her ears. she also resumed something of her old dignified composure. "you are very kind, señor," she said graciously. "it is true that i should have been mad in a few more days. at first i did nothing but run, run, run--the cave is miles in the mountain; but since when i cannot remember i have huddled against that stone, listening--listening; and at last you came." sturges thought her more beautiful than ever. the light was streaming upon her now, and although she was white and haggard she looked far less cold and unapproachable than when he had endeavoured in vain to win a glance from her in the church. he put his hand on her tangled hair. "you shall suffer no more," he repeated; "and this will grow again. and that beautiful mane--it is mine. i begged it from the alcalde, and it is safe in my trunk." "ah, you love me!" she said softly. "yes, i love you!" and then, as her eyes grew softer and she caught his hand in hers with an exclamation of passionate gratitude for his gallant rescue, he took her in his arms without more ado and kissed her. "yes, i could love you," she said in a moment. "for, though you are not handsome, like the men of my race, you are true and good and brave: all i dreamed that a man should be until that creature made all men seem loathsome. but i will not marry you till you bring me his head--" "oh! come. so lovely a woman should not be so blood-thirsty. he has been punished enough. besides what i gave him, he's been sent off to spend the rest of his life in some hole where he'll have neither books nor society--" "it is not enough! when a man betrays a woman, and causes her to be beaten and publicly disgraced--it will be written in the books of the alcalde, señor!--and shut up in a cave to suffer the tortures of the damned in hell, he should die." "well, i think he should myself, but i'm not the public executioner, and one can't fight a duel with a priest--" "señor! señor! quick! pull, for the love of god!" it was benito who spoke, and he was pushing with all his might against the stone. "she comes--doña brígida!" he cried. "i saw her far off just now. stay both in there. i will take the mustangs and hide them on the other side of the mountain and return when she is gone. that is the best way." "we can all go--" "no, no! she would follow; and then--ay, dios de mi alma! no, it is best the señorita be there when she comes; then she will go away quietly." they replaced the stone. benito piled the brush against it, then made off with the mustangs. "go far," whispered pilar. "dios, if she sees you!" "i shall not leave you again. and even if she enter, she need not see me. i can stand in that crevice, and i will keep quiet so long as she does not touch you." doña brígida was a half-hour reaching the cave, and meanwhile sturges restored the lost illusions of pilar. not only did he make love to her without any of the rhetorical nonsense of the caballero, but he was big and strong, and it was evident that he was afraid of nothing, not even of doña brígida. the dreams of her silent girlhood swirled in her imagination, but looked vague and shapeless before this vigorous reality. for some moments she forgot everything and was happy. but there was a black spot in her heart, and when sturges left her for a moment to listen, it ached for the head of the priest. she had much bad as well as much good in her, this innocent californian maiden; and the last week had forced an already well-developed brain and temperament close to maturity. she vowed that she would make herself so dear to this fiery american that he would deny her nothing. then, her lust for vengeance satisfied, she would make him the most delightful of wives. "she is coming!" whispered sturges, "and she has the big vaquero with her." "ay, dios! if she knows all, what can we do?" "i've told you that i have no love of killing, but i don't hesitate when there is no alternative. if she sees me and declares war, and i cannot get you away, i shall shoot them both. i don't know that it would keep me awake a night. now, you do the talking for the present." doña brígida rode up to the cave and dismounted. "pilar!" she shouted, as if she believed that her daughter was wandering through the heart of the mountain. pilar presented her eyes at the rift. "ay, take me out! take me out!" she wailed, with sudden diplomacy. her mother gave a short laugh, then broke off and sniffed. "what is this?" she cried. "coffee? i smell coffee!" "yes, i have had coffee," replied pilar, calmly. "benito has brought me that, and many dulces." "dios!" shouted doña brígida. "i will tie him to a tree and beat him till he is as green as my reata--" "give me the bread!--quick, quick, for the love of heaven! it is two days since he has been, and i have nothing left, not even a drop of coffee." "then live on the memory of thy dulces and coffee! the bread and water go back with me. three days from now i bring them again. meanwhile, thou canst enjoy the fangs at thy vitals." pilar breathed freely again, but she cried sharply, "ay, no! no!" "ay, yes! yes!" doña brígida stalked up and down, while pilar twisted her hands together, and sturges mused upon his future wife's talent for dramatic invention. suddenly doña brígida shouted: "tomaso, come here! the spring! a horse has watered here to-day--two horses! i see the little hoof-mark and the big." she ran back to the cave, dragging tomaso with her. "quick! it is well i brought my reata. ten minutes, and i shall have the truth. pull there; i pull here." "the game is up," whispered sturges to pilar. "and i have another plan." he took a pistol from his hip-pocket and handed it to her. "you have a cool head," he said; "now is the time to use it. as soon as this stone gives way do you point that pistol at the vaquero's head, and don't let your hand tremble or your eye falter as you value your liberty. i'll take care of her." pilar nodded. sturges threw himself against the rock and pushed with all his strength. in a moment it gave, and the long brown talons of pilar's mother darted in to clasp the curve of the stone. sturges was tempted to cut them off; but he was a sportsman, and liked fair play. the stone gave again, and this time he encountered two small malignant eyes. doña brígida dropped her hands and screamed; but, before she could alter her plans, sturges gave a final push and rushed out, closely followed by pilar. it was his intention to throw the woman and bind her, hand and foot; but he had no mean opponent. doña brígida's surprise had not paralyzed her. she could not prevent his exit, for she went back with the stone, but she had sprung to the open before he reached it himself, and was striking at him furiously with her reata. one glance satisfied sturges that pilar had covered the vaquero, and he devoted the next few moments to dodging the reata. finally, a well-directed blow knocked it from her hand, and then he flung himself upon her, intending to bear her to the ground. but she stood like a rock, and closed with him, and they reeled about the little plateau in the hard embrace of two fighting grizzlies. there could be no doubt about the issue, for sturges was young and wiry and muscular; but doña brígida had the strength of three women, and, moreover, was not above employing methods which he could not with dignity resort to and could with difficulty parry. she bit at him. she clawed at his back and shoulders. she got hold of his hair. and she was so nimble that he could not trip her. she even roared in his ears, and once it seemed to him that her bony shoulder was cutting through his garments and skin. but after a struggle of some twenty minutes, little by little her embrace relaxed; she ceased to roar, even to hiss, her breath came in shorter and shorter gasps. finally, her knees trembled violently, she gave a hard sob, and her arms fell to her sides. sturges dragged her promptly into the cave and laid her down. "you are a plucky old lady, and i respect you," he said. "but here you must stay until your daughter is safely out of the country. i shall take her far beyond your reach, and i shall marry her. when we are well out at sea, tomaso will come back and release you. if he attempts to do so sooner, i shall blow his head off. meanwhile you can be as comfortable here as you made your daughter; and as you brought a week's supply of bread, you will not starve." the old woman lay and glared at him, but she made no reply. she might be violent and cruel, but she was indomitable of spirit, and she would sue to no man. sturges placed the bread and water beside her, then, aided by tomaso, pushed the stone into place. as he turned about and wiped his brow, he met the eyes of the vaquero. they were averted hastily, but not before sturges had surprised a twinkle of satisfaction in those usually impassive orbs. he shouted for benito, then took the pistol from pilar, who suddenly looked tired and frightened. "you are a wonderful woman," he said; "and upon my word, i believe you get a good deal of it from your mother." benito came running, leading the mustangs. sturges wrapped pilar in the long cloak, lifted her upon one of the mustangs, and sprang to his own. he ordered tomaso and benito to precede them by a few paces and to take the shortest cut for monterey. it was now close upon noon, and it was impossible to reach monterey before dawn next day, for the mustangs were weary; but the _joven_ did not sail until ten o'clock. "these are my plans," said sturges to pilar, as they walked their mustangs for a few moments after a hard gallop. "when we reach the foot of the mountain, benito will leave us, go to your rancho, gather as much of your clothing as he can strap on a horse, and join us at the barque. he will have a good hour to spare, and can get fresh horses at the ranch. we will be married at mazatlan. thence we will cross mexico to the gulf, and take passage for new orleans. when we are in the united states, your new life will have really begun." "and tomaso will surely bring my mother from that cave, señor? i am afraid--i feel sure he was glad to shut her in there." "i will leave a note for the governor. your mother will be free within three days, and meanwhile a little solitary meditation will do her good." when night came sturges lifted pilar from her horse to his, and pressed her head against his shoulder. "sleep," he said. "you are worn out." she flung her hand over his shoulder, made herself comfortable, and was asleep in a moment, oblivious of the dark forest and the echoing cries of wild beasts. the strong arm of sturges would have inspired confidence even had it done less in her rescue. once only she shook and cried out, but with rage, not fear, in her tones. her words were coherent enough:-- "his head! his head! ay, dios, what i have suffered!" an hour before dawn benito left them, mounted on the rested mustang and leading his own. the others pushed on, over and around the foothills, with what speed they could; for even here the trail was narrow, the pine woods dense. it was just after dawn that sturges saw tomaso rein in his mustang and peer into the shrubbery beside the trail. when he reached the spot himself, he saw signs of a struggle. the brush was trampled for some distance into the thicket, and several of the young trees were wrenched almost from their roots. "it has been a struggle between a man and a wild beast, señor," whispered tomaso, for filar still slept. "shall i go in? the man may breathe yet." "go, by all means." tomaso dismounted and entered the thicket. he came running back with blinking eyes. "madre de dios!" he exclaimed in a loud whisper. "it is the young priest--padre domínguez. it must have been a panther, for they spring at the breast, and his very heart is torn out, señor. ay, yi!" "ah! you must inform the church as soon as we have gone. go on." they had proceeded a few moments in silence, when sturges suddenly reined in his mustang. "tomaso," he whispered, "come here." the vaquero joined him at once. "tomaso," said sturges, "have you any objection to cutting off a dead man's head?" "no, señor." "then go back and cut off that priest's and wrap it in a piece of his cassock, and carry it the best way you can." tomaso disappeared, and sturges pushed back the gray hood and looked upon the pure noble face of the girl he had chosen for wife. "i believe in gratifying a woman's whims whenever it is practicable," he thought. but she made him a very good wife. la pÉrdida on her fourteenth birthday they had married her to an old man, and at sixteen she had met and loved a fire-hearted young vaquero. the old husband had twisted his skinny fingers around her arm and dragged her before the alcalde, who had ordered her beautiful black braids cut close to her neck, and sentenced her to sweep the streets. carlos, the tempter of that childish unhappy heart, was flung into prison. such were law and justice in california before the americans came. the haughty elegant women of monterey drew their mantillas more closely about their shocked faces as they passed la pérdida sweeping the dirt into little heaps. the soft-eyed girls, lovely in their white or flowered gowns, peered curiously through the gratings of their homes at the "lost one," whose sin they did not understand, but whose sad face and sorry plight appealed to their youthful sympathies. the caballeros, dashing up and down the street, and dazzling in bright silken jackets, gold embroidered, lace-trimmed, the sun reflected in the silver of their saddles, shot bold admiring glances from beneath their sombreros. no one spoke to her, and she asked no one for sympathy. she slept alone in a little hut on the outskirts of the town. with the dawn she rose, put on her coarse smock and black skirt, made herself a tortilla, then went forth and swept the streets. the children mocked her sometimes, and she looked at them in wonder. why should she be mocked or punished? she felt no repentance; neither the alcalde nor her husband had convinced her of her sin's enormity; she felt only bitter resentment that it should have been so brief. her husband, a blear-eyed crippled old man, loathsome to all the youth and imagination in her, had beaten her and made her work. a man, young, strong, and good to look upon, had come and kissed her with passionate tenderness. love had meant to her the glorification of a wretched sordid life; a green spot and a patch of blue sky in the desert. if punishment followed upon such happiness, must not the catholic religion be all wrong in its teachings? must not purgatory follow heaven, instead of heaven purgatory? she watched the graceful girls of the wealthy class flit to and fro on the long corridors of the houses, or sweep the strings of the guitar behind their gratings as the caballeros passed. watchful old women were always near them, their ears alert for every word. la pérdida thanked god that she had had no dueña. one night, on her way home, she passed the long low prison where her lover was confined. the large crystal moon flooded the red-tiled roof projecting over the deep windows and the shallow cells. the light sweet music of a guitar floated through iron bars, and a warm voice sang:-- "adios, adios, de ti al ausentarme, para ir en poz de mi fatal estrella, yo llevo grabada tu imagen bella, aqui en mi palpitante corazon. "pero aunque lejos de tu lado me halle no olvides, no, que por tu amor deliro enviáme siquiera un suspiro, que dé consuelo, a mi alma en su dolor. "y de tu pecho la emoción sentida llegue hasta herir mi lacerado oido, y arranque de mi pecho dolorido un eco que repita, adios! adios!" la pérdida's blood leaped through her body. her aimless hands struck the spiked surface of a cactus-bush, but she never knew it. when the song finished, she crept to the grating and looked in. "carlos!" she whispered. a man who lay on the straw at the back of the cell sprang to his feet and came forward. "my little one!" he said. "i knew that song would bring thee. i begged them for a guitar, then to be put into a front cell." he forced his hands through the bars and gave her life again with his strong warm clasp. "come out," she said. "ay! they have me fast. but when they do let me out, niña, i will take thee in my arms; and whosoever tries to tear thee away again will have a dagger in his heart. dios de mi vida! i could tear their flesh from their bones for the shame and the pain they have given thee, thou poor little innocent girl!" "but thou lovest me, carlos?" "there is not an hour i am not mad for thee, not a corner of my heart that does not ache for thee! ay, little one, never mind; life is long, and we are young." she pressed nearer and laid his hand on her heart. "ay!" she said, "life is long." "holy mary!" he cried. "the hills are on fire!" a shout went up in the town. a flame, midway on the curving hills, leaped to the sky, narrow as a ribbon, then swept out like a fan. the moon grew dark behind a rolling pillar of smoke. the upcurved arms of the pines were burnt into a wall of liquid shifting red. the caballeros sprang to their horses, and driving the indians before them, fled to the hills to save the town. the indolent women of monterey mingled their screams with the shrill cries of the populace and the hoarse shouts of their men. the prison sentries stood to their posts for a few moments; then the panic claimed them, and they threw down their guns and ran with the rest to the hills. carlos gave a cry of derision and triumph. "my little one, our hour has come! run and find the keys." the big bunch of keys had been flung hastily into a corner. a moment later carlos held the shaking form of the girl in his powerful arms. slender and delicate as she was, she made no protest against the fierceness of that embrace. "but come," he said. "we have only this hour for escape. when we are safe in the mountains--come!" he lifted her in his arms and ran down the crooked street to a corral where an hidalgo kept his finest horses. carlos had been the vaquero of the band. the iron bars of the great doors were down--only one horse was in the corral; the others had carried the hidalgo and his friends to the fire. the brute neighed with delight as carlos flung saddle and aquera into place, then, with la pérdida in his arms, sprang upon its back. the vaquero dug his spurs into the shining flanks, the mustang reared, shook his small head and silver mane, and bounded through the doors. a lean, bent, and wiry thing darted from the shadows and hung upon the horse's neck. it was the husband of la pérdida, and his little brown face looked like an old walnut. "take me with thee!" he cried. "i will give thee the old man's blessing," and, clinging like a crab to the neck of the galloping mustang, he drove a knife toward the heart of la pérdida. the blade turned upon itself as lightning sometimes does, and went through stringy tissues instead of fresh young blood. carlos plucked the limp body from the neck of the horse and flung it upon a cactus-bush, where it sprawled and stiffened among the spikes and the blood-red flowers. but the mustang never paused; and as the fires died on the hills, the mountains opened their great arms and sheltered the happiness of two wayward hearts. lukari's story "ay, señor! so terreeblay thing! it is many years before-- , i theenk, is the year; the americanos no have come to take california; but i remember like it is yesterday. "you see, i living with her--doña juana ybarra her name is--ever since i am little girl, and she too. it is like this: the padres make me christian in the mission, and her family take me to work ¡n the house; i no living on the rancheria like the indians who work outside. bime by doña juana marrying and i go live with her. bime by i marrying too, and she is comadre--godmother, you call, no?--to my little one, and steel i living with her, and in few years my husband and little one die and i love her children like they are my own, and her too; we grow old together. "you never see the san ysidro rancho? it is near to san diego and have many, many leagues. don carlos ybarra, the husband de my señora, is very reech and very brave and proud--too brave and proud, ay, yi! we have a beeg adobe house with more than twenty rooms, and a corridor for the front more than one hundred feets. ou'side are plenty other houses where make all the things was need for eat and wear: all but the fine closes. they come from far,--from boston and mejico. all stand away from the hills and trees, right in the middle the valley, so can see the bad indians when coming. far off, a mile i theenk, is the rancheria; no can see from the house. no so far is the corral, where keeping the fine horses. "ay, we have plenty to eat and no much to do in those days. don carlos and doña juana are very devot the one to the other, so the family living very happy, and i am in the house like before and take care the little ones. every night i braid my señora's long black hair and tuck her in bed like she is a baby. she no grow stout when she grow more old, like others, but always is muy elegante. "bime by the childrens grow up; and the two firs boys, roldan and enrique, marrying and living in san diego. then are left only the señor and the señora, one little boy, carlos, and my two beautiful señoritas, beatriz and ester. ay! how pretty they are. dios de mi alma! where they are now? "doña beatriz is tall like the mother, and sway when she walk, like you see the tules in the little wind. she have the eyes very black and long, and look like she feel sleep till she get mad; then, madre de dios! they opa wide and look like she is on fire inside and go to burn you too. she have the skin very white, but i see it hot like the blood go to burst out. once she get furioso cause one the vaqueros hurch her horse, and she wheep him till he yell like he is in purgatory and no have no one say mass and get him out. but she have the disposition very sweet, and after, she is sorry and make him a cake hersel; and we all loving her like she is a queen, and she can do it all whatte she want. "doña ester have the eyes more brown and soft, and the disposition more mild, but very feerm, and she having her own way more often than doña beatriz. she no is so tall, but very gracerful too, and walk like she think she is tall. all the spanish so dignify, no? she maka very kind with the indians when they are seek, and all loving her, but no so much like doña beatriz. "both girls very industrioso, sewing and make the broidery; make beautiful closes to wear at the ball. ay, the balls! no have balls like those in california now. sometimes have one fifty miles away, but they no care; jump on the horse and go, dance till the sun wake up and no feel tire at all. sometimes when is wedding, or rodeo, dance for one week, then ride home like nothing have happen. in the winter the family living in san diego; have big house there and dance every night, horseback in day when no rain, and have so many races and games. ay, yi! all the girls so pretty. no wear hats then; the reboso, no more, or the mantilla; fix it so gracerful; and the dresses so bright colours, sometimes with flowers all over; the skirt make very fule, and the waist have the point. and the closes de mens! madre de dios! the beautiful velvet and silk closes, broider by silver and gold! and the saddles so fine! but you think i never go to tell you the story. "one summer we are more gay than ever. so many caballeros love my señoritas, but i think they never love any one, and never go to marry at all. for a month we have the house fule; meriendas--peek-neeks, you call, no? and races every day, dance in the night. then all go to stay at another rancho; it is costumbre to visit the one to the other. i feel very sorry for two so handsome caballeros, who are more devot than any. they looking very sad when they go, and i am sure they propose and no was accep. "in the evening it is very quiet, and i am sweep the corridor when i hear two horses gallop down the valley. i fix my hand--so--like the barrel de gun, and look, and i see, riding very hard, don carmelo pelajo and don rafael arguello. the firs, he loving doña beatriz, the other, he want doña ester. i go queeck and tell the girls, and beatriz toss her head and look very scornfule, but ester blushing and the eyes look very happy. the young mens come in in few minutes and are well treat by don carlos and doña juana, for like them very much and are glad si the girls marry with them. "after supper i am turn down the bed in my señora's room when i hear somebody spik very low ou'side on the corridor. i kneel on the window-seat and look out, and there i see don rafael have his arms roun doña ester and kissing her and she no mine at all. i wonder how they get out there by themselfs, for the spanish very streect with the girls and no 'low that. but the young peoples always very--how you say it?--smart, no? after while all go to bed, and i braid doña juana's hair and she tell me ester go to marry don rafael, and she feel very happy and i no say one word. then i go to doña beatriz's bedroom; always i fix her for the bed, too. ester have other woman take care her, but beatriz love me. she keeck me when she is little, and pull my hair, when i no give her the dulces; but i no mine, for she have the good heart and so sweet spression when she no is mad and always maka very kind with me. i comb her hair and i see she look very cross and i ask her why, and she say she hate mens, they are fools, and womens too. i ask her why she think that, and she say she no can be spect have reason for all whatte she think; and she throw her head aroun so i no can comb at all and keeck out her little foot. "'you no go to marry with don carlos?' i asking. "'no!' she say, and youbetcherlife her eyes flash. 'you think i marrying a singing, sighing, gambling, sleepy caballero? si no can marry man i no marry at all. madre de dios!' (she spik beautiful; but i no spik good eenglish, and you no ondrestan the spanish.) "'but all are very much like,' i say; 'and you no want die old maid, no?' "'i no care!' and then she fling hersel roun on the chair and throw her arms roun me and cry and sob on my estomac. 'ay, my lukari!' she cry when she can spik,' i hate everybody! i am tire out to exista! i want to live! i am tire stay all alone! oh, i want--i no know what i want! life is terreeblay thing, macheppa!' "i no know at all whatte she mean, for have plenty peoples all the time, and she never walk, so i no can think why she feel tire; but i kissing her and smoothe her hair, for i jus love her, and tell her no cry. bime by she fine it some one she loving, and she is very young yet,--twenty, no more. "'i no stay here any longer,' she say. 'i go to ask my father take me to mejico, where can see something cept hills and trees and missions and forts, and where perhaps--ay, dios de mi alma!' then she jump up and take me by the shoulders and just throw me out the room and lock the door; but i no mine, for i am use to her. "bueno, i think i go for walk, and bime by i come to the ranchería, and while i am there i hear terreeblay thing from old pepe. he say he hear for sure that the bad indians--who was no make christian by the padres and living very wild in the mountains--come killing all the white peoples on the ranchos. he say he know sure it is true, and tell me beg don carlos send to san diego for the soldiers come take care us. i feel so fright i hardly can walk back to the house, and i no sleep that night. in the morning firs thing i telling don carlos, but he say is nonsense and no will lissen. he is very brave and no care for nothing; fight the indians and killing them plenty times. the two caballeros go away after breakfas, and when they are gone i can see my señora alone, and i telling her. she feel very fright and beg don carlos send for the soldiers, but he no will. ay, yi! ester is fright too; but beatriz laugh and say she like have some excite and killing the indians hersel. after while old pepe come up to the house and tell he hear 'gain, but don carlos no will ask him even where he hear, and tell him to go back to the rancheria where belong, and make the reatas; he is so old he no can make anything else. "bueno! the nex morning--bout nine o'clock--don carlos is at the corral with two vaqueros and i am in the keetchen with the cook and one indian boy, call franco. never i like that boy. something so sneak, and he steal the dulces plenty times and walk so soffit. i am help the cook--very good woman, but no have much sense--fry lard, when i hear terreeblay noise--horses gallop like they jump out the earth near the house, and many mens yell and scream and shout. "i run to the window and whatte i see?--indians, indians, indians, thick like black ants on hill, jus race for the house, yelling like the horses' backs been fule de pins; and don carlos and the two vaqueros run like they have wings for the kitchen door, so can get in and get the guns and fight from the windows. i know whatte they want, so i run to the door to throw wide, and whatte i see but that devil franco lock it and stan in front. i jump on him so can scratch his eyes out, but he keeck me in the estomac and for few minutes i no know it nothing. "when i opa my eyes, the room is fule de indians, and in the iron the house i hear my señora and doña ester scream, scream, scream. i crawl up by the window-seat and look out, and there--ay, madre de dios!--see on the groun my señor dead, stuck fule de arrows; and the vaqueros, too, of course. that maka me crazy and i run among the indians, hitting them with my fists, to my señora and my señoritas. jus as i run into the sala they go to killing my señora, but i snatch the knife and fall down on my knees and beg and cry they no hurcha her, and bime by they say all right. but--santa dios!--whatte you think they do it? they tear all the closes offa her till she is naked like my ban, and drive her out the house with the reatas. they no letting me follow and i look out the window and see her reel like she is drunk down the valley and scream, scream!--ay, dios! "ester, she faint and no know it nothing. beatriz, she have kill one indian with her pistol, but they take way from her, and she stan look like the dead woman with eyes that have been in hell, in front the chief, who looka her very hard. he is very fine look, that chief, so tall and strong, like he can kill by sweep his arm roun, and he have fierce black eyes and no bad nose for indian, with nostrils that jump. his mouth no is cruel like mos the bad indians, nor the forehead so low. he wear the crown de feathers, and botas, and scrape de goaskin; the others no wear much at all. in a minute he pick up beatriz and fling her over his shoulder like she is the dead deer, and he tell other do the same by ester, and he stalk out and ride away hard. the others set fire everything, then ride after him. they no care for me and i stand there shriek after my señoritas and the beautiful housses burn up. "then i think de my señora and i run after the way she going. bime by i find her in a wheat field, kissing and hugging little carlos, who go out early and no meet the indians; and he no ondrestan what is the matter and dance up and down he is so fright. i tell him run fas to san diego and tell don roldan and don enrique whatte have happen, and he run like he is glad to get away. then i take off my closes and put them on my señora and drag her along, and, bime by, we coming to a little house, and a good woman give me some closes and in the night we coming to san diego. ay! but was excite, everybody. carlos been there two or three hours before, and don roldan and don enrique go with the soldiers to the hills. everybody do it all whatte they can for my poor señora, but she no want to speak by anybody, and go shut hersel up in a room in don enrique's house and jus moan and i sit ou'side the door and moan too. "of course, i no am with the soldiers, but many times i hear all and i tell you. "the indians have good start, and the white peoples no even see them, but they fine the trail and follow hard. bime by they coming to the mountains. you ever been in the mountains back de san diego? no the hills, but the mountains. ay! so bare and rofe and sharp, and the canons so narrow and the trails so steep! no is safe to go in at all, for the indians can hide on the rocks, and jus shoot the white peoples down one at the time, si they like it, when climb the gorges. the soldiers say they no go in, for it is the duty de them to living and protec california from the americanos; but don enrique and don roldan say they go, and they ride right in and no one ever spect see them any more. it is night, so they have good chancacum to look and no be seen si indians no watch. "bime by they meet one indian, who belong to the tribe they want, and 'fore he can shoot they point the pistol and tell him he mus show them where are the girls. he say he taking them, and on the way he telling them the chief and nother chief make the girls their wives. this make them wild, and they tie up the horses so can climb more fast. but it is no till late the nex morning when they come sudden out of a gorge and look right into a place, very flat like a plaza, where is the pueblo de the indians they want. for moment no one see them, and they see the girls--dios de mi alma! have been big feast, i theenk, and right where are all the things no been clear away, ester, she lie on the groun on the face, and cry and sob and shake. but beatriz, she stan very straight in the middle, 'fore the door the big wigwam, and never look more hansome. she never take her eyes off the chief who taking her away, and no look discontent at all. then the indians see the brothers and yell and run to get the bows and arrows. don enrique and don roldan fire the pistols, but after all they have to run, for no can do it nothing. they get out live but have arrows in them. and that is the las we ever hear de my señoritas. many time plenty white peoples watch the mountains and sometimes go in, but no can find nothing and always are wound. "and my poor señora! for whole year she jus sit in one room and cry so loud all the peoples in san diego hear her. no can do it nothing with her. ay, she love the husband so, and the two beautiful girls! then she die, and i am glad. much better die than suffer like that. and don rafael and don carmelo? oh, they marrying other girls, course." natalie ivanhoff: a memory of fort ross at fort ross, on the northern coast of california, it is told that an astonishing sight may be witnessed in the midnight of the twenty-third of august. the present settlement vanishes. in its place the fort appears as it was when the russians abandoned it in . the quadrilateral stockade of redwood beams, pierced with embrasures for carronades, is compact and formidable once more. the ramparts are paced by watchful sentries; mounted cannon are behind the iron-barred gates and in the graceful bastions. within the enclosure are the low log buildings occupied by the governor and his officers, the barracks of the soldiers, the arsenal, and storehouses. in one corner stands the greek chapel, with its cupola and cross-surmounted belfry. the silver chimes have rung this night. the governor, his beautiful wife, and their guest, natalie ivanhoff, have knelt at the jewelled altar. at the right of the fort is a small "town" of rude huts which accommodates some eight hundred indians and siberian convicts, the working-men of the company. above the "town," on a high knoll, is a large grist-mill. describing an arc of perfect proportions, its midmost depression a mile behind the fort, a great mountain forms a natural rampart. at either extreme it tapers to the jagged cliffs. on its three lower tables the mountain is green and bare; then abruptly rises a forest of redwoods, tall, rigid, tenebrious. the mountain is visible but a moment. an immense white fog-bank which has been crouching on the horizon rears suddenly and rushes across the ocean, whose low mutter rises to a roar. it sweeps like a tidal wave across cliffs and fort. it halts abruptly against the face of the mountain. in the same moment the ocean stills. it would almost seem that nature held her breath, awaiting some awful event. suddenly, in the very middle of the fog-bank, appears the shadowy figure of a woman. she is gliding--to the right--rapidly and stealthily. youth is in her slender grace, her delicate profile, dimly outlined. her long silver-blond hair is unbound and luminously distinct from the white fog. she walks swiftly across the lower table of the mountain, then disappears. one sees, vaguely, a dark figure crouching along the lower fringe of the fog. that, too, disappears. for a moment the silence seems intensified. then, suddenly, it is crossed by a low whir--a strange sound in the midnight. then a shriek whose like is never heard save when a soul is wrenched without warning in frightfullest torture from its body. then another and another and another in rapid succession, each fainter and more horrible in suggestion than the last. with them has mingled the single frenzied cry of a man. a moment later a confused hubbub arises from the fort and town, followed by the flashes of many lights and the report of musketry. then the fog presses downward on the scene. all sound but that of the ocean, which seems to have drawn into its loud dull voice all the angers of all the dead, ceases as though muffled. the fog lingers a moment, then drifts back as it came, and fort ross is the fort ross of to-day. and this is the story:-- when the princess hélène de gagarin married alexander rotscheff, she little anticipated that she would spend her honeymoon in the northern wilds of the californias. nevertheless, when her husband was appointed governor of the fort ross and bodega branch of the great alaskan fur company, she volunteered at once to go with him--being in that stage of devotion which may be termed the emotionally heroic as distinguished from the later of non-resistance. as the exile would last but a few years, and as she was a lady of a somewhat adventurous spirit, to say nothing of the fact that she was deeply in love, her interpretation of wifely duty hardly wore the hue of martyrdom even to herself. notwithstanding, and although she had caused to be prepared a large case of books and eight trunks of ravishing raiment, she decided that life in a fort hidden between the mountains and the sea, miles away from even the primitive spanish civilization, might hang burdensomely at such whiles as her husband's duties claimed him and books ceased to amuse. so she determined to ask the friend of her twenty-three years, the countess natalie ivanhoff, to accompany her. she had, also, an unselfish motive in so doing. not only did she cherish for the countess natalie a real affection, but her friend was as deeply wretched as she was happy. two years before, the prince alexis mikhaïlof, betrothed of natalie ivanhoff, had been, without explanation or chance of parting word, banished to siberia under sentence of perpetual exile. later had come rumour of his escape, then of death, then of recapture. nothing definite could be learned. when the princess hélène made her invitation, it was accepted gratefully, hope suggesting that in the new world might be found relief from the torture that was relived in every vibration of the invisible wires that held memory fast to the surroundings in which the terrible impressions, etchers of memory, had their genesis. they arrived in summer, and found the long log house, with its low ceilings and rude finish, admirably comfortable within. by aid of the great case of things rotscheff had brought, it quickly became an abode of luxury. thick carpets covered every floor; arras hid the rough walls; books and pictures and handsome ornaments crowded each other; every chair had been designed for comfort as well as elegance; the dining table was hidden beneath finest damask, and glittered with silver and crystal. it was an unwritten law that every one should dress for dinner; and with the rich curtains hiding the gloomy mountain and the long sweep of cliffs intersected by gorge and gulch, it was easy for the gay congenial band of exiles to forget that they were not eating the delicacies of their french cook and drinking their costly wines in the old world. in the daytime the women--several of the officers' wives had braved the wilderness--found much diversion in riding through the dark forests or along the barren cliffs, attended always by an armed guard. diego estenega, the spanish magnate of the north, whose ranchos adjoined fort ross, and who was financially interested in the russian fur trade, soon became an intimate of the rotscheff household. a californian by birth, he was, nevertheless, a man of modern civilization, travelled, a student, and a keen lover of masculine sports. although the most powerful man in the politics of his conservative country, he was an american in appearance and dress. his cloth or tweed suggested the colorous magnificence of the caballeros as little as did his thin nervous figure and grim pallid intellectual face. rotscheff liked him better than any man he had ever met; with the princess he usually waged war, that lady being clever, quick, and wedded to her own opinions. for natalie he felt a sincere friendship at once. being a man of keen sympathies and strong impulses, he divined her trouble before he heard her story, and desired to help her. the countess natalie, despite the governor's prohibition, was addicted to roving over the cliffs by herself, finding kinship in the sterile crags and futile restlessness of the ocean. she had learned that although change of scene lightened the burden, only death would release her from herself. "she will get over it," said the princess hélène to estenega. "i was in love twice before i met alex, so i know. natalie is so beautiful that some day some man, who will not look in the least like poor alexis, will make her forget." estenega, being a man of the world and having consequently outgrown the cynicism of youth, also knowing women better than this fair minerva would know them in twenty lifetimes, thought differently, and a battle ensued. natalie, meanwhile, wandered along the cliffs. she passed the town hurriedly. several times when in its vicinity before, the magnetism of an intense gaze had given her a thrill of alarm, and once or twice she had met face to face the miller's son--a forbidding youth with the skull of the tartar and the coarse black hair and furtive eyes of the indian--whose admiration of her beauty had been annoyingly apparent. she was not conscious of observation to-day, however, and skirted the cliffs rapidly, drawing her gray mantle about her as the wind howled by, but did not lift the hood; the massive coils of silver-blond hair kept her head warm. as the princess hélène, despite her own faultless blondinity, had pronounced, natalie ivanhoff was a beautiful woman. her profile had the delicate effect produced by the chisel. her white skin was transparent and untinted, but the mouth was scarlet. the large long eyes of a changeful blue-gray, although limpid of surface, were heavy with the sadness of a sad spirit. their natural fire was quenched just as the slight compression of her lips had lessened the sensuous fulness of their curves. but she had suffered so bitterly and so variously that the points had been broken off her nerves, she told herself, and, excepting when her trouble mounted suddenly like a wave within her, her mind was tranquil. grief with her had expressed itself in all its forms. she had known what it was to be crushed into semi-insensibility; she had thrilled as the tears rushed and the sobs shook her until every nerve ached and her very fingers cramped; and she had gone wild at other times, burying her head, that her screams might not be heard: the last, as imagination pictured her lover's certain physical suffering. but of all agonies, none could approximate to that induced by death. when that rumour reached her, she realized that hope had given her some measure of support, and how insignificant all other trouble is beside that awful blank, that mystery, whose single revelation is the houseless soul's unreturning flight from the only world we are sure of. when the contradicting rumour came, she clutched at hope and clung to it. "it is the only reason i do not kill myself," she thought, as she stood on the jutting brow of the cliff and looked down on the masses of huge stones which, with the gaunt outlying rocks, had once hung on the face of the crags. the great breakers boiled over them with the ponderosity peculiar to the waters of the pacific. the least of those breakers would carry her far into the hospitable ocean. "it is so easy to die and be at peace; the only thing which makes life supportable is the knowledge of death's quick obedience. and the tragedy of life is not that we cannot forget, but that we can. think of being an old woman with not so much as a connecting current between the memory and the heart, the long interval blocked with ten thousand petty events and trials! it must be worse than this. i shall have gone over the cliff long before that time comes. i would go to-day, but i cannot leave the world while he is in it." she drew a case from her pocket, and opened it. it showed the portrait of a young man with the sombre eyes and cynical mouth of the northern european, a face revealing intellect, will, passion, and much recklessness. eyes and hair were dark, the face smooth but for a slight mustache. natalie burst into wild tears, revelling in the solitude that gave her freedom. she pressed the picture against her face, and cried her agony aloud to the ocean. thrilling memories rushed through her, and she lived again the first ecstasy of grief. she did not fling herself upon the ground, or otherwise indulge in the acrobatics of woe, but she shook from head to foot. between the heavy sobs her breath came in hard gasps, and tears poured, hiding the gray desolation of the scene. suddenly, through it all, she became conscious that some one was watching her. instinctively she knew that it was the same gaze which so often had alarmed her. fear routed every other passion. she realized that she was unprotected, a mile from the fort, out of the line of its vision. the brutal head of the miller's son seemed to thrust itself before her face. overwhelmed with terror, she turned swiftly and ran, striking blindly among the low bushes, her glance darting from right to left. no one was to be seen for a moment; then she turned the corner of a boulder and came upon a man. she shrieked and covered her face with her hands, now too frightened to move. the man neither stirred nor spoke; and, despite this alarming circumstance, her disordered brain, in the course of a moment, conceived the thought that no subject of rotscheff would dare to harm her. moreover, her brief glance had informed her that this was not the miller's son; which fact, illogically, somewhat tempered her fear. she removed her hands and compelled herself to look sternly at the creature who had dared to raise his eyes to the countess natalie ivanhoff. she was puzzled to find something familiar about him. his grizzled hair was long, but not unkempt. the lower part of his face was covered by a beard. he was almost fleshless; but in his sunken eyes burned unquenchable fire, and there was a determined vigour in his gaunt figure. he might have been any age. assuredly, the outward seeming of youth was not there, but its suggestion still lingered tenaciously in the spirit which glowed through the worn husk. and about him, in spite of the rough garb and blackened skin, was an unmistakable air of breeding. natalie, as she looked, grew rigid. then she uttered a cry of rapturous horror, staggered, and was caught in a fierce embrace. her stunned senses awoke in a moment, and she clung to him, crying wildly, holding him with straining arms, filled with bitter happiness. in a few moments he pushed her from him and regarded her sadly. "you are as beautiful as ever," he said; "but i--look at me! old, hideous, ragged! i am not fit to touch you; i never meant to. go! i shall never blame you." for answer she sprang to him again. "what difference is it how you look?" she cried, still sobbing. "is it not _you?_ are not you in here just the same? what matter? what matter? no matter what you looked through, you would be the same. listen," she continued rapidly, after a moment. "we are in a new country; there is hope for us. if we can reach the spanish towns of the south, we are safe. i will ask don diego estenega to help us, and he is not the man to refuse. he stays with us to-night, and i will speak alone with him. meet me to-morrow night--where? at the grist-mill at midnight. we had better not meet by day again. perhaps we can go then. you will be there?" "will i be there? god! of course i will be there." and, the brief details of their flight concluded, they forgot it and all else for the hour. ii natalie could not obtain speech alone with estenega that evening; but the next morning the princess hélène commanded her household and guest to accompany her up the hill to the orchard at the foot of the forest; and there, while the others wandered over the knolls of the shadowy enclosure, natalie managed to tell her story. estenega offered his help spontaneously. "at twelve to-night," he said, "i will wait for you in the forest with horses, and will guide you myself to monterey. i have a house there, and you can leave on the first barque for boston." as soon as the party returned to the fort, estenega excused himself and left for his home. the day passed with maddening slowness to natalie. she spent the greater part of it walking up and down the immediate cliffs, idly watching the men capturing the seals and otters, the ship-builders across the gulch. as she returned at sunset to the enclosure, she saw the miller's son standing by the gates, gazing at her with hungry admiration. he inspired her with sudden fury. "never presume to look at me again," she said harshly. "if you do, i shall report you to the governor." and without waiting to note how he accepted the mandate, she swept by him and entered the fort, the gates clashing behind her. the inmates of fort ross were always in bed by eleven o'clock. at that hour not a sound was to be heard but the roar of the ocean, the soft pacing of the sentry on the ramparts, the cry of the panther in the forest. on the evening in question, after the others had retired, natalie, trembling with excitement, made a hasty toilet, changing her evening gown for a gray travelling frock. her heavy hair came unbound, and her shaking hands refused to adjust the close coils. as it fell over her gray mantle it looked so lovely, enveloping her with the silver sheen of mist, that she smiled in sad vanity, remembering happier days, and decided to let her lover see her so. she could braid her hair at the mill. a moment or two before twelve she raised the window and swung herself to the ground. the sentry was on the rampart opposite: she could not make her exit by that gate. she walked softly around the buildings, keeping in their shadow, and reached the gates facing the forest. they were not difficult to unbar, and in a moment she stood without, free. she could not see the mountain; a heavy bank of white fog lay against it, resting, after its long flight over the ocean, before it returned, or swept onward to ingulf the redwoods. she went with noiseless step up the path, then turned and walked swiftly toward the mill. she was very nervous; mingling with the low voice of the ocean she imagined she heard the moans with which beheaded convicts were said to haunt the night. once she thought she heard a footstep behind her, and paused, her heart beating audibly. but the sound ceased with her own soft footfalls, and the fog was so dense that she could see nothing. the ground was soft, and she was beyond the sentry's earshot; she ran at full speed across the field, down the gorge, and up the steep knoll. as she reached the top, she was taken in mikhaïlof's arms. for a few moments she was too breathless to speak; then she told him her plans. "let me braid my hair," she said finally, "and we will go." he drew her within the mill, then lit a lantern and held it above her head, his eyes dwelling passionately on her beauty, enhanced by the colour of excitement and rapid exercise. "you look like the moon queen," he said. "i missed your hair, apart from yourself." she lifted her chin with a movement of coquetry most graceful in spite of long disuse, and the answering fire sprang into her eyes. she looked very piquant and a trifle diabolical. he pressed his lips suddenly on hers. a moment later something tugged at the long locks his hand caressed, and at the same time he became conscious that the silence which had fallen between them was shaken by a loud whir. he glanced upward. natalie was standing with her back to one of the band-wheels. it had begun to revolve; in the moment it increased its speed; and he saw a glittering web on its surface. with an exclamation of horror, he pulled her toward him; but he was too late. the wheel, spinning now with the velocity of midday, caught the whole silver cloud in its spokes, and natalie was swept suddenly upward. her feet hit the low rafters, and she was whirled round and round, screams of torture torn from her rather than uttered, her body describing a circular right angle to the shaft, the bones breaking as they struck the opposite one; then, in swift finality, she was sucked between belt and wheel. mikhaïlof managed to get into the next room and reverse the lever. the machinery stopped as abruptly as it had started; but natalie was out of her agony. her lover flung himself over the cliffs, shattering bones and skull on the stones at their base. they made her a coffin out of the copper plates used for their ships, and laid her in the straggling unpopulous cemetery on the knoll across the gulch beyond the chapel. "when we go, we will take her," said rotscheff to his distracted wife. but when they went, a year or two after, in the hurry of departure they forgot her until too late. they promised to return. but they never came, and she sleeps there still, on the lonely knoll between the sunless forest and the desolate ocean. the vengeance of padre arroyo i pilar, from her little window just above the high wall surrounding the big adobe house set apart for the women neophytes of the mission of santa ines, watched, morning and evening, for andreo, as he came and went from the rancheria. the old women kept the girls busy, spinning, weaving, sewing; but age nods and youth is crafty. the tall young indian who was renowned as the best huntsman of all the neophytes, and who supplied padre arroyo's table with deer and quail, never failed to keep his ardent eyes fixed upon the grating so long as it lay within the line of his vision. one day he went to padre arroyo and told him that pilar was the prettiest girl behind the wall--the prettiest girl in all the californias--and that she should be his wife. but the kind stern old padre shook his head. "you are both too young. wait another year, my son, and if thou art still in the same mind, thou shalt have her." andreo dared to make no protest, but he asked permission to prepare a home for his bride. the padre gave it willingly, and the young indian began to make the big adobes, the bright red tiles. at the end of a month he had built him a cabin among the willows of the rancheria, a little apart from the others: he was in love, and association with his fellows was distasteful. when the cabin was builded his impatience slipped from its curb, and once more he besought the priest to allow him to marry. padre arroyo was sunning himself on the corridor of the mission, shivering in his heavy brown robes, for the day was cold. "orion," he said sternly--he called all his neophytes after the celebrities of earlier days, regardless of the names given them at the font--"have i not told thee thou must wait a year? do not be impatient, my son. she will keep. women are like apples: when they are too young, they set the teeth on edge; when ripe and mellow, they please every sense; when they wither and turn brown, it is time to fall from the tree into a hole. now go and shoot a deer for sunday: the good padres from san luis obispo and santa barbara are coming to dine with me." andreo, dejected, left the padre. as he passed pilar's window and saw a pair of wistful black eyes behind the grating, his heart took fire. no one was within sight. by a series of signs he made his lady understand that he would place a note beneath a certain adobe in the wall. pilar, as she went to and fro under the fruit trees in the garden, or sat on the long corridor weaving baskets, watched that adobe with fascinated eyes. she knew that andreo was tunnelling it, and one day a tiny hole proclaimed that his work was accomplished. but how to get the note? the old women's eyes were very sharp when the girls were in front of the gratings. then the civilizing development of christianity upon the heathen intellect triumphantly asserted itself. pilar, too, conceived a brilliant scheme. that night the padre, who encouraged any evidence of industry, no matter how eccentric, gave her a little garden of her own--a patch where she could raise sweet peas and castilian roses. "that is well, that is well, my nausicaa," he said, stroking her smoky braids. "go cut the slips and plant them where thou wilt. i will send thee a package of sweet pea seeds." pilar spent every spare hour bending over her "patch"; and the hole, at first no bigger than a pin's point, was larger at each setting of the sun behind the mountain. the old women, scolding on the corridor, called to her not to forget vespers. on the third evening, kneeling on the damp ground, she drew from the little tunnel in the adobe a thin slip of wood covered with the labour of sleepless nights. she hid it in her smock--that first of california's love-letters--then ran with shaking knees and prostrated herself before the altar. that night the moon streamed through her grating, and she deciphered the fact that andreo had loosened eight adobes above her garden, and would await her every midnight. pilar sat up in bed and glanced about the room with terrified delight. it took her but a moment to decide the question; love had kept her awake too many nights. the neophytes were asleep; as they turned now and again, their narrow beds of hide, suspended from the ceiling, swung too gently to awaken them. the old women snored loudly. pilar slipped from her bed and looked through the grating. andreo was there, the dignity and repose of primeval man in his bearing. she waved her hand and pointed downward to the wall; then, throwing on the long coarse gray smock that was her only garment, crept from the room and down the stair. the door was protected against hostile tribes by a heavy iron bar, but pilar's small hands were hard and strong, and in a moment she stood over the adobes which had crushed her roses and sweet peas. as she crawled through the opening, andreo took her hand bashfully, for they never had spoken. "come," he said; "we must be far away before dawn." they stole past the long mission, crossing themselves as they glanced askance at the ghostly row of pillars; past the guard-house, where the sentries slept at their post; past the rancheria; then, springing upon a waiting mustang, dashed down the valley. pilar had never been on a horse before, and she clung in terror to andreo, who bestrode the unsaddled beast as easily as a cloud rides the wind. his arm held her closely, fear vanished, and she enjoyed the novel sensation. glancing over andreo's shoulder she watched the mass of brown and white buildings, the winding river, fade into the mountain. then they began to ascend an almost perpendicular steep. the horse followed a narrow trail; the crowding trees and shrubs clutched the blankets and smocks of the riders; after a time trail and scene grew white: the snow lay on the heights. "where do we go?" she asked. "to zaca lake, on the very top of the mountain, miles above us. no one has ever been there but myself. often i have shot deer and birds beside it. they never will find us there." the red sun rose over the mountains of the east. the crystal moon sank in the west. andreo sprang from the weary mustang and carried pilar to the lake. a sheet of water, round as a whirlpool but calm and silver, lay amidst the sweeping willows and pine-forested peaks. the snow glittered beneath the trees, but a canoe was on the lake, a hut on the marge. ii padre arroyo tramped up and down the corridor, smiting his hands together. the indians bowed lower than usual, as they passed, and hastened their steps. the soldiers scoured the country for the bold violators of mission law. no one asked padre arroyo what he would do with the sinners, but all knew that punishment would be sharp and summary: the men hoped that andreo's mustang had carried him beyond its reach; the girls, horrified as they were, wept and prayed in secret for pilar. a week later, in the early morning, padre arroyo sat on the corridor. the mission stood on a plateau overlooking a long valley forked and sparkled by the broad river. the valley was planted thick with olive trees, and their silver leaves glittered in the rising sun. the mountain peaks about and beyond were white with snow, but the great red poppies blossomed at their feet. the padre, exiled from the luxury and society of his dear spain, never tired of the prospect: he loved his mission children, but he loved nature more. suddenly he leaned forward on his staff and lifted the heavy brown hood of his habit from his ear. down the road winding from the eastern mountains came the echo of galloping footfalls. he rose expectantly and waddled out upon the plaza, shading his eyes with his hand. a half-dozen soldiers, riding closely about a horse bestridden by a stalwart young indian supporting a woman, were rapidly approaching the mission. the padre returned to his seat and awaited their coming. the soldiers escorted the culprits to the corridor; two held the horse while they descended, then led it away, and andreo and pilar were alone with the priest. the bridegroom placed his arm about the bride and looked defiantly at padre arroyo, but pilar drew her long hair about her face and locked her hands together. padre arroyo folded his arms and regarded them with lowered brows, a sneer on his mouth. "i have new names for you both," he said, in his thickest voice. "antony, i hope thou hast enjoyed thy honeymoon. cleopatra, i hope thy little toes did not get frost-bitten. you both look as if food had been scarce. and your garments have gone in good part to clothe the brambles, i infer. it is too bad you could not wait a year and love in your cabin at the ranchería, by a good fire, and with plenty of frijoles and tortillas in your stomachs." he dropped his sarcastic tone, and, rising to his feet, extended his right arm with a gesture of malediction. "do you comprehend the enormity of your sin?" he shouted. "have you not learned on your knees that the fires of hell are the rewards of unlawful love? do you not know that even the year of sackcloth and ashes i shall impose here on earth will not save you from those flames a million times hotter than the mountain fire, than the roaring pits in which evil indians torture one another? a hundred years of their scorching breath, of roasting flesh, for a week of love! oh, god of my soul!" andreo looked somewhat staggered, but unrepentant. pilar burst into loud sobs of terror. the padre stared long and gloomily at the flags of the corridor. then he raised his head and looked sadly at his lost sheep. "my children," he said solemnly, "my heart is wrung for you. you have broken the laws of god and of the holy catholic church, and the punishments thereof are awful. can i do anything for you, excepting to pray? you shall have my prayers, my children. but that is not enough; i cannot--ay! i cannot endure the thought that you shall be damned. perhaps"--again he stared meditatively at the stones, then, after an impressive silence, raised his eyes. "heaven vouchsafes me an idea, my children. i will make your punishment here so bitter that almighty god in his mercy will give you but a few years of purgatory after death. come with me." he turned and led the way slowly to the rear of the mission buildings. andreo shuddered for the first time, and tightened his arm about pilar's shaking body. he knew that they were to be locked in the dungeons. pilar, almost fainting, shrank back as they reached the narrow spiral stair which led downward to the cells. "ay! i shall die, my andreo!" she cried. "ay! my father, have mercy!" "i cannot, my children," said the padre, sadly. "it is for the salvation of your souls." "mother of god! when shall i see thee again, my pilar?" whispered andreo. "but, ay! the memory of that week on the mountain will keep us both alive." padre arroyo descended the stair and awaited them at its foot. separating them, and taking each by the hand, he pushed andreo ahead and dragged pilar down the narrow passage. at its end he took a great bunch of keys from his pocket, and raising both hands commanded them to kneel. he said a long prayer in a loud monotonous voice which echoed and reëchoed down the dark hall and made pilar shriek with terror. then he fairly hurled the marriage ceremony at them, and made the couple repeat after him the responses. when it was over, "arise," he said. the poor things stumbled to their feet, and andreo caught pilar in a last embrace. "now bear your incarceration with fortitude, my children; and if you do not beat the air with your groans, i will let you out in a week. do not hate your old father, for love alone makes him severe, but pray, pray, pray." and then he locked them both in the same cell. the bells of san gabriel i the señor capitan don luis de la torre walked impatiently up and down before the grist-mill wherein were quartered the soldiers sent by mexico to protect the building of the mission of san gabriel. the indian workmen were slugs; california, a vast region inhabited only by savages and a few priests, offered slender attractions to a young officer craving the gay pleasures of his capital and the presence of the woman he was to marry. for months he had watched the mission church mount slowly from foundation to towers, then spread into pillared corridors and rooms for the clergy. he could have mapped in his mind every acre of the wide beautiful valley girt by mountains snowed on their crest. he had thought it all very lovely at first: the yellow atmosphere, the soft abiding warmth, the blue reflecting lake; but the green on mountain and flat had waxed to gold, then waned to tan and brown, and he was tired. not even a hostile indian had come to be killed. he was very good-looking, this tall young spaniard, with his impatient eyes and haughty intelligent face, and it is possible that the lady in mexico had added to his burden by doleful prayers to return. he took a letter from his pocket, read it half through, then walked rapidly over to the mission, seeking interest in the work of the indians. under the keen merciless supervision of the padres,--the cleverest body of men who ever set foot in america,--they were mixing and laying the adobes, making nails and tiles, hewing aqueducts, fashioning great stone fonts and fountains. de la torre speculated, after his habit, upon the future of a country so beautiful and so fertile, which a dozen priests had made their own. would these indians, the poorest apologies for human beings he had ever seen, the laziest and the dirtiest, be christianized and terrified into worthy citizens of this fair land? could the clear white flame that burned in the brains of the padres strike fire in their neophytes' narrow skulls, create a soul in those grovelling bodies? he dismissed the question. would men of race, tempted by the loveliness of this great gold-haired houri sleeping on the pacific, come from old and new spain and dream away a life of pleasure? what grapes would grow out of this rich soil to be crushed by indian slaves into red wine! and did gold vein those velvet hills? how all fruits, all grains, would thrive! what superb beasts would fatten on the thick spring grass! ay! it was a magnificent discovery for the church, and great would be the power that could wrest it from her. there was a new people, somewhere north of mexico, in the united states of america. would they ever covet and strive to rob? the worse for them if they molested the fire-blooded spaniard. how he should like to fight them! that night the sentinel gave a sudden piercing shout of warning, then dropped dead with a poisoned arrow in his brain. another moment, and the soldiers had leaped from their swinging beds of hide, and headed by their captain had reached the church they were there to defend. through plaza and corridors sped and shrieked the savage tribe, whose invasion had been made with the swiftness and cunning of their race. the doors had not been hung in the church, and the naked figures ran in upon the heels of the soldiers, waving torches and yelling like the soulless fiends they were. the few neophytes who retained spirit enough to fight after the bleaching process that had chilled their native fire and produced a result which was neither man nor beast, but a sort of barnyard fowl, hopped about under the weight of their blankets and were promptly despatched. the brunt of the battle fell upon the small detachment of troops, and at the outset they were overwhelmed by numbers, dazzled by the glare of torches that waved and leaped in the cavern-like darkness of the church. but they fought like spaniards, hacking blindly with their swords, cleaving dusky skulls with furious maledictions, using their fists, their feet, their teeth--wrenching torches from malignant hands and hurling them upon distorted faces. curses and wild yells intermingled. de la torre fought at the head of his men until men and savages, dead and living, were an indivisible mass, then thrust back and front, himself unhurt. the only silent clear-brained man among them, he could reason as he assaulted and defended, and he knew that the spaniards had little chance of victory--and he less of looking again upon the treasures of mexico. the indians swarmed like ants over the great nave and transept. those who were not fighting smashed the altar and slashed the walls. the callous stars looked through the apertures left for windows, and shed a pallid light upon the writhing mass. the padres had defended their altar, behind the chancel rail; they lay trampled, with arrows vibrating in their hard old muscles. de la torre forced his way to the door and stood for a moment, solitary, against the pale light of the open, then turned his face swiftly to the night air as he fell over the threshold of the mission he had so gallantly defended. ii delfina de capalleja, after months of deferred hope, stood with the crowd at the dock, awaiting the return of the troop which had gone to defend the mission of san gabriel in its building. there was no flutter of colour beneath her white skin, and the heavy lids almost concealed the impatient depths of her eyes; the proud repose of her head indicated a profound reserve and self-control. over her white gown and black dense hair she wore a black lace mantilla, fastened below the throat with a large yellow rose. the ship swung to anchor and answered the salute from the fort. boats were lowered, but neither officers nor soldiers descended. the murmur of disappointment on shore rose to a shout of execration. then, as the ship's captain and passengers landed, a whisper ran through the crowd, a wail, and wild sobbing. they flung themselves to the earth, beating their heads and breasts,--all but delfina de capalleja, who drew her mantilla about her face and walked away. the authorities of the city of mexico yielded to public clamour and determined to cast a silver bell in honour of the slaughtered captain and his men. the casting was to take place in the great plaza before the cathedral, that all might attend: it was long since any episode of war had caused such excitement and sorrow. the wild character and remoteness of the scene of the tragedy, the meagreness of detail which stung every imagination into action, the brilliancy and popularity of de la torre, above all, the passionate sympathy felt for delfina de capalleja, served to shake society from peak to base, and no event had ever been anticipated with more enthusiasm than the casting of that silver bell. no one had seen delfina since the arrival of the news had broken so many hearts, and great was the curiosity regarding her possible presence at the ceremony. universal belief was against her ever again appearing in public; some said that she was dead, others that she had gone into a convent, but a few maintained that she would be high priestess at the making of the bell which was to be the symbol and monument of her lover's gallantry and death. the hot sun beat upon the white adobe houses of the stately city. at the upper end of the plaza, bending and swaying, coquetting and languishing, were women clad in rich and vivid satins, their graceful heads and shoulders draped with the black or white mantilla; caballeros, gay in velvet trousers laced with gold, and serape embroidered with silver. eyes green and black and blue sparkled above the edge of large black fans; fiery eyes responded from beneath silver-laden sombreros. the populace, in gala attire, crowded the rest of the plaza and adjacent streets, chattering and gesticulating. but all looked in vain for delfina de capalleja. much ceremony attended the melting of the bell. priests in white robes stiff with gold chanted prayers above the silver bubbling in the caldron. a full-robed choir sang the te deum; the regiment to which de la torre had belonged fired salutes at intervals; the crowd sobbed and shouted. thunder of cannon, passionate swell of voices: the molten silver was about to be poured into the mould. the crowd hushed and parted. down the way made for her came delfina de capalleja. her black hair hung over her long white gown. her body bent under the weight of jewels--the jewels of generations and the jewels of troth. her arms hung at her sides. in her eyes was the peace of the dead. she walked to the caldron, and taking a heavy gold chain from her neck flung it into the silver. it swirled like a snake, then disappeared. one by one, amidst quivering silence, the magnificent jewels followed the chain. then, as she took the last bracelet from her arm, madness possessed the breathless crowd. the indifferent self-conscious men, the lanquid coquetting women, the fat drowsy old dowagers, all rushed, scrambling and screaming, to the caldron, tore from their heads and bodies the superb jewels and ropes of gold with which they were bedecked, and flung them into the molten mass, which rose like a tide. the electric current sprang to the people; their baubles sped like hail through the air. so great was the excitement that a sudden convulsing of the earth was unfelt. when not a jewel was left to sacrifice, the caldron held enough element for five bells--the five sweet-voiced bells which rang in the mission of san gabriel for more than a century. exhausted with shouting, the multitude was silent. delfina de capalleja, who had stood with panting chest and dilating nostrils, turned from the sacrificial caldron, the crowd parting for her again, the laudate dominum swelling. as she reached the cathedral, a man who loved her, noting a change in her face, sprang to her side. she raised her bewildered eyes to his and thrust out her hands blankly, then fell dead across the threshold. when the devil was well the devil locked the copper gates of hell one night, and sauntered down a spacian pathway. the later arrivals from the planet earth had been of a distressingly commonplace character to his majesty--a gentleman of originality and attainments, whatever his disagreements with the conventions. he was become seriously disturbed about the moral condition of the sensational little twinkler. "what are my own about?" he thought, as he drifted past planets which yielded up their tributes with monotonous regularity. "what a squeezed old orange would earth become did i forsake it! i must not neglect it so long again; my debt of gratitude is too great. let me see. where shall i begin? it is some years since i have visited america in person, and unquestionably she has most need of my attention; europe is in magnificent running order. this is a section of her, if my geography does not fail me; but what? i do not recall it." he poised above a country that looked as if it still hung upon the edge of chaos: wild, fertile, massive, barren, luxuriant, crouching on the ragged line of the pacific. from his point of vantage he saw long ranges of stupendous mountains, some but masses of scowling crags, some green with forests of mammoth trees projecting their gaunt rigid arms above a carpet of violets; indolent valleys and swirling rivers; snow on the black peaks of the north; the riotous colour of eternal summer in the south. suddenly he uttered a sharp exclamation and swept downward, halting but a mile above the ground. he frowned heavily, then smiled--a long, placid, sardonic smile. there appeared to be but few inhabitants in this country, and those few seemed to live either in great white irregular buildings, surmounted by crosses, in little brown huts near by, in the caves, or in hollowed trees on the mountains. the large buildings were situated about sixty miles apart, in chosen valleys; they were imposing and rambling, built about a plaza. they boasted pillared corridors and bright red tiles on their roofs. within the belfries were massive silver bells, and the crosses could be seen to the furthermost end of the valley and from the tops of the loftiest mountain. "california!" exclaimed the devil. "i know of her. her scant history is outlined in the scarlet book. i remember the points: climate, the finest, theoretically, in the world; satanically, simply magnificent. i have waited impatiently for the stream of humanity to deflect thitherward, but priests will answer my present purpose exactly--unless they are all too tough. to continue, gold under that grass in chunks--aha! i shall have to throw out an extra wing in hell! parched deserts where men will die cursing; fruitful valleys, more gratifying to my genius; about as much of one as of the other, but the latter will get all the advertising, and the former be carefully kept out of sight. everything in the way of animal life, from grizzly bears to fleas. a very remarkable state! well, i will begin on the priests." he shot downward, and alighted in a valley whose proportions pleased his eye. its shape was oval; the bare hills enclosing it were as yellow and as bright as hammered gold; the grass was bronze-coloured, baking in the intense heat; but the placid cows and shining horses nibbled it with the contentment of those that know not of better things. a river, almost concealed by bending willows and slender erect cottonwoods, wound capriciously across the valley. the mission, simpler than some of the others, was as neatly kept as the farm of older civilizations. peace, order, reigned everywhere; all things drowsed under the relentless outpouring of the midsummer sun. "it is well i do not mind the heat," thought his majesty; "but i am sensible of this. i will go within." he drew a boot on his cloven foot, thus rendering himself invisible, and entered a room of the long wing that opened upon the corridor. here the temperature was almost wintry, so thick were the adobe walls. two priests sat before a table, one reading aloud from a bulky manuscript, the other staring absently out of the window. the reader was an old man; his face was pale and spiritual; no fires burned in his sunken eyes; his mouth was stern with the lines of self-repression. the devil lost all interest in him at once, and turned to the younger man. his face was pale also, but his pallor was that of fasting and the hair shirt; the mouth expressed the determination of the spirit to conquer the restless longing of the eyes; his nostrils were spirited; his figure was lean and nervous; he moved his feet occasionally, and clutched at the brown franciscan habit. "paulo," said the older priest, reprovingly, as he lifted his eyes and noted the unbowed head, "thou art not listening to the holy counsel of our glorious master, our saint who has so lately ascended into heaven." "i know junipero serra by heart," said paulo, a little pettishly. "i wish it were not too hot to go out; i should like to take a walk. surely, san miguel is the hottest spot on earth. the very fleas are gasping between the bricks." "the lord grant that they may die before the night! not a wink have i slept for two! but thou shouldest not long for recreation until the hour comes, my son. do thy duty and think not of when it will be over, for it is a blessed privilege to perform it--far more so than any idle pleasure--just as it is more blessed to give than to receive--" here the devil snorted audibly, and both priests turned with a jump. "did you hear that, my father?" "it is the walls cracking with the intense heat. i will resume my reading, and do thou pay attention, my son." "i will, my father." and for three hours the devil was obliged to listen to the droning voice of the old man. he avenged himself by planting wayward and alarming desires in paulo's fertile soul. suddenly the mission was filled with the sound of clamorous silver: the bells were ringing for vespers--a vast, rapid, unrhythmical, sweet volume of sound which made the devil stamp his hoofs and gnash his teeth. the priests crossed themselves and hurried to their evening duties, satan following, furious, but not daring to let them out of his sight. the church was crowded with dusky half-clothed forms, prostrate before the altar. the devil, during the long service, wandered amongst them, giving a vicious kick with his cloven foot here, pricking with the sharp point of his tail there, breeding a fine discord and routing devotion. when vespers were over he was obliged to follow the priests to the refectory, but found compensation in noting that paulo displayed a keen relish for his meat and wine. the older man put his supper away morsel by morsel, as if he were stuffing a tobacco-pouch. the meal finished, paulo sallied forth for his evening walk. the devil had his chance. he was a wise devil--a devil of an experience so vast that the world would go crashing through space under its weight in print. he wasted no time with the preliminary temptations--pride, ambition, avarice. he brought out the woman at once. the young priest, wandering through a grove of cottonwoods, his hands clasped listlessly behind him, his chin sunken dejectedly upon his breast, suddenly raised his eyes and beheld a beautiful woman standing not ten paces away. she was not a girl like her whom he had renounced for the church, but a woman about whose delicate warm face and slender palpitating bosom hung the vague shadow of maturity. her hair was the hot brown of copper, thick and rich; her eyes were like the meeting of flame and alcohol. the emotion she inspired was not the pure glow which once had encouraged rather than deprecated renunciation; but at the moment he thought it sweeter. he sprang forward with arms outstretched, instinct conquering vows in a manner highly satisfactory to the devil; then, with a bitter imprecation, turned and fled. but he heard light footfalls behind him; he was conscious of a faint perfume, born of no earthly flower, felt a soft panting breath. a light hand touched his face. he flung his vows to anxious satan, and turned to clasp the woman in his arms. but she coyly retreated, half-resentfully, half-invitingly, wholly lovely. satan closed his iron hand about the vows, and the priest ran toward the woman, the lines of repression on his face gone, the eyes conquering the mouth. but again she retreated. he quickened his steps; she accelerated hers; his legs were long and agile; but she was fleet of foot. finally she ran at full speed, her warm bright hair lifted and spreading, her tender passionate face turned and shining through it. they left the cottonwoods, and raced down the wide silent valley, the cows staring with stolid disapproval, the stars pulsing in sympathy. the priest felt no fatigue; he forgot the church behind him, the future of reward or torment. he wanted the woman, and was determined to have her. he was wholly lost; and the devil, satisfied, returned to the mission. "now," thought he, "for revenge on that old fool for defying me for sixty years!" he raised his index finger and pointed it straight at the planet hell. instantly the sky darkened, the air vibrated with the rushing sound of many forms. a moment later he was surrounded by a regiment of abbreviated demons--a flock as thick as a grasshopper plague, twisted, grinning, leering, hideous. he raised his finger again and they leaped to the roofs of the mission, wrenched the tiles from their place and sent them clattering to the pavement. they danced and wrestled on the naked roof, yelling with their hoarse unhuman voices, singing awful chants. the devil passed within, and found the good old priest on his knees, a crucifix clasped to his breast, his white face upturned, shouting ave marias and pater nosters at the top of his aged voice as if fearful they would not ascend above the saturnalia on the roof. the devil added to his distraction by loud bursts of ribald laughter; but the father, revolving his head as if it were on a pivot, continued to pray. satan began to curse like a pirate. suddenly, above the crashing of tiles, the hideous voices of devil and demon, the prayers of the padre, sounded the silver music of the bells. not the irregular clash which was the daily result of indian manipulation, but long rhythmic peals, as sweet and clear and true as the singing of angels. the devil and his minions, with one long, baffled, infuriated howl, shot upward into space. simultaneously a great wind came roaring down the valley, uprooting trees, shaking the sturdy mission. thunder detonated, lightning cut its zigzag way through black clouds like moving mountains; hail rattled to the earth; water fell as from an overturned ocean. and through all the bells pealed and the priest prayed. morning dawned so calm and clear that but for the swimming ground and the broken tiles bestrewing it, the priest would have thought he had dreamed a terrible nightmare. he opened the door and looked anxiously forth for paulo. paulo was not to be seen. he called, but his tired voice would not carry. clasping his crucifix to his breast, he tottered forth in search of his beloved young colleague. he passed the rancheria of the indians, and found them all asleep, worn out from a night of terror. he was too kind to awaken them, and pursued his way alone down the valley, peering fearfully to right and left. the ground was ploughed, dented, and strewn with fallen trees; the river roared like a tidal wave. shuddering, and crossing himself repeatedly, he passed between the hills and entered a forest, following a path which the storm had blasted. after a time he came to an open glade where he and paulo had loved to pray whilst the spring and the birds made music. to his surprise he saw a large stone lying along the open. he wondered if some meteor had fallen. mortal hands--indian hands, at least--were not strong enough to have brought so heavy a bulk, and he had not seen it in forest or valley before. he approached and regarded it; then began mumbling aves and paters, running them together as he had not done during the visitation and storm. the stone was outlined with the shape of a man, long, young, and slender. the face was sharply cut, refined, impassioned, and intellectual. a smile of cynical contentment dwelt on the strong mouth. the eyes were fixed on something before him. involuntarily the priest's followed them, and lingered. a tree also broke the open--one which never had been there before--and it bore an intoxicating similitude to the features and form of a surpassingly beautiful woman. "paulo! paulo!" murmured the old man, with tears in his eyes, "would that i had been thou!" twice-told tales by nathaniel hawthorne contents the gray champion the wedding knell the minister's black veil the may-pole of merry mount the gentle boy mr. higginbotham's catastrophe wakefield the great carbuncle david swan the hollow of the three hills dr. heidegger's experiment legends of the province house i. howe's masquerade ii. edward randolph's portrait iii. lady eleanore's mantle iv. old esther dudley the ambitious guest peter goldthwaite's treasure the shaker bridal endicott and the red cross from twice-told tales the gray champion there was once a time when new england groaned under the actual pressure of heavier wrongs than those threatened ones which brought on the revolution. james ii, the bigoted successor of charles the voluptuous, had annulled the charters of all the colonies, and sent a harsh and unprincipled soldier to take away our liberties and endanger our religion. the administration of sir edmund andros lacked scarcely a single characteristic of tyranny: a governor and council, holding office from the king, and wholly independent of the country; laws made and taxes levied without concurrence of the people immediate or by their representatives; the rights of private citizens violated, and the titles of all landed property declared void; the voice of complaint stifled by restrictions on the press; and, finally, disaffection overawed by the first band of mercenary troops that ever marched on our free soil. for two years our ancestors were kept in sullen submission by that filial love which had invariably secured their allegiance to the mother country, whether its head chanced to be a parliament, protector, or popish monarch. till these evil times, however, such allegiance had been merely nominal, and the colonists had ruled themselves, enjoying far more freedom than is even yet the privilege of the native subjects of great britain. at length a rumor reached our shores that the prince of orange had ventured on an enterprise, the success of which would be the triumph of civil and religious rights and the salvation of new england. it was but a doubtful whisper: it might be false, or the attempt might fail; and, in either case, the man that stirred against king james would lose his head. still the intelligence produced a marked effect. the people smiled mysteriously in the streets, and threw bold glances at their oppressors; while far and wide there was a subdued and silent agitation, as if the slightest signal would rouse the whole land from its sluggish despondency. aware of their danger, the rulers resolved to avert it by an imposing display of strength, and perhaps to confirm their despotism by yet harsher measures. one afternoon in april, , sir edmund andros and his favorite councillors, being warm with wine, assembled the red-coats of the governor's guard, and made their appearance in the streets of boston. the sun was near setting when the march commenced. the roll of the drum at that unquiet crisis seemed to go through the streets, less as the martial music of the soldiers, than as a muster-call to the inhabitants themselves. a multitude, by various avenues, assembled in king street, which was destined to be the scene, nearly a century afterwards, of another encounter between the troops of britain, and a people struggling against her tyranny. though more than sixty years had elapsed since the pilgrims came, this crowd of their descendants still showed the strong and sombre features of their character perhaps more strikingly in such a stern emergency than on happier occasions. there were the sober garb, the general severity of mien, the gloomy but undismayed expression, the scriptural forms of speech, and the confidence in heaven's blessing on a righteous cause, which would have marked a band of the original puritans, when threatened by some peril of the wilderness. indeed, it was not yet time for the old spirit to be extinct; since there were men in the street that day who had worshipped there beneath the trees, before a house was reared to the god for whom they had become exiles. old soldiers of the parliament were here, too, smiling grimly at the thought that their aged arms might strike another blow against the house of stuart. here, also, were the veterans of king philip's war, who had burned villages and slaughtered young and old, with pious fierceness, while the godly souls throughout the land were helping them with prayer. several ministers were scattered among the crowd, which, unlike all other mobs, regarded them with such reverence, as if there were sanctity in their very garments. these holy men exerted their influence to quiet the people, but not to disperse them. meantime, the purpose of the governor, in disturbing the peace of the town at a period when the slightest commotion might throw the country into a ferment, was almost the universal subject of inquiry, and variously explained. "satan will strike his master-stroke presently," cried some, "because he knoweth that his time is short. all our godly pastors are to be dragged to prison! we shall see them at a smithfield fire in king street!" hereupon the people of each parish gathered closer round their minister, who looked calmly upwards and assumed a more apostolic dignity, as well befitted a candidate for the highest honor of his profession, the crown of martyrdom. it was actually fancied, at that period, that new england might have a john rogers of her own to take the place of that worthy in the primer. "the pope of rome has given orders for a new st. bartholomew!" cried others. "we are to be massacred, man and male child!" neither was this rumor wholly discredited, although the wiser class believed the governor's object somewhat less atrocious. his predecessor under the old charter, bradstreet, a venerable companion of the first settlers, was known to be in town. there were grounds for conjecturing, that sir edmund andros intended at once to strike terror by a parade of military force, and to confound the opposite faction by possessing himself of their chief. "stand firm for the old charter governor!" shouted the crowd, seizing upon the idea. "the good old governor bradstreet!" while this cry was at the loudest, the people were surprised by the well-known figure of governor bradstreet himself, a patriarch of nearly ninety, who appeared on the elevated steps of a door, and, with characteristic mildness, besought them to submit to the constituted authorities. "my children," concluded this venerable person, "do nothing rashly. cry not aloud, but pray for the welfare of new england, and expect patiently what the lord will do in this matter!" the event was soon to be decided. all this time, the roll of the drum had been approaching through cornhill, louder and deeper, till with reverberations from house to house, and the regular tramp of martial footsteps, it burst into the street. a double rank of soldiers made their appearance, occupying the whole breadth of the passage, with shouldered matchlocks, and matches burning, so as to present a row of fires in the dusk. their steady march was like the progress of a machine, that would roll irresistibly over everything in its way. next, moving slowly, with a confused clatter of hoofs on the pavement, rode a party of mounted gentlemen, the central figure being sir edmund andros, elderly, but erect and soldier-like. those around him were his favorite councillors, and the bitterest foes of new england. at his right hand rode edward randolph, our arch-enemy, that "blasted wretch," as cotton mather calls him, who achieved the downfall of our ancient government, and was followed with a sensible curse, through life and to his grave. on the other side was bullivant, scattering jests and mockery as he rode along. dudley came behind, with a downcast look, dreading, as well he might, to meet the indignant gaze of the people, who beheld him, their only countryman by birth, among the oppressors of his native land. the captain of a frigate in the harbor, and two or three civil officers under the crown, were also there. but the figure which most attracted the public eye, and stirred up the deepest feeling, was the episcopal clergyman of king's chapel, riding haughtily among the magistrates in his priestly vestments, the fitting representatives of prelacy and persecution, the union of church and state, and all those abominations which had driven the puritans to the wilderness. another guard of soldiers, in double rank, brought up the rear. the whole scene was a picture of the condition of new england, and its moral, the deformity of any government that does not grow out of the nature of things and the character of the people. on one side the religious multitude, with their sad visages and dark attire, and on the other, the group of despotic rulers, with the high churchman in the midst, and here and there a crucifix at their bosoms, all magnificently clad, flushed with wine, proud of unjust authority, and scoffing at the universal groan. and the mercenary soldiers, waiting but the word to deluge the street with blood, showed the only means by which obedience could be secured. "o lord of hosts," cried a voice among the crowd, "provide a champion for thy people!" this ejaculation was loudly uttered, and served as a herald's cry, to introduce a remarkable personage. the crowd had rolled back, and were now huddled together nearly at the extremity of the street, while the soldiers had advanced no more than a third of its length. the intervening space was empty--a paved solitude, between lofty edifices, which threw almost a twilight shadow over it. suddenly, there was seen the figure of an ancient man, who seemed to have emerged from among the people, and was walking by himself along the centre of the street, to confront the armed band. he wore the old puritan dress, a dark cloak and a steeplecrowned hat, in the fashion of at least fifty years before, with a heavy sword upon his thigh, but a staff in his hand to assist the tremulous gait of age. when at some distance from the multitude, the old man turned slowly round, displaying a face of antique majesty, rendered doubly venerable by the hoary beard that descended on his breast. he made a gesture at once of encouragement and warning, then turned again, and resumed his way. "who is this gray patriarch?" asked the young men of their sires. "who is this venerable brother?" asked the old men among themselves. but none could make reply. the fathers of the people, those of fourscore years and upwards, were disturbed, deeming it strange that they should forget one of such evident authority, whom they must have known in their early days, the associate of winthrop, and all the old councillors, giving laws, and making prayers, and leading them against the savage. the elderly men ought to have remembered him, too, with locks as gray in their youth, as their own were now. and the young! how could he have passed so utterly from their memories--that hoary sire, the relic of longdeparted times, whose awful benediction had surely been bestowed on their uncovered heads, in childhood? "whence did he come? what is his purpose? who can this old man be?" whispered the wondering crowd. meanwhile, the venerable stranger, staff in hand, was pursuing his solitary walk along the centre of the street. as he drew near the advancing soldiers, and as the roll of their drum came full upon his ears, the old man raised himself to a loftier mien, while the decrepitude of age seemed to fall from his shoulders, leaving him in gray but unbroken dignity. now, he marched onward with a warrior's step, keeping time to the military music. thus the aged form advanced on one side, and the whole parade of soldiers and magistrates on the other, till, when scarcely twenty yards remained between, the old man grasped his staff by the middle, and held it before him like a leader's truncheon. "stand!" cried he. the eye, the face, and attitude of command; the solemn, yet warlike peal of that voice, fit either to rule a host in the battle-field or be raised to god in prayer, were irresistible. at the old man's word and outstretched arm, the roll of the drum was hushed at once, and the advancing line stood still. a tremulous enthusiasm seized upon the multitude. that stately form, combining the leader and the saint, so gray, so dimly seen, in such an ancient garb, could only belong to some old champion of the righteous cause, whom the oppressor's drum had summoned from his grave. they raised a shout of awe and exultation, and looked for the deliverance of new england. the governor, and the gentlemen of his party, perceiving themselves brought to an unexpected stand, rode hastily forward, as if they would have pressed their snorting and affrighted horses right against the hoary apparition. he, however, blenched not a step, but glancing his severe eye round the group, which half encompassed him, at last bent it sternly on sir edmund andros. one would have thought that the dark old man was chief ruler there, and that the governor and council, with soldiers at their back, representing the whole power and authority of the crown, had no alternative but obedience. "what does this old fellow here?" cried edward randolph, fiercely. "on, sir edmund! bid the soldiers forward, and give the dotard the same choice that you give all his countrymen--to stand aside or be trampled on!" "nay, nay, let us show respect to the good grandsire," said bullivant, laughing. "see you not, he is some old round-headed dignitary, who hath lain asleep these thirty years, and knows nothing o' the change of times? doubtless, he thinks to put us down with a proclamation in old noll's name!" "are you mad, old man?" demanded sir edmund andros, in loud and harsh tones. "how dare you stay the march of king james's governor?" "i have stayed the march of a king himself, ere now," replied the gray figure, with stern composure. "i am here, sir governor, because the cry of an oppressed people hath disturbed me in my secret place; and beseeching this favor earnestly of the lord, it was vouchsafed me to appear once again on earth, in the good old cause of his saints. and what speak ye of james? there is no longer a popish tyrant on the throne of england, and by to-morrow noon, his name shall be a byword in this very street, where ye would make it a word of terror. back, thou wast a governor, back! with this night thy power is ended--to-morrow, the prison!--back, lest i foretell the scaffold!" the people had been drawing nearer and nearer, and drinking in the words of their champion, who spoke in accents long disused, like one unaccustomed to converse, except with the dead of many years ago. but his voice stirred their souls. they confronted the soldiers, not wholly without arms, and ready to convert the very stones of the street into deadly weapons. sir edmund andros looked at the old man; then he cast his hard and cruel eye over the multitude, and beheld them burning with that lurid wrath, so difficult to kindle or to quench; and again he fixed his gaze on the aged form, which stood obscurely in an open space, where neither friend nor foe had thrust himself. what were his thoughts, he uttered no word which might discover. but whether the oppressor were overawed by the gray champion's look, or perceived his peril in the threatening attitude of the people, it is certain that he gave back, and ordered his soldiers to commence a slow and guarded retreat. before another sunset, the governor, and all that rode so proudly with him, were prisoners, and long ere it was known that james had abdicated, king william was proclaimed throughout new england. but where was the gray champion? some reported that, when the troops had gone from king street, and the people were thronging tumultuously in their rear, bradstreet, the aged governor, was seen to embrace a form more aged than his own. others soberly affirmed, that while they marvelled at the venerable grandeur of his aspect, the old man had faded from their eyes, melting slowly into the hues of twilight, till, where he stood, there was an empty space. but all agreed that the hoary shape was gone. the men of that generation watched for his reappearance, in sunshine and in twilight, but never saw him more, nor knew when his funeral passed, nor where his gravestone was. and who was the gray champion? perhaps his name might be found in the records of that stern court of justice, which passed a sentence, too mighty for the age, but glorious in all after-times, for its humbling lesson to the monarch and its high example to the subject. i have heard, that whenever the descendants of the puritans are to show the spirit of their sires, the old man appears again. when eighty years had passed, he walked once more in king street. five years later, in the twilight of an april morning, he stood on the green, beside the meeting-house, at lexington, where now the obelisk of granite, with a slab of slate inlaid, commemorates the first fallen of the revolutions. and when our fathers were toiling at the breastwork on bunker's hill, all through that night the old warrior walked his rounds. long, long may it be, ere he comes again! his hour is one of darkness, and adversity, and peril. but should domestic tyranny oppress us, or the invader's step pollute our soil, still may the gray champion come, for he is the type of new england's hereditary spirit; and his shadowy march, on the eve of danger, must ever be the pledge, that new england's sons will vindicate their ancestry. the wedding knell there is a certain church in the city of new york which i have always regarded with peculiar interest, on account of a marriage there solemnized, under very singular circumstances, in my grandmother's girlhood. that venerable lady chanced to be a spectator of the scene, and ever after made it her favorite narrative. whether the edifice now standing on the same site be the identical one to which she referred, i am not antiquarian enough to know; nor would it be worth while to correct myself, perhaps, of an agreeable error, by reading the date of its erection on the tablet over the door. it is a stately church, surrounded by an inclosure of the loveliest green, within which appear urns, pillars, obelisks, and other forms of monumental marble, the tributes of private affection, or more splendid memorials of historic dust. with such a place, though the tumult of the city rolls beneath its tower, one would be willing to connect some legendary interest. the marriage might be considered as the result of an early engagement, though there had been two intermediate weddings on the lady's part, and forty years of celibacy on that of the gentleman. at sixty-five, mr. ellenwood was a shy, but not quite a secluded man; selfish, like all men who brood over their own hearts, yet manifesting on rare occasions a vein of generous sentiment; a scholar throughout life, though always an indolent one, because his studies had no definite object, either of public advantage or personal ambition; a gentleman, high bred and fastidiously delicate, yet sometimes requiring a considerable relaxation, in his behalf, of the common rules of society. in truth, there were so many anomalies in his character, and though shrinking with diseased sensibility from public notice, it had been his fatality so often to become the topic of the day, by some wild eccentricity of conduct, that people searched his lineage for an hereditary taint of insanity. but there was no need of this. his caprices had their origin in a mind that lacked the support of an engrossing purpose, and in feelings that preyed upon themselves for want of other food. if he were mad, it was the consequence, and not the cause, of an aimless and abortive life. the widow was as complete a contrast to her third bridegroom, in everything but age, as can well be conceived. compelled to relinquish her first engagement, she had been united to a man of twice her own years, to whom she became an exemplary wife, and by whose death she was left in possession of a splendid fortune. a southern gentleman, considerably younger than herself, succeeded to her hand, and carried her to charleston, where, after many uncomfortable years, she found herself again a widow. it would have been singular, if any uncommon delicacy of feeling had survived through such a life as mrs. dabney's; it could not but be crushed and killed by her early disappointment, the cold duty of her first marriage, the dislocation of the heart's principles, consequent on a second union, and the unkindness of her southern husband, which had inevitably driven her to connect the idea of his death with that of her comfort. to be brief, she was that wisest, but unloveliest, variety of woman, a philosopher, bearing troubles of the heart with equanimity, dispensing with all that should have been her happiness, and making the best of what remained. sage in most matters, the widow was perhaps the more amiable for the one frailty that made her ridiculous. being childless, she could not remain beautiful by proxy, in the person of a daughter; she therefore refused to grow old and ugly, on any consideration; she struggled with time, and held fast her roses in spite of him, till the venerable thief appeared to have relinquished the spoil, as not worth the trouble of acquiring it. the approaching marriage of this woman of the world with such an unworldly man as mr. ellenwood was announced soon after mrs. dabney's return to her native city. superficial observers, and deeper ones, seemed to concur in supposing that the lady must have borne no inactive part in arranging the affair; there were considerations of expediency which she would be far more likely to appreciate than mr. ellenwood; and there was just the specious phantom of sentiment and romance in this late union of two early lovers which sometimes makes a fool of a woman who has lost her true feelings among the accidents of life. all the wonder was, how the gentleman, with his lack of worldly wisdom and agonizing consciousness of ridicule, could have been induced to take a measure at once so prudent and so laughable. but while people talked the wedding-day arrived. the ceremony was to be solemnized according to the episcopalian forms, and in open church, with a degree of publicity that attracted many spectators, who occupied the front seats of the galleries, and the pews near the altar and along the broad aisle. it had been arranged, or possibly it was the custom of the day, that the parties should proceed separately to church. by some accident the bridegroom was a little less punctual than the widow and her bridal attendants; with whose arrival, after this tedious, but necessary preface, the action of our tale may be said to commence. the clumsy wheels of several old-fashioned coaches were heard, and the gentlemen and ladies composing the bridal party came through the church door with the sudden and gladsome effect of a burst of sunshine. the whole group, except the principal figure, was made up of youth and gayety. as they streamed up the broad aisle, while the pews and pillars seemed to brighten on either side, their steps were as buoyant as if they mistook the church for a ball-room, and were ready to dance hand in hand to the altar. so brilliant was the spectacle that few took notice of a singular phenomenon that had marked its entrance. at the moment when the bride's foot touched the threshold the bell swung heavily in the tower above her, and sent forth its deepest knell. the vibrations died away and returned with prolonged solemnity, as she entered the body of the church. "good heavens! what an omen," whispered a young lady to her lover. "on my honor," replied the gentleman, "i believe the bell has the good taste to toll of its own accord. what has she to do with weddings? if you, dearest julia, were approaching the altar the bell would ring out its merriest peal. it has only a funeral knell for her." the bride and most of her company had been too much occupied with the bustle of entrance to hear the first boding stroke of the bell, or at least to reflect on the singularity of such a welcome to the altar. they therefore continued to advance with undiminished gayety. the gorgeous dresses of the time, the crimson velvet coats, the gold-laced hats, the hoop petticoats, the silk, satin, brocade, and embroidery, the buckles, canes, and swords, all displayed to the best advantage on persons suited to such finery, made the group appear more like a bright-colored picture than anything real. but by what perversity of taste had the artist represented his principal figure as so wrinkled and decayed, while yet he had decked her out in the brightest splendor of attire, as if the loveliest maiden had suddenly withered into age, and become a moral to the beautiful around her! on they went, however, and had glittered along about a third of the aisle, when another stroke of the bell seemed to fill the church with a visible gloom, dimming and obscuring the bright pageant, till it shone forth again as from a mist. this time the party wavered, stopped, and huddled closer together, while a slight scream was heard from some of the ladies, and a confused whispering among the gentlemen. thus tossing to and fro, they might have been fancifully compared to a splendid bunch of flowers, suddenly shaken by a puff of wind, which threatened to scatter the leaves of an old, brown, withered rose, on the same stalk with two dewy buds,--such being the emblem of the widow between her fair young bridemaids. but her heroism was admirable. she had started with an irrepressible shudder, as if the stroke of the bell had fallen directly on her heart; then, recovering herself, while her attendants were yet in dismay, she took the lead, and paced calmly up the aisle. the bell continued to swing, strike, and vibrate, with the same doleful regularity as when a corpse is on its way to the tomb. "my young friends here have their nerves a little shaken," said the widow, with a smile, to the clergyman at the altar. "but so many weddings have been ushered in with the merriest peal of the bells, and yet turned out unhappily, that i shall hope for better fortune under such different auspices." "madam," answered the rector, in great perplexity, "this strange occurrence brings to my mind a marriage sermon of the famous bishop taylor, wherein he mingles so many thoughts of mortality and future woe, that, to speak somewhat after his own rich style, he seems to hang the bridal chamber in black, and cut the wedding garment out of a coffin pall. and it has been the custom of divers nations to infuse something of sadness into their marriage ceremonies, so to keep death in mind while contracting that engagement which is life's chiefest business. thus we may draw a sad but profitable moral from this funeral knell." but, though the clergyman might have given his moral even a keener point, he did not fail to dispatch an attendant to inquire into the mystery, and stop those sounds, so dismally appropriate to such a marriage. a brief space elapsed, during which the silence was broken only by whispers, and a few suppressed titterings, among the wedding party and the spectators, who, after the first shock, were disposed to draw an ill-natured merriment from the affair. the young have less charity for aged follies than the old for those of youth. the widow's glance was observed to wander, for an instant, towards a window of the church, as if searching for the time-worn marble that she had dedicated to her first husband; then her eyelids dropped over their faded orbs, and her thoughts were drawn irresistibly to another grave. two buried men, with a voice at her ear, and a cry afar off, were calling her to lie down beside them. perhaps, with momentary truth of feeling, she thought how much happier had been her fate, if, after years of bliss, the bell were now tolling for her funeral, and she were followed to the grave by the old affection of her earliest lover, long her husband. but why had she returned to him, when their cold hearts shrank from each other's embrace? still the death-bell tolled so mournfully, that the sunshine seemed to fade in the air. a whisper, communicated from those who stood nearest the windows, now spread through the church; a hearse, with a train of several coaches, was creeping along the street, conveying some dead man to the churchyard, while the bride awaited a living one at the altar. immediately after, the footsteps of the bridegroom and his friends were heard at the door. the widow looked down the aisle, and clinched the arm of one of her bridemaids in her bony hand with such unconscious violence, that the fair girl trembled. "you frighten me, my dear madam!" cried she. "for heaven's sake, what is the matter?" "nothing, my dear, nothing," said the widow; then, whispering close to her ear, "there is a foolish fancy that i cannot get rid of. i am expecting my bridegroom to come into the church, with my first two husbands for groomsmen!" "look, look!" screamed the bridemaid. "what is here? the funeral!" as she spoke, a dark procession paced into the church. first came an old man and women, like chief mourners at a funeral, attired from head to foot in the deepest black, all but their pale features and hoary hair; he leaning on a staff, and supporting her decrepit form with his nerveless arm. behind appeared another, and another pair, as aged, as black, and mournful as the first. as they drew near, the widow recognized in every face some trait of former friends, long forgotten, but now returning, as if from their old graves, to warn her to prepare a shroud; or, with purpose almost as unwelcome, to exhibit their wrinkles and infirmity, and claim her as their companion by the tokens of her own decay. many a merry night had she danced with them, in youth. and now, in joyless age, she felt that some withered partner should request her hand, and all unite, in a dance of death, to the music of the funeral bell. while these aged mourners were passing up the aisle, it was observed that, from pew to pew, the spectators shuddered with irrepressible awe, as some object, hitherto concealed by the intervening figures, came full in sight. many turned away their faces; others kept a fixed and rigid stare; and a young girl giggled hysterically, and fainted with the laughter on her lips. when the spectral procession approached the altar, each couple separated, and slowly diverged, till, in the centre, appeared a form, that had been worthily ushered in with all this gloomy pomp, the death knell, and the funeral. it was the bridegroom in his shroud! no garb but that of the grave could have befitted such a deathlike aspect; the eyes, indeed, had the wild gleam of a sepulchral lamp; all else was fixed in the stern calmness which old men wear in the coffin. the corpse stood motionless, but addressed the widow in accents that seemed to melt into the clang of the bell, which fell heavily on the air while he spoke. "come, my bride!" said those pale lips, "the hearse is ready. the sexton stands waiting for us at the door of the tomb. let us be married; and then to our coffins!" how shall the widow's horror be represented? it gave her the ghastliness of a dead man's bride. her youthful friends stood apart, shuddering at the mourners, the shrouded bridegroom, and herself; the whole scene expressed, by the strongest imagery, the vain struggle of the gilded vanities of this world, when opposed to age, infirmity, sorrow, and death. the awe-struck silence was first broken by the clergyman. "mr. ellenwood," said he, soothingly, yet with somewhat of authority, "you are not well. your mind has been agitated by the unusual circumstances in which you are placed. the ceremony must be deferred. as an old friend, let me entreat you to return home." "home! yes, but not without my bride," answered he, in the same hollow accents. "you deem this mockery; perhaps madness. had i bedizened my aged and broken frame with scarlet and embroidery--had i forced my withered lips to smile at my dead heart--that might have been mockery, or madness. but now, let young and old declare, which of us has come hither without a wedding garment, the bridegroom or the bride!" he stepped forward at a ghostly pace, and stood beside the widow, contrasting the awful simplicity of his shroud with the glare and glitter in which she had arrayed herself for this unhappy scene. none, that beheld them, could deny the terrible strength of the moral which his disordered intellect had contrived to draw. "cruel! cruel!" groaned the heart-stricken bride. "cruel!" repeated he; then, losing his deathlike composure in a wild bitterness: "heaven judge which of us has been cruel to the other! in youth you deprived me of my happiness, my hopes, my aims; you took away all the substance of my life, and made it a dream without reality enough even to grieve at--with only a pervading gloom, through which i walked wearily, and cared not whither. but after forty years, when i have built my tomb, and would not give up the thought of resting there--nor not for such a life as we once pictured--you call me to the altar. at your summons i am here. but other husbands have enjoyed your youth, your beauty, your warmth of heart, and all that could be termed your life. what is there for me but your decay and death? and therefore i have bidden these funeral friends, and bespoken the sexton's deepest knell, and am come, in my shroud, to wed you, as with a burial service, that we may join our hands at the door of the sepulchre, and enter it together." it was not frenzy; it was not merely the drunkenness of strong emotion, in a heart unused to it, that now wrought upon the bride. the stern lesson of the day had done its work; her worldliness was gone. she seized the bridegroom's hand. "yes!" cried she. "let us wed, even at the door of the sepulchre! my life is gone in vanity and emptiness. but at its close there is one true feeling. it has made me what i was in youth; it makes me worthy of you. time is no more for both of us. let us wed for eternity!" with a long and deep regard, the bridegroom looked into her eyes, while a tear was gathering in his own. how strange that gush of human feeling from the frozen bosom of a corpse! he wiped away the tears even with his shroud. "beloved of my youth," said he, "i have been wild. the despair of my whole lifetime had returned at once, and maddened me. forgive; and be forgiven. yes; it is evening with us now; and we have realized none of our morning dreams of happiness. but let us join our hands before the altar as lovers whom adverse circumstances have separated through life, yet who meet again as they are leaving it, and find their earthly affection changed into something holy as religion. and what is time, to the married of eternity?" amid the tears of many, and a swell of exalted sentiment, in those who felt aright, was solemnized the union of two immortal souls. the train of withered mourners, the hoary bridegroom in his shroud, the pale features of the aged bride, and the death-bell tolling through the whole, till its deep voice overpowered the marriage words, all marked the funeral of earthly hopes. but as the ceremony proceeded, the organ, as if stirred by the sympathies of this impressive scene, poured forth an anthem, first mingling with the dismal knell, then rising to a loftier strain, till the soul looked down upon its woe. and when the awful rite was finished, and with cold hand in cold hand, the married of eternity withdrew, the organ's peal of solemn triumph drowned the wedding knell. the minister's black veil a parable[ ] [ ] another clergyman in new england, mr. joseph moody, of york, maine, who died about eighty years since, made himself remarkable by the same eccentricity that is here related of the reverend mr. hooper. in his case, however, the symbol had a different import. in early life he had accidentally killed a beloved friend, and from that day till the hour of his own death, he hid his face from men. the sexton stood in the porch of milford meeting-house, pulling busily at the bell-rope. the old people of the village came stooping along the street. children, with bright faces, tripped merrily beside their parents, or mimicked a graver gait, in the conscious dignity of their sunday clothes. spruce bachelors looked sidelong at the pretty maidens, and fancied that the sabbath sunshine made them prettier than on week days. when the throng had mostly streamed into the porch, the sexton began to toll the bell, keeping his eye on the reverend mr. hooper's door. the first glimpse of the clergyman's figure was the signal for the bell to cease its summons. "but what has good parson hooper got upon his face?" cried the sexton in astonishment. all within hearing immediately turned about, and beheld the semblance of mr. hooper, pacing slowly his meditative way towards the meetinghouse. with one accord they started, expressing more wonder than if some strange minister were coming to dust the cushions of mr. hooper's pulpit. "are you sure it is our parson?" inquired goodman gray of the sexton. "of a certainty it is good mr. hooper," replied the sexton. "he was to have exchanged pulpits with parson shute, of westbury; but parson shute sent to excuse himself yesterday, being to preach a funeral sermon." the cause of so much amazement may appear sufficiently slight. mr. hooper, a gentlemanly person, of about thirty, though still a bachelor, was dressed with due clerical neatness, as if a careful wife had starched his band, and brushed the weekly dust from his sunday's garb. there was but one thing remarkable in his appearance. swathed about his forehead, and hanging down over his face, so low as to be shaken by his breath, mr. hooper had on a black veil. on a nearer view it seemed to consist of two folds of crape, which entirely concealed his features, except the mouth and chin, but probably did not intercept his sight, further than to give a darkened aspect to all living and inanimate things. with this gloomy shade before him, good mr. hooper walked onward, at a slow and quiet pace, stooping somewhat, and looking on the ground, as is customary with abstracted men, yet nodding kindly to those of his parishioners who still waited on the meeting-house steps. but so wonder-struck were they that his greeting hardly met with a return. "i can't really feel as if good mr. hooper's face was behind that piece of crape," said the sexton. "i don't like it," muttered an old woman, as she hobbled into the meeting-house. "he has changed himself into something awful, only by hiding his face." "our parson has gone mad!" cried goodman gray, following him across the threshold. a rumor of some unaccountable phenomenon had preceded mr. hooper into the meeting-house, and set all the congregation astir. few could refrain from twisting their heads towards the door; many stood upright, and turned directly about; while several little boys clambered upon the seats, and came down again with a terrible racket. there was a general bustle, a rustling of the women's gowns and shuffling of the men's feet, greatly at variance with that hushed repose which should attend the entrance of the minister. but mr. hooper appeared not to notice the perturbation of his people. he entered with an almost noiseless step, bent his head mildly to the pews on each side, and bowed as he passed his oldest parishioner, a white-haired great grandsire, who occupied an arm-chair in the centre of the aisle. it was strange to observe how slowly this venerable man became conscious of something singular in the appearance of his pastor. he seemed not fully to partake of the prevailing wonder, till mr. hooper had ascended the stairs, and showed himself in the pulpit, face to face with his congregation, except for the black veil. that mysterious emblem was never once withdrawn. it shook with his measured breath, as he gave out the psalm; it threw its obscurity between him and the holy page, as he read the scriptures; and while he prayed, the veil lay heavily on his uplifted countenance. did he seek to hide it from the dread being whom he was addressing? such was the effect of this simple piece of crape, that more than one woman of delicate nerves was forced to leave the meeting-house. yet perhaps the pale-faced congregation was almost as fearful a sight to the minister, as his black veil to them. mr. hooper had the reputation of a good preacher, but not an energetic one: he strove to win his people heavenward by mild, persuasive influences, rather than to drive them thither by the thunders of the word. the sermon which he now delivered was marked by the same characteristics of style and manner as the general series of his pulpit oratory. but there was something, either in the sentiment of the discourse itself, or in the imagination of the auditors, which made it greatly the most powerful effort that they had ever heard from their pastor's lips. it was tinged, rather more darkly than usual, with the gentle gloom of mr. hooper's temperament. the subject had reference to secret sin, and those sad mysteries which we hide from our nearest and dearest, and would fain conceal from our own consciousness, even forgetting that the omniscient can detect them. a subtle power was breathed into his words. each member of the congregation, the most innocent girl, and the man of hardened breast, felt as if the preacher had crept upon them, behind his awful veil, and discovered their hoarded iniquity of deed or thought. many spread their clasped hands on their bosoms. there was nothing terrible in what mr. hooper said, at least, no violence; and yet, with every tremor of his melancholy voice, the hearers quaked. an unsought pathos came hand in hand with awe. so sensible were the audience of some unwonted attribute in their minister, that they longed for a breath of wind to blow aside the veil, almost believing that a stranger's visage would be discovered, though the form, gesture, and voice were those of mr. hooper. at the close of the services, the people hurried out with indecorous confusion, eager to communicate their pent-up amazement, and conscious of lighter spirits the moment they lost sight of the black veil. some gathered in little circles, huddled closely together, with their mouths all whispering in the centre; some went homeward alone, wrapt in silent meditation; some talked loudly, and profaned the sabbath day with ostentatious laughter. a few shook their sagacious heads, intimating that they could penetrate the mystery; while one or two affirmed that there was no mystery at all, but only that mr. hooper's eyes were so weakened by the midnight lamp, as to require a shade. after a brief interval, forth came good mr. hooper also, in the rear of his flock. turning his veiled face from one group to another, he paid due reverence to the hoary heads, saluted the middle aged with kind dignity as their friend and spiritual guide, greeted the young with mingled authority and love, and laid his hands on the little children's heads to bless them. such was always his custom on the sabbath day. strange and bewildered looks repaid him for his courtesy. none, as on former occasions, aspired to the honor of walking by their pastor's side. old squire saunders, doubtless by an accidental lapse of memory, neglected to invite mr. hooper to his table, where the good clergyman had been wont to bless the food, almost every sunday since his settlement. he returned, therefore, to the parsonage, and, at the moment of closing the door, was observed to look back upon the people, all of whom had their eyes fixed upon the minister. a sad smile gleamed faintly from beneath the black veil, and flickered about his mouth, glimmering as he disappeared. "how strange," said a lady, "that a simple black veil, such as any woman might wear on her bonnet, should become such a terrible thing on mr. hooper's face!" "something must surely be amiss with mr. hooper's intellects," observed her husband, the physician of the village. "but the strangest part of the affair is the effect of this vagary, even on a sober-minded man like myself. the black veil, though it covers only our pastor's face, throws its influence over his whole person, and makes him ghostlike from head to foot. do you not feel it so?" "truly do i," replied the lady; "and i would not be alone with him for the world. i wonder he is not afraid to be alone with himself!" "men sometimes are so," said her husband. the afternoon service was attended with similar circumstances. at its conclusion, the bell tolled for the funeral of a young lady. the relatives and friends were assembled in the house, and the more distant acquaintances stood about the door, speaking of the good qualities of the deceased, when their talk was interrupted by the appearance of mr. hooper, still covered with his black veil. it was now an appropriate emblem. the clergyman stepped into the room where the corpse was laid, and bent over the coffin, to take a last farewell of his deceased parishioner. as he stooped, the veil hung straight down from his forehead, so that, if her eyelids had not been closed forever, the dead maiden might have seen his face. could mr. hooper be fearful of her glance, that he so hastily caught back the black veil? a person who watched the interview between the dead and living, scrupled not to affirm, that, at the instant when the clergyman's features were disclosed, the corpse had slightly shuddered, rustling the shroud and muslin cap, though the countenance retained the composure of death. a superstitious old woman was the only witness of this prodigy. from the coffin mr. hooper passed into the chamber of the mourners, and thence to the head of the staircase, to make the funeral prayer. it was a tender and heart-dissolving prayer, full of sorrow, yet so imbued with celestial hopes, that the music of a heavenly harp, swept by the fingers of the dead, seemed faintly to be heard among the saddest accents of the minister. the people trembled, though they but darkly understood him when he prayed that they, and himself, and all of mortal race, might be ready, as he trusted this young maiden had been, for the dreadful hour that should snatch the veil from their faces. the bearers went heavily forth, and the mourners followed, saddening all the street, with the dead before them, and mr. hooper in his black veil behind. "why do you look back?" said one in the procession to his partner. "i had a fancy," replied she, "that the minister and the maiden's spirit were walking hand in hand." "and so had i, at the same moment," said the other. that night, the handsomest couple in milford village were to be joined in wedlock. though reckoned a melancholy man, mr. hooper had a placid cheerfulness for such occasions, which often excited a sympathetic smile where livelier merriment would have been thrown away. there was no quality of his disposition which made him more beloved than this. the company at the wedding awaited his arrival with impatience, trusting that the strange awe, which had gathered over him throughout the day, would now be dispelled. but such was not the result. when mr. hooper came, the first thing that their eyes rested on was the same horrible black veil, which had added deeper gloom to the funeral, and could portend nothing but evil to the wedding. such was its immediate effect on the guests that a cloud seemed to have rolled duskily from beneath the black crape, and dimmed the light of the candles. the bridal pair stood up before the minister. but the bride's cold fingers quivered in the tremulous hand of the bridegroom, and her deathlike paleness caused a whisper that the maiden who had been buried a few hours before was come from her grave to be married. if ever another wedding were so dismal, it was that famous one where they tolled the wedding knell. after performing the ceremony, mr. hooper raised a glass of wine to his lips, wishing happiness to the newmarried couple in a strain of mild pleasantry that ought to have brightened the features of the guests, like a cheerful gleam from the hearth. at that instant, catching a glimpse of his figure in the looking-glass, the black veil involved his own spirit in the horror with which it overwhelmed all others. his frame shuddered, his lips grew white, he spilt the untasted wine upon the carpet, and rushed forth into the darkness. for the earth, too, had on her black veil. the next day, the whole village of milford talked of little else than parson hooper's black veil. that, and the mystery concealed behind it, supplied a topic for discussion between acquaintances meeting in the street, and good women gossiping at their open windows. it was the first item of news that the tavern-keeper told to his guests. the children babbled of it on their way to school. one imitative little imp covered his face with an old black handkerchief, thereby so affrighting his playmates that the panic seized himself, and he well-nigh lost his wits by his own waggery. it was remarkable that all of the busybodies and impertinent people in the parish, not one ventured to put the plain question to mr. hooper, wherefore he did this thing. hitherto, whenever there appeared the slightest call for such interference, he had never lacked advisers, nor shown himself averse to be guided by their judgment. if he erred at all, it was by so painful a degree of self-distrust, that even the mildest censure would lead him to consider an indifferent action as a crime. yet, though so well acquainted with this amiable weakness, no individual among his parishioners chose to make the black veil a subject of friendly remonstrance. there was a feeling of dread, neither plainly confessed nor carefully concealed, which caused each to shift the responsibility upon another, till at length it was found expedient to send a deputation of the church, in order to deal with mr. hooper about the mystery, before it should grow into a scandal. never did an embassy so ill discharge its duties. the minister received then with friendly courtesy, but became silent, after they were seated, leaving to his visitors the whole burden of introducing their important business. the topic, it might be supposed, was obvious enough. there was the black veil swathed round mr. hooper's forehead, and concealing every feature above his placid mouth, on which, at times, they could perceive the glimmering of a melancholy smile. but that piece of crape, to their imagination, seemed to hang down before his heart, the symbol of a fearful secret between him and them. were the veil but cast aside, they might speak freely of it, but not till then. thus they sat a considerable time, speechless, confused, and shrinking uneasily from mr. hooper's eye, which they felt to be fixed upon them with an invisible glance. finally, the deputies returned abashed to their constituents, pronouncing the matter too weighty to be handled, except by a council of the churches, if, indeed, it might not require a general synod. but there was one person in the village unappalled by the awe with which the black veil had impressed all beside herself. when the deputies returned without an explanation, or even venturing to demand one, she, with the calm energy of her character, determined to chase away the strange cloud that appeared to be settling round mr. hooper, every moment more darkly than before. as his plighted wife, it should be her privilege to know what the black veil concealed. at the minister's first visit, therefore, she entered upon the subject with a direct simplicity, which made the task easier both for him and her. after he had seated himself, she fixed her eyes steadfastly upon the veil, but could discern nothing of the dreadful gloom that had so overawed the multitude: it was but a double fold of crape, hanging down from his forehead to his mouth, and slightly stirring with his breath. "no," said she aloud, and smiling, "there is nothing terrible in this piece of crape, except that it hides a face which i am always glad to look upon. come, good sir, let the sun shine from behind the cloud. first lay aside your black veil: then tell me why you put it on." mr. hooper's smile glimmered faintly. "there is an hour to come," said he, "when all of us shall cast aside our veils. take it not amiss, beloved friend, if i wear this piece of crape till then." "your words are a mystery, too," returned the young lady. "take away the veil from them, at least." "elizabeth, i will," said he, "so far as my vow may suffer me. know, then, this veil is a type and a symbol, and i am bound to wear it ever, both in light and darkness, in solitude and before the gaze of multitudes, and as with strangers, so with my familiar friends. no mortal eye will see it withdrawn. this dismal shade must separate me from the world: even you, elizabeth, can never come behind it!" "what grievous affliction hath befallen you," she earnestly inquired, "that you should thus darken your eyes forever?" "if it be a sign of mourning," replied mr. hooper, "i, perhaps, like most other mortals, have sorrows dark enough to be typified by a black veil." "but what if the world will not believe that it is the type of an innocent sorrow?" urged elizabeth. "beloved and respected as you are, there may be whispers that you hide your face under the consciousness of secret sin. for the sake of your holy office, do away this scandal!" the color rose into her cheeks as she intimated the nature of the rumors that were already abroad in the village. but mr. hooper's mildness did not forsake him. he even smiled again--that same sad smile, which always appeared like a faint glimmering of light, proceeding from the obscurity beneath the veil. "if i hide my face for sorrow, there is cause enough," he merely replied; "and if i cover it for secret sin, what mortal might not do the same?" and with this gentle, but unconquerable obstinacy did he resist all her entreaties. at length elizabeth sat silent. for a few moments she appeared lost in thought, considering, probably, what new methods might be tried to withdraw her lover from so dark a fantasy, which, if it had no other meaning, was perhaps a symptom of mental disease. though of a firmer character than his own, the tears rolled down her cheeks. but, in an instant, as it were, a new feeling took the place of sorrow: her eyes were fixed insensibly on the black veil, when, like a sudden twilight in the air, its terrors fell around her. she arose, and stood trembling before him. "and do you feel it then, at last?" said he mournfully. she made no reply, but covered her eyes with her hand, and turned to leave the room. he rushed forward and caught her arm. "have patience with me, elizabeth!" cried he, passionately. "do not desert me, though this veil must be between us here on earth. be mine, and hereafter there shall be no veil over my face, no darkness between our souls! it is but a mortal veil--it is not for eternity! o! you know not how lonely i am, and how frightened, to be alone behind my black veil. do not leave me in this miserable obscurity forever!" "lift the veil but once, and look me in the face," said she. "never! it cannot be!" replied mr. hooper. "then farewell!" said elizabeth. she withdrew her arm from his grasp, and slowly departed, pausing at the door, to give one long shuddering gaze, that seemed almost to penetrate the mystery of the black veil. but, even amid his grief, mr. hooper smiled to think that only a material emblem had separated him from happiness, though the horrors, which it shadowed forth, must be drawn darkly between the fondest of lovers. from that time no attempts were made to remove mr. hooper's black veil, or, by a direct appeal, to discover the secret which it was supposed to hide. by persons who claimed a superiority to popular prejudice, it was reckoned merely an eccentric whim, such as often mingles with the sober actions of men otherwise rational, and tinges them all with its own semblance of insanity. but with the multitude, good mr. hooper was irreparably a bugbear. he could not walk the street with any peace of mind, so conscious was he that the gentle and timid would turn aside to avoid him, and that others would make it a point of hardihood to throw themselves in his way. the impertinence of the latter class compelled him to give up his customary walk at sunset to the burial ground; for when he leaned pensively over the gate, there would always be faces behind the gravestones, peeping at his black veil. a fable went the rounds that the stare of the dead people drove him thence. it grieved him, to the very depth of his kind heart, to observe how the children fled from his approach, breaking up their merriest sports, while his melancholy figure was yet afar off. their instinctive dread caused him to feel more strongly than aught else, that a preternatural horror was interwoven with the threads of the black crape. in truth, his own antipathy to the veil was known to be so great, that he never willingly passed before a mirror, nor stooped to drink at a still fountain, lest, in its peaceful bosom, he should be affrighted by himself. this was what gave plausibility to the whispers, that mr. hooper's conscience tortured him for some great crime too horrible to be entirely concealed, or otherwise than so obscurely intimated. thus, from beneath the black veil, there rolled a cloud into the sunshine, an ambiguity of sin or sorrow, which enveloped the poor minister, so that love or sympathy could never reach him. it was said that ghost and fiend consorted with him there. with self-shudderings and outward terrors, he walked continually in its shadow, groping darkly within his own soul, or gazing through a medium that saddened the whole world. even the lawless wind, it was believed, respected his dreadful secret, and never blew aside the veil. but still good mr. hooper sadly smiled at the pale visages of the worldly throng as he passed by. among all its bad influences, the black veil had the one desirable effect, of making its wearer a very efficient clergyman. by the aid of his mysterious emblem--for there was no other apparent cause--he became a man of awful power over souls that were in agony for sin. his converts always regarded him with a dread peculiar to themselves, affirming, though but figuratively, that, before he brought them to celestial light, they had been with him behind the black veil. its gloom, indeed, enabled him to sympathize with all dark affections. dying sinners cried aloud for mr. hooper, and would not yield their breath till he appeared; though ever, as he stooped to whisper consolation, they shuddered at the veiled face so near their own. such were the terrors of the black veil, even when death had bared his visage! strangers came long distances to attend service at his church, with the mere idle purpose of gazing at his figure, because it was forbidden them to behold his face. but many were made to quake ere they departed! once, during governor belcher's administration, mr. hooper was appointed to preach the election sermon. covered with his black veil, he stood before the chief magistrate, the council, and the representatives, and wrought so deep an impression, that the legislative measures of that year were characterized by all the gloom and piety of our earliest ancestral sway. in this manner mr. hooper spent a long life, irreproachable in outward act, yet shrouded in dismal suspicions; kind and loving, though unloved, and dimly feared; a man apart from men, shunned in their health and joy, but ever summoned to their aid in mortal anguish. as years wore on, shedding their snows above his sable veil, he acquired a name throughout the new england churches, and they called him father hooper. nearly all his parishioners, who were of mature age when he was settled, had been borne away by many a funeral: he had one congregation in the church, and a more crowded one in the churchyard; and having wrought so late into the evening, and done his work so well, it was now good father hooper's turn to rest. several persons were visible by the shaded candlelight, in the death chamber of the old clergyman. natural connections he had none. but there was the decorously grave, though unmoved physician, seeking only to mitigate the last pangs of the patient whom he could not save. there were the deacons, and other eminently pious members of his church. there, also, was the reverend mr. clark, of westbury, a young and zealous divine, who had ridden in haste to pray by the bedside of the expiring minister. there was the nurse, no hired handmaiden of death, but one whose calm affection had endured thus long in secrecy, in solitude, amid the chill of age, and would not perish, even at the dying hour. who, but elizabeth! and there lay the hoary head of good father hooper upon the death pillow, with the black veil still swathed about his brow, and reaching down over his face, so that each more difficult gasp of his faint breath caused it to stir. all through life that piece of crape had hung between him and the world: it had separated him from cheerful brotherhood and woman's love, and kept him in that saddest of all prisons, his own heart; and still it lay upon his face, as if to deepen the gloom of his darksome chamber, and shade him from the sunshine of eternity. for some time previous, his mind had been confused, wavering doubtfully between the past and the present, and hovering forward, as it were, at intervals, into the indistinctness of the world to come. there had been feverish turns, which tossed him from side to side, and wore away what little strength he had. but in his most convulsive struggles, and in the wildest vagaries of his intellect, when no other thought retained its sober influence, he still showed an awful solicitude lest the black veil should slip aside. even if his bewildered soul could have forgotten, there was a faithful woman at this pillow, who, with averted eyes, would have covered that aged face, which she had last beheld in the comeliness of manhood. at length the death-stricken old man lay quietly in the torpor of mental and bodily exhaustion, with an imperceptible pulse, and breath that grew fainter and fainter, except when a long, deep, and irregular inspiration seemed to prelude the flight of his spirit. the minister of westbury approached the bedside. "venerable father hooper," said he, "the moment of your release is at hand. are you ready for the lifting of the veil that shuts in time from eternity?" father hooper at first replied merely by a feeble motion of his head; then, apprehensive, perhaps, that his meaning might be doubted, he exerted himself to speak. "yea," said he, in faint accents, "my soul hath a patient weariness until that veil be lifted." "and is it fitting," resumed the reverend mr. clark, "that a man so given to prayer, of such a blameless example, holy in deed and thought, so far as mortal judgment may pronounce; is it fitting that a father in the church should leave a shadow on his memory, that may seem to blacken a life so pure? i pray you, my venerable brother, let not this thing be! suffer us to be gladdened by your triumphant aspect as you go to your reward. before the veil of eternity be lifted, let me cast aside this black veil from your face!" and thus speaking, the reverend mr. clark bent forward to reveal the mystery of so many years. but, exerting a sudden energy, that made all the beholders stand aghast, father hooper snatched both his hands from beneath the bedclothes, and pressed them strongly on the black veil, resolute to struggle, if the minister of westbury would contend with a dying man. "never!" cried the veiled clergyman. "on earth, never!" "dark old man!" exclaimed the affrighted minister, "with what horrible crime upon your soul are you now passing to the judgment?" father hooper's breath heaved; it rattled in his throat; but, with a mighty effort, grasping forward with his hands, he caught hold of life, and held it back till he should speak. he even raised himself in bed; and there he sat, shivering with the arms of death around him, while the black veil hung down, awful, at that last moment, in the gathered terrors of a lifetime. and yet the faint, sad smile, so often there, now seemed to glimmer from its obscurity, and linger on father hooper's lips. "why do you tremble at me alone?" cried he, turning his veiled face round the circle of pale spectators. "tremble also at each other! have men avoided me, and women shown no pity, and children screamed and fled, only for my black veil? what, but the mystery which it obscurely typifies, has made this piece of crape so awful? when the friend shows his inmost heart to his friend; the lover to his best beloved; when man does not vainly shrink from the eye of his creator, loathsomely treasuring up the secret of his sin; then deem me a monster, for the symbol beneath which i have lived, and die! i look around me, and, lo! on every visage a black veil!" while his auditors shrank from one another, in mutual affright, father hooper fell back upon his pillow, a veiled corpse, with a faint smile lingering on the lips. still veiled, they laid him in his coffin, and a veiled corpse they bore him to the grave. the grass of many years has sprung up and withered on that grave, the burial stone is moss-grown, and good mr. hooper's face is dust; but awful is still the thought that it mouldered beneath the black veil! the maypole of merry mount there is an admirable foundation for a philosophic romance in the curious history of the early settlement of mount wollaston, or merry mount. in the slight sketch here attempted, the facts, recorded on the grave pages of our new england annalists, have wrought themselves, almost spontaneously, into a sort of allegory. the masques, mummeries, and festive customs, described in the text, are in accordance with the manners of the age. authority on these points may be found in strutt's book of english sports and pastimes. bright were the days at merry mount, when the maypole was the banner staff of that gay colony! they who reared it, should their banner be triumphant, were to pour sunshine over new england's rugged hills, and scatter flower seeds throughout the soil. jollity and gloom were contending for an empire. midsummer eve had come, bringing deep verdure to the forest, and roses in her lap, of a more vivid hue than the tender buds of spring. but may, or her mirthful spirit, dwelt all the year round at merry mount, sporting with the summer months, and revelling with autumn, and basking in the glow of winter's fireside. through a world of toil and care she flitted with a dreamlike smile, and came hither to find a home among the lightsome hearts of merry mount. never had the maypole been so gayly decked as at sunset on midsummer eve. this venerated emblem was a pine-tree, which had preserved the slender grace of youth, while it equalled the loftiest height of the old wood monarchs. from its top streamed a silken banner, colored like the rainbow. down nearly to the ground the pole was dressed with birchen boughs, and others of the liveliest green, and some with silvery leaves, fastened by ribbons that fluttered in fantastic knots of twenty different colors, but no sad ones. garden flowers, and blossoms of the wilderness, laughed gladly forth amid the verdure, so fresh and dewy that they must have grown by magic on that happy pine-tree. where this green and flowery splendor terminated, the shaft of the maypole was stained with the seven brilliant hues of the banner at its top. on the lowest green bough hung an abundant wreath of roses, some that had been gathered in the sunniest spots of the forest, and others, of still richer blush, which the colonists had reared from english seed. o, people of the golden age, the chief of your husbandry was to raise flowers! but what was the wild throng that stood hand in hand about the maypole? it could not be that the fauns and nymphs, when driven from their classic groves and homes of ancient fable, had sought refuge, as all the persecuted did, in the fresh woods of the west. these were gothic monsters, though perhaps of grecian ancestry. on the shoulders of a comely youth uprose the head and branching antlers of a stag; a second, human in all other points, had the grim visage of a wolf; a third, still with the trunk and limbs of a mortal man, showed the beard and horns of a venerable he-goat. there was the likeness of a bear erect, brute in all but his hind legs, which were adorned with pink silk stockings. and here again, almost as wondrous, stood a real bear of the dark forest, lending each of his fore paws to the grasp of a human hand, and as ready for the dance as any in that circle. his inferior nature rose half way, to meet his companions as they stooped. other faces wore the similitude of man or woman, but distorted or extravagant, with red noses pendulous before their mouths, which seemed of awful depth, and stretched from ear to ear in an eternal fit of laughter. here might be seen the savage man, well known in heraldry, hairy as a baboon, and girdled with green leaves. by his side a noble figure, but still a counterfeit, appeared an indian hunter, with feathery crest and wampum belt. many of this strange company wore foolscaps, and had little bells appended to their garments, tinkling with a silvery sound, responsive to the inaudible music of their gleesome spirits. some youths and maidens were of soberer garb, yet well maintained their places in the irregular throng by the expression of wild revelry upon their features. such were the colonists of merry mount, as they stood in the broad smile of sunset round their venerated maypole. had a wanderer, bewildered in the melancholy forest, heard their mirth, and stolen a half-affrighted glance, he might have fancied them the crew of comus, some already transformed to brutes, some midway between man and beast, and the others rioting in the flow of tipsy jollity that foreran the change. but a band of puritans, who watched the scene, invisible themselves, compared the masques to those devils and ruined souls with whom their superstition peopled the black wilderness. within the ring of monsters appeared the two airiest forms that had ever trodden on any more solid footing than a purple and golden cloud. one was a youth in glistening apparel, with a scarf of the rainbow pattern crosswise on his breast. his right hand held a gilded staff, the ensign of high dignity among the revellers, and his left grasped the slender fingers of a fair maiden, not less gayly decorated than himself. bright roses glowed in contrast with the dark and glossy curls of each, and were scattered round their feet, or had sprung up spontaneously there. behind this lightsome couple, so close to the maypole that its boughs shaded his jovial face, stood the figure of an english priest, canonically dressed, yet decked with flowers, in heathen fashion, and wearing a chaplet of the native vine leaves. by the riot of his rolling eye, and the pagan decorations of his holy garb, he seemed the wildest monster there, and the very comus of the crew. "votaries of the maypole," cried the flower-decked priest, "merrily, all day long, have the woods echoed to your mirth. but be this your merriest hour, my hearts! lo, here stand the lord and lady of the may, whom i, a clerk of oxford, and high priest of merry mount, am presently to join in holy matrimony. up with your nimble spirits, ye morris-dancers, green men, and glee maidens, bears and wolves, and horned gentlemen! come; a chorus now, rich with the old mirth of merry england, and the wilder glee of this fresh forest; and then a dance, to show the youthful pair what life is made of, and how airily they should go through it! all ye that love the maypole, lend your voices to the nuptial song of the lord and lady of the may!" this wedlock was more serious than most affairs of merry mount, where jest and delusion, trick and fantasy, kept up a continual carnival. the lord and lady of the may, though their titles must be laid down at sunset, were really and truly to be partners for the dance of life, beginning the measure that same bright eve. the wreath of roses, that hung from the lowest green bough of the maypole, had been twined for them, and would be thrown over both their heads, in symbol of their flowery union. when the priest had spoken, therefore, a riotous uproar burst from the rout of monstrous figures. "begin you the stave, reverend sir," cried they all; "and never did the woods ring to such a merry peal as we of the maypole shall send up!" immediately a prelude of pipe, cithern, and viol, touched with practised minstrelsy, began to play from a neighboring thicket, in such a mirthful cadence that the boughs of the maypole quivered to the sound. but the may lord, he of the gilded staff, chancing to look into his lady's eyes, was wonder struck at the almost pensive glance that met his own. "edith, sweet lady of the may," whispered he reproachfully, "is yon wreath of roses a garland to hang above our graves, that you look so sad? o, edith, this is our golden time! tarnish it not by any pensive shadow of the mind; for it may be that nothing of futurity will be brighter than the mere remembrance of what is now passing." "that was the very thought that saddened me! how came it in your mind too?" said edith, in a still lower tone than he, for it was high treason to be sad at merry mount. "therefore do i sigh amid this festive music. and besides, dear edgar, i struggle as with a dream, and fancy that these shapes of our jovial friends are visionary, and their mirth unreal, and that we are no true lord and lady of the may. what is the mystery in my heart?" just then, as if a spell had loosened them, down came a little shower of withering rose leaves from the maypole. alas, for the young lovers! no sooner had their hearts glowed with real passion than they were sensible of something vague and unsubstantial in their former pleasures, and felt a dreary presentiment of inevitable change. from the moment that they truly loved, they had subjected themselves to earth's doom of care and sorrow, and troubled joy, and had no more a home at merry mount. that was edith's mystery. now leave we the priest to marry them, and the masquers to sport round the maypole, till the last sunbeam be withdrawn from its summit, and the shadows of the forest mingle gloomily in the dance. meanwhile, we may discover who these gay people were. two hundred years ago, and more, the old world and its inhabitants became mutually weary of each other. men voyaged by thousands to the west: some to barter glass beads, and such like jewels, for the furs of the indian hunter; some to conquer virgin empires; and one stern band to pray. but none of these motives had much weight with the colonists of merry mount. their leaders were men who had sported so long with life, that when thought and wisdom came, even these unwelcome guests were led astray by the crowd of vanities which they should have put to flight. erring thought and perverted wisdom were made to put on masques, and play the fool. the men of whom we speak, after losing the heart's fresh gayety, imagined a wild philosophy of pleasure, and came hither to act out their latest day-dream. they gathered followers from all that giddy tribe whose whole life is like the festal days of soberer men. in their train were minstrels, not unknown in london streets; wandering players, whose theatres had been the halls of noblemen; mummers, rope-dancers, and mountebanks, who would long be missed at wakes, church ales, and fairs; in a word, mirth makers of every sort, such as abounded in that age, but now began to be discountenanced by the rapid growth of puritanism. light had their footsteps been on land, and as lightly they came across the sea. many had been maddened by their previous troubles into a gay despair; others were as madly gay in the flush of youth, like the may lord and his lady; but whatever might be the quality of their mirth, old and young were gay at merry mount. the young deemed themselves happy. the elder spirits, if they knew that mirth was but the counterfeit of happiness, yet followed the false shadow wilfully, because at least her garments glittered brightest. sworn triflers of a lifetime, they would not venture among the sober truths of life not even to be truly blest. all the hereditary pastimes of old england were transplanted hither. the king of christmas was duly crowned, and the lord of misrule bore potent sway. on the eve of st. john, they felled whole acres of the forest to make bonfires, and danced by the blaze all night, crowned with garlands, and throwing flowers into the flame. at harvest time, though their crop was of the smallest, they made an image with the sheaves of indian corn, and wreathed it with autumnal garlands, and bore it home triumphantly. but what chiefly characterized the colonists of merry mount was their veneration for the maypole. it has made their true history a poet's tale. spring decked the hallowed emblem with young blossoms and fresh green boughs; summer brought roses of the deepest blush, and the perfected foliage of the forest; autumn enriched it with that red and yellow gorgeousness which converts each wildwood leaf into a painted flower; and winter silvered it with sleet, and hung it round with icicles, till it flashed in the cold sunshine, itself a frozen sunbeam. thus each alternate season did homage to the maypole, and paid it a tribute of its own richest splendor. its votaries danced round it, once, at least, in every month; sometimes they called it their religion, or their altar; but always, it was the banner staff of merry mount. unfortunately, there were men in the new world of a sterner faith than those maypole worshippers. not far from merry mount was a settlement of puritans, most dismal wretches, who said their prayers before daylight, and then wrought in the forest or the cornfield till evening made it prayer time again. their weapons were always at hand to shoot down the straggling savage. when they met in conclave, it was never to keep up the old english mirth, but to hear sermons three hours long, or to proclaim bounties on the heads of wolves and the scalps of indians. their festivals were fast days, and their chief pastime the singing of psalms. woe to the youth or maiden who did but dream of a dance! the selectman nodded to the constable; and there sat the light-heeled reprobate in the stocks; or if he danced, it was round the whipping-post, which might be termed the puritan maypole. a party of these grim puritans, toiling through the difficult woods, each with a horseload of iron armor to burden his footsteps, would sometimes draw near the sunny precincts of merry mount. there were the silken colonists, sporting round their maypole; perhaps teaching a bear to dance, or striving to communicate their mirth to the grave indian; or masquerading in the skins of deer and wolves, which they had hunted for that especial purpose. often, the whole colony were playing at blindman's buff, magistrates and all, with their eyes bandaged, except a single scapegoat, whom the blinded sinners pursued by the tinkling of the bells at his garments. once, it is said, they were seen following a flower-decked corpse, with merriment and festive music, to his grave. but did the dead man laugh? in their quietest times, they sang ballads and told tales, for the edification of their pious visitors; or perplexed them with juggling tricks; or grinned at them through horse collars; and when sport itself grew wearisome, they made game of their own stupidity, and began a yawning match. at the very least of these enormities, the men of iron shook their heads and frowned so darkly that the revellers looked up imagining that a momentary cloud had overcast the sunshine, which was to be perpetual there. on the other hand, the puritans affirmed that, when a psalm was pealing from their place of worship, the echo which the forest sent them back seemed often like the chorus of a jolly catch, closing with a roar of laughter. who but the fiend, and his bond slaves, the crew of merry mount, had thus disturbed them? in due time, a feud arose, stern and bitter on one side, and as serious on the other as anything could be among such light spirits as had sworn allegiance to the maypole. the future complexion of new england was involved in this important quarrel. should the grizzly saints establish their jurisdiction over the gay sinners, then would their spirits darken all the clime, and make it a land of clouded visages, of hard toil, of sermon and psalm forever. but should the banner staff of merry mount be fortunate, sunshine would break upon the hills, and flowers would beautify the forest, and late posterity do homage to the maypole. after these authentic passages from history, we return to the nuptials of the lord and lady of the may. alas! we have delayed too long, and must darken our tale too suddenly. as we glance again at the maypole, a solitary sunbeam is fading from the summit, and leaves only a faint, golden tinge blended with the hues of the rainbow banner. even that dim light is now withdrawn, relinquishing the whole domain of merry mount to the evening gloom, which has rushed so instantaneously from the black surrounding woods. but some of these black shadows have rushed forth in human shape. yes, with the setting sun, the last day of mirth had passed from merry mount. the ring of gay masquers was disordered and broken; the stag lowered his antlers in dismay; the wolf grew weaker than a lamb; the bells of the morris-dancers tinkled with tremulous affright. the puritans had played a characteristic part in the maypole mummeries. their darksome figures were intermixed with the wild shapes of their foes, and made the scene a picture of the moment, when waking thoughts start up amid the scattered fantasies of a dream. the leader of the hostile party stood in the centre of the circle, while the route of monsters cowered around him, like evil spirits in the presence of a dread magician. no fantastic foolery could look him in the face. so stern was the energy of his aspect, that the whole man, visage, frame, and soul, seemed wrought of iron, gifted with life and thought, yet all of one substance with his headpiece and breastplate. it was the puritan of puritans; it was endicott himself! "stand off, priest of baal!" said he, with a grim frown, and laying no reverent hand upon the surplice. "i know thee, blackstone![ ] thou art the man who couldst not abide the rule even of thine own corrupted church, and hast come hither to preach iniquity, and to give example of it in thy life. but now shall it be seen that the lord hath sanctified this wilderness for his peculiar people. woe unto them that would defile it! and first, for this flower-decked abomination, the altar of thy worship!" [ ] did governor endicott speak less positively, we should suspect a mistake here. the rev. mr. blackstone, though an eccentric, is not known to have been an immoral man. we rather doubt his identity with the priest of merry mount. and with his keen sword endicott assaulted the hallowed maypole. nor long did it resist his arm. it groaned with a dismal sound; it showered leaves and rosebuds upon the remorseless enthusiast; and finally, with all its green boughs and ribbons and flowers, symbolic of departed pleasures, down fell the banner staff of merry mount. as it sank, tradition says, the evening sky grew darker, and the woods threw forth a more sombre shadow. "there," cried endicott, looking triumphantly on his work, "there lies the only maypole in new england! the thought is strong within me that, by its fall, is shadowed forth the fate of light and idle mirth makers, amongst us and our posterity. amen, saith john endicott." "amen!" echoed his followers. but the votaries of the maypole gave one groan for their idol. at the sound, the puritan leader glanced at the crew of comus, each a figure of broad mirth, yet, at this moment, strangely expressive of sorrow and dismay. "valiant captain," quoth peter palfrey, the ancient of the band, "what order shall be taken with the prisoners?" "i thought not to repent me of cutting down a maypole," replied endicott, "yet now i could find in my heart to plant it again, and give each of these bestial pagans one other dance round their idol. it would have served rarely for a whipping-post!" "but there are pine-trees enow," suggested the lieutenant. "true, good ancient," said the leader. "wherefore, bind the heathen crew, and bestow on them a small matter of stripes apiece, as earnest of our future justice. set some of the rogues in the stocks to rest themselves, so soon as providence shall bring us to one of our own well-ordered settlements where such accommodations may be found. further penalties, such as branding and cropping of ears, shall be thought of hereafter." "how many stripes for the priest?" inquired ancient palfrey. "none as yet," answered endicott, bending his iron frown upon the culprit. "it must be for the great and general court to determine, whether stripes and long imprisonment, and other grievous penalty, may atone for his transgressions. let him look to himself! for such as violate our civil order, it may be permitted us to show mercy. but woe to the wretch that troubleth our religion." "and this dancing bear," resumed the officer. "must he share the stripes of his fellows?" "shoot him through the head!" said the energetic puritan. "i suspect witchcraft in the beast." "here be a couple of shining ones," continued peter palfrey, pointing his weapon at the lord and lady of the may. "they seem to be of high station among these misdoers. methinks their dignity will not be fitted with less than a double share of stripes." endicott rested on his sword, and closely surveyed the dress and aspect of the hapless pair. there they stood, pale, downcast, and apprehensive. yet there was an air of mutual support and of pure affection, seeking aid and giving it, that showed them to be man and wife, with the sanction of a priest upon their love. the youth, in the peril of the moment, had dropped his gilded staff, and thrown his arm about the lady of the may, who leaned against his breast, too lightly to burden him, but with weight enough to express that their destinies were linked together, for good or evil. they looked first at each other, and then into the grim captain's face. there they stood, in the first hour of wedlock, while the idle pleasures, of which their companions were the emblems, had given place to the sternest cares of life, personified by the dark puritans. but never had their youthful beauty seemed so pure and high as when its glow was chastened by adversity. "youth," said endicott, "ye stand in an evil case thou and thy maiden wife. make ready presently, for i am minded that ye shall both have a token to remember your wedding day!" "stern man," cried the may lord, "how can i move thee? were the means at hand, i would resist to the death. being powerless, i entreat! do with me as thou wilt, but let edith go untouched!" "not so," replied the immitigable zealot. "we are not wont to show an idle courtesy to that sex, which requireth the stricter discipline. what sayest thou, maid? shall thy silken bridegroom suffer thy share of the penalty, besides his own?" "be it death," said edith, "and lay it all on me!" truly, as endicott had said, the poor lovers stood in a woful case. their foes were triumphant, their friends captive and abased, their home desolate, the benighted wilderness around them, and a rigorous destiny, in the shape of the puritan leader, their only guide. yet the deepening twilight could not altogether conceal that the iron man was softened; he smiled at the fair spectacle of early love; he almost sighed for the inevitable blight of early hopes. "the troubles of life have come hastily on this young couple," observed endicott. "we will see how they comport themselves under their present trials ere we burden them with greater. if, among the spoil, there be any garments of a more decent fashion, let them be put upon this may lord and his lady, instead of their glistening vanities. look to it, some of you. "and shall not the youth's hair be cut?" asked peter palfrey, looking with abhorrence at the lovelock and long glossy curls of the young man. "crop it forthwith, and that in the true pumpkin-shell fashion," answered the captain. "then bring them along with us, but more gently than their fellows. there be qualities in the youth, which may make him valiant to fight, and sober to toil, and pious to pray; and in the maiden, that may fit her to become a mother in our israel, bringing up babes in better nurture than her own hath been. nor think ye, young ones, that they are the happiest, even in our lifetime of a moment, who misspend it in dancing round a maypole!" and endicott, the severest puritan of all who laid the rock foundation of new england, lifted the wreath of roses from the ruin of the maypole, and threw it, with his own gauntleted hand, over the heads of the lord and lady of the may. it was a deed of prophecy. as the moral gloom of the world overpowers all systematic gayety, even so was their home of wild mirth made desolate amid the sad forest. they returned to it no more. but as their flowery garland was wreathed of the brightest roses that had grown there, so, in the tie that united them, were intertwined all the purest and best of their early joys. they went heavenward, supporting each other along the difficult path which it was their lot to tread, and never wasted one regretful thought on the vanities of merry mount. the gentle boy in the course of the year , several of the people called quakers, led, as they professed, by the inward movement of the spirit, made their appearance in new england. their reputation, as holders of mystic and pernicious principles, having spread before them, the puritans early endeavored to banish, and to prevent the further intrusion of the rising sect. but the measures by which it was intended to purge the land of heresy, though more than sufficiently vigorous, were entirely unsuccessful. the quakers, esteeming persecution as a divine call to the post of danger, laid claim to a holy courage, unknown to the puritans themselves, who had shunned the cross, by providing for the peaceable exercise of their religion in a distant wilderness. though it was the singular fact, that every nation of the earth rejected the wandering enthusiasts who practised peace towards all men, the place of greatest uneasiness and peril, and therefore, in their eyes the most eligible, was the province of massachusetts bay. the fines, imprisonments, and stripes, liberally distributed by our pious forefathers; the popular antipathy, so strong that it endured nearly a hundred years after actual persecution had ceased, were attractions as powerful for the quakers, as peace, honor, and reward, would have been for the worldly minded. every european vessel brought new cargoes of the sect, eager to testify against the oppression which they hoped to share; and when shipmasters were restrained by heavy fines from affording them passage, they made long and circuitous journeys through the indian country, and appeared in the province as if conveyed by a supernatural power. their enthusiasm, heightened almost to madness by the treatment which they received, produced actions contrary to the rules of decency, as well as of rational religion, and presented a singular contrast to the calm and staid deportment of their sectarian successors of the present day. the command of the spirit, inaudible except to the soul, and not to be controverted on grounds of human wisdom, was made a plea for most indecorous exhibitions, which, abstractedly considered, well deserved the moderate chastisement of the rod. these extravagances, and the persecution which was at once their cause and consequence, continued to increase, till, in the year , the government of massachusetts bay indulged two members of the quaker sect with a crown of martyrdom. an indelible stain of blood is upon the hands of all who consented to this act, but a large share of the awful responsibility must rest upon the person then at the head of the government. he was a man of narrow mind and imperfect education, and his uncompromising bigotry was made hot and mischievous by violent and hasty passions; he exerted his influence indecorously and unjustifiably to compass the death of the enthusiasts; and his whole conduct, in respect to them, was marked by brutal cruelty. the quakers, whose revengeful feelings were not less deep because they were inactive, remembered this man and his associates in after times. the historian of the sect affirms that, by the wrath of heaven, a blight fell upon the land in the vicinity of the "bloody town" of boston, so that no wheat would grow there; and he takes his stand, as it were, among the graves of the ancient persecutors, and triumphantly recounts the judgments that overtook them, in old age or at the parting hour. he tells us that they died suddenly and violently and in madness; but nothing can exceed the bitter mockery with which he records the loathsome disease, and "death by rottenness," of the fierce and cruel governor. . . . . . . . . . on the evening of the autumn day that had witnessed the martyrdom of two men of the quaker persuasion, a puritan settler was returning from the metropolis to the neighboring country town in which he resided. the air was cool, the sky clear, and the lingering twilight was made brighter by the rays of a young moon, which had now nearly reached the verge of the horizon. the traveller, a man of middle age, wrapped in a gray frieze cloak, quickened his pace when he had reached the outskirts of the town, for a gloomy extent of nearly four miles lay between him and his home. the low, straw-thatched houses were scattered at considerable intervals along the road, and the country having been settled but about thirty years, the tracts of original forest still bore no small proportion to the cultivated ground. the autumn wind wandered among the branches, whirling away the leaves from all except the pine-trees, and moaning as if it lamented the desolation of which it was the instrument. the road had penetrated the mass of woods that lay nearest to the town, and was just emerging into an open space, when the traveller's ears were saluted by a sound more mournful than even that of the wind. it was like the wailing of someone in distress, and it seemed to proceed from beneath a tall and lonely fir-tree, in the centre of a cleared but uninclosed and uncultivated field. the puritan could not but remember that this was the very spot which had been made accursed a few hours before by the execution of the quakers whose bodies had been thrown together into one hasty grave, beneath the tree on which they suffered. he struggled however, against the superstitious fears which belonged to the age, and compelled himself to pause and listen. "the voice is most likely mortal, nor have i cause to tremble if it be otherwise," thought he, straining his eyes through the dim moonlight. "methinks it is like the wailing of a child; some infant, it may be, which has strayed from its mother, and chanced upon this place of death. for the ease of mine own conscience i must search this matter out." he therefore left the path, and walked somewhat fearfully across the field. though now so desolate, its soil was pressed down and trampled by the thousand footsteps of those who had witnessed the spectacle of that day, all of whom had now retired, leaving the dead to their loneliness. the traveller, at length reached the fir-tree, which from the middle upward was covered with living branches, although a scaffold had been erected beneath, and other preparations made for the work of death. under this unhappy tree, which in after times was believed to drop poison with its dew, sat the one solitary mourner for innocent blood. it was a slender and light clad little boy, who leaned his face upon a hillock of fresh-turned and half-frozen earth, and wailed bitterly, yet in a suppressed tone, as if his grief might receive the punishment of crime. the puritan, whose approach had been unperceived, laid his hand upon the child's shoulder, and addressed him compassionately. "you have chosen a dreary lodging, my poor boy, and no wonder that you weep," said he. "but dry your eyes, and tell me where your mother dwells. i promise you, if the journey be not too far, i will leave you in her arms to-night." the boy had hushed his wailing at once, and turned his face upward to the stranger. it was a pale, bright-eyed countenance, certainly not more than six years old, but sorrow, fear, and want had destroyed much of its infantile expression. the puritan seeing the boy's frightened gaze, and feeling that he trembled under his hand, endeavored to reassure him. "nay, if i intended to do you harm, little lad, the readiest way were to leave you here. what! you do not fear to sit beneath the gallows on a new-made grave, and yet you tremble at a friend's touch. take heart, child, and tell me what is your name and where is your home?" "friend," replied the little boy, in a sweet though faltering voice, "they call me ilbrahim, and my home is here." the pale, spiritual face, the eyes that seemed to mingle with the moonlight, the sweet, airy voice, and the outlandish name, almost made the puritan believe that the boy was in truth a being which had sprung up out of the grave on which he sat. but perceiving that the apparition stood the test of a short mental prayer, and remembering that the arm which he had touched was lifelike, he adopted a more rational supposition. "the poor child is stricken in his intellect," thought he, "but verily his words are fearful in a place like this." he then spoke soothingly, intending to humor the boy's fantasy. "your home will scarce be comfortable, ilbrahim, this cold autumn night, and i fear you are ill-provided with food. i am hastening to a warm supper and bed, and if you will go with me you shall share them!" "i thank thee, friend, but though i be hungry, and shivering with cold, thou wilt not give me food nor lodging," replied the boy, in the quiet tone which despair had taught him, even so young. "my father was of the people whom all men hate. they have laid him under this heap of earth, and here is my home." the puritan, who had laid hold of little ilbrahim's hand, relinquished it as if he were touching a loathsome reptile. but he possessed a compassionate heart, which not even religious prejudice could harden into stone. "god forbid that i should leave this child to perish, though he comes of the accursed sect," said he to himself. "do we not all spring from an evil root? are we not all in darkness till the light doth shine upon us? he shall not perish, neither in body, nor, if prayer and instruction may avail for him, in soul." he then spoke aloud and kindly to ilbrahim, who had again hid his face in the cold earth of the grave. "was every door in the land shut against you, my child, that you have wandered to this unhallowed spot?" "they drove me forth from the prison when they took my father thence," said the boy, "and i stood afar off watching the crowd of people, and when they were gone i came hither, and found only his grave. i knew that my father was sleeping here, and i said this shall be my home." "no, child, no; not while i have a roof over my head, or a morsel to share with you!" exclaimed the puritan, whose sympathies were now fully excited. "rise up and come with me, and fear not any harm." the boy wept afresh, and clung to the heap of earth as if the cold heart beneath it were warmer to him than any in a living breast. the traveller, however, continued to entreat him tenderly, and seeming to acquire some degree of confidence, he at length arose. but his slender limbs tottered with weakness, his little head grew dizzy, and he leaned against the tree of death for support. "my poor boy, are you so feeble?" said the puritan. "when did you taste food last?" "i ate of bread and water with my father in the prison," replied ilbrahim, "but they brought him none neither yesterday nor to-day, saying that he had eaten enough to bear him to his journey's end. trouble not thyself for my hunger, kind friend, for i have lacked food many times ere now." the traveller took the child in his arms and wrapped his cloak about him, while his heart stirred with shame and anger against the gratuitous cruelty of the instruments in this persecution. in the awakened warmth of his feelings he resolved that, at whatever risk, he would not forsake the poor little defenceless being whom heaven had confided to his care. with this determination he left the accursed field, and resumed the homeward path from which the wailing of the boy had called him. the light and motionless burden scarcely impeded his progress, and he soon beheld the fire rays from the windows of the cottage which he, a native of a distant clime, had built in the western wilderness. it was surrounded by a considerable extent of cultivated ground, and the dwelling was situated in the nook of a wood-covered hill, whither it seemed to have crept for protection. "look up, child," said the puritan to ilbrahim, whose faint head had sunk upon his shoulder, "there is our home." at the word "home," a thrill passed through the child's frame, but he continued silent. a few moments brought them to a cottage door, at which the owner knocked; for at that early period, when savages were wandering everywhere among the settlers, bolt and bar were indispensable to the security of a dwelling. the summons was answered by a bond-servant, a coarse-clad and dull-featured piece of humanity, who, after ascertaining that his master was the applicant, undid the door, and held a flaring pineknot torch to light him in. farther back in the passage-way, the red blaze discovered a matronly woman, but no little crowd of children came bounding forth to greet their father's return. as the puritan entered, he thrust aside his cloak, and displayed ilbrahim's face to the female. "dorothy, here is a little outcast, whom providence hath put into our hands," observed he. "be kind to him, even as if he were of those dear ones who have departed from us." "what pale and bright-eyed little boy is this, tobias?" she inquired. "is he one whom the wilderness folk have ravished from some christian mother?" "no, dorothy, this poor child is no captive from the wilderness," he replied. "the heathen savage would have given him to eat of his scanty morsel, and to drink of his birchen cup; but christian men, alas, had cast him out to die." then he told her how he had found him beneath the gallows, upon his father's grave; and how his heart had prompted him, like the speaking of an inward voice, to take the little outcast home, and be kind unto him. he acknowledged his resolution to feed and clothe him, as if he were his own child, and to afford him the instruction which should counteract the pernicious errors hitherto instilled into his infant mind. dorothy was gifted with even a quicker tenderness than her husband, and she approved of all his doings and intentions. "have you a mother, dear child?" she inquired. the tears burst forth from his full heart as he attempted to reply; but dorothy at length understood that he had a mother, who, like the rest of her sect, was a persecuted wanderer. she had been taken from the prison a short time before, carried into the uninhabited wilderness, and left to perish there by hunger or wild beasts. this was no uncommon method of disposing of the quakers, and they were accustomed to boast that the inhabitants of the desert were more hospitable to them than civilized man. "fear not, little boy, you shall not need a mother, and a kind one," said dorothy, when she had gathered this information. "dry your tears, ilbrahim, and be my child, as i will be your mother." the good woman prepared the little bed, from which her own children had successively been borne to another resting-place. before ilbrahim would consent to occupy it, he knelt down, and as dorothy listened to his simple and affecting prayer, she marvelled how the parents that had taught it to him could have been judged worthy of death. when the boy had fallen asleep, she bent over his pale and spiritual countenance, pressed a kiss upon his white brow, drew the bedclothes up about his neck, and went away with a pensive gladness in her heart. tobias pearson was not among the earliest emigrants from the old country. he had remained in england during the first years of the civil war, in which he had borne some share as a cornet of dragoons, under cromwell. but when the ambitious designs of his leader began to develop themselves, he quitted the army of the parliament, and sought a refuge from the strife, which was no longer holy, among the people of his persuasion in the colony of massachusetts. a more worldly consideration had perhaps an influence in drawing him thither; for new england offered advantages to men of unprosperous fortunes, as well as to dissatisfied religionists, and pearson had hitherto found it difficult to provide for a wife and increasing family. to this supposed impurity of motive the more bigoted puritans were inclined to impute the removal by death of all the children, for whose earthly good the father had been over-thoughtful. they had left their native country blooming like roses, and like roses they had perished in a foreign soil. those expounders of the ways of providence, who had thus judged their brother, and attributed his domestic sorrows to his sin, were not more charitable when they saw him and dorothy endeavoring to fill up the void in their hearts by the adoption of an infant of the accursed sect. nor did they fail to communicate their disapprobation to tobias; but the latter, in reply, merely pointed at the little quiet, lovely boy, whose appearance and deportment were indeed as powerful arguments as could possibly have been adduced in his own favor. even his beauty, however, and his winning manners, sometimes produced an effect ultimately unfavorable; for the bigots, when the outer surfaces of their iron hearts had been softened and again grew hard, affirmed that no merely natural cause could have so worked upon them. their antipathy to the poor infant was also increased by the ill success of divers theological discussions, in which it was attempted to convince him of the errors of his sect. ilbrahim, it is true, was not a skilful controversialist; but the feeling of his religion was strong as instinct in him, and he could neither be enticed nor driven from the faith which his father had died for. the odium of this stubbornness was shared in a great measure by the child's protectors, insomuch that tobias and dorothy very shortly began to experience a most bitter species of persecution, in the cold regards of many a friend whom they had valued. the common people manifested their opinions more openly. pearson was a man of some consideration, being a representative to the general court and an approved lieutenant in the trainbands, yet within a week after his adoption of ilbrahim he had been both hissed and hooted. once, also, when walking through a solitary piece of woods, he heard a loud voice from some invisible speaker; and it cried, "what shall be done to the backslider? lo! the scourge is knotted for him, even the whip of nine cords, and every cord three knots!" these insults irritated pearson's temper for the moment; they entered also into his heart, and became imperceptible but powerful workers towards an end which his most secret thought had not yet whispered. . . . . . . . . . on the second sabbath after ilbrahim became a member of their family, pearson and his wife deemed it proper that he should appear with them at public worship. they had anticipated some opposition to this measure from the boy, but he prepared himself in silence, and at the appointed hour was clad in the new mourning suit which dorothy had wrought for him. as the parish was then, and during many subsequent years, unprovided with a bell, the signal for the commencement of religious exercises was the beat of a drum. at the first sound of that martial call to the place of holy and quiet thoughts, tobias and dorothy set forth, each holding a hand of little ilbrahim, like two parents linked together by the infant of their love. on their path through the leafless woods they were overtaken by many persons of their acquaintance, all of whom avoided them, and passed by on the other side; but a severer trial awaited their constancy when they had descended the hill, and drew near the pine-built and undecorated house of prayer. around the door, from which the drummer still sent forth his thundering summons, was drawn up a formidable phalanx, including several of the oldest members of the congregation, many of the middle aged, and nearly all the younger males. pearson found it difficult to sustain their united and disapproving gaze, but dorothy, whose mind was differently circumstanced, merely drew the boy closer to her, and faltered not in her approach. as they entered the door, they overheard the muttered sentiments of the assemblage, and when the reviling voices of the little children smote ilbrahim's ear, he wept. the interior aspect of the meeting-house was rude. the low ceiling, the unplastered walls, the naked wood work, and the undraperied pulpit, offered nothing to excite the devotion, which, without such external aids, often remains latent in the heart. the floor of the building was occupied by rows of long, cushionless benches, supplying the place of pews, and the broad aisle formed a sexual division, impassable except by children beneath a certain age. pearson and dorothy separated at the door of the meeting-house, and ilbrahim, being within the years of infancy, was retained under the care of the latter. the wrinkled beldams involved themselves in their rusty cloaks as he passed by; even the mild-featured maidens seemed to dread contamination; and many a stern old man arose, and turned his repulsive and unheavenly countenance upon the gentle boy, as if the sanctuary were polluted by his presence. he was a sweet infant of the skies that had strayed away from his home, and all the inhabitants of this miserable world closed up their impure hearts against him, drew back their earthsoiled garments from his touch, and said, "we are holier than thou." ilbrahim, seated by the side of his adopted mother, and retaining fast hold of her hand, assumed a grave and decorous demeanor, such as might befit a person of matured taste and understanding, who should find him self in a temple dedicated to some worship which he did not recognize, but felt himself bound to respect. the exercises had not yet commenced, however, when the boy's attention was arrested by an event, apparently of trifling interest. a woman, having her face muffled in a hood, and a cloak drawn completely about her form, advanced slowly up the broad aisle and took a place upon the foremost bench. ilbrahim's faint color varied, his nerves fluttered, he was unable to turn his eyes from the muffled female. when the preliminary prayer and hymn were over, the minister arose, and having turned the hour-glass which stood by the great bible, commenced his discourse. he was now well stricken in years, a man of pale, thin countenance, and his gray hairs were closely covered by a black velvet skullcap. in his younger days he had practically learned the meaning of persecution from archbishop laud, and he was not now disposed to forget the lesson against which he had murmured then. introducing the often discussed subject of the quakers, he gave a history of that sect, and a description of their tenets, in which error predominated, and prejudice distorted the aspect of what was true. he adverted to the recent measures in the province, and cautioned his hearers of weaker parts against calling in question the just severity which god-fearing magistrates had at length been compelled to exercise. he spoke of the danger of pity, in some cases a commendable and christian virtue, but inapplicable to this pernicious sect. he observed that such was their devilish obstinacy in error, that even the little children, the sucking babes, were hardened and desperate heretics. he affirmed that no man, without heaven's especial warrants should attempt their conversion, lest while he lent his hand to draw them from the slough, he should himself be precipitated into its lowest depths. the sands of the second hour were principally in the lower half of the glass when the sermon concluded. an approving murmur followed, and the clergyman, having given out a hymn, took his seat with much self-congratulation, and endeavored to read the effect of his eloquence in the visages of the people. but while voices from all parts of the house were tuning themselves to sing, a scene occurred, which, though not very unusual at that period in the province, happened to be without precedent in this parish. the muffled female, who had hitherto sat motionless in the front rank of the audience, now arose, and with slow, stately, and unwavering step, ascended the pulpit stairs. the quiverings of incipient harmony were hushed, and the divine sat in speechless and almost terrified astonishment, while she undid the door, and stood up in the sacred desk from which his maledictions had just been thundered. she then divested herself of the cloak and hood, and appeared in a most singular array. a shapeless robe of sackcloth was girded about her waist with a knotted cord; her raven hair fell down upon her shoulders, and its blackness was defiled by pale streaks of ashes, which she had strown upon her head. her eyebrows, dark and strongly defined, added to the deathly whiteness of a countenance, which, emaciated with want, and wild with enthusiasm and strange sorrows, retained no trace of earlier beauty. this figure stood gazing earnestly on the audience, and there was no sound, nor any movement, except a faint shuddering which every man observed in his neighbor, but was scarcely conscious of in himself. at length, when her fit of inspiration came, she spoke, for the first few moments, in a low voice, and not invariably distinct utterance. her discourse gave evidence of an imagination hopelessly entangled with her reason; it was a vague and incomprehensible rhapsody, which, however, seemed to spread its own atmosphere round the hearer's soul, and to move his feelings by some influence unconnected with the words. as she proceeded, beautiful but shadowy images would sometimes be seen, like bright things moving in a turbid river; or a strong and singularly-shaped idea leaped forth, and seized at once on the understanding or the heart. but the course of her unearthly eloquence soon led her to the persecutions of her sect, and from thence the step was short to her own peculiar sorrows. she was naturally a woman of mighty passions, and hatred and revenge now wrapped themselves in the garb of piety; the character of her speech was changed, her images became distinct though wild, and her denunciations had an almost hellish bitterness. "the governor and his mighty men," she said, "have gathered together, taking counsel among themselves and saying, 'what shall we do unto this people even unto the people that have come into this land to put our iniquity to the blush?' and lo! the devil entereth into the council chamber, like a lame man of low stature and gravely apparelled, with a dark and twisted countenance, and a bright, downcast eye. and he standeth up among the rulers; yea, he goeth to and fro, whispering to each; and every man lends his ear, for his word is 'slay, slay!' but i say unto ye, woe to them that slay! woe to them that shed the blood of saints! woe to them that have slain the husband, and cast forth the child, the tender infant, to wander homeless and hungry and cold, till he die; and have saved the mother alive, in the cruelty of their tender mercies! woe to them in their lifetime! cursed are they in the delight and pleasure of their hearts! woe to them in their death hour, whether it come swiftly with blood and violence, or after long and lingering pain! woe, in the dark house, in the rottenness of the grave, when the children's children shall revile the ashes of the fathers! woe, woe, woe, at the judgment, when all the persecuted and all the slain in this bloody land, and the father, the mother, and the child, shall await them in a day that they cannot escape! seed of the faith, seed of the faith, ye whose hearts are moving with a power that ye know not, arise, wash your hands of this innocent blood! lift your voices, chosen ones; cry aloud, and call down a woe and a judgment with me!" having thus given vent to the flood of malignity which she mistook for inspiration, the speaker was silent. her voice was succeeded by the hysteric shrieks of several women, but the feelings of the audience generally had not been drawn onward in the current with her own. they remained stupefied, stranded as it were, in the midst of a torrent, which deafened them by its roaring, but might not move them by its violence. the clergyman, who could not hitherto have ejected the usurper of his pulpit otherwise than by bodily force, now addressed her in the tone of just indignation and legitimate authority. "get you down, woman, from the holy place which you profane," he said. "is it to the lord's house that you come to pour forth the foulness of your heart and the inspiration of the devil? get you down, and remember that the sentence of death is on you; yea, and shall be executed, were it but for this day's work!" "i go, friend, i go, for the voice hath had its utterance," replied she, in a depressed and even mild tone. "i have done my mission unto thee and to thy people. reward me with stripes, imprisonment, or death, as ye shall be permitted." the weakness of exhausted passion caused her steps to totter as she descended the pulpit stairs. the people, in the mean while, were stirring to and fro on the floor of the house, whispering among themselves, and glancing towards the intruder. many of them now recognized her as the woman who had assaulted the governor with frightful language as he passed by the window of her prison; they knew, also, that she was adjudged to suffer death, and had been preserved only by an involuntary banishment into the wilderness. the new outrage, by which she had provoked her fate, seemed to render further lenity impossible; and a gentleman in military dress, with a stout man of inferior rank, drew towards the door of the meeting-house, and awaited her approach. scarcely did her feet press the floor, however, when an unexpected scene occurred. in that moment of her peril, when every eye frowned with death, a little timid boy pressed forth, and threw his arms round his mother. "i am here, mother; it is i, and i will go with thee to prison," he exclaimed. she gazed at him with a doubtful and almost frightened expression, for she knew that the boy had been cast out to perish, and she had not hoped to see his face again. she feared, perhaps, that it was but one of the happy visions with which her excited fancy had often deceived her, in the solitude of the desert or in prison. but when she felt his hand warm within her own, and heard his little eloquence of childish love, she began to know that she was yet a mother. "blessed art thou, my son," she sobbed. "my heart was withered; yea, dead with thee and with thy father; and now it leaps as in the first moment when i pressed thee to my bosom." she knelt down and embraced him again and again, while the joy that could find no words expressed itself in broken accents, like the bubbles gushing up to vanish at the surface of a deep fountain. the sorrows of past years, and the darker peril that was nigh, cast not a shadow on the brightness of that fleeting moment. soon, however, the spectators saw a change upon her face, as the consciousness of her sad estate returned, and grief supplied the fount of tears which joy had opened. by the words she uttered, it would seem that the indulgence of natural love had given her mind a momentary sense of its errors, and made her know how far she had strayed from duty in following the dictates of a wild fanaticism. "in a doleful hour art thou returned to me, poor boy," she said, "for thy mother's path has gone darkening onward, till now the end is death. son, son, i have borne thee in my arms when my limbs were tottering, and i have fed thee with the food that i was fainting for; yet i have ill performed a mother's part by thee in life, and now i leave thee no inheritance but woe and shame. thou wilt go seeking through the world, and find all hearts closed against thee and their sweet affections turned to bitterness for my sake. my child, my child, how many a pang awaits thy gentle spirit, and i the cause of all!" she hid her face on ilbrahim's head, and her long, raven hair, discolored with the ashes of her mourning, fell down about him like a veil. a low and interrupted moan was the voice of her heart's anguish, and it did not fail to move the sympathies of many who mistook their involuntary virtue for a sin. sobs were audible in the female section of the house, and every man who was a father drew his hand across his eyes. tobias pearson was agitated and uneasy, but a certain feeling like the consciousness of guilt oppressed him, so that he could not go forth and offer himself as the protector of the child. dorothy, however, had watched her husband's eye. her mind was free from the influence that had begun to work on his, and she drew near the quaker woman, and addressed her in the hearing of all the congregation. "stranger, trust this boy to me, and i will be his mother," she said, taking ilbrahim's hand. "providence has signally marked out my husband to protect him, and he has fed at our table and lodged under our roof now many days, till our hearts have grown very strongly unto him. leave the tender child with us, and be at ease concerning his welfare." the quaker rose from the ground, but drew the boy closer to her, while she gazed earnestly in dorothy's face. her mild but saddened features, and neat matronly attire, harmonized together, and were like a verse of fireside poetry. her very aspect proved that she was blameless, so far as mortal could be so, in respect to god and man; while the enthusiast, in her robe of sackcloth and girdle of knotted cord, had as evidently violated the duties of the present life and the future, by fixing her attention wholly on the latter. the two females, as they held each a hand of ilbrahim, formed a practical allegory; it was rational piety and unbridled fanaticism contending for the empire of a young heart. "thou art not of our people," said the quaker, mournfully. "no, we are not of your people," replied dorothy, with mildness, "but we are christians, looking upward to the same heaven with you. doubt not that your boy shall meet you there, if there be a blessing on our tender and prayerful guidance of him. thither, i trust, my own children have gone before me, for i also have been a mother; i am no longer so," she added, in a faltering tone, "and your son will have all my care." "but will ye lead him in the path which his parents have trodden?" demanded the quaker. "can ye teach him the enlightened faith which his father has died for, and for which i, even i, am soon to become an unworthy martyr? the boy has been baptized in blood; will ye keep the mark fresh and ruddy upon his forehead?" "i will not deceive you," answered dorothy. "if your child become our child, we must breed him up in the instruction which heaven has imparted to us; we must pray for him the prayers of our own faith; we must do towards him according to the dictates of our own consciences, and not of yours. were we to act otherwise, we should abuse your trust, even in complying with your wishes." the mother looked down upon her boy with a troubled countenance, and then turned her eyes upward to heaven. she seemed to pray internally, and the contention of her soul was evident. "friend," she said at length to dorothy, "i doubt not that my son shall receive all earthly tenderness at thy hands. nay, i will believe that even thy imperfect lights may guide him to a better world, for surely thou art on the path thither. but thou hast spoken of a husband. doth he stand here among this multitude of people? let him come forth, for i must know to whom i commit this most precious trust." she turned her face upon the male auditors, and after a momentary delay, tobias pearson came forth from among them. the quaker saw the dress which marked his military rank, and shook her head; but then she noted the hesitating air, the eyes that struggled with her own, and were vanquished; the color that went and came, and could find no resting place. as she gazed, an unmirthful smile spread over her features, like sunshine that grows melancholy in some desolate spot. her lips moved inaudibly, but at length she spake. "i hear it, i hear it. the voice speaketh within me and saith, 'leave thy child, catharine, for his place is here, and go hence, for i have other work for thee. break the bonds of natural affection, martyr thy love, and know that in all these things eternal wisdom hath its ends.' i go, friends; i go. take ye my boy, my precious jewel. i go hence, trusting that all shall be well, and that even for his infant hands there is a labor in the vineyard." she knelt down and whispered to ilbrahim, who at first struggled and clung to his mother, with sobs and tears, but remained passive when she had kissed his cheek and arisen from the ground. having held her hands over his head in mental prayer, she was ready to depart. "farewell, friends in mine extremity," she said to pearson and his wife; "the good deed ye have done me is a treasure laid up in heaven, to be returned a thousand-fold hereafter. and farewell ye, mine enemies, to whom it is not permitted to harm so much as a hair of my head, nor to stay my footsteps even for a moment. the day is coming when ye shall call upon me to witness for ye to this one sin uncommitted, and i will rise up and answer." she turned her steps towards the door, and the men, who had stationed themselves to guard it, withdrew, and suffered her to pass. a general sentiment of pity overcame the virulence of religious hatred. sanctified by her love and her affliction, she went forth, and all the people gazed after her till she had journeyed up the hill, and was lost behind its brow. she went, the apostle of her own unquiet heart, to renew the wanderings of past years. for her voice had been already heard in many lands of christendom; and she had pined in the cells of a catholic inquisition before she felt the lash and lay in the dungeons of the puritans. her mission had extended also to the followers of the prophet, and from them she had received the courtesy and kindness which all the contending sects of our purer religion united to deny her. her husband and herself had resided many months in turkey, where even the sultan's countenance was gracious to them; in that pagan land, too, was ilbrahim's birthplace, and his oriental name was a mark of gratitude for the good deeds of an unbeliever. . . . . . . . . . when pearson and his wife had thus acquired all the rights over ilbrahim that could be delegated, their affection for him became like the memory of their native land, or their mild sorrow for the dead, a piece of the immovable furniture of their hearts. the boy, also, after a week or two of mental disquiet, began to gratify his protectors by many inadvertent proofs that he considered them as parents, and their house as home. before the winter snows were melted, the persecuted infant, the little wanderer from a remote and heathen country, seemed native in the new england cottage, and inseparable from the warmth and security of its hearth. under the influence of kind treatment, and in the consciousness that he was loved, ilbrahim's demeanor lost a premature manliness, which had resulted from his earlier situation; he became more childlike, and his natural character displayed itself with freedom. it was in many respects a beautiful one, yet the disordered imaginations of both his father and mother had perhaps propagated a certain unhealthiness in the mind of the boy. in his general state, ilbrahim would derive enjoyment from the most trifling events, and from every object about him; he seemed to discover rich treasures of happiness, by a faculty analogous to that of the witch hazel, which points to hidden gold where all is barren to the eye. his airy gayety, coming to him from a thousand sources, communicated itself to the family, and ilbrahim was like a domesticated sunbeam, brightening moody countenances, and chasing away the gloom from the dark corners of the cottage. on the other hand, as the susceptibility of pleasure is also that of pain, the exuberant cheerfulness of the boy's prevailing temper sometimes yielded to moments of deep depression. his sorrows could not always be followed up to their original source, but most frequently they appeared to flow, though ilbrahim was young to be sad for such a cause, from wounded love. the flightiness of his mirth rendered him often guilty of offences against the decorum of a puritan household, and on these occasions he did not invariably escape rebuke. but the slightest word of real bitterness, which he was infallible in distinguishing from pretended anger, seemed to sink into his heart and poison all his enjoyments, till he became sensible that he was entirely forgiven. of the malice, which generally accompanies a superfluity of sensitiveness, ilbrahim was altogether destitute: when trodden upon, he would not turn; when wounded, he could but die. his mind was wanting in the stamina for self-support; it was a plant that would twine beautifully round something stronger than itself, but if repulsed, or torn away, it had no choice but to wither on the ground. dorothy's acuteness taught her that severity would crush the spirit of the child, and she nurtured him with the gentle care of one who handles a butterfly. her husband manifested an equal affection, although it grew daily less productive of familiar caresses. the feelings of the neighboring people, in regard to the quaker infant and his protectors, had not undergone a favorable change, in spite of the momentary triumph which the desolate mother had obtained over their sympathies. the scorn and bitterness, of which he was the object, were very grievous to ilbrahim, especially when any circumstance made him sensible that the children, his equals in age, partook of the enmity of their parents. his tender and social nature had already overflowed in attachments to everything about him, and still there was a residue of unappropriated love, which he yearned to bestow upon the little ones who were taught to hate him. as the warm days of spring came on, ilbrahim was accustomed to remain for hours, silent and inactive, within hearing of the children's voices at their play; yet, with his usual delicacy of feeling, he avoided their notice, and would flee and hide himself from the smallest individual among them. chance, however, at length seemed to open a medium of communication between his heart and theirs; it was by means of a boy about two years older than ilbrahim, who was injured by a fall from a tree in the vicinity of pearson's habitation. as the sufferer's own home was at some distance, dorothy willingly received him under her roof, and became his tender and careful nurse. ilbrahim was the unconscious possessor of much skill in physiognomy, and it would have deterred him, in other circumstances, from attempting to make a friend of this boy. the countenance of the latter immediately impressed a beholder disagreeably, but it required some examination to discover that the cause was a very slight distortion of the mouth, and the irregular, broken line, and near approach of the eyebrows. analogous, perhaps, to these trifling deformities, was an almost imperceptible twist of every joint, and the uneven prominence of the breast; forming a body, regular in its general outline, but faulty in almost all its details. the disposition of the boy was sullen and reserved, and the village schoolmaster stigmatized him as obtuse in intellect; although, at a later period of life, he evinced ambition and very peculiar talents. but whatever might be his personal or moral irregularities, ilbrahim's heart seized upon, and clung to him, from the moment that he was brought wounded into the cottage; the child of persecution seemed to compare his own fate with that of the sufferer, and to feel that even different modes of misfortune had created a sort of relationship between them. food, rest, and the fresh air, for which he languished, were neglected; he nestled continually by the bedside of the little stranger, and, with a fond jealousy, endeavored to be the medium of all the cares that were bestowed upon him. as the boy became convalescent, ilbrahim contrived games suitable to his situation, or amused him by a faculty which he had perhaps breathed in with the air of his barbaric birthplace. it was that of reciting imaginary adventures, on the spur of the moment, and apparently in inexhaustible succession. his tales were of course monstrous, disjointed, and without aim; but they were curious on account of a vein of human tenderness which ran through them all, and was like a sweet, familiar face, encountered in the midst of wild and unearthly scenery. the auditor paid much attention to these romances, and sometimes interrupted them by brief remarks upon the incidents, displaying shrewdness above his years, mingled with a moral obliquity which grated very harshly against ilbrahim's instinctive rectitude. nothing, however, could arrest the progress of the latter's affection, and there were many proofs that it met with a response from the dark and stubborn nature on which it was lavished. the boy's parents at length removed him, to complete his cure under their own roof. ilbrahim did not visit his new friend after his departure; but he made anxious and continual inquiries respecting him, and informed himself of the day when he was to reappear among his playmates. on a pleasant summer afternoon, the children of the neighborhood had assembled in the little forest-crowned amphitheatre behind the meeting-house, and the recovering invalid was there, leaning on a staff. the glee of a score of untainted bosoms was heard in light and airy voices, which danced among the trees like sunshine become audible; the grown men of this weary world, as they journeyed by the spot, marvelled why life, beginning in such brightness, should proceed in gloom; and their hearts, or their imaginations, answered them and said, that the bliss of childhood gushes from its innocence. but it happened that an unexpected addition was made to the heavenly little band. it was ilbrahim, who came towards the children with a look of sweet confidence on his fair and spiritual face, as if, having manifested his love to one of them, he had no longer to fear a repulse from their society. a hush came over their mirth the moment they beheld him, and they stood whispering to each other while he drew nigh; but, all at once, the devil of their fathers entered into the unbreeched fanatics, and sending up a fierce, shrill cry, they rushed upon the poor quaker child. in an instant, he was the centre of a brood of baby-fiends, who lifted sticks against him, pelted him with stones, and displayed an instinct of destruction far more loathsome than the bloodthirstiness of manhood. the invalid, in the meanwhile, stood apart from the tumult, crying out with a loud voice, "fear not, ilbrahim, come hither and take my hand;" and his unhappy friend endeavored to obey him. after watching the victim's struggling approach with a calm smile and unabashed eye, the foulhearted little villain lifted his staff and struck ilbrahim on the mouth, so forcibly that the blood issued in a stream. the poor child's arms had been raised to guard his head from the storm of blows; but now he dropped them at once. his persecutors beat him down, trampled upon him, dragged him by his long, fair locks, and ilbrahim was on the point of becoming as veritable a martyr as ever entered bleeding into heaven. the uproar, however, attracted the notice of a few neighbors, who put themselves to the trouble of rescuing the little heretic, and of conveying him to pearson's door. ilbrahim's bodily harm was severe, but long and careful nursing accomplished his recovery; the injury done to his sensitive spirit was more serious, though not so visible. its signs were principally of a negative character, and to be discovered only by those who had previously known him. his gait was thenceforth slow, even, and unvaried by the sudden bursts of sprightlier motion, which had once corresponded to his overflowing gladness; his countenance was heavier, and its former play of expression, the dance of sunshine reflected from moving water, was destroyed by the cloud over his existence; his notice was attracted in a far less degree by passing events, and he appeared to find greater difficulty in comprehending what was new to him than at a happier period. a stranger, founding his judgment upon these circumstances, would have said that the dulness of the child's intellect widely contradicted the promise of his features, but the secret was in the direction of ilbrahim's thoughts, which were brooding within him when they should naturally have been wandering abroad. an attempt of dorothy to revive his former sportiveness was the single occasion on which his quiet demeanor yielded to a violent display of grief; he burst into passionate weeping, and ran and hid himself, for his heart had become so miserably sore that even the hand of kindness tortured it like fire. sometimes, at night and probably in his dreams, he was heard to cry "mother! mother!" as if her place, which a stranger had supplied while ilbrahim was happy, admitted of no substitute in his extreme affliction. perhaps, among the many life-weary wretches then upon the earth, there was not one who combined innocence and misery like this poor, broken-hearted infant, so soon the victim of his own heavenly nature. while this melancholy change had taken place in ilbrahim, one of an earlier origin and of different character had come to its perfection in his adopted father. the incident with which this tale commences found pearson in a state of religious dulness, yet mentally disquieted, and longing for a more fervid faith than he possessed. the first effect of his kindness to ilbrahim was to produce a softened feeling, and incipient love for the child's whole sect; but joined to this, and resulting perhaps from self-suspicion, was a proud and ostentatious contempt of all their tenets and practical extravagances. in the course of much thought, however, for the subject struggled irresistibly into his mind, the foolishness of the doctrine began to be less evident, and the points which had particularly offended his reason assumed another aspect, or vanished entirely away. the work within him appeared to go on even while he slept, and that which had been a doubt, when he lay down to rest, would often hold the place of a truth, confirmed by some forgotten demonstration, when he recalled his thoughts in the morning. but while he was thus becoming assimilated to the enthusiasts, his contempt, in nowise decreasing towards them, grew very fierce against himself; he imagined, also, that every face of his acquaintance wore a sneer, and that every word addressed to him was a gibe. such was his state of mind at the period of ilbrahim's misfortune; and the emotions consequent upon that event completed the change, of which the child had been the original instrument. in the mean time, neither the fierceness of the persecutors, nor the infatuation of their victims, had decreased. the dungeons were never empty; the streets of almost every village echoed daily with the lash; the life of a woman, whose mild and christian spirit no cruelty could embitter, had been sacrificed; and more innocent blood was yet to pollute the hands that were so often raised in prayer. early after the restoration, the english quakers represented to charles ii that a "vein of blood was open in his dominions;" but though the displeasure of the voluptuous king was roused, his interference was not prompt. and now the tale must stride forward over many months, leaving pearson to encounter ignominy and misfortune; his wife to a firm endurance of a thousand sorrows; poor ilbrahim to pine and droop like a cankered rosebud; his mother to wander on a mistaken errand, neglectful of the holiest trust which can be committed to a woman. . . . . . . . . . a winter evening, a night of storm, had darkened over pearson's habitation, and there were no cheerful faces to drive the gloom from his broad hearth. the fire, it is true, sent forth a glowing heat and a ruddy light, and large logs, dripping with half-melted snow, lay ready to be cast upon the embers. but the apartment was saddened in its aspect by the absence of much of the homely wealth which had once adorned it; for the exaction of repeated fines, and his own neglect of temporal affairs, had greatly impoverished the owner. and with the furniture of peace, the implements of war had likewise disappeared; the sword was broken, the helm and cuirass were cast away forever; the soldier had done with battles, and might not lift so much as his naked hand to guard his head. but the holy book remained, and the table on which it rested was drawn before the fire, while two of the persecuted sect sought comfort from its pages. he who listened, while the other read, was the master of the house, now emaciated in form, and altered as to the expression and healthiness of his countenance; for his mind had dwelt too long among visionary thoughts, and his body had been worn by imprisonment and stripes. the hale and weather-beaten old man who sat beside him had sustained less injury from a far longer course of the same mode of life. in person he was tall and dignified, and, which alone would have made him hateful to the puritans, his gray locks fell from beneath the broad-brimmed hat, and rested on his shoulders. as the old man read the sacred page the snow drifted against the windows, or eddied in at the crevices of the door, while a blast kept laughing in the chimney, and the blaze leaped fiercely up to seek it. and sometimes, when the wind struck the hill at a certain angle, and swept down by the cottage across the wintry plain, its voice was the most doleful that can be conceived; it came as if the past were speaking, as if the dead had contributed each a whisper, as if the desolation of ages were breathed in that one lamenting sound. the quaker at length closed the book, retaining however his hand between the pages which he had been reading, while he looked steadfastly at pearson. the attitude and features of the latter might have indicated the endurance of bodily pain; he leaned his forehead on his hands, his teeth were firmly closed, and his frame was tremulous at intervals with a nervous agitation. "friend tobias," inquired the old man, compassionately, "hast thou found no comfort in these many blessed passages of scripture?" "thy voice has fallen on my ear like a sound afar off and indistinct," replied pearson without lifting his eyes. "yea, and when i have hearkened carefully the words seemed cold and lifeless, and intended for another and a lesser grief than mine. remove the book," he added, in a tone of sullen bitterness. "i have no part in its consolations, and they do but fret my sorrow the more." "nay, feeble brother, be not as one who hath never known the light," said the elder quaker earnestly, but with mildness. "art thou he that wouldst be content to give all, and endure all, for conscience' sake; desiring even peculiar trials, that thy faith might be purified and thy heart weaned from worldly desires? and wilt thou sink beneath an affliction which happens alike to them that have their portion here below, and to them that lay up treasure in heaven? faint not, for thy burden is yet light." "it is heavy! it is heavier than i can bear!" exclaimed pearson, with the impatience of a variable spirit. "from my youth upward i have been a man marked out for wrath; and year by year, yea, day after day, i have endured sorrows such as others know not in their lifetime. and now i speak not of the love that has been turned to hatred, the honor to ignominy, the ease and plentifulness of all things to danger, want, and nakedness. all this i could have borne, and counted myself blessed. but when my heart was desolate with many losses i fixed it upon the child of a stranger, and he became dearer to me than all my buried ones; and now he too must die as if my love were poison. verily, i am an accursed man, and i will lay me down in the dust and lift up my head no more." "thou sinnest, brother, but it is not for me to rebuke thee; for i also have had my hours of darkness, wherein i have murmured against the cross," said the old quaker. he continued, perhaps in the hope of distracting his companion's thoughts from his own sorrows. "even of late was the light obscured within me, when the men of blood had banished me on pain of death, and the constables led me onward from village to village towards the wilderness. a strong and cruel hand was wielding the knotted cords; they sunk deep into the flesh, and thou mightst have tracked every reel and totter of my footsteps by the blood that followed. as we went on--" "have i not borne all this; and have i murmured?" interrupted pearson impatiently. "nay, friend but hear me," continued the other. "as we journeyed on, night darkened on our path, so that no man could see the rage of the persecutors or the constancy of my endurance, though heaven forbid that i should glory therein. the lights began to glimmer in the cottage windows, and i could discern the inmates as they gathered in comfort and security every man with his wife and children by their own evening hearth. at length we came to a tract of fertile land; in the dim light, the forest was not visible around it; and behold! there was a straw-thatched dwelling which bore the very aspect of my home, far over the wild ocean, far in our own england. then came bitter thoughts upon me; yea, remembrances that were like death to my soul. the happiness of my early days was painted to me; the disquiet of my manhood, the altered faith of my declining years. i remembered how i had been moved to go forth a wanderer when my daughter, the youngest, the dearest of my flock, lay on her dying bed, and--" "couldst thou obey the command at such a moment?" exclaimed pearson, shuddering. "yea, yea," replied the old man hurriedly. "i was kneeling by her bedside when the voice spoke loud within me; but immediately i rose, and took my staff, and gat me gone. oh! that it were permitted me to forget her woful look when i thus withdrew my arm, and left her journeying through the dark valley alone! for her soul was faint, and she had leaned upon my prayers. now in that night of horror i was assailed by the thought that i had been an erring christian and a cruel parent; yea, even my daughter, with her pale, dying features, seemed to stand by me and whisper, 'father, you are deceived; go home and shelter your gray head.' o thou, to whom i have looked in my farthest wanderings," continued the quaker, raising his agitated eyes to heaven, "inflict not upon the bloodiest of our persecutors the unmitigated agony of my soul, when i believed that all i had done and suffered for thee was at the instigation of a mocking fiend! but i yielded not; i knelt down and wrestled with the tempter, while the scourge bit more fiercely into the flesh. my prayer was heard, and i went on in peace and joy towards the wilderness." the old man, though his fanaticism had generally all the calmness of reason, was deeply moved while reciting this tale; and his unwonted emotion seemed to rebuke and keep down that of his companion. they sat in silence, with their faces to the fire, imagining, perhaps, in its red embers new scenes of persecution yet to be encountered. the snow still drifted hard against the windows, and sometimes, as the blaze of the logs had gradually sunk, came down the spacious chimney and hissed upon the hearth. a cautious footstep might now and then be heard in a neighboring apartment, and the sound invariably drew the eyes of both quakers to the door which led thither. when a fierce and riotous gust of wind had led his thoughts, by a natural association, to homeless travellers on such a night, pearson resumed the conversation. "i have well-nigh sunk under my own share of this trial," observed he, sighing heavily; "yet i would that it might be doubled to me, if so the child's mother could be spared. her wounds have been deep and many, but this will be the sorest of all." "fear not for catharine," replied the old quaker, "for i know that valiant woman, and have seen how she can bear the cross. a mother's heart, indeed, is strong in her, and may seem to contend mightily with her faith; but soon she will stand up and give thanks that her son has been thus early an accepted sacrifice. the boy hath done his work, and she will feel that he is taken hence in kindness both to him and her. blessed, blessed are they that with so little suffering can enter into peace!" the fitful rush of the wind was now disturbed by a portentous sound; it was a quick and heavy knocking at the outer door. pearson's wan countenance grew paler, for many a visit of persecution had taught him what to dread; the old man, on the other hand, stood up erect, and his glance was firm as that of the tried soldier who awaits his enemy. "the men of blood have come to seek me," he observed with calmness. "they have heard how i was moved to return from banishment; and now am i to be led to prison, and thence to death. it is an end i have long looked for. i will open unto them, lest they say, 'lo, he feareth!'" "nay, i will present myself before them," said pearson, with recovered fortitude. "it may be that they seek me alone, and know not that thou abidest with me." "let us go boldly, both one and the other," rejoined his companion. "it is not fitting that thou or i should shrink." they therefore proceeded through the entry to the door, which they opened, bidding the applicant "come in, in god's name!" a furious blast of wind drove the storm into their faces, and extinguished the lamp; they had barely time to discern a figure, so white from head to foot with the drifted snow that it seemed like winter's self, come in human shape, to seek refuge from its own desolation. "enter, friend, and do thy errand, be it what it may," said pearson. "it must needs be pressing, since thou comest on such a bitter night." "peace be with this household," said the stranger, when they stood on the floor of the inner apartment. pearson started, the elder quaker stirred the slumbering embers of the fire till they sent up a clear and lofty blaze; it was a female voice that had spoken; it was a female form that shone out, cold and wintry, in that comfortable light. "catharine, blessed woman!" exclaimed the old man, "art thou come to this darkened land again? art thou come to bear a valiant testimony as in former years? the scourge hath not prevailed against thee, and from the dungeon hast thou come forth triumphant; but strengthen, strengthen now thy heart, catharine, for heaven will prove thee yet this once, ere thou go to thy reward." "rejoice, friends!" she replied. "thou who hast long been of our people, and thou whom a little child hath led to us, rejoice! lo! i come, the messenger of glad tidings, for the day of persecution is overpast. the heart of the king, even charles, hath been moved in gentleness towards us, and he hath sent forth his letters to stay the hands of the men of blood. a ship's company of our friends hath arrived at yonder town, and i also sailed joyfully among them." as catharine spoke, her eyes were roaming about the room, in search of him for whose sake security was dear to her. pearson made a silent appeal to the old man, nor did the latter shrink from the painful task assigned him. "sister," he began, in a softened yet perfectly calm tone, "thou tellest us of his love, manifested in temporal good; and now must we speak to thee of that selfsame love, displayed in chastenings. hitherto, catharine, thou hast been as one journeying in a darksome and difficult path, and leading an infant by the hand; fain wouldst thou have looked heavenward continually, but still the cares of that little child have drawn thine eyes and thy affections to the earth. sister! go on rejoicing, for his tottering footsteps shall impede thine own no more." but the unhappy mother was not thus to be consoled; she shook like a leaf, she turned white as the very snow that hung drifted into her hair. the firm old man extended his hand and held her up, keeping his eye upon hers, as if to repress any outbreak of passion. "i am a woman, i am but a woman; will he try me above my strength?" said catharine very quickly, and almost in a whisper. "i have been wounded sore; i have suffered much; many things in the body; many in the mind; crucified in myself, and in them that were dearest to me. surely," added she, with a long shudder, "he hath spared me in this one thing." she broke forth with sudden and irrepressible violence. "tell me, man of cold heart, what has god done to me? hath he cast me down, never to rise again? hath he crushed my very heart in his hand? and thou, to whom i committed my child, how hast thou fulfilled thy trust? give me back the boy, well, sound, alive, alive; or earth and heaven shall avenge me!" the agonized shriek of catharine was answered by the faint, the very faint, voice of a child. on this day it had become evident to pearson, to his aged guest, and to dorothy, that ilbrahim's brief and troubled pilgrimage drew near its close. the two former would willingly have remained by him, to make use of the prayers and pious discourses which they deemed appropriate to the time, and which, if they be impotent as to the departing traveller's reception in the world whither he goes, may at least sustain him in bidding adieu to earth. but though ilbrahim uttered no complaint, he was disturbed by the faces that looked upon him; so that dorothy's entreaties, and their own conviction that the child's feet might tread heaven's pavement and not soil it, had induced the two quakers to remove. ilbrahim then closed his eyes and grew calm, and, except for now and then a kind and low word to his nurse, might have been thought to slumber. as nightfall came on, however, and the storm began to rise, something seemed to trouble the repose of the boy's mind, and to render his sense of hearing active and acute. if a passing wind lingered to shake the casement, he strove to turn his head towards it; if the door jarred to and fro upon its hinges, he looked long and anxiously thitherward; if the heavy voice of the old man, as he read the scriptures, rose but a little higher, the child almost held his dying breath to listen; if a snow-drift swept by the cottage, with a sound like the trailing of a garment, ilbrahim seemed to watch that some visitant should enter. but, after a little time, he relinquished whatever secret hope had agitated him, and with one low, complaining whisper, turned his cheek upon the pillow. he then addressed dorothy with his usual sweetness, and besought her to draw near him; she did so, and ilbrahim took her hand in both of his, grasping it with a gentle pressure, as if to assure himself that he retained it. at intervals, and without disturbing the repose of his countenance, a very faint trembling passed over him from head to foot, as if a mild but somewhat cool wind had breathed upon him, and made him shiver. as the boy thus led her by the hand, in his quiet progress over the borders of eternity, dorothy almost imagined that she could discern the near, though dim, delightfulness of the home he was about to reach; she would not have enticed the little wanderer back, though she bemoaned herself that she must leave him and return. but just when ilbrahim's feet were pressing on the soil of paradise he heard a voice behind him, and it recalled him a few, few paces of the weary path which he had travelled. as dorothy looked upon his features, she perceived that their placid expression was again disturbed; her own thoughts had been so wrapped in him, that all sounds of the storm, and of human speech, were lost to her; but when catharine's shriek pierced through the room, the boy strove to raise himself. "friend, she is come! open unto her!" cried he. in a moment his mother was kneeling by the bedside; she drew ilbrahim to her bosom, and he nestled there, with no violence of joy, but contentedly, as if he were hushing himself to sleep. he looked into her face, and reading its agony, said, with feeble earnestness, "mourn not, dearest mother. i am happy now." and with these words the gentle boy was dead. . . . . . . . . . the king's mandate to stay the new england persecutors was effectual in preventing further martyrdoms; but the colonial authorities, trusting in the remoteness of their situation, and perhaps in the supposed instability of the royal government, shortly renewed their severities in all other respects. catharine's fanaticism had become wilder by the sundering of all human ties; and wherever a scourge was lifted there was she to receive the blow, and whenever a dungeon was unbarred thither she came, to cast herself upon the floor. but in process of time a more christian spirit--a spirit of forbearance, though not of cordiality or approbation--began to pervade the land in regard to the persecuted sect. and then, when the rigid old pilgrims eyed her rather in pity than in wrath; when the matrons fed her with the fragments of their children's food, and offered her a lodging on a hard and lowly bed; when no little crowd of schoolboys left their sports to cast stones after the roving enthusiast; then did catharine return to pearson's dwelling and made that her home. as if ilbrahim's sweetness yet lingered round his ashes; as if his gentle spirit came down from heaven to teach his parent a true religion, her fierce and vindictive nature was softened by the same griefs which had once irritated it. when the course of years had made the features of the unobtrusive mourner familiar in the settlement, she became a subject of not deep, but general, interest; a being on whom the otherwise superfluous sympathies of all might be bestowed. every one spoke of her with that degree of pity which it is pleasant to experience; every one was ready to do her the little kindnesses which are not costly, yet manifest good will and when at last she died, a long train of her once bitter persecutors followed her, with decent sadness and tears that were not painful, to her place by ilbrahim's green and sunken grave. mr. higginbotham's catastrophe a young fellow, a tobacco pedlar by trade, was on his way from morristown, where he had dealt largely with the deacon of the shaker settlement, to the village of parker's falls, on salmon river. he had a neat little cart, painted green, with a box of cigars depicted on each side panel, and an indian chief, holding a pipe and a golden tobacco stalk, on the rear. the pedlar drove a smart little mare, and was a young man of excellent character, keen at a bargain, but none the worse liked by the yankees; who, as i have heard them say, would rather be shaved with a sharp razor than a dull one. especially was he beloved by the pretty girls along the connecticut, whose favor he used to court by presents of the best smoking tobacco in his stock; knowing well that the country lasses of new england are generally great performers on pipes. moreover, as will be seen in the course of my story, the pedlar was inquisitive, and something of a tattler, always itching to hear the news and anxious to tell it again. after an early breakfast at morristown, the tobacco pedlar, whose name was dominicus pike, had travelled seven miles through a solitary piece of woods, without speaking a word to anybody but himself and his little gray mare. it being nearly seven o'clock, he was as eager to hold a morning gossip as a city shopkeeper to read the morning paper. an opportunity seemed at hand when, after lighting a cigar with a sun-glass, he looked up, and perceived a man coming over the brow of the hill, at the foot of which the pedlar had stopped his green cart. dominicus watched him as he descended, and noticed that he carried a bundle over his shoulder on the end of a stick, and travelled with a weary, yet determined pace. he did not look as if he had started in the freshness of the morning, but had footed it all night, and meant to do the same all day. "good morning, mister," said dominicus, when within speaking distance. "you go a pretty good jog. what's the latest news at parker's falls?" the man pulled the broad brim of a gray hat over his eyes, and answered, rather sullenly, that he did not come from parker's falls, which, as being the limit of his own day's journey, the pedlar had naturally mentioned in his inquiry. "well then," rejoined dominicus pike, "let's have the latest news where you did come from. i'm not particular about parker's falls. any place will answer." being thus importuned, the traveller--who was as ill looking a fellow as one would desire to meet in a solitary piece of woods--appeared to hesitate a little, as if he was either searching his memory for news, or weighing the expediency of telling it. at last, mounting on the step of the cart, he whispered in the ear of dominicus, though he might have shouted aloud and no other mortal would have heard him. "i do remember one little trifle of news," said he. "old mr. higginbotham, of kimballton, was murdered in his orchard, at eight o'clock last night, by an irishman and a nigger. they strung him up to the branch of a st. michael's pear-tree, where nobody would find him till the morning." as soon as this horrible intelligence was communicated, the stranger betook himself to his journey again, with more speed than ever, not even turning his head when dominicus invited him to smoke a spanish cigar and relate all the particulars. the pedlar whistled to his mare and went up the hill, pondering on the doleful fate of mr. higginbotham whom he had known in the way of trade, having sold him many a bunch of long nines, and a great deal of pigtail, lady's twist, and fig tobacco. he was rather astonished at the rapidity with which the news had spread. kimballton was nearly sixty miles distant in a straight line; the murder had been perpetrated only at eight o'clock the preceding night; yet dominicus had heard of it at seven in the morning, when, in all probability, poor mr. higginbotham's own family had but just discovered his corpse, hanging on the st. michael's pear-tree. the stranger on foot must have worn seven-league boots to travel at such a rate. "ill news flies fast, they say," thought dominicus pike; "but this beats railroads. the fellow ought to be hired to go express with the president's message." the difficulty was solved by supposing that the narrator had made a mistake of one day in the date of the occurrence; so that our friend did not hesitate to introduce the story at every tavern and country store along the road, expending a whole bunch of spanish wrappers among at least twenty horrified audiences. he found himself invariably the first bearer of the intelligence, and was so pestered with questions that he could not avoid filling up the outline, till it became quite a respectable narrative. he met with one piece of corroborative evidence. mr. higginbotham was a trader; and a former clerk of his, to whom dominicus related the facts, testified that the old gentleman was accustomed to return home through the orchard about nightfall, with the money and valuable papers of the store in his pocket. the clerk manifested but little grief at mr. higginbotham's catastrophe, hinting, what the pedlar had discovered in his own dealings with him, that he was a crusty old fellow, as close as a vice. his property would descend to a pretty niece who was now keeping school in kimballton. what with telling the news for the public good, and driving bargains for his own, dominicus was so much delayed on the road that he chose to put up at a tavern, about five miles short of parker's falls. after supper, lighting one of his prime cigars, he seated himself in the bar-room, and went through the story of the murder, which had grown so fast that it took him half an hour to tell. there were as many as twenty people in the room, nineteen of whom received it all for gospel. but the twentieth was an elderly farmer, who had arrived on horseback a short time before, and was now seated in a corner smoking his pipe. when the story was concluded, he rose up very deliberately, brought his chair right in front of dominicus, and stared him full in the face, puffing out the vilest tobacco smoke the pedlar had ever smelt. "will you make affidavit," demanded he, in the tone of a country justice taking an examination, "that old squire higginbotham of kimballton was murdered in his orchard the night before last, and found hanging on his great pear-tree yesterday morning?" "i tell the story as i heard it, mister," answered dominicus, dropping his half-burnt cigar; "i don't say that i saw the thing done. so i can't take my oath that he was murdered exactly in that way." "but i can take mine," said the farmer, "that if squire higginbotham was murdered night before last, i drank a glass of bitters with his ghost this morning. being a neighbor of mine, he called me into his store, as i was riding by, and treated me, and then asked me to do a little business for him on the road. he didn't seem to know any more about his own murder than i did." "why, then, it can't be a fact!" exclaimed dominicus pike. "i guess he'd have mentioned, if it was," said the old farmer; and he removed his chair back to the corner, leaving dominicus quite down in the mouth. here was a sad resurrection of old mr. higginbotham! the pedlar had no heart to mingle in the conversation any more, but comforted himself with a glass of gin and water, and went to bed where, all night long, he dreamed of hanging on the st. michael's pear-tree. to avoid the old farmer (whom he so detested that his suspension would have pleased him better than mr. higginbotham's), dominicus rose in the gray of the morning, put the little mare into the green cart, and trotted swiftly away towards parker's falls. the fresh breeze, the dewy road, and the pleasant summer dawn, revived his spirits, and might have encouraged him to repeat the old story had there been anybody awake to hear it. but he met neither ox team, light wagon chaise, horseman, nor foot traveller, till, just as he crossed salmon river, a man came trudging down to the bridge with a bundle over his shoulder, on the end of a stick. "good morning, mister," said the pedlar, reining in his mare. "if you come from kimballton or that neighborhood, may be you can tell me the real fact about this affair of old mr. higginbotham. was the old fellow actually murdered two or three nights ago, by an irishman and a nigger?" dominicus had spoken in too great a hurry to observe, at first, that the stranger himself had a deep tinge of negro blood. on hearing this sudden question, the ethiopian appeared to change his skin, its yellow hue becoming a ghastly white, while, shaking and stammering, he thus replied: "no! no! there was no colored man! it was an irishman that hanged him last night, at eight o'clock. i came away at seven! his folks can't have looked for him in the orchard yet." scarcely had the yellow man spoken, when he interrupted himself, and though he seemed weary enough before, continued his journey at a pace which would have kept the pedlar's mare on a smart trot. dominicus stared after him in great perplexity. if the murder had not been committed till tuesday night, who was the prophet that had foretold it, in all its circumstances, on tuesday morning? if mr. higginbotham's corpse were not yet discovered by his own family, how came the mulatto, at above thirty miles' distance, to know that he was hanging in the orchard, especially as he had left kimballton before the unfortunate man was hanged at all? these ambiguous circumstances, with the stranger's surprise and terror, made dominicus think of raising a hue and cry after him, as an accomplice in the murder; since a murder, it seemed, had really been perpetrated. "but let the poor devil go," thought the pedlar. "i don't want his black blood on my head; and hanging the nigger wouldn't unhang mr. higginbotham. unhang the old gentleman; it's a sin, i know; but i should hate to have him come to life a second time, and give me the lie!" with these meditations, dominicus pike drove into the street of parker's falls, which, as everybody knows, is as thriving a village as three cotton factories and a slitting mill can make it. the machinery was not in motion, and but a few of the shop doors unbarred, when he alighted in the stable yard of the tavern, and made it his first business to order the mare four quarts of oats. his second duty, of course, was to impart mr. higginbotham's catastrophe to the hostler. he deemed it advisable, however, not to be too positive as to the date of the direful fact, and also to be uncertain whether it were perpetrated by an irishman and a mulatto, or by the son of erin alone. neither did he profess to relate it on his own authority, or that of any one person; but mentioned it as a report generally diffused. the story ran through the town like fire among girdled trees, and became so much the universal talk that nobody could tell whence it had originated. mr. higginbotham was as well known at parker's falls as any citizen of the place, being part owner of the slitting mill, and a considerable stockholder in the cotton factories. the inhabitants felt their own prosperity interested in his fate. such was the excitement, that the parker's falls gazette anticipated its regular day of publication, and came out with half a form of blank paper and a column of double pica emphasized with capitals, and headed horrid murder of mr. higginbotham! among other dreadful details, the printed account described the mark of the cord round the dead man's neck, and stated the number of thousand dollars of which he had been robbed; there was much pathos also about the affliction of his niece, who had gone from one fainting fit to another, ever since her uncle was found hanging on the st. michael's pear-tree with his pockets inside out. the village poet likewise commemorated the young lady's grief in seventeen stanzas of a ballad. the selectmen held a meeting, and, in consideration of mr. higginbotham's claims on the town, determined to issue handbills, offering a reward of five hundred dollars for the apprehension of his murderers, and the recovery of the stolen property. meanwhile the whole population of parker's falls, consisting of shopkeepers, mistresses of boarding-houses, factory girls, millmen, and schoolboys, rushed into the street and kept up such a terrible loquacity as more than compensated for the silence of the cotton machines, which refrained from their usual din out of respect to the deceased. had mr. higginbotham cared about posthumous renown, his untimely ghost would have exulted in this tumult. our friend dominicus, in his vanity of heart, forgot his intended precautions, and mounting on the town pump, announced himself as the bearer of the authentic intelligence which had caused so wonderful a sensation. he immediately became the great man of the moment, and had just begun a new edition of the narrative, with a voice like a field preacher, when the mail stage drove into the village street. it had travelled all night, and must have shifted horses at kimballton, at three in the morning. "now we shall hear all the particulars," shouted the crowd. the coach rumbled up to the piazza of the tavern, followed by a thousand people; for if any man had been minding his own business till then, he now left it at sixes and sevens, to hear the news. the pedlar, foremost in the race, discovered two passengers, both of whom had been startled from a comfortable nap to find themselves in the centre of a mob. every man assailing them with separate questions, all propounded at once, the couple were struck speechless, though one was a lawyer and the other a young lady. "mr. higginbotham! mr. higginbotham! tell us the particulars about old mr. higginbotham!" bawled the mob. "what is the coroner's verdict? are the murderers apprehended? is mr. higginbotham's niece come out of her fainting fits? mr. higginbotham! mr. higginbotham!!" the coachman said not a word, except to swear awfully at the hostler for not bringing him a fresh team of horses. the lawyer inside had generally his wits about him even when asleep; the first thing he did, after learning the cause of the excitement, was to produce a large, red pocketbook. meantime dominicus pike, being an extremely polite young man, and also suspecting that a female tongue would tell the story as glibly as a lawyer's, had handed the lady out of the coach. she was a fine, smart girl, now wide awake and bright as a button, and had such a sweet pretty mouth, that dominicus would almost as lief have heard a love tale from it as a tale of murder. "gentlemen and ladies," said the lawyer to the shopkeepers, the millmen, and the factory girls, "i can assure you that some unaccountable mistake, or, more probably, a wilful falsehood, maliciously contrived to injure mr. higginbotham's credit, has excited this singular uproar. we passed through kimballton at three o'clock this morning, and most certainly should have been informed of the murder had any been perpetrated. but i have proof nearly as strong as mr. higginbotham's own oral testimony, in the negative. here is a note relating to a suit of his in the connecticut courts, which was delivered me from that gentleman himself. i find it dated at ten o'clock last evening." so saying, the lawyer exhibited the date and signature of the note, which irrefragably proved, either that this perverse mr. higginbotham was alive when he wrote it, or--as some deemed the more probable case, of two doubtful ones--that he was so absorbed in worldly business as to continue to transact it even after his death. but unexpected evidence was forthcoming. the young lady, after listening to the pedlar's explanation, merely seized a moment to smooth her gown and put her curls in order, and then appeared at the tavern door, making a modest signal to be heard. "good people," said she, "i am mr. higginbotham's niece." a wondering murmur passed through the crowd on beholding her so rosy and bright; that same unhappy niece, whom they had supposed, on the authority of the parker's falls gazette, to be lying at death's door in a fainting fit. but some shrewd fellows had doubted, all along, whether a young lady would be quite so desperate at the hanging of a rich old uncle. "you see," continued miss higginbotham, with a smile, "that this strange story is quite unfounded as to myself; and i believe i may affirm it to be equally so in regard to my dear uncle higginbotham. he has the kindness to give me a home in his house, though i contribute to my own support by teaching a school. i left kimballton this morning to spend the vacation of commencement week with a friend, about five miles from parker's falls. my generous uncle, when he heard me on the stairs, called me to his bedside, and gave me two dollars and fifty cents to pay my stage fare, and another dollar for my extra expenses. he then laid his pocketbook under his pillow, shook hands with me, and advised me to take some biscuit in my bag, instead of breakfasting on the road. i feel confident, therefore, that i left my beloved relative alive, and trust that i shall find him so on my return." the young lady courtesied at the close of her speech, which was so sensible and well worded, and delivered with such grace and propriety, that everybody thought her fit to be preceptress of the best academy in the state. but a stranger would have supposed that mr. higginbotham was an object of abhorrence at parker's falls, and that a thanksgiving had been proclaimed for his murder; so excessive was the wrath of the inhabitants on learning their mistake. the millmen resolved to bestow public honors on dominicus pike, only hesitating whether to tar and feather him, ride him on a rail, or refresh him with an ablution at the town pump, on the top of which he had declared himself the bearer of the news. the selectmen, by advice of the lawyer, spoke of prosecuting him for a misdemeanor, in circulating unfounded reports, to the great disturbance of the peace of the commonwealth. nothing saved dominicus, either from mob law or a court of justice, but an eloquent appeal made by the young lady in his behalf. addressing a few words of heartfelt gratitude to his benefactress, he mounted the green cart and rode out of town, under a discharge of artillery from the school-boys, who found plenty of ammunition in the neighboring clay-pits and mud holes. as he turned his head to exchange a farewell glance with mr. higginbotham's niece, a ball, of the consistence of hasty pudding, hit him slap in the mouth, giving him a most grim aspect. his whole person was so bespattered with the like filthy missiles, that he had almost a mind to ride back, and supplicate for the threatened ablution at the town pump; for, though not meant in kindness, it would now have been a deed of charity. however, the sun shone bright on poor dominicus, and the mud, an emblem of all stains of undeserved opprobrium, was easily brushed off when dry. being a funny rogue, his heart soon cheered up; nor could he refrain from a hearty laugh at the uproar which his story had excited. the handbills of the selectmen would cause the commitment of all the vagabonds in the state; the paragraph in the parker's falls gazette would be reprinted from maine to florida, and perhaps form an item in the london newspapers; and many a miser would tremble for his money bags and life, on learning the catastrophe of mr. higginbotham. the pedlar meditated with much fervor on the charms of the young schoolmistress, and swore that daniel webster never spoke nor looked so like an angel as miss higginbotham, while defending him from the wrathful populace at parker's falls. dominicus was now on the kimballton turnpike, having all along determined to visit that place, though business had drawn him out of the most direct road from morristown. as he approached the scene of the supposed murder, he continued to revolve the circumstances in his mind, and was astonished at the aspect which the whole case assumed. had nothing occurred to corroborate the story of the first traveller, it might now have been considered as a hoax; but the yellow man was evidently acquainted either with the report or the fact; and there was a mystery in his dismayed and guilty look on being abruptly questioned. when, to this singular combination of incidents, it was added that the rumor tallied exactly with mr. higginbotham's character and habits of life; and that he had an orchard, and a st. michael's pear-tree, near which he always passed at nightfall: the circumstantial evidence appeared so strong that dominicus doubted whether the autograph produced by the lawyer, or even the niece's direct testimony, ought to be equivalent. making cautious inquiries along the road, the pedlar further learned that mr. higginbotham had in his service an irishman of doubtful character, whom he had hired without a recommendation, on the score of economy. "may i be hanged myself," exclaimed dominicus pike aloud, on reaching the top of a lonely hill, "if i'll believe old higginbotham is unhanged till i see him with my own eyes, and hear it from his own mouth! and as he's a real shaver, i'll have the minister or some other responsible man for an indorser." it was growing dusk when he reached the toll-house on kimballton turnpike, about a quarter of a mile from the village of this name. his little mare was fast bringing him up with a man on horseback, who trotted through the gate a few rods in advance of him, nodded to the toll-gatherer, and kept on towards the village. dominicus was acquainted with the tollman, and, while making change, the usual remarks on the weather passed between them. "i suppose," said the pedlar, throwing back his whiplash, to bring it down like a feather on the mare's flank, "you have not seen anything of old mr. higginbotham within a day or two?" "yes," answered the toll-gatherer. "he passed the gate just before you drove up, and yonder he rides now, if you can see him through the dusk. he's been to woodfield this afternoon, attending a sheriff's sale there. the old man generally shakes hands and has a little chat with me; but to-night, he nodded,--as if to say, 'charge my toll,' and jogged on; for wherever he goes, he must always be at home by eight o'clock." "so they tell me," said dominicus. "i never saw a man look so yellow and thin as the squire does," continued the toll-gatherer. "says i to myself, to-night, he's more like a ghost or an old mummy than good flesh and blood." the pedlar strained his eyes through the twilight, and could just discern the horseman now far ahead on the village road. he seemed to recognize the rear of mr. higginbotham; but through the evening shadows, and amid the dust from the horse's feet, the figure appeared dim and unsubstantial; as if the shape of the mysterious old man were faintly moulded of darkness and gray light. dominicus shivered. "mr. higginbotham has come back from the other world, by way of the kimballton turnpike," thought he. he shook the reins and rode forward, keeping about the same distance in the rear of the gray old shadow, till the latter was concealed by a bend of the road. on reaching this point, the pedlar no longer saw the man on horseback, but found himself at the head of the village street, not far from a number of stores and two taverns, clustered round the meeting-house steeple. on his left were a stone wall and a gate, the boundary of a woodlot, beyond which lay an orchard, farther still, a mowing field, and last of all, a house. these were the premises of mr. higginbotham, whose dwelling stood beside the old highway, but had been left in the background by the kimballton turnpike. dominicus knew the place; and the little mare stopped short by instinct; for he was not conscious of tightening the reins. "for the soul of me, i cannot get by this gate!" said he, trembling. "i never shall be my own man again, till i see whether mr. higginbotham is hanging on the st. michael's pear-tree!" he leaped from the cart, gave the rein a turn round the gate post, and ran along the green path of the wood-lot as if old nick were chasing behind. just then the village clock tolled eight, and as each deep stroke fell, dominicus gave a fresh bound and flew faster than before, till, dim in the solitary centre of the orchard, he saw the fated pear-tree. one great branch stretched from the old contorted trunk across the path, and threw the darkest shadow on that one spot. but something seemed to struggle beneath the branch! the pedlar had never pretended to more courage than befits a man of peaceful occupation, nor could he account for his valor on this awful emergency. certain it is, however, that he rushed forward, prostrated a sturdy irishman with the butt end of his whip, and found--not indeed hanging on the st. michael's pear-tree, but trembling beneath it, with a halter round his neck--the old, identical mr. higginbotham! "mr. higginbotham," said dominicus tremulously, "you're an honest man, and i'll take your word for it. have you been hanged or not?" if the riddle be not already guessed, a few words will explain the simple machinery by which this "coming event" was made to "cast its shadow before." three men had plotted the robbery and murder of mr. higginbotham; two of them, successively, lost courage and fled, each delaying the crime one night by their disappearance; the third was in the act of perpetration, when a champion, blindly obeying the call of fate, like the heroes of old romance, appeared in the person of dominicus pike. it only remains to say, that mr. higginbotham took the pedlar into high favor, sanctioned his addresses to the pretty schoolmistress, and settled his whole property on their children, allowing themselves the interest. in due time, the old gentleman capped the climax of his favors, by dying a christian death, in bed, since which melancholy event dominicus pike has removed from kimballton, and established a large tobacco manufactory in my native village. wakefield in some old magazine or newspaper i recollect a story, told as truth, of a man--let us call him wakefield--who absented himself for a long time from his wife. the fact, thus abstractedly stated, is not very uncommon, nor--without a proper distinction of circumstances--to be condemned either as naughty or nonsensical. howbeit, this, though far from the most aggravated, is perhaps the strangest, instance on record, of marital delinquency; and, moreover, as remarkable a freak as may be found in the whole list of human oddities. the wedded couple lived in london. the man, under pretence of going a journey, took lodgings in the next street to his own house, and there, unheard of by his wife or friends, and without the shadow of a reason for such self-banishment, dwelt upwards of twenty years. during that period, he beheld his home every day, and frequently the forlorn mrs. wakefield. and after so great a gap in his matrimonial felicity--when his death was reckoned certain, his estate settled, his name dismissed from memory, and his wife, long, long ago, resigned to her autumnal widowhood--he entered the door one evening, quietly, as from a day's absence, and became a loving spouse till death. this outline is all that i remember. but the incident, though of the purest originality, unexampled, and probably never to be repeated, is one, i think, which appeals to the generous sympathies of mankind. we know, each for himself, that none of us would perpetrate such a folly, yet feel as if some other might. to my own contemplations, at least, it has often recurred, always exciting wonder, but with a sense that the story must be true, and a conception of its hero's character. whenever any subject so forcibly affects the mind, time is well spent in thinking of it. if the reader choose, let him do his own meditation; or if he prefer to ramble with me through the twenty years of wakefield's vagary, i bid him welcome; trusting that there will be a pervading spirit and a moral, even should we fail to find them, done up neatly, and condensed into the final sentence. thought has always its efficacy, and every striking incident its moral. what sort of a man was wakefield? we are free to shape out our own idea, and call it by his name. he was now in the meridian of life; his matrimonial affections, never violent, were sobered into a calm, habitual sentiment; of all husbands, he was likely to be the most constant, because a certain sluggishness would keep his heart at rest, wherever it might be placed. he was intellectual, but not actively so; his mind occupied itself in long and lazy musings, that ended to no purpose, or had not vigor to attain it; his thoughts were seldom so energetic as to seize hold of words. imagination, in the proper meaning of the term, made no part of wakefield's gifts. with a cold but not depraved nor wandering heart, and a mind never feverish with riotous thoughts, nor perplexed with originality, who could have anticipated that our friend would entitle himself to a foremost place among the doers of eccentric deeds? had his acquaintances been asked, who was the man in london the surest to perform nothing today which should be remembered on the morrow, they would have thought of wakefield. only the wife of his bosom might have hesitated. she, without having analyzed his character, was partly aware of a quiet selfishness, that had rusted into his inactive mind; of a peculiar sort of vanity, the most uneasy attribute about him; of a disposition to craft which had seldom produced more positive effects than the keeping of petty secrets, hardly worth revealing; and, lastly, of what she called a little strangeness, sometimes, in the good man. this latter quality is indefinable, and perhaps non-existent. let us now imagine wakefield bidding adieu to his wife. it is the dusk of an october evening. his equipment is a drab great-coat, a hat covered with an oilcloth, top-boots, an umbrella in one hand and a small portmanteau in the other. he has informed mrs. wakefield that he is to take the night coach into the country. she would fain inquire the length of his journey, its object, and the probable time of his return; but, indulgent to his harmless love of mystery, interrogates him only by a look. he tells her not to expect him positively by the return coach, nor to be alarmed should he tarry three or four days; but, at all events, to look for him at supper on friday evening. wakefield himself, be it considered, has no suspicion of what is before him. he holds out his hand, she gives her own, and meets his parting kiss in the matter-of-course way of a ten years' matrimony; and forth goes the middle-aged mr. wakefield, almost resolved to perplex his good lady by a whole week's absence. after the door has closed behind him, she perceives it thrust partly open, and a vision of her husband's face, through the aperture, smiling on her, and gone in a moment. for the time, this little incident is dismissed without a thought. but, long afterwards, when she has been more years a widow than a wife, that smile recurs, and flickers across all her reminiscences of wakefield's visage. in her many musings, she surrounds the original smile with a multitude of fantasies, which make it strange and awful: as, for instance, if she imagines him in a coffin, that parting look is frozen on his pale features; or, if she dreams of him in heaven, still his blessed spirit wears a quiet and crafty smile. yet, for its sake, when all others have given him up for dead, she sometimes doubts whether she is a widow. but our business is with the husband. we must hurry after him along the street, ere he lose his individuality, and melt into the great mass of london life. it would be vain searching for him there. let us follow close at his heels, therefore, until, after several superfluous turns and doublings, we find him comfortably established by the fireside of a small apartment, previously bespoken. he is in the next street to his own, and at his journey's end. he can scarcely trust his good fortune, in having got thither unperceived--recollecting that, at one time, he was delayed by the throng, in the very focus of a lighted lantern; and, again, there were footsteps that seemed to tread behind his own, distinct from the multitudinous tramp around him; and, anon, he heard a voice shouting afar, and fancied that it called his name. doubtless, a dozen busybodies had been watching him, and told his wife the whole affair. poor wakefield! little knowest thou thine own insignificance in this great world! no mortal eye but mine has traced thee. go quietly to thy bed, foolish man: and, on the morrow, if thou wilt be wise, get thee home to good mrs. wakefield, and tell her the truth. remove not thyself, even for a little week, from thy place in her chaste bosom. were she, for a single moment, to deem thee dead, or lost, or lastingly divided from her, thou wouldst be wofully conscious of a change in thy true wife forever after. it is perilous to make a chasm in human affections; not that they gape so long and wide--but so quickly close again! almost repenting of his frolic, or whatever it may be termed, wakefield lies down betimes, and starting from his first nap, spreads forth his arms into the wide and solitary waste of the unaccustomed bed. "no,"-thinks he, gathering the bedclothes about him,--"i will not sleep alone another night." in the morning he rises earlier than usual, and sets himself to consider what he really means to do. such are his loose and rambling modes of thought that he has taken this very singular step with the consciousness of a purpose, indeed, but without being able to define it sufficiently for his own contemplation. the vagueness of the project, and the convulsive effort with which he plunges into the execution of it, are equally characteristic of a feeble-minded man. wakefield sifts his ideas, however, as minutely as he may, and finds himself curious to know the progress of matters at home--how his exemplary wife will endure her widowhood of a week; and, briefly, how the little sphere of creatures and circumstances, in which he was a central object, will be affected by his removal. a morbid vanity, therefore, lies nearest the bottom of the affair. but, how is he to attain his ends? not, certainly, by keeping close in this comfortable lodging, where, though he slept and awoke in the next street to his home, he is as effectually abroad as if the stage-coach had been whirling him away all night. yet, should he reappear, the whole project is knocked in the head. his poor brains being hopelessly puzzled with this dilemma, he at length ventures out, partly resolving to cross the head of the street, and send one hasty glance towards his forsaken domicile. habit--for he is a man of habits--takes him by the hand, and guides him, wholly unaware, to his own door, where, just at the critical moment, he is aroused by the scraping of his foot upon the step. wakefield! whither are you going? at that instant his fate was turning on the pivot. little dreaming of the doom to which his first backward step devotes him, he hurries away, breathless with agitation hitherto unfelt, and hardly dares turn his head at the distant corner. can it be that nobody caught sight of him? will not the whole household--the decent mrs. wakefield, the smart maid servant, and the dirty little footboy--raise a hue and cry, through london streets, in pursuit of their fugitive lord and master? wonderful escape! he gathers courage to pause and look homeward, but is perplexed with a sense of change about the familiar edifice, such as affects us all, when, after a separation of months or years, we again see some hill or lake, or work of art, with which we were friends of old. in ordinary cases, this indescribable impression is caused by the comparison and contrast between our imperfect reminiscences and the reality. in wakefield, the magic of a single night has wrought a similar transformation, because, in that brief period, a great moral change has been effected. but this is a secret from himself. before leaving the spot, he catches a far and momentary glimpse of his wife, passing athwart the front window, with her face turned towards the head of the street. the crafty nincompoop takes to his heels, scared with the idea that, among a thousand such atoms of mortality, her eye must have detected him. right glad is his heart, though his brain be somewhat dizzy, when he finds himself by the coal fire of his lodgings. so much for the commencement of this long whimwham. after the initial conception, and the stirring up of the man's sluggish temperament to put it in practice, the whole matter evolves itself in a natural train. we may suppose him, as the result of deep deliberation, buying a new wig, of reddish hair, and selecting sundry garments, in a fashion unlike his customary suit of brown, from a jew's old-clothes bag. it is accomplished. wakefield is another man. the new system being now established, a retrograde movement to the old would be almost as difficult as the step that placed him in his unparalleled position. furthermore, he is rendered obstinate by a sulkiness occasionally incident to his temper, and brought on at present by the inadequate sensation which he conceives to have been produced in the bosom of mrs. wakefield. he will not go back until she be frightened half to death. well; twice or thrice has she passed before his sight, each time with a heavier step, a paler cheek, and more anxious brow; and in the third week of his non-appearance he detects a portent of evil entering the house, in the guise of an apothecary. next day the knocker is muffled. towards nightfall comes the chariot of a physician, and deposits its big-wigged and solemn burden at wakefield's door, whence, after a quarter of an hour's visit, he emerges, perchance the herald of a funeral. dear woman! will she die? by this time, wakefield is excited to something like energy of feeling, but still lingers away from his wife's bedside, pleading with his conscience that she must not be disturbed at such a juncture. if aught else restrains him, he does not know it. in the course of a few weeks she gradually recovers; the crisis is over; her heart is sad, perhaps, but quiet; and, let him return soon or late, it will never be feverish for him again. such ideas glimmer through the midst of wakefield's mind, and render him indistinctly conscious that an almost impassable gulf divides his hired apartment from his former home. "it is but in the next street!" he sometimes says. fool! it is in another world. hitherto, he has put off his return from one particular day to another; henceforward, he leaves the precise time undetermined. not tomorrow--probably next week--pretty soon. poor man! the dead have nearly as much chance of revisiting their earthly homes as the self-banished wakefield. would that i had a folio to write, instead of an article of a dozen pages! then might i exemplify how an influence beyond our control lays its strong hand on every deed which we do, and weaves its consequences into an iron tissue of necessity. wakefield is spell-bound. we must leave him for ten years or so, to haunt around his house, without once crossing the threshold, and to be faithful to his wife, with all the affection of which his heart is capable, while he is slowly fading out of hers. long since, it must be remarked, he had lost the perception of singularity in his conduct. now for a scene! amind the throng of a london street we distinguish a man, now waxing elderly, with few characteristics to attract careless observers, yet bearing, in his whole aspect, the handwriting of no common fate, for such as have the skill to read it. he is meagre; his low and narrow forehead is deeply wrinkled; his eyes, small and lustreless, sometimes wander apprehensively about him, but oftener seem to look inward. he bends his head, and moves with an indescribable obliquity of gait, as if unwilling to display his full front to the world. watch him long enough to see what we have described, and you will allow that circumstances--which often produce remarkable men from nature's ordinary handiwork--have produced one such here. next, leaving him to sidle along the footwalk, cast your eyes in the opposite direction, where a portly female, considerably in the wane of life, with a prayer-book in her hand, is proceeding to yonder church. she has the placid mien of settled widowhood. her regrets have either died away, or have become so essential to her heart, that they would be poorly exchanged for joy. just as the lean man and well-conditioned woman are passing, a slight obstruction occurs, and brings these two figures directly in contact. their hands touch; the pressure of the crowd forces her bosom against his shoulder; they stand, face to face, staring into each other's eyes. after a ten years' separation, thus wakefield meets his wife! the throng eddies away, and carries them asunder. the sober widow, resuming her former pace, proceeds to church, but pauses in the portal, and throws a perplexed glance along the street. she passes in, however, opening her prayer-book as she goes. and the man! with so wild a face that busy and selfish london stands to gaze after him, he hurries to his lodgings, bolts the door, and throws himself upon the bed. the latent feelings of years break out; his feeble mind acquires a brief energy from their strength; all the miserable strangeness of his life is revealed to him at a glance: and he cries out, passionately, "wakefield! wakefield! you are mad!" perhaps he was so. the singularity of his situation must have so moulded him to himself, that, considered in regard to his fellow-creatures and the business of life, he could not be said to possess his right mind. he had contrived, or rather he had happened, to dissever himself from the world--to vanish--to give up his place and privileges with living men, without being admitted among the dead. the life of a hermit is nowise parallel to his. he was in the bustle of the city, as of old; but the crowd swept by and saw him not; he was, we may figuratively say, always beside his wife and at his hearth, yet must never feel the warmth of the one nor the affection of the other. it was wakefield's unprecedented fate to retain his original share of human sympathies, and to be still involved in human interests, while he had lost his reciprocal influence on them. it would be a most curious speculation to trace out the effect of such circumstances on his heart and intellect, separately, and in unison. yet, changed as he was, he would seldom be conscious of it, but deem himself the same man as ever; glimpses of the truth indeed would come, but only for the moment; and still he would keep saying, "i shall soon go back!"--nor reflect that he had been saying so for twenty years. i conceive, also, that these twenty years would appear, in the retrospect, scarcely longer than the week to which wakefield had at first limited his absence. he would look on the affair as no more than an interlude in the main business of his life. when, after a little while more, he should deem it time to reenter his parlor, his wife would clap her hands for joy, on beholding the middle-aged mr. wakefield. alas, what a mistake! would time but await the close of our favorite follies, we should be young men, all of us, and till doomsday. one evening, in the twentieth year since he vanished, wakefield is taking his customary walk towards the dwelling which he still calls his own. it is a gusty night of autumn, with frequent showers that patter down upon the pavement, and are gone before a man can put up his umbrella. pausing near the house, wakefield discerns, through the parlor windows of the second floor, the red glow and the glimmer and fitful flash of a comfortable fire. on the ceiling appears a grotesque shadow of good mrs. wakefield. the cap, the nose and chin, and the broad waist, form an admirable caricature, which dances, moreover, with the up-flickering and down-sinking blaze, almost too merrily for the shade of an elderly widow. at this instant a shower chances to fall, and is driven, by the unmannerly gust, full into wakefield's face and bosom. he is quite penetrated with its autumnal chill. shall he stand, wet and shivering here, when his own hearth has a good fire to warm him, and his own wife will run to fetch the gray coat and small-clothes, which, doubtless, she has kept carefully in the closet of their bed chamber? no! wakefield is no such fool. he ascends the steps--heavily!--for twenty years have stiffened his legs since he came down--but he knows it not. stay, wakefield! would you go to the sole home that is left you? then step into your grave! the door opens. as he passes in, we have a parting glimpse of his visage, and recognize the crafty smile, which was the precursor of the little joke that he has ever since been playing off at his wife's expense. how unmercifully has he quizzed the poor woman! well, a good night's rest to wakefield! this happy event--supposing it to be such--could only have occurred at an unpremeditated moment. we will not follow our friend across the threshold. he has left us much food for thought, a portion of which shall lend its wisdom to a moral, and be shaped into a figure. amid the seeming confusion of our mysterious world, individuals are so nicely adjusted to a system, and systems to one another and to a whole, that, by stepping aside for a moment, a man exposes himself to a fearful risk of losing his place forever. like wakefield, he may become, as it were, the outcast of the universe. the great carbuncle[ ] a mystery of the white mountains [ ] the indian tradition, on which this somewhat extravagant tale is founded, is both too wild and too beautiful to be adequately wrought up in prose. sullivan, in his history of maine, written since the revolution, remarks, that even then the existence of the great carbuncle was not entirely discredited. at nightfall, once in the olden time, on the rugged side of one of the crystal hills, a party of adventurers were refreshing themselves, after a toilsome and fruitless quest for the great carbuncle. they had come thither, not as friends nor partners in the enterprise, but each, save one youthful pair, impelled by his own selfish and solitary longing for this wondrous gem. their feeling of brotherhood, however, was strong enough to induce them to contribute a mutual aid in building a rude hut of branches, and kindling a great fire of shattered pines, that had drifted down the headlong current of the amonoosuck, on the lower bank of which they were to pass the night. there was but one of their number, perhaps, who had become so estranged from natural sympathies, by the absorbing spell of the pursuit, as to acknowledge no satisfaction at the sight of human faces, in the remote and solitary region whither they had ascended. a vast extent of wilderness lay between them and the nearest settlement, while a scant mile above their heads was that black verge where the hills throw off their shaggy mantle of forest trees, and either robe themselves in clouds or tower naked into the sky. the roar of the amonoosuck would have been too awful for endurance if only a solitary man had listened, while the mountain stream talked with the wind. the adventurers, therefore, exchanged hospitable greetings, and welcomed one another to the hut, where each man was the host, and all were the guests of the whole company. they spread their individual supplies of food on the flat surface of a rock, and partook of a general repast; at the close of which, a sentiment of good fellowship was perceptible among the party, though repressed by the idea, that the renewed search for the great carbuncle must make them strangers again in the morning. seven men and one young woman, they warmed themselves together at the fire, which extended its bright wall along the whole front of their wigwam. as they observed the various and contrasted figures that made up the assemblage, each man looking like a caricature of himself, in the unsteady light that flickered over him, they came mutually to the conclusion, that an odder society had never met, in city or wilderness, on mountain or plain. the eldest of the group, a tall, lean, weather-beaten man, some sixty years of age, was clad in the skins of wild animals, whose fashion of dress he did well to imitate, since the deer, the wolf, and the bear, had long been his most intimate companions. he was one of those ill-fated mortals, such as the indians told of, whom, in their early youth, the great carbuncle smote with a peculiar madness, and became the passionate dream of their existence. all who visited that region knew him as the seeker, and by no other name. as none could remember when he first took up the search, there went a fable in the valley of the saco, that for his inordinate lust after the great carbuncle, he had been condemned to wander among the mountains till the end of time, still with the same feverish hopes at sunrise--the same despair at eve. near this miserable seeker sat a little elderly personage, wearing a high-crowned hat, shaped somewhat like a crucible. he was from beyond the sea, a doctor cacaphodel, who had wilted and dried himself into a mummy by continually stooping over charcoal furnaces, and inhaling unwholesome fumes during his researches in chemistry and alchemy. it was told of him, whether truly or not, that at the commencement of his studies, he had drained his body of all its richest blood, and wasted it, with other inestimable ingredients, in an unsuccessful experiment--and had never been a well man since. another of the adventurers was master ichabod pigsnort, a weighty merchant and selectman of boston, and an elder of the famous mr. norton's church. his enemies had a ridiculous story that master pigsnort was accustomed to spend a whole hour after prayer time, every morning and evening, in wallowing naked among an immense quantity of pine-tree shillings, which were the earliest silver coinage of massachusetts. the fourth whom we shall notice had no name that his companions knew of, and was chiefly distinguished by a sneer that always contorted his thin visage, and by a prodigious pair of spectacles, which were supposed to deform and discolor the whole face of nature, to this gentleman's perception. the fifth adventurer likewise lacked a name, which was the greater pity, as he appeared to be a poet. he was a bright-eyed man, but wofully pined away, which was no more than natural, if, as some people affirmed, his ordinary diet was fog, morning mist, and a slice of the densest cloud within his reach, sauced with moonshine, whenever he could get it. certain it is, that the poetry which flowed from him had a smack of all these dainties the sixth of the party was a young man of haughty mien, and sat somewhat apart from the rest, wearing his plumed hat loftily among his elders, while the fire glittered on the rich embroidery of his dress, and gleamed intensely on the jewelled pommel of his sword. this was the lord de vere, who, when at home, was said to spend much of his time in the burial vault of his dead progenitors, rummaging their mouldy coffins in search of all the earthly pride and vainglory that was hidden among bones and dust; so that, besides his own share, he had the collected haughtiness of his whole line of ancestry. lastly, there was a handsome youth in rustic garb, and by his side a blooming little person, in whom a delicate shade of maiden reserve was just melting into the rich glow of a young wife's affection. her name was hannah and her husband's matthew; two homely names, yet well enough adapted to the simple pair, who seemed strangely out of place among the whimsical fraternity whose wits had been set agog by the great carbuncle. beneath the shelter of one hut, in the bright blaze of the same fire, sat this varied group of adventurers, all so intent upon a single object, that, of whatever else they began to speak, their closing words were sure to be illuminated with the great carbuncle. several related the circumstances that brought them thither. one had listened to a traveller's tale of this marvellous stone in his own distant country, and had immediately been seized with such a thirst for beholding it as could only be quenched in its intensest lustre. another, so long ago as when the famous captain smith visited these coasts, had seen it blazing far at sea, and had felt no rest in all the intervening years till now that he took up the search. a third, being encamped on a hunting expedition full forty miles south of the white mountains, awoke at midnight, and beheld the great carbuncle gleaming like a meteor, so that the shadows of the trees fell backward from it. they spoke of the innumerable attempts which had been made to reach the spot, and of the singular fatality which had hitherto withheld success from all adventurers, though it might seem so easy to follow to its source a light that overpowered the moon, and almost matched the sun. it was observable that each smiled scornfully at the madness of every other in anticipating better fortune than the past, yet nourished a scarcely hidden conviction that he would himself be the favored one. as if to allay their too sanguine hopes, they recurred to the indian traditions that a spirit kept watch about the gem, and bewildered those who sought it either by removing it from peak to peak of the higher hills, or by calling up a mist from the enchanted lake over which it hung. but these tales were deemed unworthy of credit, all professing to believe that the search had been baffled by want of sagacity or perseverance in the adventurers, or such other causes as might naturally obstruct the passage to any given point among the intricacies of forest, valley, and mountain. in a pause of the conversation the wearer of the prodigious spectacles looked round upon the party, making each individual, in turn, the object of the sneer which invariably dwelt upon his countenance. "so, fellow-pilgrims," said he, "here we are, seven wise men, and one fair damsel--who, doubtless, is as wise as any graybeard of the company: here we are, i say, all bound on the same goodly enterprise. methinks, now, it were not amiss that each of us declare what he proposes to do with the great carbuncle, provided he have the good hap to clutch it. what says our friend in the bear skin? how mean you, good sir, to enjoy the prize which you have been seeking, the lord knows how long, among the crystal hills?" "how enjoy it!" exclaimed the aged seeker, bitterly. "i hope for no enjoyment from it; that folly has passed long ago! i keep up the search for this accursed stone because the vain ambition of my youth has become a fate upon me in old age. the pursuit alone is my strength,--the energy of my soul,--the warmth of my blood,--and the pith and marrow of my bones! were i to turn my back upon it i should fall down dead on the hither side of the notch, which is the gateway of this mountain region. yet not to have my wasted lifetime back again would i give up my hopes of the great carbuncle! having found it, i shall bear it to a certain cavern that i wot of, and there, grasping it in my arms, lie down and die, and keep it buried with me forever." "o wretch, regardless of the interests of science!" cried doctor cacaphodel, with philosophic indignation. "thou art not worthy to behold, even from afar off, the lustre of this most precious gem that ever was concocted in the laboratory of nature. mine is the sole purpose for which a wise man may desire the possession of the great carbuncle. immediately on obtaining it--for i have a presentiment, good people that the prize is reserved to crown my scientific reputation--i shall return to europe, and employ my remaining years in reducing it to its first elements. a portion of the stone will i grind to impalpable powder; other parts shall be dissolved in acids, or whatever solvents will act upon so admirable a composition; and the remainder i design to melt in the crucible, or set on fire with the blow-pipe. by these various methods i shall gain an accurate analysis, and finally bestow the result of my labors upon the world in a folio volume." "excellent!" quoth the man with the spectacles. "nor need you hesitate, learned sir, on account of the necessary destruction of the gem; since the perusal of your folio may teach every mother's son of us to concoct a great carbuncle of his own." "but, verily," said master ichabod pigsnort, "for mine own part i object to the making of these counterfeits, as being calculated to reduce the marketable value of the true gem. i tell ye frankly, sirs, i have an interest in keeping up the price. here have i quitted my regular traffic, leaving my warehouse in the care of my clerks, and putting my credit to great hazard, and, furthermore, have put myself in peril of death or captivity by the accursed heathen savages--and all this without daring to ask the prayers of the congregation, because the quest for the great carbuncle is deemed little better than a traffic with the evil one. now think ye that i would have done this grievous wrong to my soul, body, reputation, and estate, without a reasonable chance of profit?" "not i, pious master pigsnort," said the man with the spectacles. "i never laid such a great folly to thy charge." "truly, i hope not," said the merchant. "now, as touching this great carbuncle, i am free to own that i have never had a glimpse of it; but be it only the hundredth part so bright as people tell, it will surely outvalue the great mogul's best diamond, which he holds at an incalculable sum. wherefore, i am minded to put the great carbuncle on shipboard, and voyage with it to england, france, spain, italy, or into heathendom, if providence should send me thither, and, in a word, dispose of the gem to the best bidder among the potentates of the earth, that he may place it among his crown jewels. if any of ye have a wiser plan, let him expound it." "that have i, thou sordid man!" exclaimed the poet. "dost thou desire nothing brighter than gold that thou wouldst transmute all this ethereal lustre into such dross as thou wallowest in already? for myself, hiding the jewel under my cloak, i shall hie me back to my attic chamber, in one of the darksome alleys of london. there, night and day, will i gaze upon it; my soul shall drink its radiance; it shall be diffused throughout my intellectual powers, and gleam brightly in every line of poesy that i indite. thus, long ages after i am gone, the splendor of the great carbuncle will blaze around my name!" "well said, master poet!" cried he of the spectacles. "hide it under thy cloak, sayest thou? why, it will gleam through the holes, and make thee look like a jack-o'-lantern!" "to think!" ejaculated the lord de vere, rather to himself than his companions, the best of whom he held utterly unworthy of his intercourse--"to think that a fellow in a tattered cloak should talk of conveying the great carbuncle to a garret in grub street! have not i resolved within myself that the whole earth contains no fitter ornament for the great hall of my ancestral castle? there shall it flame for ages, making a noonday of midnight, glittering on the suits of armor, the banners, and escutcheons, that hang around the wall, and keeping bright the memory of heroes. wherefore have all other adventurers sought the prize in vain but that i might win it, and make it a symbol of the glories of our lofty line? and never, on the diadem of the white mountains, did the great carbuncle hold a place half so honored as is reserved for it in the hall of the de veres!" "it is a noble thought," said the cynic, with an obsequious sneer. "yet, might i presume to say so, the gem would make a rare sepulchral lamp, and would display the glories of your lordship's progenitors more truly in the ancestral vault than in the castle hall." "nay, forsooth," observed matthew, the young rustic, who sat hand in hand with his bride, "the gentleman has bethought himself of a profitable use for this bright stone. hannah here and i are seeking it for a like purpose." "how, fellow!" exclaimed his lordship, in surprise. "what castle hall hast thou to hang it in?" "no castle," replied matthew, "but as neat a cottage as any within sight of the crystal hills. ye must know, friends, that hannah and i, being wedded the last week, have taken up the search of the great carbuncle, because we shall need its light in the long winter evenings; and it will be such a pretty thing to show the neighbors when they visit us. it will shine through the house so that we may pick up a pin in any corner and will set all the windows aglowing as if there were a great fire of pine knots in the chimney. and then how pleasant, when we awake in the night, to be able to see one another's faces!" there was a general smile among the adventurers at the simplicity of the young couple's project in regard to this wondrous and invaluable stone, with which the greatest monarch on earth might have been proud to adorn his palace. especially the man with spectacles, who had sneered at all the company in turn, now twisted his visage into such an expression of ill-natured mirth, that matthew asked him, rather peevishly, what he himself meant to do with the great carbuncle. "the great carbuncle!" answered the cynic, with ineffable scorn. "why, you blockhead, there is no such thing in rerum natura. i have come three thousand miles, and am resolved to set my foot on every peak of these mountains, and poke my head into every chasm, for the sole purpose of demonstrating to the satisfaction of any man one whit less an ass than thyself that the great carbuncle is all a humbug!" vain and foolish were the motives that had brought most of the adventurers to the crystal hills; but none so vain, so foolish, and so impious too, as that of the scoffer with the prodigious spectacles. he was one of those wretched and evil men whose yearnings are downward to the darkness, instead of heavenward, and who, could they but extinguish the lights which god hath kindled for us, would count the midnight gloom their chiefest glory. as the cynic spoke, several of the party were startled by a gleam of red splendor, that showed the huge shapes of the surrounding mountains and the rock-bestrewn bed of the turbulent river with an illumination unlike that of their fire on the trunks and black boughs of the forest trees. they listened for the roll of thunder, but heard nothing, and were glad that the tempest came not near them. the stars, those dial points of heaven, now warned the adventurers to close their eyes on the blazing logs, and open them, in dreams, to the glow of the great carbuncle. the young married couple had taken their lodgings in the farthest corner of the wigwam, and were separated from the rest of the party by a curtain of curiously-woven twigs, such as might have hung, in deep festoons, around the bridal-bower of eve. the modest little wife had wrought this piece of tapestry while the other guests were talking. she and her husband fell asleep with hands tenderly clasped, and awoke from visions of unearthly radiance to meet the more blessed light of one another's eyes. they awoke at the same instant, and with one happy smile beaming over their two faces, which grew brighter with their consciousness of the reality of life and love. but no sooner did she recollect where they were, than the bride peeped through the interstices of the leafy curtain, and saw that the outer room of the hut was deserted. "up, dear matthew!" cried she, in haste. "the strange folk are all gone! up, this very minute, or we shall lose the great carbuncle!" in truth, so little did these poor young people deserve the mighty prize which had lured them thither, that they had slept peacefully all night, and till the summits of the hills were glittering with sunshine; while the other adventurers had tossed their limbs in feverish wakefulness, or dreamed of climbing precipices, and set off to realize their dreams with the earliest peep of dawn. but matthew and hannah, after their calm rest, were as light as two young deer, and merely stopped to say their prayers and wash themselves in a cold pool of the amonoosuck, and then to taste a morsel of food, ere they turned their faces to the mountain-side. it was a sweet emblem of conjugal affection, as they toiled up the difficult ascent, gathering strength from the mutual aid which they afforded. after several little accidents, such as a torn robe, a lost shoe, and the entanglement of hannah's hair in a bough, they reached the upper verge of the forest, and were now to pursue a more adventurous course. the innumerable trunks and heavy foliage of the trees had hitherto shut in their thoughts, which now shrank affrighted from the region of wind and cloud and naked rocks and desolate sunshine, that rose immeasurably above them. they gazed back at the obscure wilderness which they had traversed, and longed to be buried again in its depths rather than trust themselves to so vast and visible a solitude. "shall we go on?" said matthew, throwing his arm round hannah's waist, both to protect her and to comfort his heart by drawing her close to it. but the little bride, simple as she was, had a woman's love of jewels, and could not forego the hope of possessing the very brightest in the world, in spite of the perils with which it must be won. "let us climb a little higher," whispered she, yet tremulously, as she turned her face upward to the lonely sky. "come, then," said matthew, mustering his manly courage and drawing her along with him, for she became timid again the moment that he grew bold. and upward, accordingly, went the pilgrims of the great carbuncle, now treading upon the tops and thickly-interwoven branches of dwarf pines, which, by the growth of centuries, though mossy with age, had barely reached three feet in altitude. next, they came to masses and fragments of naked rock heaped confusedly together, like a cairn reared by giants in memory of a giant chief. in this bleak realm of upper air nothing breathed, nothing grew; there was no life but what was concentrated in their two hearts; they had climbed so high that nature herself seemed no longer to keep them company. she lingered beneath them, within the verge of the forest trees, and sent a farewell glance after her children as they strayed where her own green footprints had never been. but soon they were to be hidden from her eye densely and dark the mists began to gather below, casting black spots of shadow on the vast landscape, and sailing heavily to one centre, as if the loftiest mountain peak had summoned a council of its kindred clouds. finally, the vapors welded themselves, as it were, into a mass, presenting the appearance of a pavement over which the wanderers might have trodden, but where they would vainly have sought an avenue to the blessed earth which they had lost. and the lovers yearned to behold that green earth again, more intensely, alas! than, beneath a clouded sky, they had ever desired a glimpse of heaven. they even felt it a relief to their desolation when the mists, creeping gradually up the mountain, concealed its lonely peak, and thus annihilated, at least for them, the whole region of visible space. but they drew closer together, with a fond and melancholy gaze, dreading lest the universal cloud should snatch them from each other's sight. still, perhaps, they would have been resolute to climb as far and as high, between earth and heaven, as they could find foothold, if hannah's strength had not begun to fail, and with that, her courage also. her breath grew short. she refused to burden her husband with her weight, but often tottered against his side, and recovered herself each time by a feebler effort. at last, she sank down on one of the rocky steps of the acclivity. "we are lost, dear matthew," said she, mournfully. "we shall never find our way to the earth again. and oh how happy we might have been in our cottage!" "dear heart!--we will yet be happy there," answered matthew. "look! in this direction, the sunshine penetrates the dismal mist. by its aid, i can direct our course to the passage of the notch. let us go back, love, and dream no more of the great carbuncle!" "the sun cannot be yonder," said hannah, with despondence. "by this time it must be noon. if there could ever be any sunshine here, it would come from above our heads." "but look!" repeated matthew, in a somewhat altered tone. "it is brightening every moment. if not sunshine, what can it be?" nor could the young bride any longer deny that a radiance was breaking through the mist, and changing its dim hue to a dusky red, which continually grew more vivid, as if brilliant particles were interfused with the gloom. now, also, the cloud began to roll away from the mountain, while, as it heavily withdrew, one object after another started out of its impenetrable obscurity into sight, with precisely the effect of a new creation, before the indistinctness of the old chaos had been completely swallowed up. as the process went on, they saw the gleaming of water close at their feet, and found themselves on the very border of a mountain lake, deep, bright, clear, and calmly beautiful, spreading from brim to brim of a basin that had been scooped out of the solid rock. a ray of glory flashed across its surface. the pilgrims looked whence it should proceed, but closed their eyes with a thrill of awful admiration, to exclude the fervid splendor that glowed from the brow of a cliff impending over the enchanted lake. for the simple pair had reached that lake of mystery, and found the longsought shrine of the great carbuncle! they threw their arms around each other, and trembled at their own success; for, as the legends of this wondrous gem rushed thick upon their memory, they felt themselves marked out by fate--and the consciousness was fearful. often, from childhood upward, they had seen it shining like a distant star. and now that star was throwing its intensest lustre on their hearts. they seemed changed to one another's eyes, in the red brilliancy that flamed upon their cheeks, while it lent the same fire to the lake, the rocks, and sky, and to the mists which had rolled back before its power. but, with their next glance, they beheld an object that drew their attention even from the mighty stone. at the base of the cliff, directly beneath the great carbuncle, appeared the figure of a man, with his arms extended in the act of climbing, and his face turned upward, as if to drink the full gush of splendor. but he stirred not, no more than if changed to marble. "it is the seeker," whispered hannah, convulsively grasping her husband's arm. "matthew, he is dead." "the joy of success has killed him," replied matthew, trembling violently. "or, perhaps, the very light of the great carbuncle was death!" "the great carbuncle," cried a peevish voice behind them. "the great humbug! if you have found it, prithee point it out to me." they turned their heads, and there was the cynic, with his prodigious spectacles set carefully on his nose, staring now at the lake, now at the rocks, now at the distant masses of vapor, now right at the great carbuncle itself, yet seemingly as unconscious of its light as if all the scattered clouds were condensed about his person. though its radiance actually threw the shadow of the unbeliever at his own feet, as he turned his back upon the glorious jewel, he would not be convinced that there was the least glimmer there. "where is your great humbug?" he repeated. "i challenge you to make me see it!" "there," said matthew, incensed at such perverse blindness, and turning the cynic round towards the illuminated cliff. "take off those abominable spectacles, and you cannot help seeing it!" now these colored spectacles probably darkened the cynic's sight, in at least as great a degree as the smoked glasses through which people gaze at an eclipse. with resolute bravado, however, he snatched them from his nose, and fixed a bold stare full upon the ruddy blaze of the great carbuncle. but scarcely had he encountered it, when, with a deep, shuddering groan, he dropped his head, and pressed both hands across his miserable eyes. thenceforth there was, in very truth, no light of the great carbuncle, nor any other light on earth, nor light of heaven itself, for the poor cynic. so long accustomed to view all objects through a medium that deprived them of every glimpse of brightness, a single flash of so glorious a phenomenon, striking upon his naked vision, had blinded him forever. "matthew," said hannah, clinging to him, "let us go hence!" matthew saw that she was faint, and kneeling down, supported her in his arms, while he threw some of the thrillingly cold water of the enchanted lake upon her face and bosom. it revived her, but could not renovate her courage. "yes, dearest!" cried matthew, pressing her tremulous form to his breast,--"we will go hence, and return to our humble cottage. the blessed sunshine and the quiet moonlight shall come through our window. we will kindle the cheerful glow of our hearth, at eventide, and be happy in its light. but never again will we desire more light than all the world may share with us." "no," said his bride, "for how could we live by day, or sleep by night, in this awful blaze of the great carbuncle!" out of the hollow of their hands, they drank each a draught from the lake, which presented them its waters uncontaminated by an earthly lip. then, lending their guidance to the blinded cynic, who uttered not a word, and even stifled his groans in his own most wretched heart, they began to descend the mountain. yet, as they left the shore, till then untrodden, of the spirit's lake, they threw a farewell glance towards the cliff, and beheld the vapors gathering in dense volumes, through which the gem burned duskily. as touching the other pilgrims of the great carbuncle, the legend goes on to tell, that the worshipful master ichabod pigsnort soon gave up the quest as a desperate speculation, and wisely resolved to betake himself again to his warehouse, near the town dock, in boston. but, as he passed through the notch of the mountains, a war party of indians captured our unlucky merchant, and carried him to montreal, there holding him in bondage, till, by the payment of a heavy ransom, he had wofully subtracted from his hoard of pine-tree shillings. by his long absence, moreover, his affairs had become so disordered that, for the rest of his life, instead of wallowing in silver, he had seldom a sixpence worth of copper. doctor cacaphodel, the alchemist, returned to his laboratory with a prodigious fragment of granite, which he ground to powder, dissolved in acids, melted in the crucible, and burned with the blow-pipe, and published the result of his experiments in one of the heaviest folios of the day. and, for all these purposes, the gem itself could not have answered better than the granite. the poet, by a somewhat similar mistake, made prize of a great piece of ice, which he found in a sunless chasm of the mountains and swore that it corresponded, in all points, with his idea of the great carbuncle. the critics say, that, if his poetry lacked the splendor of the gem, it retained all the coldness of the ice. the lord de vere went back to his ancestral hall, where he contented himself with a wax-lighted chandelier, and filled, in due course of time, another coffin in the ancestral vault. as the funeral torches gleamed within that dark receptacle, there was no need of the great carbuncle to show the vanity of earthly pomp. the cynic, having cast aside his spectacles, wandered about the world a miserable object, and was punished with an agonizing desire of light, for the wilful blindness of his former life. the whole night long, he would lift his splendor-blasted orbs to the moon and stars; he turned his face eastward, at sunrise, as duly as a perisan idolater; he made a pilgrimage to rome, to witness the magnificent illumination of st. peter's church; and finally perished in the great fire of london, into the midst of which he had thrust himself, with the desperate idea of catching one feeble ray from the blaze that was kindling earth and heaven. matthew and his bride spent many peaceful years, and were fond of telling the legend of the great carbuncle. the tale, however, towards the close of their lengthened lives, did not meet with the full credence that had been accorded to it by those who remembered the ancient lustre of the gem. for it is affirmed that, from the hour when two mortals had shown themselves so simply wise as to reject a jewel which would have dimmed all earthly things, its splendor waned. when other pilgrims reached the cliff, they found only an opaque stone, with particles of mica glittering on its surface. there is also a tradition that, as the youthful pair departed, the gem was loosened from the forehead of the cliff, and fell into the enchanted lake, and that, at noontide, the seeker's form may still be seen to bend over its quenchless gleam. some few believe that this inestimable stone is blazing as of old, and say that they have caught its radiance, like a flash of summer lightning, far down the valley of the saco. and be it owned that, many a mile from the crystal hills, i saw a wondrous light around their summits, and was lured, by the faith of poesy, to be the latest pilgrim of the great carbuncle. david swan a fantasy we can be but partially acquainted even with the events which actually influence our course through life, and our final destiny. there are innumerable other events--if such they may be called--which come close upon us, yet pass away without actual results, or even betraying their near approach, by the reflection of any light or shadow across our minds. could we know all the vicissitudes of our fortunes, life would be too full of hope and fear, exultation or disappointment, to afford us a single hour of true serenity. this idea may be illustrated by a page from the secret history of david swan. we have nothing to do with david until we find him, at the age of twenty, on the high road from his native place to the city of boston, where his uncle, a small dealer in the grocery line, was to take him behind the counter. be it enough to say that he was a native of new hampshire, born of respectable parents, and had received an ordinary school education, with a classic finish by a year at gilmanton academy. after journeying on foot from sunrise till nearly noon of a summer's day, his weariness and the increasing heat determined him to sit down in the first convenient shade, and await the coming up of the stage-coach. as if planted on purpose for him, there soon appeared a little tuft of maples, with a delightful recess in the midst, and such a fresh bubbling spring that it seemed never to have sparkled for any wayfarer but david swan. virgin or not, he kissed it with his thirsty lips, and then flung himself along the brink, pillowing his head upon some shirts and a pair of pantaloons, tied up in a striped cotton handkerchief. the sunbeams could not reach him; the dust did not yet rise from the road after the heavy rain of yesterday; and his grassy lair suited the young man better than a bed of down. the spring murmured drowsily beside him; the branches waved dreamily across the blue sky overhead; and a deep sleep, perchance hiding dreams within its depths, fell upon david swan. but we are to relate events which he did not dream of. while he lay sound asleep in the shade, other people were wide awake, and passed to and fro, afoot, on horseback, and in all sorts of vehicles, along the sunny road by his bedchamber. some looked neither to the right hand nor the left, and knew not that he was there; some merely glanced that way, without admitting the slumberer among their busy thoughts; some laughed to see how soundly he slept; and several, whose hearts were brimming full of scorn, ejected their venomous superfluity on david swan. a middle-aged widow, when nobody else was near, thrust her head a little way into the recess, and vowed that the young fellow looked charming in his sleep. a temperance lecturer saw him, and wrought poor david into the texture of his evening's discourse, as an awful instance of dead drunkenness by the roadside. but censure, praise, merriment, scorn, and indifference were all one, or rather all nothing, to david swan. he had slept only a few moments when a brown carriage, drawn by a handsome pair of horses, bowled easily along, and was brought to a standstill nearly in front of david's resting-place. a linchpin had fallen out, and permitted one of the wheels to slide off. the damage was slight, and occasioned merely a momentary alarm to an elderly merchant and his wife, who were returning to boston in the carriage. while the coachman and a servant were replacing the wheel, the lady and gentleman sheltered themselves beneath the maple-trees, and there espied the bubbling fountain, and david swan asleep beside it. impressed with the awe which the humblest sleeped usually sheds around him, the merchant trod as lightly as the gout would allow; and his spouse took good heed not to rustle her silk gown, lest david should start up all of a sudden. "how soundly he sleeps!" whispered the old gentleman. "from what a depth he draws that easy breath! such sleep as that, brought on without an opiate, would be worth more to me than half my income; for it would suppose health and an untroubled mind." "and youth, besides," said the lady. "healthy and quiet age does not sleep thus. our slumber is no more like his than our wakefulness." the longer they looked the more did this elderly couple feel interested in the unknown youth, to whom the wayside and the maple shade were as a secret chamber, with the rich gloom of damask curtains brooding over him. perceiving that a stray sunbeam glimmered down upon his face, the lady contrived to twist a branch aside, so as to intercept it. and having done this little act of kindness, she began to feel like a mother to him. "providence seems to have laid him here," whispered she to her husband, "and to have brought us hither to find him, after our disappointment in our cousin's son. methinks i can see a likeness to our departed henry. shall we waken him?" "to what purpose?" said the merchant, hesitating. "we know nothing of the youth's character." "that open countenance!" replied his wife, in the same hushed voice, yet earnestly. "this innocent sleep!" while these whispers were passing, the sleeper's heart did not throb, nor his breath become agitated, nor his features betray the least token of interest. yet fortune was bending over him, just ready to let fall a burden of gold. the old merchant had lost his only son, and had no heir to his wealth except a distant relative, with whose conduct he was dissatisfied. in such cases, people sometimes do stranger things than to act the magician, and awaken a young man to splendor who fell asleep in poverty. "shall we not waken him?" repeated the lady persuasively. "the coach is ready, sir," said the servant, behind. the old couple started, reddened, and hurried away, mutually wondering that they should ever have dreamed of doing anything so very ridiculous. the merchant threw himself back in the carriage, and occupied his mind with the plan of a magnificent asylum for unfortunate men of business. meanwhile, david swan enjoyed his nap. the carriage could not have gone above a mile or two, when a pretty young girl came along, with a tripping pace, which showed precisely how her little heart was dancing in her bosom. perhaps it was this merry kind of motion that caused--is there any harm in saying it?--her garter to slip its knot. conscious that the silken girth--if silk it were--was relaxing its hold, she turned aside into the shelter of the maple-trees, and there found a young man asleep by the spring! blushing as red as any rose that she should have intruded into a gentleman's bedchamber, and for such a purpose, too, she was about to make her escape on tiptoe. but there was peril near the sleeper. a monster of a bee had been wandering overhead--buzz, buzz, buzz--now among the leaves, now flashing through the strips of sunshine, and now lost in the dark shade, till finally he appeared to be settling on the eyelid of david swan. the sting of a bee is sometimes deadly. as free hearted as she was innocent, the girl attacked the intruder with her handkerchief, brushed him soundly, and drove him from beneath the mapleshade. how sweet a picture! this good deed accomplished, with quickened breath, and a deeper blush, she stole a glance at the youthful stranger for whom she had been battling with a dragon in the air. "he is handsome!" thought she, and blushed redder yet. how could it be that no dream of bliss grew so strong within him, that, shattered by its very strength, it should part asunder, and allow him to perceive the girl among its phantoms? why, at least, did no smile of welcome brighten upon his face? she was come, the maid whose soul, according to the old and beautiful idea, had been severed from his own, and whom, in all his vague but passionate desires, he yearned to meet. her, only, could he love with a perfect love; him, only, could she receive into the depths of her heart; and now her image was faintly blushing in the fountain, by his side; should it pass away, its happy lustre would never gleam upon his life again. "how sound he sleeps!" murmured the girl. she departed, but did not trip along the road so lightly as when she came. now, this girl's father was a thriving country merchant in the neighborhood, and happened, at that identical time, to be looking out for just such a young man as david swan. had david formed a wayside acquaintance with the daughter, he would have become the father's clerk, and all else in natural succession. so here, again, had good fortune--the best of fortunes--stolen so near that her garments brushed against him; and he knew nothing of the matter. the girl was hardly out of sight when two men turned aside beneath the maple shade. both had dark faces, set off by cloth caps, which were drawn down aslant over their brows. their dresses were shabby, yet had a certain smartness. these were a couple of rascals who got their living by whatever the devil sent them, and now, in the interim of other business, had staked the joint profits of their next piece of villany on a game of cards, which was to have been decided here under the trees. but, finding david asleep by the spring, one of the rogues whispered to his fellow, "hist!--do you see that bundle under his head?" the other villain nodded, winked, and leered. "i'll bet you a horn of brandy," said the first, "that the chap has either a pocket-book, or a snug little hoard of small change, stowed away amongst his shirts. and if not there, we shall find it in his pantaloons pocket." "but how if he wakes?" said the other. his companion thrust aside his waistcoat, pointed to the handle of a dirk, and nodded. "so be it!" muttered the second villain. they approached the unconscious david, and, while one pointed the dagger towards his heart, the other began to search the bundle beneath his head. their two faces, grim, wrinkled, and ghastly with guilt and fear, bent over their victim, looking horrible enough to be mistaken for fiends, should he suddenly awake. nay, had the villains glanced aside into the spring, even they would hardly have known themselves as reflected there. but david swan had never worn a more tranquil aspect, even when asleep on his mother's breast. "i must take away the bundle," whispered one. "if he stirs, i'll strike," muttered the other. but, at this moment, a dog scenting along the ground, came in beneath the maple-trees, and gazed alternately at each of these wicked men, and then at the quiet sleeper. he then lapped out of the fountain. "pshaw!" said one villain. "we can do nothing now. the dog's master must be close behind." "let's take a drink and be off," said the other the man with the dagger thrust back the weapon into his bosom, and drew forth a pocket pistol, but not of that kind which kills by a single discharge. it was a flask of liquor, with a block-tin tumbler screwed upon the mouth. each drank a comfortable dram, and left the spot, with so many jests, and such laughter at their unaccomplished wickedness, that they might be said to have gone on their way rejoicing. in a few hours they had forgotten the whole affair, nor once imagined that the recording angel had written down the crime of murder against their souls, in letters as durable as eternity. as for david swan, he still slept quietly, neither conscious of the shadow of death when it hung over him, nor of the glow of renewed life when that shadow was withdrawn. he slept, but no longer so quietly as at first. an hour's repose had snatched, from his elastic frame, the weariness with which many hours of toil had burdened it. now he stirred--now, moved his lips, without a sound--now, talked, in an inward tone, to the noonday spectres of his dream. but a noise of wheels came rattling louder and louder along the road, until it dashed through the dispersing mist of david's slumber-and there was the stage-coach. he started up with all his ideas about him. "halloo, driver!--take a passenger?" shouted he. "room on top!" answered the driver. up mounted david, and bowled away merrily towards boston, without so much as a parting glance at that fountain of dreamlike vicissitude. he knew not that a phantom of wealth had thrown a golden hue upon its waters--nor that one of love had sighed softly to their murmur--nor that one of death had threatened to crimson them with his blood--all, in the brief hour since he lay down to sleep. sleeping or waking, we hear not the airy footsteps of the strange things that almost happen. does it not argue a superintending providence that, while viewless and unexpected events thrust themselves continually athwart our path, there should still be regularity enough in mortal life to render foresight even partially available? the hollow of the three hills in those strange old times, when fantastic dreams and madmen's reveries were realized among the actual circumstances of life, two persons met together at an appointed hour and place. one was a lady, graceful in form and fair of feature, though pale and troubled, and smitten with an untimely blight in what should have been the fullest bloom of her years; the other was an ancient and meanly-dressed woman, of ill-favored aspect, and so withered, shrunken, and decrepit, that even the space since she began to decay must have exceeded the ordinary term of human existence. in the spot where they encountered, no mortal could observe them. three little hills stood near each other, and down in the midst of them sunk a hollow basin, almost mathematically circular, two or three hundred feet in breadth, and of such depth that a stately cedar might but just be visible above the sides. dwarf pines were numerous upon the hills, and partly fringed the outer verge of the intermediate hollow, within which there was nothing but the brown grass of october, and here and there a tree trunk that had fallen long ago, and lay mouldering with no green successor from its roots. one of these masses of decaying wood, formerly a majestic oak, rested close beside a pool of green and sluggish water at the bottom of the basin. such scenes as this (so gray tradition tells) were once the resort of the power of evil and his plighted subjects; and here, at midnight or on the dim verge of evening, they were said to stand round the mantling pool, disturbing its putrid waters in the performance of an impious baptismal rite. the chill beauty of an autumnal sunset was now gilding the three hill-tops, whence a paler tint stole down their sides into the hollow. "here is our pleasant meeting come to pass," said the aged crone, "according as thou hast desired. say quickly what thou wouldst have of me, for there is but a short hour that we may tarry here." as the old withered woman spoke, a smile glimmered on her countenance, like lamplight on the wall of a sepulchre. the lady trembled, and cast her eyes upward to the verge of the basin, as if meditating to return with her purpose unaccomplished. but it was not so ordained. "i am a stranger in this land, as you know," said she at length. "whence i come it matters not; but i have left those behind me with whom my fate was intimately bound, and from whom i am cut off forever. there is a weight in my bosom that i cannot away with, and i have come hither to inquire of their welfare." "and who is there by this green pool that can bring thee news from the ends of the earth?" cried the old woman, peering into the lady's face. "not from my lips mayst thou hear these tidings; yet, be thou bold, and the daylight shall not pass away from yonder hill-top before thy wish be granted." "i will do your bidding though i die," replied the lady desperately. the old woman seated herself on the trunk of the fallen tree, threw aside the hood that shrouded her gray locks, and beckoned her companion to draw near. "kneel down," she said, "and lay your forehead on my knees." she hesitated a moment, but the anxiety that had long been kindling burned fiercely up within her. as she knelt down, the border of her garment was dipped into the pool; she laid her forehead on the old woman's knees, and the latter drew a cloak about the lady's face, so that she was in darkness. then she heard the muttered words of prayer, in the midst of which she started, and would have arisen. "let me flee,--let me flee and hide myself, that they may not look upon me!" she cried. but, with returning recollection, she hushed herself, and was still as death. for it seemed as if other voices--familiar in infancy, and unforgotten through many wanderings, and in all the vicissitudes of her heart and fortune--were mingling with the accents of the prayer. at first the words were faint and indistinct, not rendered so by distance, but rather resembling the dim pages of a book which we strive to read by an imperfect and gradually brightening light. in such a manner, as the prayer proceeded, did those voices strengthen upon the ear; till at length the petition ended, and the conversation of an aged man, and of a woman broken and decayed like himself, became distinctly audible to the lady as she knelt. but those strangers appeared not to stand in the hollow depth between the three hills. their voices were encompassed and reechoed by the walls of a chamber, the windows of which were rattling in the breeze; the regular vibration of a clock, the crackling of a fire, and the tinkling of the embers as they fell among the ashes, rendered the scene almost as vivid as if painted to the eye. by a melancholy hearth sat these two old people, the man calmly despondent, the woman querulous and tearful, and their words were all of sorrow. they spoke of a daughter, a wanderer they knew not where, bearing dishonor along with her, and leaving shame and affliction to bring their gray heads to the grave. they alluded also to other and more recent woe, but in the midst of their talk their voices seemed to melt into the sound of the wind sweeping mournfully among the autumn leaves; and when the lady lifted her eyes, there was she kneeling in the hollow between three hills. "a weary and lonesome time yonder old couple have of it," remarked the old woman, smiling in the lady's face. "and did you also hear them?" exclaimed she, a sense of intolerable humiliation triumphing over her agony and fear. "yea; and we have yet more to hear," replied the old woman. "wherefore, cover thy face quickly." again the withered hag poured forth the monotonous words of a prayer that was not meant to be acceptable in heaven; and soon, in the pauses of her breath, strange murmurings began to thicken, gradually increasing so as to drown and overpower the charm by which they grew. shrieks pierced through the obscurity of sound, and were succeeded by the singing of sweet female voices, which, in their turn, gave way to a wild roar of laughter, broken suddenly by groanings and sobs, forming altogether a ghastly confusion of terror and mourning and mirth. chains were rattling, fierce and stern voices uttered threats, and the scourge resounded at their command. all these noises deepened and became substantial to the listener's ear, till she could distinguish every soft and dreamy accent of the love songs that died causelessly into funeral hymns. she shuddered at the unprovoked wrath which blazed up like the spontaneous kindling of flames and she grew faint at the fearful merriment raging miserably around her. in the midst of this wild scene, where unbound passions jostled each other in a drunken career, there was one solemn voice of a man, and a manly and melodious voice it might once have been. he went to and fro continually, and his feet sounded upon the floor. in each member of that frenzied company, whose own burning thoughts had become their exclusive world, he sought an auditor for the story of his individual wrong, and interpreted their laughter and tears as his reward of scorn or pity. he spoke of woman's perfidy, of a wife who had broken her holiest vows, of a home and heart made desolate. even as he went on, the shout, the laugh, the shriek the sob, rose up in unison, till they changed into the hollow, fitful, and uneven sound of the wind, as it fought among the pine-trees on those three lonely hills. the lady looked up, and there was the withered woman smiling in her face. "couldst thou have thought there were such merry times in a madhouse?" inquired the latter. "true, true," said the lady to herself; "there is mirth within its walls, but misery, misery without." "wouldst thou hear more?" demanded the old woman. "there is one other voice i would fain listen to again," replied the lady, faintly. "then, lay down thy head speedily upon my knees, that thou mayst get thee hence before the hour be past." the golden skirts of day were yet lingering upon the hills, but deep shades obscured the hollow and the pool, as if sombre night were rising thence to overspread the world. again that evil woman began to weave her spell. long did it proceed unanswered, till the knolling of a bell stole in among the intervals of her words, like a clang that had travelled far over valley and rising ground, and was just ready to die in the air. the lady shook upon her companion's knees as she heard that boding sound. stronger it grew and sadder, and deepened into the tone of a death bell, knolling dolefully from some ivy-mantled tower, and bearing tidings of mortality and woe to the cottage, to the hall, and to the solitary wayfarer that all might weep for the doom appointed in turn to them. then came a measured tread, passing slowly, slowly on, as of mourners with a coffin, their garments trailing on the ground, so that the ear could measure the length of their melancholy array. before them went the priest, reading the burial service, while the leaves of his book were rustling in the breeze. and though no voice but his was heard to speak aloud, still there were revilings and anathemas, whispered but distinct, from women and from men, breathed against the daughter who had wrung the aged hearts of her parents,--the wife who had betrayed the trusting fondness of her husband,--the mother who had sinned against natural affection, and left her child to die. the sweeping sound of the funeral train faded away like a thin vapor, and the wind, that just before had seemed to shake the coffin pall, moaned sadly round the verge of the hollow between three hills. but when the old woman stirred the kneeling lady, she lifted not her head. "here has been a sweet hour's sport!" said the withered crone, chuckling to herself. dr. heidegger's experiment that very singular man, old dr. heidegger, once invited four venerable friends to meet him in his study. there were three white-bearded gentlemen, mr. medbourne, colonel killigrew, and mr. gascoigne, and a withered gentlewoman, whose name was the widow wycherly. they were all melancholy old creatures, who had been unfortunate in life, and whose greatest misfortune it was that they were not long ago in their graves. mr. medbourne, in the vigor of his age, had been a prosperous merchant, but had lost his all by a frantic speculation, and was now little better than a mendicant. colonel killigrew had wasted his best years, and his health and substance, in the pursuit of sinful pleasures, which had given birth to a brood of pains, such as the gout, and divers other torments of soul and body. mr. gascoigne was a ruined politician, a man of evil fame, or at least had been so till time had buried him from the knowledge of the present generation, and made him obscure instead of infamous. as for the widow wycherly, tradition tells us that she was a great beauty in her day; but, for a long while past, she had lived in deep seclusion, on account of certain scandalous stories which had prejudiced the gentry of the town against her. it is a circumstance worth mentioning that each of these three old gentlemen, mr. medbourne, colonel killigrew, and mr. gascoigne, were early lovers of the widow wycherly, and had once been on the point of cutting each other's throats for her sake. and, before proceeding further, i will merely hint that dr. heidegger and all his foul guests were sometimes thought to be a little beside themselves,--as is not unfrequently the case with old people, when worried either by present troubles or woful recollections. "my dear old friends," said dr. heidegger, motioning them to be seated, "i am desirous of your assistance in one of those little experiments with which i amuse myself here in my study." if all stories were true, dr. heidegger's study must have been a very curious place. it was a dim, old-fashioned chamber, festooned with cobwebs, and besprinkled with antique dust. around the walls stood several oaken bookcases, the lower shelves of which were filled with rows of gigantic folios and black-letter quartos, and the upper with little parchment-covered duodecimos. over the central bookcase was a bronze bust of hippocrates, with which, according to some authorities, dr. heidegger was accustomed to hold consultations in all difficult cases of his practice. in the obscurest corner of the room stood a tall and narrow oaken closet, with its door ajar, within which doubtfully appeared a skeleton. between two of the bookcases hung a looking-glass, presenting its high and dusty plate within a tarnished gilt frame. among many wonderful stories related of this mirror, it was fabled that the spirits of all the doctor's deceased patients dwelt within its verge, and would stare him in the face whenever he looked thitherward. the opposite side of the chamber was ornamented with the full-length portrait of a young lady, arrayed in the faded magnificence of silk, satin, and brocade, and with a visage as faded as her dress. above half a century ago, dr. heidegger had been on the point of marriage with this young lady; but, being affected with some slight disorder, she had swallowed one of her lover's prescriptions, and died on the bridal evening. the greatest curiosity of the study remains to be mentioned; it was a ponderous folio volume, bound in black leather, with massive silver clasps. there were no letters on the back, and nobody could tell the title of the book. but it was well known to be a book of magic; and once, when a chambermaid had lifted it, merely to brush away the dust, the skeleton had rattled in its closet, the picture of the young lady had stepped one foot upon the floor, and several ghastly faces had peeped forth from the mirror; while the brazen head of hippocrates frowned, and said,--"forbear!" such was dr. heidegger's study. on the summer afternoon of our tale a small round table, as black as ebony, stood in the centre of the room, sustaining a cut-glass vase of beautiful form and elaborate workmanship. the sunshine came through the window, between the heavy festoons of two faded damask curtains, and fell directly across this vase; so that a mild splendor was reflected from it on the ashen visages of the five old people who sat around. four champagne glasses were also on the table. "my dear old friends," repeated dr. heidegger, "may i reckon on your aid in performing an exceedingly curious experiment?" now dr. heidegger was a very strange old gentleman, whose eccentricity had become the nucleus for a thousand fantastic stories. some of these fables, to my shame be it spoken, might possibly be traced back to my own veracious self; and if any passages of the present tale should startle the reader's faith, i must be content to bear the stigma of a fiction monger. when the doctor's four guests heard him talk of his proposed experiment, they anticipated nothing more wonderful than the murder of a mouse in an air pump, or the examination of a cobweb by the microscope, or some similar nonsense, with which he was constantly in the habit of pestering his intimates. but without waiting for a reply, dr. heidegger hobbled across the chamber, and returned with the same ponderous folio, bound in black leather, which common report affirmed to be a book of magic. undoing the silver clasps, he opened the volume, and took from among its black-letter pages a rose, or what was once a rose, though now the green leaves and crimson petals had assumed one brownish hue, and the ancient flower seemed ready to crumble to dust in the doctor's hands. "this rose," said dr. heidegger, with a sigh, "this same withered and crumbling flower, blossomed five and fifty years ago. it was given me by sylvia ward, whose portrait hangs yonder; and i meant to wear it in my bosom at our wedding. five and fifty years it has been treasured between the leaves of this old volume. now, would you deem it possible that this rose of half a century could ever bloom again?" "nonsense!" said the widow wycherly, with a peevish toss of her head. "you might as well ask whether an old woman's wrinkled face could ever bloom again." "see!" answered dr. heidegger. he uncovered the vase, and threw the faded rose into the water which it contained. at first, it lay lightly on the surface of the fluid, appearing to imbibe none of its moisture. soon, however, a singular change began to be visible. the crushed and dried petals stirred, and assumed a deepening tinge of crimson, as if the flower were reviving from a deathlike slumber; the slender stalk and twigs of foliage became green; and there was the rose of half a century, looking as fresh as when sylvia ward had first given it to her lover. it was scarcely full blown; for some of its delicate red leaves curled modestly around its moist bosom, within which two or three dewdrops were sparkling. "that is certainly a very pretty deception," said the doctor's friends; carelessly, however, for they had witnessed greater miracles at a conjurer's show; "pray how was it effected?" "did you never hear of the 'fountain of youth?'" asked dr. heidegger, "which ponce de leon, the spanish adventurer, went in search of two or three centuries ago?" "but did ponce de leon ever find it?" said the widow wycherly. "no," answered dr. heidegger, "for he never sought it in the right place. the famous fountain of youth, if i am rightly informed, is situated in the southern part of the floridian peninsula, not far from lake macaco. its source is overshadowed by several gigantic magnolias, which, though numberless centuries old, have been kept as fresh as violets by the virtues of this wonderful water. an acquaintance of mine, knowing my curiosity in such matters, has sent me what you see in the vase." "ahem!" said colonel killigrew, who believed not a word of the doctor's story; "and what may be the effect of this fluid on the human frame?" "you shall judge for yourself, my dear colonel," replied dr. heidegger; "and all of you, my respected friends, are welcome to so much of this admirable fluid as may restore to you the bloom of youth. for my own part, having had much trouble in growing old, i am in no hurry to grow young again. with your permission, therefore, i will merely watch the progress of the experiment." while he spoke, dr. heidegger had been filling the four champagne glasses with the water of the fountain of youth. it was apparently impregnated with an effervescent gas, for little bubbles were continually ascending from the depths of the glasses, and bursting in silvery spray at the surface. as the liquor diffused a pleasant perfume, the old people doubted not that it possessed cordial and comfortable properties; and though utter sceptics as to its rejuvenescent power, they were inclined to swallow it at once. but dr. heidegger besought them to stay a moment. "before you drink, my respectable old friends," said he, "it would be well that, with the experience of a lifetime to direct you, you should draw up a few general rules for your guidance, in passing a second time through the perils of youth. think what a sin and shame it would be, if, with your peculiar advantages, you should not become patterns of virtue and wisdom to all the young people of the age!" the doctor's four venerable friends made him no answer, except by a feeble and tremulous laugh; so very ridiculous was the idea that, knowing how closely repentance treads behind the steps of error, they should ever go astray again. "drink, then," said the doctor, bowing: "i rejoice that i have so well selected the subjects of my experiment." with palsied hands, they raised the glasses to their lips. the liquor, if it really possessed such virtues as dr. heidegger imputed to it, could not have been bestowed on four human beings who needed it more wofully. they looked as if they had never known what youth or pleasure was, but had been the offspring of nature's dotage, and always the gray, decrepit, sapless, miserable creatures, who now sat stooping round the doctor's table, without life enough in their souls or bodies to be animated even by the prospect of growing young again. they drank off the water, and replaced their glasses on the table. assuredly there was an almost immediate improvement in the aspect of the party, not unlike what might have been produced by a glass of generous wine, together with a sudden glow of cheerful sunshine brightening over all their visages at once. there was a healthful suffusion on their cheeks, instead of the ashen hue that had made them look so corpse-like. they gazed at one another, and fancied that some magic power had really begun to smooth away the deep and sad inscriptions which father time had been so long engraving on their brows. the widow wycherly adjusted her cap, for she felt almost like a woman again. "give us more of this wondrous water!" cried they, eagerly. "we are younger--but we are still too old! quick--give us more!" "patience, patience!" quoth dr. heidegger, who sat watching the experiment with philosophic coolness. "you have been a long time growing old. surely, you might be content to grow young in half an hour! but the water is at your service." again he filled their glasses with the liquor of youth, enough of which still remained in the vase to turn half the old people in the city to the age of their own grandchildren. while the bubbles were yet sparkling on the brim, the doctor's four guests snatched their glasses from the table, and swallowed the contents at a single gulp. was it delusion? even while the draught was passing down their throats, it seemed to have wrought a change on their whole systems. their eyes grew clear and bright; a dark shade deepened among their silvery locks, they sat around the table, three gentlemen of middle age, and a woman, hardly beyond her buxom prime. "my dear widow, you are charming!" cried colonel killigrew, whose eyes had been fixed upon her face, while the shadows of age were flitting from it like darkness from the crimson daybreak. the fair widow knew, of old, that colonel killigrew's compliments were not always measured by sober truth; so she started up and ran to the mirror, still dreading that the ugly visage of an old woman would meet her gaze. meanwhile, the three gentlemen behaved in such a manner as proved that the water of the fountain of youth possessed some intoxicating qualities; unless, indeed, their exhilaration of spirits were merely a lightsome dizziness caused by the sudden removal of the weight of years. mr. gascoigne's mind seemed to run on political topics, but whether relating to the past, present, or future, could not easily be determined, since the same ideas and phrases have been in vogue these fifty years. now he rattled forth full-throated sentences about patriotism, national glory, and the people's right; now he muttered some perilous stuff or other, in a sly and doubtful whisper, so cautiously that even his own conscience could scarcely catch the secret; and now, again, he spoke in measured accents, and a deeply deferential tone, as if a royal ear were listening to his wellturned periods. colonel killigrew all this time had been trolling forth a jolly bottle song, and ringing his glass in symphony with the chorus, while his eyes wandered toward the buxom figure of the widow wycherly. on the other side of the table, mr. medbourne was involved in a calculation of dollars and cents, with which was strangely intermingled a project for supplying the east indies with ice, by harnessing a team of whales to the polar icebergs. as for the widow wycherly, she stood before the mirror courtesying and simpering to her own image, and greeting it as the friend whom she loved better than all the world beside. she thrust her face close to the glass, to see whether some long-remembered wrinkle or crow's foot had indeed vanished. she examined whether the snow had so entirely melted from her hair that the venerable cap could be safely thrown aside. at last, turning briskly away, she came with a sort of dancing step to the table. "my dear old doctor," cried she, "pray favor me with another glass!" "certainly, my dear madam, certainly!" replied the complaisant doctor; "see! i have already filled the glasses." there, in fact, stood the four glasses, brimful of this wonderful water, the delicate spray of which, as it effervesced from the surface, resembled the tremulous glitter of diamonds. it was now so nearly sunset that the chamber had grown duskier than ever; but a mild and moonlike splendor gleamed from within the vase, and rested alike on the four guests and on the doctor's venerable figure. he sat in a high-backed, elaborately-carved, oaken arm-chair, with a gray dignity of aspect that might have well befitted that very father time, whose power had never been disputed, save by this fortunate company. even while quaffing the third draught of the fountain of youth, they were almost awed by the expression of his mysterious visage. but, the next moment, the exhilarating gush of young life shot through their veins. they were now in the happy prime of youth. age, with its miserable train of cares and sorrows and diseases, was remembered only as the trouble of a dream, from which they had joyously awoke. the fresh gloss of the soul, so early lost, and without which the world's successive scenes had been but a gallery of faded pictures, again threw its enchantment over all their prospects. they felt like new-created beings in a new-created universe. "we are young! we are young!" they cried exultingly. youth, like the extremity of age, had effaced the strongly-marked characteristics of middle life, and mutually assimilated them all. they were a group of merry youngsters, almost maddened with the exuberant frolicsomeness of their years. the most singular effect of their gayety was an impulse to mock the infirmity and decrepitude of which they had so lately been the victims. they laughed loudly at their old-fashioned attire, the wide-skirted coats and flapped waistcoats of the young men, and the ancient cap and gown of the blooming girl. one limped across the floor like a gouty grandfather; one set a pair of spectacles astride of his nose, and pretended to pore over the black-letter pages of the book of magic; a third seated himself in an arm-chair, and strove to imitate the venerable dignity of dr. heidegger. then all shouted mirthfully, and leaped about the room. the widow wycherly--if so fresh a damsel could be called a widow--tripped up to the doctor's chair, with a mischievous merriment in her rosy face. "doctor, you dear old soul," cried she, "get up and dance with me!" and then the four young people laughed louder than ever, to think what a queer figure the poor old doctor would cut. "pray excuse me," answered the doctor quietly. "i am old and rheumatic, and my dancing days were over long ago. but either of these gay young gentlemen will be glad of so pretty a partner." "dance with me, clara!" cried colonel killigrew "no, no, i will be her partner!" shouted mr. gascoigne. "she promised me her hand, fifty years ago!" exclaimed mr. medbourne. they all gathered round her. one caught both her hands in his passionate grasp another threw his arm about her waist--the third buried his hand among the glossy curls that clustered beneath the widow's cap. blushing, panting, struggling, chiding, laughing, her warm breath fanning each of their faces by turns, she strove to disengage herself, yet still remained in their triple embrace. never was there a livelier picture of youthful rivalship, with bewitching beauty for the prize. yet, by a strange deception, owing to the duskiness of the chamber, and the antique dresses which they still wore, the tall mirror is said to have reflected the figures of the three old, gray, withered grandsires, ridiculously contending for the skinny ugliness of a shrivelled grandam. but they were young: their burning passions proved them so. inflamed to madness by the coquetry of the girl-widow, who neither granted nor quite withheld her favors, the three rivals began to interchange threatening glances. still keeping hold of the fair prize, they grappled fiercely at one another's throats. as they struggled to and fro, the table was overturned, and the vase dashed into a thousand fragments. the precious water of youth flowed in a bright stream across the floor, moistening the wings of a butterfly, which, grown old in the decline of summer, had alighted there to die. the insect fluttered lightly through the chamber, and settled on the snowy head of dr. heidegger. "come, come, gentlemen!--come, madam wycherly," exclaimed the doctor, "i really must protest against this riot." they stood still and shivered; for it seemed as if gray time were calling them back from their sunny youth, far down into the chill and darksome vale of years. they looked at old dr. heidegger, who sat in his carved arm-chair, holding the rose of half a century, which he had rescued from among the fragments of the shattered vase. at the motion of his hand, the four rioters resumed their seats; the more readily, because their violent exertions had wearied them, youthful though they were. "my poor sylvia's rose!" ejaculated dr. heidegger, holding it in the light of the sunset clouds; "it appears to be fading again." and so it was. even while the party were looking at it, the flower continued to shrivel up, till it became as dry and fragile as when the doctor had first thrown it into the vase. he shook off the few drops of moisture which clung to its petals. "i love it as well thus as in its dewy freshness," observed he, pressing the withered rose to his withered lips. while he spoke, the butterfly fluttered down from the doctor's snowy head, and fell upon the floor. his guests shivered again. a strange chillness, whether of the body or spirit they could not tell, was creeping gradually over them all. they gazed at one another, and fancied that each fleeting moment snatched away a charm, and left a deepening furrow where none had been before. was it an illusion? had the changes of a lifetime been crowded into so brief a space, and were they now four aged people, sitting with their old friend, dr. heidegger? "are we grown old again, so soon?" cried they, dolefully. in truth they had. the water of youth possessed merely a virtue more transient than that of wine. the delirium which it created had effervesced away. yes! they were old again. with a shuddering impulse, that showed her a woman still, the widow clasped her skinny hands before her face, and wished that the coffin lid were over it, since it could be no longer beautiful. "yes, friends, ye are old again," said dr. heidegger, "and lo! the water of youth is all lavished on the ground. well--i bemoan it not; for if the fountain gushed at my very doorstep, i would not stoop to bathe my lips in it--no, though its delirium were for years instead of moments. such is the lesson ye have taught me!" but the doctor's four friends had taught no such lesson to themselves. they resolved forthwith to make a pilgrimage to florida, and quaff at morning, noon, and night, from the fountain of youth. legends of the province house i howe's masquerade one afternoon, last summer, while walking along washington street, my eye was attracted by a signboard protruding over a narrow archway, nearly opposite the old south church. the sign represented the front of a stately edifice, which was designated as the "old province house, kept by thomas waite." i was glad to be thus reminded of a purpose, long entertained, of visiting and rambling over the mansion of the old royal governors of massachusetts; and entering the arched passage, which penetrated through the middle of a brick row of shops, a few steps transported me from the busy heart of modern boston into a small and secluded courtyard. one side of this space was occupied by the square front of the province house, three stories high, and surmounted by a cupola, on the top of which a gilded indian was discernible, with his bow bent and his arrow on the string, as if aiming at the weathercock on the spire of the old south. the figure has kept this attitude for seventy years or more, ever since good deacon drowne, a cunning carver of wood, first stationed him on his long sentinel's watch over the city. the province house is constructed of brick, which seems recently to have been overlaid with a coat of light-colored paint. a flight of red freestone steps, fenced in by a balustrade of curiously wrought iron, ascends from the court-yard to the spacious porch, over which is a balcony, with an iron balustrade of similar pattern and workmanship to that beneath. these letters and figures-- p.s. --are wrought into the iron work of the balcony, and probably express the date of the edifice, with the initials of its founder's name. a wide door with double leaves admitted me into the hall or entry, on the right of which is the entrance to the bar-room. it was in this apartment, i presume, that the ancient governors held their levees, with vice-regal pomp, surrounded by the military men, the councillors, the judges, and other officers of the crown, while all the loyalty of the province thronged to do them honor. but the room, in its present condition, cannot boast even of faded magnificence. the panelled wainscot is covered with dingy paint, and acquires a duskier hue from the deep shadow into which the province house is thrown by the brick block that shuts it in from washington street. a ray of sunshine never visits this apartment any more than the glare of the festal torches, which have been extinguished from the era of the revolution. the most venerable and ornamental object is a chimney-piece set round with dutch tiles of blue-figured china, representing scenes from scripture; and, for aught i know, the lady of pownall or bernard may have sat beside this fireplace, and told her children the story of each blue tile. a bar in modern style, well replenished with decanters, bottles, cigar boxes, and net-work bags of lemons, and provided with a beer pump, and a soda fount, extends along one side of the room. at my entrance, an elderly person was smacking his lips with a zest which satisfied me that the cellars of the province house still hold good liquor, though doubtless of other vintages than were quaffed by the old governors. after sipping a glass of port sangaree, prepared by the skilful hands of mr. thomas waite, i besought that worthy successor and representative of so many historic personages to conduct me over their time honored mansion. he readily complied; but, to confess the truth, i was forced to draw strenuously upon my imagination, in order to find aught that was interesting in a house which, without its historic associations, would have seemed merely such a tavern as is usually favored by the custom of decent city boarders, and old-fashioned country gentlemen. the chambers, which were probably spacious in former times, are now cut up by partitions, and subdivided into little nooks, each affording scanty room for the narrow bed and chair and dressing-table of a single lodger. the great staircase, however, may be termed, without much hyperbole, a feature of grandeur and magnificence. it winds through the midst of the house by flights of broad steps, each flight terminating in a square landing-place, whence the ascent is continued towards the cupola. a carved balustrade, freshly painted in the lower stories, but growing dingier as we ascend, borders the staircase with its quaintly twisted and intertwined pillars, from top to bottom. up these stairs the military boots, or perchance the gouty shoes, of many a governor have trodden, as the wearers mounted to the cupola, which afforded them so wide a view over their metropolis and the surrounding country. the cupola is an octagon, with several windows, and a door opening upon the roof. from this station, as i pleased myself with imagining, gage may have beheld his disastrous victory on bunker hill (unless one of the tri-mountains intervened), and howe have marked the approaches of washington's besieging army; although the buildings since erected in the vicinity have shut out almost every object, save the steeple of the old south, which seems almost within arm's length. descending from the cupola, i paused in the garret to observe the ponderous white-oak framework, so much more massive than the frames of modern houses, and thereby resembling an antique skeleton. the brick walls, the materials of which were imported from holland, and the timbers of the mansion, are still as sound as ever; but the floors and other interior parts being greatly decayed, it is contemplated to gut the whole, and build a new house within the ancient frame and brick work. among other inconveniences of the present edifice, mine host mentioned that any jar or motion was apt to shake down the dust of ages out of the ceiling of one chamber upon the floor of that beneath it. we stepped forth from the great front window into the balcony, where, in old times, it was doubtless the custom of the king's representative to show himself to a loyal populace, requiting their huzzas and tossed-up hats with stately bendings of his dignified person. in those days the front of the province house looked upon the street; and the whole site now occupied by the brick range of stores, as well as the present court-yard, was laid out in grass plats, overshadowed by trees and bordered by a wrought-iron fence. now, the old aristocratic edifice hides its time-worn visage behind an upstart modern building; at one of the back windows i observed some pretty tailoresses, sewing and chatting and laughing, with now and then a careless glance towards the balcony. descending thence, we again entered the bar-room, where the elderly gentleman above mentioned, the smack of whose lips had spoken so favorably for mr. waite's good liquor, was still lounging in his chair. he seemed to be, if not a lodger, at least a familiar visitor of the house, who might be supposed to have his regular score at the bar, his summer seat at the open window, and his prescriptive corner at the winter's fireside. being of a sociable aspect, i ventured to address him with a remark calculated to draw forth his historical reminiscences, if any such were in his mind; and it gratified me to discover, that, between memory and tradition, the old gentleman was really possessed of some very pleasant gossip about the province house. the portion of his talk which chiefly interested me was the outline of the following legend. he professed to have received it at one or two removes from an eye-witness; but this derivation, together with the lapse of time, must have afforded opportunities for many variations of the narrative; so that despairing of literal and absolute truth, i have not scrupled to make such further changes as seemed conducive to the reader's profit and delight. at one of the entertainments given at the province house, during the latter part of the siege of boston, there passed a scene which has never yet been satisfactorily explained. the officers of the british army, and the loyal gentry of the province, most of whom were collected within the beleaguered town, had been invited to a masked ball; for it was the policy of sir william howe to hide the distress and danger of the period, and the desperate aspect of the siege, under an ostentation of festivity. the spectacle of this evening, if the oldest members of the provincial court circle might be believed, was the most gay and gorgeous affair that had occurred in the annals of the government. the brilliantly-lighted apartments were thronged with figures that seemed to have stepped from the dark canvas of historic portraits, or to have flitted forth from the magic pages of romance, or at least to have flown hither from one of the london theatres, without a change of garments. steeled knights of the conquest, bearded statesmen of queen elizabeth, and high-ruffled ladies of her court, were mingled with characters of comedy, such as a party-colored merry andrew, jingling his cap and bells; a falstaff, almost as provocative of laughter as his prototype; and a don quixote, with a bean pole for a lance, and a pot lid for a shield. but the broadest merriment was excited by a group of figures ridiculously dressed in old regimentals, which seemed to have been purchased at a military rag fair, or pilfered from some receptacle of the cast-off clothes of both the french and british armies. portions of their attire had probably been worn at the siege of louisburg, and the coats of most recent cut might have been rent and tattered by sword, ball, or bayonet, as long ago as wolfe's victory. one of these worthies--a tall, lank figure, brandishing a rusty sword of immense longitude--purported to be no less a personage than general george washington; and the other principal officers of the american army, such as gates, lee, putnam, schuyler, ward and heath, were represented by similar scarecrows. an interview in the mock heroic style, between the rebel warriors and the british commander-in-chief, was received with immense applause, which came loudest of all from the loyalists of the colony. there was one of the guests, however, who stood apart, eyeing these antics sternly and scornfully, at once with a frown and a bitter smile. it was an old man, formerly of high station and great repute in the province, and who had been a very famous soldier in his day. some surprise had been expressed that a person of colonel joliffe's known whig principles, though now too old to take an active part in the contest, should have remained in boston during the siege, and especially that he should consent to show himself in the mansion of sir william howe. but thither he had come, with a fair granddaughter under his arm; and there, amid all the mirth and buffoonery, stood this stern old figure, the best sustained character in the masquerade, because so well representing the antique spirit of his native land. the other guests affirmed that colonel joliffe's black puritanical scowl threw a shadow round about him; although in spite of his sombre influence their gayety continued to blaze higher, like--(an ominous comparison)--the flickering brilliancy of a lamp which has but a little while to burn. eleven strokes, full half an hour ago, had pealed from the clock of the old south, when a rumor was circulated among the company that some new spectacle or pageant was about to be exhibited, which should put a fitting close to the splendid festivities of the night. "what new jest has your excellency in hand?" asked the rev. mather byles, whose presbyterian scruples had not kept him from the entertainment. "trust me, sir, i have already laughed more than beseems my cloth at your homeric confabulation with yonder ragamuffin general of the rebels. one other such fit of merriment, and i must throw off my clerical wig and band." "not so, good doctor byles," answered sir william howe; "if mirth were a crime, you had never gained your doctorate in divinity. as to this new foolery, i know no more about it than yourself; perhaps not so much. honestly now, doctor, have you not stirred up the sober brains of some of your countrymen to enact a scene in our masquerade?" "perhaps," slyly remarked the granddaughter of colonel joliffe, whose high spirit had been stung by many taunts against new england,--"perhaps we are to have a mask of allegorical figures. victory, with trophies from lexington and bunker hill--plenty, with her overflowing horn, to typify the present abundance in this good town--and glory, with a wreath for his excellency's brow." sir william howe smiled at words which he would have answered with one of his darkest frowns had they been uttered by lips that wore a beard. he was spared the necessity of a retort, by a singular interruption. a sound of music was heard without the house, as if proceeding from a full band of military instruments stationed in the street, playing not such a festal strain as was suited to the occasion, but a slow funeral march. the drums appeared to be muffled, and the trumpets poured forth a wailing breath, which at once hushed the merriment of the auditors, filling all with wonder, and some with apprehension. the idea occurred to many that either the funeral procession of some great personage had halted in front of the province house, or that a corpse, in a velvet-covered and gorgeously-decorated coffin, was about to be borne from the portal. after listening a moment, sir william howe called, in a stern voice, to the leader of the musicians, who had hitherto enlivened the entertainment with gay and lightsome melodies. the man was drum-major to one of the british regiments. "dighton," demanded the general, "what means this foolery? bid your band silence that dead march--or, by my word, they shall have sufficient cause for their lugubrious strains! silence it, sirrah!" "please your honor," answered the drum-major, whose rubicund visage had lost all its color, "the fault is none of mine. i and my band are all here together, and i question whether there be a man of us that could play that march without book. i never heard it but once before, and that was at the funeral of his late majesty, king george the second." "well, well!" said sir william howe, recovering his composure--"it is the prelude to some masquerading antic. let it pass." a figure now presented itself, but among the many fantastic masks that were dispersed through the apartments none could tell precisely from whence it came. it was a man in an old-fashioned dress of black serge and having the aspect of a steward or principal domestic in the household of a nobleman or great english landholder. this figure advanced to the outer door of the mansion, and throwing both its leaves wide open, withdrew a little to one side and looked back towards the grand staircase as if expecting some person to descend. at the same time the music in the street sounded a loud and doleful summons. the eyes of sir william howe and his guests being directed to the staircase, there appeared, on the uppermost landing-place that was discernible from the bottom, several personages descending towards the door. the foremost was a man of stern visage, wearing a steeple-crowned hat and a skull-cap beneath it; a dark cloak, and huge wrinkled boots that came half-way up his legs. under his arm was a rolled-up banner, which seemed to be the banner of england, but strangely rent and torn; he had a sword in his right hand, and grasped a bible in his left. the next figure was of milder aspect, yet full of dignity, wearing a broad ruff, over which descended a beard, a gown of wrought velvet, and a doublet and hose of black satin. he carried a roll of manuscript in his hand. close behind these two came a young man of very striking countenance and demeanor, with deep thought and contemplation on his brow, and perhaps a flash of enthusiasm in his eye. his garb, like that of his predecessors, was of an antique fashion, and there was a stain of blood upon his ruff. in the same group with these were three or four others, all men of dignity and evident command, and bearing themselves like personages who were accustomed to the gaze of the multitude. it was the idea of the beholders that these figures went to join the mysterious funeral that had halted in front of the province house; yet that supposition seemed to be contradicted by the air of triumph with which they waved their hands, as they crossed the threshold and vanished through the portal. "in the devil's name what is this?" muttered sir william howe to a gentleman beside him; "a procession of the regicide judges of king charles the martyr?" "these," said colonel joliffe, breaking silence almost for the first time that evening,--"these, if i interpret them aright, are the puritan governors--the rulers of the old original democracy of massachusetts. endicott, with the banner from which he had torn the symbol of subjection, and winthrop, and sir henry vane, and dudley, haynes, bellingham, and leverett." "why had that young man a stain of blood upon his ruff?" asked miss joliffe. "because, in after years," answered her grandfather, "he laid down the wisest head in england upon the block for the principles of liberty." "will not your excellency order out the guard?" whispered lord percy, who, with other british officers, had now assembled round the general. "there may be a plot under this mummery." "tush! we have nothing to fear," carelessly replied sir william howe. "there can be no worse treason in the matter than a jest, and that somewhat of the dullest. even were it a sharp and bitter one, our best policy would be to laugh it off. see--here come more of these gentry." another group of characters had now partly descended the staircase. the first was a venerable and white-bearded patriarch, who cautiously felt his way downward with a staff. treading hastily behind him, and stretching forth his gauntleted hand as if to grasp the old man's shoulder, came a tall, soldier-like figure, equipped with a plumed cap of steel, a bright breastplate, and a long sword, which rattled against the stairs. next was seen a stout man, dressed in rich and courtly attire, but not of courtly demeanor; his gait had the swinging motion of a seaman's walk, and chancing to stumble on the staircase, he suddenly grew wrathful, and was heard to mutter an oath. he was followed by a noble-looking personage in a curled wig, such as are represented in the portraits of queen anne's time and earlier; and the breast of his coat was decorated with an embroidered star. while advancing to the door, he bowed to the right hand and to the left, in a very gracious and insinuating style; but as he crossed the threshold, unlike the early puritan governors, he seemed to wring his hands with sorrow. "prithee, play the part of a chorus, good doctor byles," said sir william howe. "what worthies are these?" "if it please your excellency they lived somewhat before my day," answered the doctor; "but doubtless our friend, the colonel, has been hand and glove with them." "their living faces i never looked upon," said colonel joliffe, gravely; "although i have spoken face to face with many rulers of this land, and shall greet yet another with an old man's blessing ere i die. but we talk of these figures. i take the venerable patriarch to be bradstreet, the last of the puritans, who was governor at ninety, or thereabouts. the next is sir edmund andros, a tyrant, as any new england school-boy will tell you; and therefore the people cast him down from his high seat into a dungeon. then comes sir william phipps, shepherd, cooper, sea-captain, and governor--may many of his countrymen rise as high from as low an origin! lastly, you saw the gracious earl of bellamont, who ruled us under king william." "but what is the meaning of it all?" asked lord percy. "now, were i a rebel," said miss joliffe, half aloud, "i might fancy that the ghosts of these ancient governors had been summoned to form the funeral procession of royal authority in new england." several other figures were now seen at the turn of the staircase. the one in advance had a thoughtful, anxious, and somewhat crafty expression of face, and in spite of his loftiness of manner, which was evidently the result both of an ambitious spirit and of long continuance in high stations, he seemed not incapable of cringing to a greater than himself. a few steps behind came an officer in a scarlet and embroidered uniform, cut in a fashion old enough to have been worn by the duke of marlborough. his nose had a rubicund tinge, which, together with the twinkle of his eye, might have marked him as a lover of the wine cup and good fellowship; notwithstanding which tokens he appeared ill at ease, and often glanced around him as if apprehensive of some secret mischief. next came a portly gentleman, wearing a coat of shaggy cloth, lined with silken velvet; he had sense, shrewdness, and humor in his face, and a folio volume under his arm; but his aspect was that of a man vexed and tormented beyond all patience, and harassed almost to death. he went hastily down, and was followed by a dignified person, dressed in a purple velvet suit with very rich embroidery; his demeanor would have possessed much stateliness, only that a grievous fit of the gout compelled him to hobble from stair to stair, with contortions of face and body. when dr. byles beheld this figure on the staircase, he shivered as with an ague, but continued to watch him steadfastly, until the gouty gentleman had reached the threshold, made a gesture of anguish and despair, and vanished into the outer gloom, whither the funeral music summoned him. "governor belcher!--my old patron!--in his very shape and dress!" gasped doctor byles. "this is an awful mockery!" "a tedious foolery, rather," said sir william howe, with an air of indifference. "but who were the three that preceded him?" "governor dudley, a cunning politician--yet his craft once brought him to a prison," replied colonel joliffe. "governor shute, formerly a colonel under marlborough, and whom the people frightened out of the province; and learned governor burnet, whom the legislature tormented into a mortal fever." "methinks they were miserable men, these royal governors of massachusetts," observed miss joliffe. "heavens, how dim the light grows!" it was certainly a fact that the large lamp which illuminated the staircase now burned dim and duskily: so that several figures, which passed hastily down the stairs and went forth from the porch, appeared rather like shadows than persons of fleshly substance. sir william howe and his guests stood at the doors of the contiguous apartments, watching the progress of this singular pageant, with various emotions of anger, contempt, or half-acknowledged fear, but still with an anxious curiosity. the shapes which now seemed hastening to join the mysterious procession were recognized rather by striking peculiarities of dress, or broad characteristics of manner, than by any perceptible resemblance of features to their prototypes. their faces, indeed, were invariably kept in deep shadow. but doctor byles, and other gentlemen who had long been familiar with the successive rulers of the province, were heard to whisper the names of shirley, of pownall, of sir francis bernard, and of the well-remembered hutchinson; thereby confessing that the actors, whoever they might be, in this spectral march of governors, had succeeded in putting on some distant portraiture of the real personages. as they vanished from the door, still did these shadows toss their arms into the gloom of night, with a dread expression of woe. following the mimic representative of hutchinson came a military figure, holding before his face the cocked hat which he had taken from his powdered head; but his epaulettes and other insignia of rank were those of a general officer, and something in his mien reminded the beholders of one who had recently been master of the province house, and chief of all the land. "the shape of gage, as true as in a looking-glass," exclaimed lord percy, turning pale. "no, surely," cried miss joliffe, laughing hysterically; "it could not be gage, or sir william would have greeted his old comrade in arms! perhaps he will not suffer the next to pass unchallenged." "of that be assured, young lady," answered sir william howe, fixing his eyes, with a very marked expression, upon the immovable visage of her grandfather. "i have long enough delayed to pay the ceremonies of a host to these departing guests. the next that takes his leave shall receive due courtesy." a wild and dreary burst of music came through the open door. it seemed as if the procession, which had been gradually filling up its ranks, were now about to move, and that this loud peal of the wailing trumpets, and roll of the muffled drums, were a call to some loiterer to make haste. many eyes, by an irresistible impulse, were turned upon sir william howe, as if it were he whom the dreary music summoned to the funeral or departed power. "see!--here comes the last!" whispered miss joliffe, pointing her tremulous finger to the staircase. a figure had come into view as if descending the stairs; although so dusky was the region whence it emerged, some of the spectators fancied that they had seen this human shape suddenly moulding itself amid the gloom. downward the figure came, with a stately and martial tread, and reaching the lowest stair was observed to be a tall man, booted and wrapped in a military cloak, which was drawn up around the face so as to meet the flapped brim of a laced hat. the features, therefore, were completely hidden. but the british officers deemed that they had seen that military cloak before, and even recognized the frayed embroidery on the collar, as well as the gilded scabbard of a sword which protruded from the folds of the cloak, and glittered in a vivid gleam of light. apart from these trifling particulars, there were characteristics of gait and bearing which impelled the wondering guests to glance from the shrouded figure to sir william howe, as if to satisfy themselves that their host had not suddenly vanished from the midst of them. with a dark flush of wrath upon his brow they saw the general draw his sword and advance to meet the figure in the cloak before the latter had stepped one pace upon the floor. "villain, unmuffle yourself!" cried he. "you pass no farther!" the figure, without blenching a hair's breadth from the sword which was pointed at his breast, made a solemn pause and lowered the cape of the cloak from about his face, yet not sufficiently for the spectators to catch a glimpse of it. but sir william howe had evidently seen enough. the sternness of his countenance gave place to a look of wild amazement, if not horror, while he recoiled several steps from the figure and let fall his sword upon the floor. the martial shape again drew the cloak about his, features and passed on; but reaching the threshold, with his back towards the spectators, he was seen to stamp his foot and shake his clinched hands in the air. it was afterwards affirmed that sir william howe had repeated that selfsame gesture of rage and sorrow, when, for the last time, and as the last royal governor, he passed through the portal of the province house. "hark!--the procession moves," said miss joliffe. the music was dying away along the street, and its dismal strains were mingled with the knell of midnight from the steeple of the old south, and with the roar of artillery, which announced that the beleaguering army of washington had intrenched itself upon a nearer height than before. as the deep boom of the cannon smote upon his ear, colonel joliffe raised himself to the full height of his aged form, and smiled sternly on the british general. "would your excellency inquire further into the mystery of the pageant?" said he. "take care of your gray head!" cried sir william howe, fiercely, though with a quivering lip. "it has stood too long on a traitor's shoulders!" "you must make haste to chop it off, then," calmly replied the colonel; "for a few hours longer, and not all the power of sir william howe, nor of his master, shall cause one of these gray hairs to fall. the empire of britain in this ancient province is at its last gasp to-night;--almost while i speak it is a dead corpse;--and methinks the shadows of the old governors are fit mourners at its funeral!" with these words colonel joliffe threw on his cloak, and drawing his granddaughter's arm within his own, retired from the last festival that a british ruler ever held in the old province of massachusetts bay. it was supposed that the colonel and the young lady possessed some secret intelligence in regard to the mysterious pageant of that night. however this might be, such knowledge has never become general. the actors in the scene have vanished into deeper obscurity than even that wild indian band who scattered the cargoes of the tea ships on the waves, and gained a place in history, yet left no names. but superstition, among other legends of this mansion, repeats the wondrous tale, that on the anniversary night of britain's discomfiture the ghosts of the ancient governors of massachusetts still glide through the portal of the province house. and, last of all, comes a figure shrouded in a military cloak, tossing his clinched hands into the air, and stamping his iron-shod boots upon the broad freestone steps, with a semblance of feverish despair, but without the sound of a foot-tramp. when the truth-telling accents of the elderly gentleman were hushed, i drew a long breath and looked round the room, striving, with the best energy of my imagination, to throw a tinge of romance and historic grandeur over the realities of the scene. but my nostrils snuffed up a scent of cigar smoke, clouds of which the narrator had emitted by way of visible emblem, i suppose, of the nebulous obscurity of his tale. moreover, my gorgeous fantasies were wofully disturbed by the rattling of the spoon in a tumbler of whiskey punch, which mr. thomas waite was mingling for a customer. nor did it add to the picturesque appearance of the panelled walls that the slate of the brookline stage was suspended against them, instead of the armorial escutcheon of some far-descended governor. a stage-driver sat at one of the windows, reading a penny paper of the day--the boston times--and presenting a figure which could nowise be brought into any picture of "times in boston" seventy or a hundred years ago. on the window seat lay a bundle, neatly done up in brown paper, the direction of which i had the idle curiosity to read. "miss susan huggins, at the province house." a pretty chambermaid, no doubt. in truth, it is desperately hard work, when we attempt to throw the spell of hoar antiquity over localities with which the living world, and the day that is passing over us, have aught to do. yet, as i glanced at the stately staircase down which the procession of the old governors had descended, and as i emerged through the venerable portal whence their figures had preceded me, it gladdened me to be conscious of a thrill of awe. then, diving through the narrow archway, a few strides transported me into the densest throng of washington street. legends of the province house ii edward randolph's portrait the old legendary guest of the province house abode in my remembrance from midsummer till january. one idle evening last winter, confident that he would be found in the snuggest corner of the bar-room, i resolved to pay him another visit, hoping to deserve well of my country by snatching from oblivion some else unheard-of fact of history. the night was chill and raw, and rendered boisterous by almost a gale of wind, which whistled along washington street, causing the gas-lights to flare and flicker within the lamps. as i hurried onward, my fancy was busy with a comparison between the present aspect of the street and that which it probably wore when the british governors inhabited the mansion whither i was now going. brick edifices in those times were few, till a succession of destructive fires had swept, and swept again, the wooden dwellings and warehouses from the most populous quarters of the town. the buildings stood insulated and independent, not, as now, merging their separate existences into connected ranges, with a front of tiresome identity,--but each possessing features of its own, as if the owner's individual taste had shaped it,--and the whole presenting a picturesque irregularity, the absence of which is hardly compensated by any beauties of our modern architecture. such a scene, dimly vanishing from the eye by the ray of here and there a tallow candle, glimmering through the small panes of scattered windows, would form a sombre contrast to the street as i beheld it, with the gas-lights blazing from corner to corner, flaming within the shops, and throwing a noonday brightness through the huge plates of glass. but the black, lowering sky, as i turned my eyes upward, wore, doubtless, the same visage as when it frowned upon the ante-revolutionary new englanders. the wintry blast had the same shriek that was familiar to their ears. the old south church, too, still pointed its antique spire into the darkness, and was lost between earth and heaven; and as i passed, its clock, which had warned so many generations how transitory was their lifetime, spoke heavily and slow the same unregarded moral to myself. "only seven o'clock," thought i. "my old friend's legends will scarcely kill the hours 'twixt this and bedtime." passing through the narrow arch, i crossed the court-yard, the confined precincts of which were made visible by a lantern over the portal of the province house. on entering the bar-room, i found, as i expected, the old tradition monger seated by a special good fire of anthracite, compelling clouds of smoke from a corpulent cigar. he recognized me with evident pleasure; for my rare properties as a patient listener invariably make me a favorite with elderly gentlemen and ladies of narrative propensities. drawing a chair to the fire, i desired mine host to favor us with a glass apiece of whiskey punch, which was speedily prepared, steaming hot, with a slice of lemon at the bottom, a dark-red stratum of port wine upon the surface, and a sprinkling of nutmeg strewn over all. as we touched our glasses together, my legendary friend made himself known to me as mr. bela tiffany; and i rejoiced at the oddity of the name, because it gave his image and character a sort of individuality in my conception. the old gentleman's draught acted as a solvent upon his memory, so that it overflowed with tales, traditions, anecdotes of famous dead people, and traits of ancient manners, some of which were childish as a nurse's lullaby, while others might have been worth the notice of the grave historian. nothing impressed me more than a story of a black mysterious picture, which used to hang in one of the chambers of the province house, directly above the room where we were now sitting. the following is as correct a version of the fact as the reader would be likely to obtain from any other source, although, assuredly, it has a tinge of romance approaching to the marvellous. in one of the apartments of the province house there was long preserved an ancient picture, the frame of which was as black as ebony, and the canvas itself so dark with age, damp, and smoke, that not a touch of the painter's art could be discerned. time had thrown an impenetrable veil over it, and left to tradition and fable and conjecture to say what had once been there portrayed. during the rule of many successive governors, it had hung, by prescriptive and undisputed right, over the mantel-piece of the same chamber; and it still kept its place when lieutenant-governor hutchinson assumed the administration of the province, on the departure of sir francis bernard. the lieutenant-governor sat, one afternoon, resting his head against the carved back of his stately armchair, and gazing up thoughtfully at the void blackness of the picture. it was scarcely a time for such inactive musing, when affairs of the deepest moment required the ruler's decision, for within that very hour hutchinson had received intelligence of the arrival of a british fleet, bringing three regiments from halifax to overawe the insubordination of the people. these troops awaited his permission to occupy the fortress of castle william, and the town itself. yet, instead of affixing his signature to an official order, there sat the lieutenant-governor, so carefully scrutinizing the black waste of canvas that his demeanor attracted the notice of two young persons who attended him. one, wearing a military dress of buff, was his kinsman, francis lincoln, the provincial captain of castle william; the other, who sat on a low stool beside his chair, was alice vane, his favorite niece. she was clad entirely in white, a pale, ethereal creature, who, though a native of new england, had been educated abroad, and seemed not merely a stranger from another clime, but almost a being from another world. for several years, until left an orphan, she had dwelt with her father in sunny italy, and there had acquired a taste and enthusiasm for sculpture and painting which she found few opportunities of gratifying in the undecorated dwellings of the colonial gentry. it was said that the early productions of her own pencil exhibited no inferior genius, though, perhaps, the rude atmosphere of new england had cramped her hand, and dimmed the glowing colors of her fancy. but observing her uncle's steadfast gaze, which appeared to search through the mist of years to discover the subject of the picture, her curiosity was excited. "is it known, my dear uncle," inquired she, "what this old picture once represented? possibly, could it be made visible, it might prove a masterpiece of some great artist--else, why has it so long held such a conspicuous place?" as her uncle, contrary to his usual custom (for he was as attentive to all the humors and caprices of alice as if she had been his own best-beloved child), did not immediately reply, the young captain of castle william took that office upon himself. "this dark old square of canvas, my fair cousin," said he, "has been an heirloom in the province house from time immemorial. as to the painter, i can tell you nothing; but, if half the stories told of it be true, not one of the great italian masters has ever produced so marvellous a piece of work as that before you." captain lincoln proceeded to relate some of the strange fables and fantasies which, as it was impossible to refute them by ocular demonstration, had grown to be articles of popular belief, in reference to this old picture. one of the wildest, and at the same time the best accredited, accounts, stated it to be an original and authentic portrait of the evil one, taken at a witch meeting near salem; and that its strong and terrible resemblance had been confirmed by several of the confessing wizards and witches, at their trial, in open court. it was likewise affirmed that a familiar spirit or demon abode behind the blackness of the picture, and had shown himself, at seasons of public calamity, to more than one of the royal governors. shirley, for instance, had beheld this ominous apparition, on the eve of general abercrombie's shameful and bloody defeat under the walls of ticonderoga. many of the servants of the province house had caught glimpses of a visage frowning down upon them, at morning or evening twilight,--or in the depths of night, while raking up the fire that glimmered on the hearth beneath; although, if any were bold enough to hold a torch before the picture, it would appear as black and undistinguishable as ever. the oldest inhabitant of boston recollected that his father, in whose days the portrait had not wholly faded out of sight, had once looked upon it, but would never suffer himself to be questioned as to the face which was there represented. in connection with such stories, it was remarkable that over the top of the frame there were some ragged remnants of black silk, indicating that a veil had formerly hung down before the picture, until the duskiness of time had so effectually concealed it. but, after all, it was the most singular part of the affair that so many of the pompous governors of massachusetts had allowed the obliterated picture to remain in the state chamber of the province house. "some of these fables are really awful," observed alice vane, who had occasionally shuddered, as well as smiled, while her cousin spoke. "it would be almost worth while to wipe away the black surface of the canvas, since the original picture can hardly be so formidable as those which fancy paints instead of it." "but would it be possible," inquired her cousin, "to restore this dark picture to its pristine hues?" "such arts are known in italy," said alice. the lieutenant-governor had roused himself from his abstracted mood, and listened with a smile to the conversation of his young relatives. yet his voice had something peculiar in its tones when he undertook the explanation of the mystery. "i am sorry, alice, to destroy your faith in the legends of which you are so fond," remarked he; "but my antiquarian researches have long since made me acquainted with the subject of this picture--if picture it can be called--which is no more visible, nor ever will be, than the face of the long buried man whom it once represented. it was the portrait of edward randolph, the founder of this house, a person famous in the history of new england." "of that edward randolph," exclaimed captain lincoln, "who obtained the repeal of the first provincial charter, under which our forefathers had enjoyed almost democratic privileges! he that was styled the arch-enemy of new england, and whose memory is still held in detestation as the destroyer of our liberties!" "it was the same randolph," answered hutchinson, moving uneasily in his chair. "it was his lot to taste the bitterness of popular odium." "our annals tell us," continued the captain of castle william, "that the curse of the people followed this randolph where he went, and wrought evil in all the subsequent events of his life, and that its effect was seen likewise in the manner of his death. they say, too, that the inward misery of that curse worked itself outward, and was visible on the wretched man's countenance, making it too horrible to be looked upon. if so, and if this picture truly represented his aspect, it was in mercy that the cloud of blackness has gathered over it." "these traditions are folly to one who has proved, as i have, how little of historic truth lies at the bottom," said the lieutenant-governor. "as regards the life and character of edward randolph, too implicit credence has been given to dr. cotton mather, who--i must say it, though some of his blood runs in my veins--has filled our early history with old women's tales, as fanciful and extravagant as those of greece or rome." "and yet," whispered alice vane, "may not such fables have a moral? and, methinks, if the visage of this portrait be so dreadful, it is not without a cause that it has hung so long in a chamber of the province house. when the rulers feel themselves irresponsible, it were well that they should be reminded of the awful weight of a people's curse." the lieutenant-governor started, and gazed for a moment at his niece, as if her girlish fantasies had struck upon some feeling in his own breast, which all his policy or principles could not entirely subdue. he knew, indeed, that alice, in spite of her foreign education, retained the native sympathies of a new england girl. "peace, silly child," cried he, at last, more harshly than he had ever before addressed the gentle alice. "the rebuke of a king is more to be dreaded than the clamor of a wild, misguided multitude. captain lincoln, it is decided. the fortress of castle william must be occupied by the royal troops. the two remaining regiments shall be billeted in the town, or encamped upon the common. it is time, after years of tumult, and almost rebellion, that his majesty's government should have a wall of strength about it." "trust, sir--trust yet awhile to the loyalty of the people," said captain lincoln; "nor teach them that they can ever be on other terms with british soldiers than those of brotherhood, as when they fought side by side through the french war. do not convert the streets of your native town into a camp. think twice before you give up old castle william, the key of the province, into other keeping than that of true-born new englanders." "young man, it is decided," repeated hutchinson, rising from his chair. "a british officer will be in attendance this evening, to receive the necessary instructions for the disposal of the troops. your presence also will be required. till then, farewell." with these words the lieutenant-governor hastily left the room, while alice and her cousin more slowly followed, whispering together, and once pausing to glance back at the mysterious picture. the captain of castle william fancied that the girl's air and mien were such as might have belonged to one of those spirits of fable-fairies, or creatures of a more antique mythology--who sometimes mingled their agency with mortal affairs, half in caprice, yet with a sensibility to human weal or woe. as he held the door for her to pass, alice beckoned to the picture and smiled. "come forth, dark and evil shape!" cried she. "it is thine hour!" in the evening, lieutenant-governor hutchinson sat in the same chamber where the foregoing scene had occurred, surrounded by several persons whose various interests had summoned them together. there were the selectmen of boston, plain, patriarchal fathers of the people, excellent representatives of the old puritanical founders, whose sombre strength had stamped so deep an impress upon the new england character. contrasting with these were one or two members of council, richly dressed in the white wigs, the embroidered waistcoats and other magnificence of the time, and making a somewhat ostentatious display of courtier-like ceremonial. in attendance, likewise, was a major of the british army, awaiting the lieutenant-governor's orders for the landing of the troops, which still remained on board the transports. the captain of castle william stood beside hutchinson's chair with folded arms, glancing rather haughtily at the british officer, by whom he was soon to be superseded in his command. on a table, in the centre of the chamber, stood a branched silver candlestick, throwing down the glow of half a dozen wax-lights upon a paper apparently ready for the lieutenant-governor's signature. partly shrouded in the voluminous folds of one of the window curtains, which fell from the ceiling to the floor, was seen the white drapery of a lady's robe. it may appear strange that alice vane should have been there at such a time; but there was something so childlike, so wayward, in her singular character, so apart from ordinary rules, that her presence did not surprise the few who noticed it. meantime, the chairman of the selectmen was addressing to the lieutenant-governor a long and solemn protest against the reception of the british troops into the town. "and if your honor," concluded this excellent but somewhat prosy old gentleman, "shall see fit to persist in bringing these mercenary sworders and musketeers into our quiet streets, not on our heads be the responsibility. think, sir, while there is yet time, that if one drop of blood be shed, that blood shall be an eternal stain upon your honor's memory. you, sir, have written with an able pen the deeds of our forefathers. the more to be desired is it, therefore, that yourself should deserve honorable mention, as a true patriot and upright ruler, when your own doings shall be written down in history." "i am not insensible, my good sir, to the natural desire to stand well in the annals of my country," replied hutchinson, controlling his impatience into courtesy, "nor know i any better method of attaining that end than by withstanding the merely temporary spirit of mischief, which, with your pardon, seems to have infected elder men than myself. would you have me wait till the mob shall sack the province house, as they did my private mansion? trust me, sir, the time may come when you will be glad to flee for protection to the king's banner, the raising of which is now so distasteful to you." "yes," said the british major, who was impatiently expecting the lieutenant-governor's orders. "the demagogues of this province have raised the devil and cannot lay him again. we will exorcise him, in god's name and the king's." "if you meddle with the devil, take care of his claws!" answered the captain of castle william, stirred by the taunt against his countrymen. "craving your pardon, young sir," said the venerable selectman, "let not an evil spirit enter into your words. we will strive against the oppressor with prayer and fasting, as our forefathers would have done. like them, moreover, we will submit to whatever lot a wise providence may send us,--always, after our own best exertions to amend it." "and there peep forth the devil's claws!" muttered hutchinson, who well understood the nature of puritan submission. "this matter shall be expedited forthwith. when there shall be a sentinel at every corner, and a court of guard before the town house, a loyal gentleman may venture to walk abroad. what to me is the outcry of a mob, in this remote province of the realm? the king is my master, and england is my country! upheld by their armed strength, i set my foot upon the rabble, and defy them!" he snatched a pen, and was about to affix his signature to the paper that lay on the table, when the captain of castle william placed his hand upon his shoulder. the freedom of the action, so contrary to the ceremonious respect which was then considered due to rank and dignity, awakened general surprise, and in none more than in the lieutenant-governor himself. looking angrily up, he perceived that his young relative was pointing his finger to the opposite wall. hutchinson's eye followed the signal; and he saw, what had hitherto been unobserved, that a black silk curtain was suspended before the mysterious picture, so as completely to conceal it. his thoughts immediately recurred to the scene of the preceding afternoon; and, in his surprise, confused by indistinct emotions, yet sensible that his niece must have had an agency in this phenomenon, he called loudly upon her. "alice!--come hither, alice!" no sooner had he spoken than alice vane glided from her station, and pressing one hand across her eyes, with the other snatched away the sable curtain that concealed the portrait. an exclamation of surprise burst from every beholder; but the lieutenant-governor's voice had a tone of horror. "by heaven!" said he, in a low, inward murmur, speaking rather to himself than to those around him, "if the spirit of edward randolph were to appear among us from the place of torment, he could not wear more of the terrors of hell upon his face!" "for some wise end," said the aged selectman, solemnly, "hath providence scattered away the mist of years that had so long hid this dreadful effigy. until this hour no living man hath seen what we behold!" within the antique frame, which so recently had inclosed a sable waste of canvas, now appeared a visible picture, still dark, indeed, in its hues and shadings, but thrown forward in strong relief. it was a half-length figure of a gentleman in a rich but very old-fashioned dress of embroidered velvet, with a broad ruff and a beard, and wearing a hat, the brim of which overshadowed his forehead. beneath this cloud the eyes had a peculiar glare, which was almost lifelike. the whole portrait started so distinctly out of the background, that it had the effect of a person looking down from the wall at the astonished and awe-stricken spectators. the expression of the face, if any words can convey an idea of it, was that of a wretch detected in some hideous guilt, and exposed to the bitter hatred and laughter and withering scorn of a vast surrounding multitude. there was the struggle of defiance, beaten down and overwhelmed by the crushing weight of ignominy. the torture of the soul had come forth upon the countenance. it seemed as if the picture, while hidden behind the cloud of immemorial years, had been all the time acquiring an intenser depth and darkness of expression, till now it gloomed forth again, and threw its evil omen over the present hour. such, if the wild legend may be credited, was the portrait of edward randolph, as he appeared when a people's curse had wrought its influence upon his nature. "'t would drive me mad--that awful face!" said hutchinson, who seemed fascinated by the contemplation of it. "be warned, then!" whispered alice. "he trampled on a people's rights. behold his punishment--and avoid a crime like his!" the lieutenant-governor actually trembled for an instant; but, exerting his energy--which was not, however, his most characteristic feature--he strove to shake off the spell of randolph's countenance. "girl!" cried he, laughing bitterly as he turned to alice, "have you brought hither your painter's art--your italian spirit of intrigue--your tricks of stage effect--and think to influence the councils of rulers and the affairs of nations by such shallow contrivances? see here!" "stay yet a while," said the selectman, as hutchinson again snatched the pen; "for if ever mortal man received a warning from a tormented soul, your honor is that man!" "away!" answered hutchinson fiercely. "though yonder senseless picture cried 'forbear!'--it should not move me!" casting a scowl of defiance at the pictured face (which seemed at that moment to intensify the horror of its miserable and wicked look), he scrawled on the paper, in characters that betokened it a deed of desperation, the name of thomas hutchinson. then, it is said, he shuddered, as if that signature had granted away his salvation. "it is done," said he; and placed his hand upon his brow. "may heaven forgive the deed," said the soft, sad accents of alice vane, like the voice of a good spirit flitting away. when morning came there was a stifled whisper through the household, and spreading thence about the town, that the dark, mysterious picture had started from the wall, and spoken face to face with lieutenant-governor hutchinson. if such a miracle had been wrought, however, no traces of it remained behind, for within the antique frame nothing could be discerned save the impenetrable cloud, which had covered the canvas since the memory of man. if the figure had, indeed, stepped forth, it had fled back, spirit-like, at the daydawn, and hidden itself behind a century's obscurity. the truth probably was, that alice vane's secret for restoring the hues of the picture had merely effected a temporary renovation. but those who, in that brief interval, had beheld the awful visage of edward randolph, desired no second glance, and ever afterwards trembled at the recollection of the scene, as if an evil spirit had appeared visibly among them. and as for hutchinson, when, far over the ocean, his dying hour drew on, he gasped for breath, and complained that he was choking with the blood of the boston massacre; and francis lincoln, the former captain of castle william, who was standing at his bedside, perceived a likeness in his frenzied look to that of edward randolph. did his broken spirit feel, at that dread hour, the tremendous burden of a people's curse? at the conclusion of this miraculous legend, i inquired of mine host whether the picture still remained in the chamber over our heads; but mr. tiffany informed me that it had long since been removed, and was supposed to be hidden in some out-of-the-way corner of the new england museum. perchance some curious antiquary may light upon it there, and, with the assistance of mr. howorth, the picture cleaner, may supply a not unnecessary proof of the authenticity of the facts here set down. during the progress of the story a storm had been gathering abroad, and raging and rattling so loudly in the upper regions of the province house, that it seemed as if all the old governors and great men were running riot above stairs while mr. bela tiffany babbled of them below. in the course of generations, when many people have lived and died in an ancient house, the whistling of the wind through its crannies, and the creaking of its beams and rafters, become strangely like the tones of the human voice, or thundering laughter, or heavy footsteps treading the deserted chambers. it is as if the echoes of half a century were revived. such were the ghostly sounds that roared and murmured in our ears when i took leave of the circle round the fireside of the province house, and plunging down the door steps, fought my way homeward against a drifting snow-storm. legends of the province house iii lady eleanore's mantle mine excellent friend, the landlord of the province house, was pleased, the other evening, to invite mr. tiffany and myself to an oyster supper. this slight mark of respect and gratitude, as he handsomely observed, was far less than the ingenious tale-teller, and i, the humble note-taker of his narratives, had fairly earned, by the public notice which our joint lucubrations had attracted to his establishment. many a cigar had been smoked within his premises--many a glass of wine, or more potent aqua vitae, had been quaffed--many a dinner had been eaten by curious strangers, who, save for the fortunate conjunction of mr. tiffany and me, would never have ventured through that darksome avenue which gives access to the historic precincts of the province house. in short, if any credit be due to the courteous assurances of mr. thomas waite, we had brought his forgotten mansion almost as effectually into public view as if we had thrown down the vulgar range of shoe shops and dry goods stores, which hides its aristocratic front from washington street. it may be unadvisable, however, to speak too loudly of the increased custom of the house, lest mr. waite should find it difficult to renew the lease on so favorable terms as heretofore. being thus welcomed as benefactors, neither mr. tiffany nor myself felt any scruple in doing full justice to the good things that were set before us. if the feast were less magnificent than those same panelled walls had witnessed in a by-gone century,--if mine host presided with somewhat less of state than might have befitted a successor of the royal governors,--if the guests made a less imposing show than the bewigged and powdered and embroidered dignitaries, who erst banqueted at the gubernatorial table, and now sleep, within their armorial tombs on copp's hill, or round king's chapel,--yet never, i may boldly say, did a more comfortable little party assemble in the province house, from queen anne's days to the revolution. the occasion was rendered more interesting by the presence of a venerable personage, whose own actual reminiscences went back to the epoch of gage and howe, and even supplied him with a doubtful anecdote or two of hutchinson. he was one of that small, and now all but extinguished, class, whose attachment to royalty, and to the colonial institutions and customs that were connected with it, had never yielded to the democratic heresies of after times. the young queen of britain has not a more loyal subject in her realm--perhaps not one who would kneel before her throne with such reverential love--as this old grandsire, whose head has whitened beneath the mild sway of the republic, which still, in his mellower moments, he terms a usurpation. yet prejudices so obstinate have not made him an ungentle or impracticable companion. if the truth must be told, the life of the aged loyalist has been of such a scrambling and unsettled character,--he has had so little choice of friends and been so often destitute of any,--that i doubt whether he would refuse a cup of kindness with either oliver cromwell or john hancock,--to say nothing of any democrat now upon the stage. in another paper of this series i may perhaps give the reader a closer glimpse of his portrait. our host, in due season, uncorked a bottle of madeira, of such exquisite perfume and admirable flavor that he surely must have discovered it in an ancient bin, down deep beneath the deepest cellar, where some jolly old butler stored away the governor's choicest wine, and forgot to reveal the secret on his death-bed. peace to his red-nosed ghost, and a libation to his memory! this precious liquor was imbibed by mr. tiffany with peculiar zest; and after sipping the third glass, it was his pleasure to give us one of the oddest legends which he had yet raked from the storehouse where he keeps such matters. with some suitable adornments from my own fancy, it ran pretty much as follows. not long after colonel shute had assumed the government of massachusetts bay, now nearly a hundred and twenty years ago, a young lady of rank and fortune arrived from england, to claim his protection as her guardian. he was her distant relative, but the nearest who had survived the gradual extinction of her family; so that no more eligible shelter could be found for the rich and high-born lady eleanore rochcliffe than within the province house of a transatlantic colony. the consort of governor shute, moreover, had been as a mother to her childhood, and was now anxious to receive her, in the hope that a beautiful young woman would be exposed to infinitely less peril from the primitive society of new england than amid the artifices and corruptions of a court. if either the governor or his lady had especially consulted their own comfort, they would probably have sought to devolve the responsibility on other hands; since, with some noble and splendid traits of character, lady eleanore was remarkable for a harsh, unyielding pride, a haughty consciousness of her hereditary and personal advantages, which made her almost incapable of control. judging from many traditionary anecdotes, this peculiar temper was hardly less than a monomania; or, if the acts which it inspired were those of a sane person, it seemed due from providence that pride so sinful should be followed by as severe a retribution. that tinge of the marvellous, which is thrown over so many of these half-forgotten legends, has probably imparted an additional wildness to the strange story of lady eleanore rochcliffe. the ship in which she came passenger had arrived at newport, whence lady eleanore was conveyed to boston in the governor's coach, attended by a small escort of gentlemen on horseback. the ponderous equipage with its four black horses, attracted much notice as it rumbled through cornhill, surrounded by the prancing steeds of half a dozen cavaliers, with swords dangling to their stirrups and pistols at their holsters. through the large glass windows of the coach, as it rolled along, the people could discern the figure of lady eleanore, strangely combining an almost queenly stateliness with the grace and beauty of a maiden in her teens. a singular tale had gone abroad among the ladies of the province, that their fair rival was indebted for much of the irresistible charm of her appearance to a certain article of dress--an embroidered mantle--which had been wrought by the most skilful artist in london, and possessed even magical properties of adornment. on the present occasion, however, she owed nothing to the witchery of dress, being clad in a riding habit of velvet, which would have appeared stiff and ungraceful on any other form. the coachman reined in his four black steeds, and the whole cavalcade came to a pause in front of the contorted iron balustrade that fenced the province house from the public street. it was an awkward coincidence that the bell of the old south was just then tolling for a funeral; so that, instead of a gladsome peal with which it was customary to announce the arrival of distinguished strangers, lady eleanore rochcliffe was ushered by a doleful clang, as if calamity had come embodied in her beautiful person. "a very great disrespect!" exclaimed captain langford, an english officer, who had recently brought dispatches to governor shute. "the funeral should have been deferred, lest lady eleanore's spirits be affected by such a dismal welcome." "with your pardon, sir," replied doctor clarke, a physician, and a famous champion of the popular party, "whatever the heralds may pretend, a dead beggar must have precedence of a living queen. king death confers high privileges." these remarks were interchanged while the speakers waited a passage through the crowd, which had gathered on each side of the gateway, leaving an open avenue to the portal of the province house. a black slave in livery now leaped from behind the coach, and threw open the door; while at the same moment governor shute descended the flight of steps from his mansion, to assist lady eleanore in alighting. but the governor's stately approach was anticipated in a manner that excited general astonishment. a pale young man, with his black hair all in disorder, rushed from the throng, and prostrated himself beside the coach, thus offering his person as a footstool for lady eleanore rochcliffe to tread upon. she held back an instant, yet with an expression as if doubting whether the young man were worthy to bear the weight of her footstep, rather than dissatisfied to receive such awful reverence from a fellow-mortal. "up, sir," said the governor, sternly, at the same time lifting his cane over the intruder. "what means the bedlamite by this freak?" "nay," answered lady eleanore playfully, but with more scorn than pity in her tone, "your excellency shall not strike him. when men seek only to be trampled upon, it were a pity to deny them a favor so easily granted--and so well deserved!" then, though as lightly as a sunbeam on a cloud, she placed her foot upon the cowering form, and extended her hand to meet that of the governor. there was a brief interval, during which lady eleanore retained this attitude; and never, surely, was there an apter emblem of aristocracy and hereditary pride trampling on human sympathies and the kindred of nature, than these two figures presented at that moment. yet the spectators were so smitten with her beauty, and so essential did pride seem to the existence of such a creature, that they gave a simultaneous acclamation of applause. "who is this insolent young fellow?" inquired captain langford, who still remained beside doctor clarke. "if he be in his senses, his impertinence demands the bastinado. if mad, lady eleanore should be secured from further inconvenience, by his confinement." "his name is jervase helwyse," answered the doctor; "a youth of no birth or fortune, or other advantages, save the mind and soul that nature gave him; and being secretary to our colonial agent in london, it was his misfortune to meet this lady eleanore rochcliffe. he loved her--and her scorn has driven him mad." "he was mad so to aspire," observed the english officer. "it may be so," said doctor clarke, frowning as he spoke. "but i tell you, sir, i could well-nigh doubt the justice of the heaven above us if no signal humiliation overtake this lady, who now treads so haughtily into yonder mansion. she seeks to place herself above the sympathies of our common nature, which envelops all human souls. see, if that nature do not assert its claim over her in some mode that shall bring her level with the lowest!" "never!" cried captain langford indignantly--"neither in life, nor when they lay her with her ancestors." not many days afterwards the governor gave a ball in honor of lady eleanore rochcliffe. the principal gentry of the colony received invitations, which were distributed to their residences, far and near, by messengers on horseback, bearing missives sealed with all the formality of official dispatches. in obedience to the summons, there was a general gathering of rank, wealth, and beauty; and the wide door of the province house had seldom given admittance to more numerous and honorable guests than on the evening of lady eleanore's ball. without much extravagance of eulogy, the spectacle might even be termed splendid; for, according to the fashion of the times, the ladies shone in rich silks and satins, outspread over wide-projecting hoops; and the gentlemen glittered in gold embroidery, laid unsparingly upon the purple, or scarlet, or sky-blue velvet, which was the material of their coats and waistcoats. the latter article of dress was of great importance, since it enveloped the wearer's body nearly to the knees, and was perhaps bedizened with the amount of his whole year's income, in golden flowers and foliage. the altered taste of the present day--a taste symbolic of a deep change in the whole system of society--would look upon almost any of those gorgeous figures as ridiculous; although that evening the guests sought their reflections in the pier-glasses, and rejoiced to catch their own glitter amid the glittering crowd. what a pity that one of the stately mirrors has not preserved a picture of the scene, which, by the very traits that were so transitory, might have taught us much that would be worth knowing and remembering! would, at least, that either painter or mirror could convey to us some faint idea of a garment, already noticed in this legend,--the lady eleanore's embroidered mantle,--which the gossips whispered was invested with magic properties, so as to lend a new and untried grace to her figure each time that she put it on! idle fancy as it is, this mysterious mantle has thrown an awe around my image of her, partly from its fabled virtues, and partly because it was the handiwork of a dying woman, and, perchance, owed the fantastic grace of its conception to the delirium of approaching death. after the ceremonial greetings had been paid, lady eleanore rochcliffe stood apart from the mob of guests, insulating herself within a small and distinguished circle, to whom she accorded a more cordial favor than to the general throng. the waxen torches threw their radiance vividly over the scene, bringing out its brilliant points in strong relief; but she gazed carelessly, and with now and then an expression of weariness or scorn, tempered with such feminine grace that her auditors scarcely perceived the moral deformity of which it was the utterance. she beheld the spectacle not with vulgar ridicule, as disdaining to be pleased with the provincial mockery of a court festival, but with the deeper scorn of one whose spirit held itself too high to participate in the enjoyment of other human souls. whether or no the recollections of those who saw her that evening were influenced by the strange events with which she was subsequently connected, so it was that her figure ever after recurred to them as marked by something wild and unnatural,--although, at the time, the general whisper was of her exceeding beauty, and of the indescribable charm which her mantle threw around her. some close observers, indeed, detected a feverish flush and alternate paleness of countenance, with corresponding flow and revulsion of spirits, and once or twice a painful and helpless betrayal of lassitude, as if she were on the point of sinking to the ground. then, with a nervous shudder, she seemed to arouse her energies and threw some bright and playful yet half-wicked sarcasm into the conversation. there was so strange a characteristic in her manners and sentiments that it astonished every right-minded listener; till looking in her face, a lurking and incomprehensible glance and smile perplexed them with doubts both as to her seriousness and sanity. gradually, lady eleanore rochcliffe's circle grew smaller, till only four gentlemen remained in it. these were captain langford, the english officer before mentioned; a virginian planter, who had come to massachusetts on some political errand; a young episcopal clergyman, the grandson of a british earl; and, lastly, the private secretary of governor shute, whose obsequiousness had won a sort of tolerance from lady eleanore. at different periods of the evening the liveried servants of the province house passed among the guests, bearing huge trays of refreshments and french and spanish wines. lady eleanore rochcliffe, who refused to wet her beautiful lips even with a bubble of champagne, had sunk back into a large damask chair, apparently overwearied either with the excitement of the scene or its tedium, and while, for an instant, she was unconscious of voices, laughter and music, a young man stole forward, and knelt down at her feet. he bore a salver in his hand, on which was a chased silver goblet, filled to the brim with wine, which he offered as reverentially as to a crowned queen, or rather with the awful devotion of a priest doing sacrifice to his idol. conscious that some one touched her robe, lady eleanore started, and unclosed her eyes upon the pale, wild features and dishevelled hair of jervase helwyse. "why do you haunt me thus?" said she, in a languid tone, but with a kindlier feeling than she ordinarily permitted herself to express. "they tell me that i have done you harm." "heaven knows if that be so," replied the young man solemnly. "but, lady eleanore, in requital of that harm, if such there be, and for your own earthly and heavenly welfare, i pray you to take one sip of this holy wine, and then to pass the goblet round among the guests. and this shall be a symbol that you have not sought to withdraw yourself from the chain of human sympathies--which whoso would shake off must keep company with fallen angels." "where has this mad fellow stolen that sacramental vessel?" exclaimed the episcopal clergyman. this question drew the notice of the guests to the silver cup, which was recognized as appertaining to the communion plate of the old south church; and, for aught that could be known, it was brimming over with the consecrated wine. "perhaps it is poisoned," half whispered the governor's secretary. "pour it down the villain's throat!" cried the virginian fiercely. "turn him out of the house!" cried captain langford, seizing jervase helwyse so roughly by the shoulder that the sacramental cup was overturned, and its contents sprinkled upon lady eleanore's mantle. "whether knave, fool, or bedlamite, it is intolerable that the fellow should go at large." "pray, gentlemen, do my poor admirer no harm," said lady eleanore with a faint and weary smile. "take him out of my sight, if such be your pleasure; for i can find in my heart to do nothing but laugh at him; whereas, in all decency and conscience, it would become me to weep for the mischief i have wrought!" but while the by-standers were attempting to lead away the unfortunate young man, he broke from them, and with a wild, impassioned earnestness, offered a new and equally strange petition to lady eleanore. it was no other than that she should throw off the mantle, which, while he pressed the silver cup of wine upon her, she had drawn more closely around her form, so as almost to shroud herself within it. "cast it from you!" exclaimed jervase helwyse, clasping his hands in an agony of entreaty. "it may not yet be too late! give the accursed garment to the flames!" but lady eleanore, with a laugh of scorn, drew the rich folds of the embroidered mantle over her head, in such a fashion as to give a completely new aspect to her beautiful face, which--half hidden, half revealed--seemed to belong to some being of mysterious character and purposes. "farewell, jervase helwyse!" said she. "keep my image in your remembrance, as you behold it now." "alas, lady!" he replied, in a tone no longer wild, but sad as a funeral bell. "we must meet shortly, when your face may wear another aspect--and that shall be the image that must abide within me." he made no more resistance to the violent efforts of the gentlemen and servants, who almost dragged him out of the apartment, and dismissed him roughly from the iron gate of the province house. captain langford, who had been very active in this affair, was returning to the presence of lady eleanore rochcliffe, when he encountered the physician, doctor clarke, with whom he had held some casual talk on the day of her arrival. the doctor stood apart, separated from lady eleanore by the width of the room, but eying her with such keen sagacity that captain langford involuntarily gave him credit for the discovery of some deep secret. "you appear to be smitten, after all, with the charms of this queenly maiden," said he, hoping thus to draw forth the physician's hidden knowledge. "god forbid!" answered doctor clarke, with a grave smile; "and if you be wise you will put up the same prayer for yourself. woe to those who shall be smitten by this beautiful lady eleanore! but yonder stands the governor--and i have a word or two for his private ear. good night!" he accordingly advanced to governor shute, and addressed him in so low a tone that none of the by-standers could catch a word of what he said, although the sudden change of his excellency's hitherto cheerful visage betokened that the communication could be of no agreeable import. a very few moments afterwards it was announced to the guests that an unforeseen circumstance rendered it necessary to put a premature close to the festival. the hall at the province house supplied a topic of conversation for the colonial metropolis for some days after its occurrence, and might still longer have been the general theme, only that a subject of all-engrossing interest thrust it, for a time, from the public recollection. this was the appearance of a dreadful epidemic, which, in that age and long before and afterwards, was wont to slay its hundreds and thousands on both sides of the atlantic. on the occasion of which we speak, it was distinguished by a peculiar virulence, insomuch that it has left its traces--its pit-marks, to use an appropriate figure--on the history of the country, the affairs of which were thrown into confusion by its ravages. at first, unlike its ordinary course, the disease seemed to confine itself to the higher circles of society, selecting its victims from among the proud, the well-born, and the wealthy, entering unabashed into stately chambers, and lying down with the slumberers in silken beds. some of the most distinguished guests of the province house even those whom the haughty lady eleanore rochcliffe had deemed not unworthy of her favor--were stricken by this fatal scourge. it was noticed, with an ungenerous bitterness of feeling, that the four gentlemen--the virginian, the british officer, the young clergyman, and the governor's secretary--who had been her most devoted attendants on the evening of the ball, were the foremost of whom the plague stroke fell. but the disease, pursuing its onward progress, soon ceased to be exclusively a prerogative of aristocracy. its red brand was no longer conferred like a noble's star, or an order of knighthood. it threaded its way through the narrow and crooked streets, and entered the low, mean, darksome dwellings, and laid its hand of death upon the artisans and laboring classes of the town. it compelled rich and poor to feel themselves brethren then; and stalking to and fro across the three hills, with a fierceness which made it almost a new pestilence, there was that mighty conqueror--that scourge and horror of our forefathers--the small-pox! we cannot estimate the affright which this plague inspired of yore, by contemplating it as the fangless monster of the present day. we must remember, rather, with what awe we watched the gigantic footsteps of the asiatic cholera, striding from shore to shore of the atlantic, and marching like destiny upon cities far remote which flight had already half depopulated. there is no other fear so horrible and unhumanizing as that which makes man dread to breathe heaven's vital air lest it be poison, or to grasp the hand of a brother or friend lest the gripe of the pestilence should clutch him. such was the dismay that now followed in the track of the disease, or ran before it throughout the town. graves were hastily dug, and the pestilential relics as hastily covered, because the dead were enemies of the living, and strove to draw them headlong, as it were, into their own dismal pit. the public councils were suspended, as if mortal wisdom might relinquish its devices, now that an unearthly usurper had found his way into the ruler's mansion. had an enemy's fleet been hovering on the coast, or his armies trampling on our soil, the people would probably have committed their defence to that same direful conqueror who had wrought their own calamity, and would permit no interference with his sway. this conquerer had a symbol of his triumphs. it was a blood-red flag, that fluttered in the tainted air, over the door of every dwelling into which the small-pox had entered. such a banner was long since waving over the portal of the province house; for thence, as was proved by tracking its footsteps back, had all this dreadful mischief issued. it had been traced back to a lady's luxurious chamber--to the proudest of the proud--to her that was so delicate, and hardly owned herself of earthly mould--to the haughty one, who took her stand above human sympathies--to lady eleanore! there remained no room for doubt that the contagion had lurked in that gorgeous mantle, which threw so strange a grace around her at the festival. its fantastic splendor had been conceived in the delirious brain of a woman on her death-bed, and was the last toil of her stiffening fingers, which had interwoven fate and misery with its golden threads. this dark tale, whispered at first, was now bruited far and wide. the people raved against the lady eleanore, and cried out that her pride and scorn had evoked a fiend, and that, between them both, this monstrous evil had been born. at times, their rage and despair took the semblance of grinning mirth; and whenever the red flag of the pestilence was hoisted over another and yet another door, they clapped their hands and shouted through the streets, in bitter mockery: "behold a new triumph for the lady eleanore!" one day, in the midst of these dismal times, a wild figure approached the portal of the province house, and folding his arms, stood contemplating the scarlet banner which a passing breeze shook fitfully, as if to fling abroad the contagion that it typified. at length, climbing one of the pillars by means of the iron balustrade, he took down the flag and entered the mansion, waving it above his head. at the foot of the staircase he met the governor, booted and spurred, with his cloak drawn around him, evidently on the point of setting forth upon a journey. "wretched lunatic, what do you seek here?" exclaimed shute, extending his cane to guard himself from contact. "there is nothing here but death. back--or you will meet him!" "death will not touch me, the banner-bearer of the pestilence!" cried jervase helwyse, shaking the red flag aloft. "death, and the pestilence, who wears the aspect of the lady eleanore, will walk through the streets to-night, and i must march before them with this banner!" "why do i waste words on the fellow?" muttered the governor, drawing his cloak across his mouth. "what matters his miserable life, when none of us are sure of twelve hours' breath? on, fool, to your own destruction!" he made way for jervase helwyse, who immediately ascended the staircase, but, on the first landing place, was arrested by the firm grasp of a hand upon his shoulder. looking fiercely up, with a madman's impulse to struggle with and rend asunder his opponent, he found himself powerless beneath a calm, stern eye, which possessed the mysterious property of quelling frenzy at its height. the person whom he had now encountered was the physician, doctor clarke, the duties of whose sad profession had led him to the province house, where he was an infrequent guest in more prosperous times. "young man, what is your purpose?" demanded he. "i seek the lady eleanore," answered jervase helwyse, submissively. "all have fled from her," said the physician. "why do you seek her now? i tell you, youth, her nurse fell death-stricken on the threshold of that fatal chamber. know ye not, that never came such a curse to our shores as this lovely lady eleanore?--that her breath has filled the air with poison?--that she has shaken pestilence and death upon the land, from the folds of her accursed mantle?" "let me look upon her!" rejoined the mad youth, more wildly. "let me behold her, in her awful beauty, clad in the regal garments of the pestilence! she and death sit on a throne together. let me kneel down before them!" "poor youth!" said doctor clarke; and, moved by a deep sense of human weakness, a smile of caustic humor curled his lip even then. "wilt thou still worship the destroyer and surround her image with fantasies the more magnificent, the more evil she has wrought? thus man doth ever to his tyrants. approach, then! madness, as i have noted, has that good efficacy, that it will guard you from contagion--and perchance its own cure may be found in yonder chamber." ascending another flight of stairs, he threw open a door and signed to jervase helwyse that he should enter. the poor lunatic, it seems probable, had cherished a delusion that his haughty mistress sat in state, unharmed herself by the pestilential influence, which, as by enchantment, she scattered round about her. he dreamed, no doubt, that her beauty was not dimmed, but brightened into superhuman splendor. with such anticipations, he stole reverentially to the door at which the physician stood, but paused upon the threshold, gazing fearfully into the gloom of the darkened chamber. "where is the lady eleanore?" whispered he. "call her," replied the physician. "lady eleanore!--princess!--queen of death!" cried jervase helwyse, advancing three steps into the chamber. "she is not here! there on yonder table, i behold the sparkle of a diamond which once she wore upon her bosom. there"--and he shuddered--"there hangs her mantle, on which a dead woman embroidered a spell of dreadful potency. but where is the lady eleanore?" something stirred within the silken curtains of a canopied bed; and a low moan was uttered, which, listening intently, jervase helwyse began to distinguish as a woman's voice, complaining dolefully of thirst. he fancied, even, that he recognized its tones. "my throat!--my throat is scorched," murmured the voice. "a drop of water!" "what thing art thou?" said the brain-stricken youth, drawing near the bed and tearing asunder its curtains. "whose voice hast thou stolen for thy murmurs and miserable petitions, as if lady eleanore could be conscious of mortal infirmity? fie! heap of diseased mortality, why lurkest thou in my lady's chamber?" "o jervase helwyse," said the voice--and as it spoke the figure contorted itself, struggling to hide its blasted face--"look not now on the woman you once loved! the curse of heaven hath stricken me, because i would not call man my brother, nor woman sister. i wrapped myself in pride as in a mantle, and scorned the sympathies of nature; and therefore has nature made this wretched body the medium of a dreadful sympathy. you are avenged--they are all avenged--nature is avenged--for i am eleanore rochcliffe!" the malice of his mental disease, the bitterness lurking at the bottom of his heart, mad as he was, for a blighted and ruined life, and love that had been paid with cruel scorn, awoke within the breast of jervase helwyse. he shook his finger at the wretched girl, and the chamber echoed, the curtains of the bed were shaken, with his outburst of insane merriment. "another triumph for the lady eleanore!" he cried. "all have been her victims! who so worthy to be the final victim as herself?" impelled by some new fantasy of his crazed intellect, he snatched the fatal mantle and rushed from the chamber and the house. that night a procession passed, by torchlight, through the streets, bearing in the midst the figure of a woman, enveloped with a richly embroidered mantle; while in advance stalked jervase helwyse, waving the red flag of the pestilence. arriving opposite the province house, the mob burned the effigy, and a strong wind came and swept away the ashes. it was said that, from that very hour, the pestilence abated, as if its sway had some mysterious connection, from the first plague stroke to the last, with lady eleanore's mantle. a remarkable uncertainty broods over that unhappy lady's fate. there is a belief, however, that in a certain chamber of this mansion a female form may sometimes be duskily discerned, shrinking into the darkest corner and muffling her face within an embroidered mantle. supposing the legend true, can this be other than the once proud lady eleanore? mine host and the old loyalist and i bestowed no little warmth of applause upon this narrative, in which we had all been deeply interested; for the reader can scarcely conceive how unspeakably the effect of such a tale is heightened when, as in the present case, we may repose perfect confidence in the veracity of him who tells it. for my own part, knowing how scrupulous is mr. tiffany to settle the foundation of his facts, i could not have believed him one whit the more faithfully had he professed himself an eye-witness of the doings and sufferings of poor lady eleanore. some sceptics, it is true, might demand documentary evidence, or even require him to produce the embroidered mantle, forgetting that--heaven be praised--it was consumed to ashes. but now the old loyalist, whose blood was warmed by the good cheer, began to talk, in his turn, about the traditions of the province house, and hinted that he, if it were agreeable, might add a few reminiscences to our legendary stock. mr. tiffany, having no cause to dread a rival, immediately besought him to favor us with a specimen; my own entreaties, of course, were urged to the same effect; and our venerable guest, well pleased to find willing auditors, awaited only the return of mr. thomas waite, who had been summoned forth to provide accommodations for several new arrivals. perchance the public-but be this as its own caprice and ours shall settle the matter--may read the result in another tale of the province house. legends of the province house iv old esther dudley our host having resumed the chair, he, as well as mr. tiffany and myself; expressed much eagerness to be made acquainted with the story to which the loyalist had alluded. that venerable man first of all saw fit to moisten his throat with another glass of wine, and then, turning his face towards our coal fire, looked steadfastly for a few moments into the depths of its cheerful glow. finally, he poured forth a great fluency of speech. the generous liquid that he had imbibed, while it warmed his age-chilled blood, likewise took off the chill from his heart and mind, and gave him an energy to think and feel, which we could hardly have expected to find beneath the snows of fourscore winters. his feelings, indeed, appeared to me more excitable than those of a younger man; or at least, the same degree of feeling manifested itself by more visible effects than if his judgment and will had possessed the potency of meridian life. at the pathetic passages of his narrative he readily melted into tears. when a breath of indignation swept across his spirit the blood flushed his withered visage even to the roots of his white hair; and he shook his clinched fist at the trio of peaceful auditors, seeming to fancy enemies in those who felt very kindly towards the desolate old soul. but ever and anon, sometimes in the midst of his most earnest talk, this ancient person's intellect would wander vaguely, losing its hold of the matter in hand, and groping for it amid misty shadows. then would he cackle forth a feeble laugh, and express a doubt whether his wits--for by that phrase it pleased our ancient friend to signify his mental powers--were not getting a little the worse for wear. under these disadvantages, the old loyalist's story required more revision to render it fit for the public eye than those of the series which have preceded it; nor should it be concealed that the sentiment and tone of the affair may have undergone some slight, or perchance more than slight, metamorphosis, in its transmission to the reader through the medium of a thorough-going democrat. the tale itself is a mere sketch, with no involution of plot, nor any great interest of events, yet possessing, if i have rehearsed it aright, that pensive influence over the mind which the shadow of the old province house flings upon the loiterer in its court-yard. the hour had come--the hour of defeat and humiliation--when sir william howe was to pass over the threshold of the province house, and embark, with no such triumphal ceremonies as he once promised himself, on board the british fleet. he bade his servants and military attendants go before him, and lingered a moment in the loneliness of the mansion, to quell the fierce emotions that struggled in his bosom as with a death throb. preferable, then, would he have deemed his fate, had a warrior's death left him a claim to the narrow territory of a grave within the soil which the king had given him to defend. with an ominous perception that, as his departing footsteps echoed adown the staircase, the sway of britain was passing forever from new england, he smote his clinched hand on his brow, and cursed the destiny that had flung the shame of a dismembered empire upon him. "would to god," cried he, hardly repressing his tears of rage, "that the rebels were even now at the doorstep! a blood-stain upon the floor should then bear testimony that the last british ruler was faithful to his trust." the tremulous voice of a woman replied to his exclamation. "heaven's cause and the king's are one," it said. "go forth, sir william howe, and trust in heaven to bring back a royal governor in triumph." subduing, at once, the passion to which he had yielded only in the faith that it was unwitnessed, sir william howe became conscious that an aged woman, leaning on a gold-headed staff, was standing betwixt him and the door. it was old esther dudley, who had dwelt almost immemorial years in this mansion, until her presence seemed as inseparable from it as the recollections of its history. she was the daughter of an ancient and once eminent family, which had fallen into poverty and decay, and left its last descendant no resource save the bounty of the king, nor any shelter except within the walls of the province house. an office in the household, with merely nominal duties, had been assigned to her as a pretext for the payment of a small pension, the greater part of which she expended in adorning herself with an antique magnificence of attire. the claims of esther dudley's gentle blood were acknowledged by all the successive governors; and they treated her with the punctilious courtesy which it was her foible to demand, not always with success, from a neglectful world. the only actual share which she assumed in the business of the mansion was to glide through its passages and public chambers, late at night, to see that the servants had dropped no fire from their flaring torches, nor left embers crackling and blazing on the hearths. perhaps it was this invariable custom of walking her rounds in the hush of midnight that caused the superstition of the times to invest the old woman with attributes of awe and mystery; fabling that she had entered the portal of the province house, none knew whence, in the train of the first royal governor, and that it was her fate to dwell there till the last should have departed. but sir william howe, if he ever heard this legend, had forgotten it. "mistress dudley, why are you loitering here?" asked he, with some severity of tone. "it is my pleasure to be the last in this mansion of the king." "not so, if it please your excellency," answered the time-stricken woman. "this roof has sheltered me long. i will not pass from it until they bear me to the tomb of my forefathers. what other shelter is there for old esther dudley, save the province house or the grave?" "now heaven forgive me!" said sir william howe to himself. "i was about to leave this wretched old creature to starve or beg. take this, good mistress dudley," he added, putting a purse into her hands. "king george's head on these golden guineas is sterling yet, and will continue so, i warrant you, even should the rebels crown john hancock their king. that purse will buy a better shelter than the province house can now afford." "while the burden of life remains upon me, i will have no other shelter than this roof," persisted esther dudley, striking her staff upon the floor with a gesture that expressed immovable resolve. "and when your excellency returns in triumph, i will totter into the porch to welcome you." "my poor old friend!" answered the british general,--and all his manly and martial pride could no longer restrain a gush of bitter tears. "this is an evil hour for you and me. the province which the king intrusted to my charge is lost. i go hence in misfortune--perchance in disgrace--to return no more. and you, whose present being is incorporated with the past--who have seen governor after governor, in stately pageantry, ascend these steps--whose whole life has been an observance of majestic ceremonies, and a worship of the king--how will you endure the change? come with us! bid farewell to a land that has shaken off its allegiance, and live still under a royal government, at halifax." "never, never!" said the pertinacious old dame. "here will i abide; and king george shall still have one true subject in his disloyal province." "beshrew the old fool!" muttered sir william howe, growing impatient of her obstinacy, and ashamed of the emotion into which he had been betrayed. "she is the very moral of old-fashioned prejudice, and could exist nowhere but in this musty edifice. well, then, mistress dudley, since you will needs tarry, i give the province house in charge to you. take this key, and keep it safe until myself, or some other royal governor, shall demand it of you." smiling bitterly at himself and her, he took the heavy key of the province house, and delivering it into the old lady's hands, drew his cloak around him for departure. as the general glanced back at esther dudley's antique figure, he deemed her well fitted for such a charge, as being so perfect a representative of the decayed past--of an age gone by, with its manners, opinions, faith and feelings, all fallen into oblivion or scorn--of what had once been a reality, but was now merely a vision of faded magnificence. then sir william howe strode forth, smiting his clinched hands together, in the fierce anguish of his spirit; and old esther dudley was left to keep watch in the lonely province house, dwelling there with memory; and if hope ever seemed to flit around her, still was it memory in disguise. the total change of affairs that ensued on the departure of the british troops did not drive the venerable lady from her stronghold. there was not, for many years afterwards, a governor of massachusetts; and the magistrates, who had charge of such matters, saw no objection to esther dudley's residence in the province house, especially as they must otherwise have paid a hireling for taking care of the premises, which with her was a labor of love. and so they left her the undisturbed mistress of the old historic edifice. many and strange were the fables which the gossips whispered about her, in all the chimney corners of the town. among the time-worn articles of furniture that had been left in the mansion there was a tall, antique mirror, which was well worthy of a tale by itself, and perhaps may hereafter be the theme of one. the gold of its heavily-wrought frame was tarnished, and its surface so blurred, that the old woman's figure, whenever she paused before it, looked indistinct and ghost-like. but it was the general belief that esther could cause the governors of the overthrown dynasty, with the beautiful ladies who had once adorned their festivals, the indian chiefs who had come up to the province house to hold council or swear allegiance, the grim provincial warriors, the severe clergymen--in short, all the pageantry of gone days--all the figures that ever swept across the broad plate of glass in former times--she could cause the whole to reappear, and people the inner world of the mirror with shadows of old life. such legends as these, together with the singularity of her isolated existence, her age, and the infirmity that each added winter flung upon her, made mistress dudley the object both of fear and pity; and it was partly the result of either sentiment that, amid all the angry license of the times, neither wrong nor insult ever fell upon her unprotected head. indeed, there was so much haughtiness in her demeanor towards intruders, among whom she reckoned all persons acting under the new authorities, that it was really an affair of no small nerve to look her in the face. and to do the people justice, stern republicans as they had now become, they were well content that the old gentlewoman, in her hoop petticoat and faded embroidery, should still haunt the palace of ruined pride and overthrown power, the symbol of a departed system, embodying a history in her person. so esther dudley dwelt year after year in the province house, still reverencing all that others had flung aside, still faithful to her king, who, so long as the venerable dame yet held her post, might be said to retain one true subject in new england, and one spot of the empire that had been wrested from him. and did she dwell there in utter loneliness? rumor said, not so. whenever her chill and withered heart desired warmth, she was wont to summon a black slave of governor shirley's from the blurred mirror, and send him in search of guests who had long ago been familiar in those deserted chambers. forth went the sable messenger, with the starlight or the moonshine gleaming through him, and did his errand in the burial ground, knocking at the iron doors of tombs, or upon the marble slabs that covered them, and whispering to those within: "my mistress, old esther dudley, bids you to the province house at midnight." and punctually as the clock of the old south told twelve came the shadows of the olivers, the hutchinsons, the dudleys, all the grandees of a by-gone generation, gliding beneath the portal into the well-known mansion, where esther mingled with them as if she likewise were a shade. without vouching for the truth of such traditions, it is certain that mistress dudley sometimes assembled a few of the stanch, though crestfallen, old tories, who had lingered in the rebel town during those days of wrath and tribulation. out of a cobwebbed bottle, containing liquor that a royal governor might have smacked his lips over, they quaffed healths to the king, and babbled treason to the republic, feeling as if the protecting shadow of the throne were still flung around them. but, draining the last drops of their liquor, they stole timorously homeward, and answered not again if the rude mob reviled them in the street. yet esther dudley's most frequent and favored guests were the children of the town. towards them she was never stern. a kindly and loving nature, hindered elsewhere from its free course by a thousand rocky prejudices, lavished itself upon these little ones. by bribes of gingerbread of her own making, stamped with a royal crown, she tempted their sunny sportiveness beneath the gloomy portal of the province house, and would often beguile them to spend a whole play-day there, sitting in a circle round the verge of her hoop petticoat, greedily attentive to her stories of a dead world. and when these little boys and girls stole forth again from the dark, mysterious mansion, they went bewildered, full of old feelings that graver people had long ago forgotten, rubbing their eyes at the world around them as if they had gone astray into ancient times, and become children of the past. at home, when their parents asked where they had loitered such a weary while, and with whom they had been at play, the children would talk of all the departed worthies of the province, as far back as governor belcher and the haughty dame of sir william phipps. it would seem as though they had been sitting on the knees of these famous personages, whom the grave had hidden for half a century, and had toyed with the embroidery of their rich waistcoats, or roguishly pulled the long curls of their flowing wigs. "but governor belcher has been dead this many a year," would the mother say to her little boy. "and did you really see him at the province house?" "oh yes, dear mother! yes!" the half-dreaming child would answer. "but when old esther had done speaking about him he faded away out of his chair." thus, without affrighting her little guests, she led them by the hand into the chambers of her own desolate heart, and made childhood's fancy discern the ghosts that haunted there. living so continually in her own circle of ideas, and never regulating her mind by a proper reference to present things, esther dudley appears to have grown partially crazed. it was found that she had no right sense of the progress and true state of the revolutionary war, but held a constant faith that the armies of britain were victorious on every field, and destined to be ultimately triumphant. whenever the town rejoiced for a battle won by washington, or gates, or morgan or greene, the news, in passing through the door of the province house, as through the ivory gate of dreams, became metamorphosed into a strange tale of the prowess of howe, clinton, or cornwallis. sooner or later it was her invincible belief the colonies would be prostrate at the footstool of the king. sometimes she seemed to take for granted that such was already the case. on one occasion, she startled the townspeople by a brilliant illumination of the province house, with candles at every pane of glass, and a transparency of the king's initials and a crown of light in the great balcony window. the figure of the aged woman in the most gorgeous of her mildewed velvets and brocades was seen passing from casement to casement, until she paused before the balcony, and flourished a huge key above her head. her wrinkled visage actually gleamed with triumph, as if the soul within her were a festal lamp. "what means this blaze of light? what does old esther's joy portend?" whispered a spectator. "it is frightful to see her gliding about the chambers, and rejoicing there without a soul to bear her company." "it is as if she were making merry in a tomb," said another. "pshaw! it is no such mystery," observed an old man, after some brief exercise of memory. "mistress dudley is keeping jubilee for the king of england's birthday." then the people laughed aloud, and would have thrown mud against the blazing transparency of the king's crown and initials, only that they pitied the poor old dame, who was so dismally triumphant amid the wreck and ruin of the system to which she appertained. oftentimes it was her custom to climb the weary staircase that wound upward to the cupola, and thence strain her dimmed eyesight seaward and countryward, watching for a british fleet, or for the march of a grand procession, with the king's banner floating over it. the passengers in the street below would discern her anxious visage, and send up a shout, "when the golden indian on the province house shall shoot his arrow, and when the cock on the old south spire shall crow, then look for a royal governor again!"--for this had grown a byword through the town. and at last, after long, long years, old esther dudley knew, or perchance she only dreamed, that a royal governor was on the eve of returning to the province house, to receive the heavy key which sir william howe had committed to her charge. now it was the fact that intelligence bearing some faint analogy to esther's version of it was current among the townspeople. she set the mansion in the best order that her means allowed, and, arraying herself in silks and tarnished gold, stood long before the blurred mirror to admire her own magnificence. as she gazed, the gray and withered lady moved her ashen lips, murmuring half aloud, talking to shapes that she saw within the mirror, to shadows of her own fantasies, to the household friends of memory, and bidding them rejoice with her and come forth to meet the governor. and while absorbed in this communion, mistress dudley heard the tramp of many footsteps in the street, and, looking out at the window, beheld what she construed as the royal governor's arrival. "o happy day! o blessed, blessed hour!" she exclaimed. "let me but bid him welcome within the portal, and my task in the province house, and on earth, is done!" then with tottering feet, which age and tremulous joy caused to tread amiss, she hurried down the grand staircase, her silks sweeping and rustling as she went, so that the sound was as if a train of spectral courtiers were thronging from the dim mirror. and esther dudley fancied that as soon as the wide door should be flung open, all the pomp and splendor of by-gone times would pace majestically into the province house, and the gilded tapestry of the past would be brightened by the sunshine of the present. she turned the key--withdrew it from the lock--unclosed the door--and stepped across the threshold. advancing up the court-yard appeared a person of most dignified mien, with tokens, as esther interpreted them, of gentle blood, high rank, and long-accustomed authority, even in his walk and every gesture. he was richly dressed, but wore a gouty shoe which, however, did not lessen the stateliness of his gait. around and behind him were people in plain civic dresses, and two or three war-worn veterans, evidently officers of rank, arrayed in a uniform of blue and buff. but esther dudley, firm in the belief that had fastened its roots about her heart, beheld only the principal personage, and never doubted that this was the long-looked-for governor, to whom she was to surrender up her charge. as he approached, she involuntary sank down on her knees and tremblingly held forth the heavy key. "receive my trust! take it quickly!" cried she, "for methinks death is striving to snatch away my triumph. but he comes too late. thank heaven for this blessed hour! god save king george!" "that, madam, is a strange prayer to be offered up at such a moment," replied the unknown guest of the province house, and courteously removing his hat, he offered his arm to raise the aged woman. "yet, in reverence for your gray hairs and long-kept faith, heaven forbid that any here should say you nay. over the realms which still acknowledge his sceptre, god save king george!" esther dudley started to her feet, and hastily clutching back the key gazed with fearful earnestness at the stranger; and dimly and doubtfully, as if suddenly awakened from a dream, her bewildered eyes half recognized his face. years ago she had known him among the gentry of the province. but the ban of the king had fallen upon him! how, then, came the doomed victim here? proscribed, excluded from mercy, the monarch's most dreaded and hated foe, this new england merchant had stood triumphantly against a kingdom's strength; and his foot now trod upon humbled royalty, as he ascended the steps of the province house, the people's chosen governor of massachusetts. "wretch, wretch that i am!" muttered the old woman, with such a heart-broken expression that the tears gushed from the stranger's eyes "have i bidden a traitor welcome? come, death! come quickly!" "alas, venerable lady!" said governor hancock, tending her his support with all the reverence that a courtier would have shown to a queen. "your life has been prolonged until the world has changed around you. you have treasured up all that time has rendered worthless--the principles, feelings, manners, modes of being and acting, which another generation has flung aside--and you are a symbol of the past. and i, and these around me--we represent a new race of men--living no longer in the past, scarcely in the present--but projecting our lives forward into the future. ceasing to model ourselves on ancestral superstitions, it is our faith and principle to press onward, onward! yet," continued he, turning to his attendants, "let us reverence, for the last time, the stately and gorgeous prejudices of the tottering past!" while the republican governor spoke, he had continued to support the helpless form of esther dudley; her weight grew heavier against his arm; but at last, with a sudden effort to free herself, the ancient woman sank down beside one of the pillars of the portal. the key of the province house fell from her grasp, and clanked against the stone. "i have been faithful unto death," murmured she. "god save the king!" "she hath done her office!" said hancock solemnly. "we will follow her reverently to the tomb of her ancestors; and then, my fellow-citizens, onward--onward! we are no longer children of the past!" as the old loyalist concluded his narrative, the enthusiasm which had been fitfully flashing within his sunken eyes, and quivering across his wrinkled visage, faded away, as if all the lingering fire of his soul were extinguished. just then, too, a lamp upon the mantel-piece threw out a dying gleam, which vanished as speedily as it shot upward, compelling our eyes to grope for one another's features by the dim glow of the hearth. with such a lingering fire, methought, with such a dying gleam, had the glory of the ancient system vanished from the province house, when the spirit of old esther dudley took its flight. and now, again, the clock of the old south threw its voice of ages on the breeze, knolling the hourly knell of the past, crying out far and wide through the multitudinous city, and filling our ears, as we sat in the dusky chamber, with its reverberating depth of tone. in that same mansion--in that very chamber--what a volume of history had been told off into hours, by the same voice that was now trembling in the air. many a governor had heard those midnight accents, and longed to exchange his stately cares for slumber. and as for mine host and mr. bela tiffany and the old loyalist and me, we had babbled about dreams of the past, until we almost fancied that the clock was still striking in a bygone century. neither of us would have wondered, had a hoop-petticoated phantom of esther dudley tottered into the chamber, walking her rounds in the hush of midnight, as of yore, and motioned us to quench the fading embers of the fire, and leave the historic precincts to herself and her kindred shades. but as no such vision was vouchsafed, i retired unbidden, and would advise mr. tiffany to lay hold of another auditor, being resolved not to show my face in the province house for a good while hence--if ever. the ambitious guest one september night a family had gathered round their hearth, and piled it high with the driftwood of mountain streams, the dry cones of the pine, and the splintered ruins of great trees that had come crashing down the precipice. up the chimney roared the fire, and brightened the room with its broad blaze. the faces of the father and mother had a sober gladness; the children laughed; the eldest daughter was the image of happiness at seventeen; and the aged grandmother, who sat knitting in the warmest place, was the image of happiness grown old. they had found the "herb, heart's-ease," in the bleakest spot of all new england. this family were situated in the notch of the white hills, where the wind was sharp throughout the year, and pitilessly cold in the winter,--giving their cottage all its fresh inclemency before it descended on the valley of the saco. they dwelt in a cold spot and a dangerous one; for a mountain towered above their heads, so steep, that the stones would often rumble down its sides and startle them at midnight. the daughter had just uttered some simple jest that filled them all with mirth, when the wind came through the notch and seemed to pause before their cottage--rattling the door, with a sound of wailing and lamentation, before it passed into the valley. for a moment it saddened them, though there was nothing unusual in the tones. but the family were glad again when they perceived that the latch was lifted by some traveller, whose footsteps had been unheard amid the dreary blast which heralded his approach, and wailed as he was entering, and went moaning away from the door. though they dwelt in such a solitude, these people held daily converse with the world. the romantic pass of the notch is a great artery, through which the life-blood of internal commerce is continually throbbing between maine, on one side, and the green mountains and the shores of the st. lawrence, on the other. the stage-coach always drew up before the door of the cottage. the wayfarer, with no companion but his staff, paused here to exchange a word, that the sense of loneliness might not utterly overcome him ere he could pass through the cleft of the mountain, or reach the first house in the valley. and here the teamster, on his way to portland market, would put up for the night; and, if a bachelor, might sit an hour beyond the usual bedtime, and steal a kiss from the mountain maid at parting. it was one of those primitive taverns where the traveller pays only for food and lodging, but meets with a homely kindness beyond all price. when the footsteps were heard, therefore, between the outer door and the inner one, the whole family rose up, grandmother, children and all, as if about to welcome some one who belonged to them, and whose fate was linked with theirs. the door was opened by a young man. his face at first wore the melancholy expression, almost despondency, of one who travels a wild and bleak road, at nightfall and alone, but soon brightened up when he saw the kindly warmth of his reception. he felt his heart spring forward to meet them all, from the old woman, who wiped a chair with her apron, to the little child that held out its arms to him. one glance and smile placed the stranger on a footing of innocent familiarity with the eldest daughter. "ah, this fire is the right thing!" cried he; "especially when there is such a pleasant circle round it. i am quite benumbed; for the notch is just like the pipe of a great pair of bellows; it has blown a terrible blast in my face all the way from bartlett." "then you are going towards vermont?" said the master of the house, as he helped to take a light knapsack off the young man's shoulders. "yes; to burlington, and far enough beyond," replied he. "i meant to have been at ethan crawford's to-night; but a pedestrian lingers along such a road as this. it is no matter; for, when i saw this good fire, and all your cheerful faces, i felt as if you had kindled it on purpose for me, and were waiting my arrival. so i shall sit down among you, and make myself at home." the frank-hearted stranger had just drawn his chair to the fire when something like a heavy footstep was heard without, rushing down the steep side of the mountain, as with long and rapid strides, and taking such a leap in passing the cottage as to strike the opposite precipice. the family held their breath, because they knew the sound, and their guest held his by instinct. "the old mountain has thrown a stone at us, for fear we should forget him," said the landlord, recovering himself. "he sometimes nods his head and threatens to come down; but we are old neighbors, and agree together pretty well upon the whole. besides we have a sure place of refuge hard by if he should be coming in good earnest." let us now suppose the stranger to have finished his supper of bear's meat; and, by his natural felicity of manner, to have placed himself on a footing of kindness with the whole family, so that they talked as freely together as if he belonged to their mountain brood. he was of a proud, yet gentle spirit--haughty and reserved among the rich and great; but ever ready to stoop his head to the lowly cottage door, and be like a brother or a son at the poor man's fireside. in the household of the notch he found warmth and simplicity of feeling, the pervading intelligence of new england, and a poetry of native growth, which they had gathered when they little thought of it from the mountain peaks and chasms, and at the very threshold of their romantic and dangerous abode. he had travelled far and alone; his whole life, indeed, had been a solitary path; for, with the lofty caution of his nature, he had kept himself apart from those who might otherwise have been his companions. the family, too, though so kind and hospitable, had that consciousness of unity among themselves, and separation from the world at large, which, in every domestic circle, should still keep a holy place where no stranger may intrude. but this evening a prophetic sympathy impelled the refined and educated youth to pour out his heart before the simple mountaineers, and constrained them to answer him with the same free confidence. and thus it should have been. is not the kindred of a common fate a closer tie than that of birth? the secret of the young man's character was a high and abstracted ambition. he could have borne to live an undistinguished life, but not to be forgotten in the grave. yearning desire had been transformed to hope; and hope, long cherished, had become like certainty, that, obscurely as he journeyed now, a glory was to beam on all his pathway,--though not, perhaps, while he was treading it. but when posterity should gaze back into the gloom of what was now the present, they would trace the brightness of his footsteps, brightening as meaner glories faded, and confess that a gifted one had passed from his cradle to his tomb with none to recognize him. "as yet," cried the stranger--his cheek glowing and his eye flashing with enthusiasm--"as yet, i have done nothing. were i to vanish from the earth to-morrow, none would know so much of me as you: that a nameless youth came up at nightfall from the valley of the saco, and opened his heart to you in the evening, and passed through the notch by sunrise, and was seen no more. not a soul would ask, 'who was he? whither did the wanderer go?' but i cannot die till i have achieved my destiny. then, let death come! i shall have built my monument!" there was a continual flow of natural emotion, gushing forth amid abstracted reverie, which enabled the family to understand this young man's sentiments, though so foreign from their own. with quick sensibility of the ludicrous, he blushed at the ardor into which he had been betrayed. "you laugh at me," said he, taking the eldest daughter's hand, and laughing himself. "you think my ambition as nonsensical as if i were to freeze myself to death on the top of mount washington, only that people might spy at me from the country round about. and, truly, that would be a noble pedestal for a man's statue!" "it is better to sit here by this fire," answered the girl, blushing, "and be comfortable and contented, though nobody thinks about us." "i suppose," said her father, after a fit of musing, "there is something natural in what the young man says; and if my mind had been turned that way, i might have felt just the same. it is strange, wife, how his talk has set my head running on things that are pretty certain never to come to pass." "perhaps they may," observed the wife. "is the man thinking what he will do when he is a widower?" "no, no!" cried he, repelling the idea with reproachful kindness. "when i think of your death, esther, i think of mine, too. but i was wishing we had a good farm in bartlett, or bethlehem, or littleton, or some other township round the white mountains; but not where they could tumble on our heads. i should want to stand well with my neighbors and be called squire, and sent to general court for a term or two; for a plain, honest man may do as much good there as a lawyer. and when i should be grown quite an old man, and you an old woman, so as not to be long apart, i might die happy enough in my bed, and leave you all crying around me. a slate gravestone would suit me as well as a marble one--with just my name and age, and a verse of a hymn, and something to let people know that i lived an honest man and died a christian." "there now!" exclaimed the stranger; "it is our nature to desire a monument, be it slate or marble, or a pillar of granite, or a glorious memory in the universal heart of man." "we're in a strange way, to-night," said the wife, with tears in her eyes. "they say it's a sign of something, when folks' minds go a wandering so. hark to the children!" they listened accordingly. the younger children had been put to bed in another room, but with an open door between, so that they could be heard talking busily among themselves. one and all seemed to have caught the infection from the fireside circle, and were outvying each other in wild wishes, and childish projects of what they would do when they came to be men and women. at length a little boy, instead of addressing his brothers and sisters, called out to his mother. "i'll tell you what i wish, mother," cried he. "i want you and father and grandma'm, and all of us, and the stranger too, to start right away, and go and take a drink out of the basin of the flume!" nobody could help laughing at the child's notion of leaving a warm bed, and dragging them from a cheerful fire, to visit the basin of the flume,--a brook, which tumbles over the precipice, deep within the notch. the boy had hardly spoken when a wagon rattled along the road, and stopped a moment before the door. it appeared to contain two or three men, who were cheering their hearts with the rough chorus of a song, which resounded, in broken notes, between the cliffs, while the singers hesitated whether to continue their journey or put up here for the night. "father," said the girl, "they are calling you by name." but the good man doubted whether they had really called him, and was unwilling to show himself too solicitous of gain by inviting people to patronize his house. he therefore did not hurry to the door; and the lash being soon applied, the travellers plunged into the notch, still singing and laughing, though their music and mirth came back drearily from the heart of the mountain. "there, mother!" cried the boy, again. "they'd have given us a ride to the flume." again they laughed at the child's pertinacious fancy for a night ramble. but it happened that a light cloud passed over the daughter's spirit; she looked gravely into the fire, and drew a breath that was almost a sigh. it forced its way, in spite of a little struggle to repress it. then starting and blushing, she looked quickly round the circle, as if they had caught a glimpse into her bosom. the stranger asked what she had been thinking of. "nothing," answered she, with a downcast smile. "only i felt lonesome just then." "oh, i have always had a gift of feeling what is in other people's hearts," said he, half seriously. "shall i tell the secrets of yours? for i know what to think when a young girl shivers by a warm hearth, and complains of lonesomeness at her mother's side. shall i put these feelings into words?" "they would not be a girl's feelings any longer if they could be put into words," replied the mountain nymph, laughing, but avoiding his eye. all this was said apart. perhaps a germ of love was springing in their hearts, so pure that it might blossom in paradise, since it could not be matured on earth; for women worship such gentle dignity as his; and the proud, contemplative, yet kindly soul is oftenest captivated by simplicity like hers. but while they spoke softly, and he was watching the happy sadness, the lightsome shadows, the shy yearnings of a maiden's nature, the wind through the notch took a deeper and drearier sound. it seemed, as the fanciful stranger said, like the choral strain of the spirits of the blast, who in old indian times had their dwelling among these mountains, and made their heights and recesses a sacred region. there was a wail along the road, as if a funeral were passing. to chase away the gloom, the family threw pine branches on their fire, till the dry leaves crackled and the flame arose, discovering once again a scene of peace and humble happiness. the light hovered about them fondly, and caressed them all. there were the little faces of the children, peeping from their bed apart and here the father's frame of strength, the mother's subdued and careful mien, the high-browed youth, the budding girl, and the good old grandam, still knitting in the warmest place. the aged woman looked up from her task, and, with fingers ever busy, was the next to speak. "old folks have their notions," said she, "as well as young ones. you've been wishing and planning; and letting your heads run on one thing and another, till you've set my mind a wandering too. now what should an old woman wish for, when she can go but a step or two before she comes to her grave? children, it will haunt me night and day till i tell you." "what is it, mother?" cried the husband and wife at once. then the old woman, with an air of mystery which drew the circle closer round the fire, informed them that she had provided her graveclothes some years before,--a nice linen shroud, a cap with a muslin ruff, and everything of a finer sort than she had worn since her wedding day. but this evening an old superstition had strangely recurred to her. it used to be said, in her younger days, that if anything were amiss with a corpse, if only the ruff were not smooth, or the cap did not set right, the corpse in the coffin and beneath the clods would strive to put up its cold hands and arrange it. the bare thought made her nervous. "don't talk so, grandmother!" said the girl, shuddering. "now,"--continued the old woman, with singular earnestness, yet smiling strangely at her own folly,--"i want one of you, my children--when your mother is dressed and in the coffin--i want one of you to hold a looking-glass over my face. who knows but i may take a glimpse at myself, and see whether all's right?" "old and young, we dream of graves and monuments," murmured the stranger youth. "i wonder how mariners feel when the ship is sinking, and they, unknown and undistinguished, are to be buried together in the ocean--that wide and nameless sepulchre?" for a moment, the old woman's ghastly conception so engrossed the minds of her hearers that a sound abroad in the night, rising like the roar of a blast, had grown broad, deep, and terrible, before the fated group were conscious of it. the house and all within it trembled; the foundations of the earth seemed to be shaken, as if this awful sound were the peal of the last trump. young and old exchanged one wild glance, and remained an instant, pale, affrighted, without utterance, or power to move. then the same shriek burst simultaneously from all their lips. "the slide! the slide!" the simplest words must intimate, but not portray, the unutterable horror of the catastrophe. the victims rushed from their cottage, and sought refuge in what they deemed a safer spot--where, in contemplation of such an emergency, a sort of barrier had been reared. alas! they had quitted their security, and fled right into the pathway of destruction. down came the whole side of the mountain, in a cataract of ruin. just before it reached the house, the stream broke into two branches--shivered not a window there, but overwhelmed the whole vicinity, blocked up the road, and annihilated everything in its dreadful course. long ere the thunder of the great slide had ceased to roar among the mountains, the mortal agony had been endured, and the victims were at peace. their bodies were never found. the next morning, the light smoke was seen stealing from the cottage chimney up the mountain side. within, the fire was yet smouldering on the hearth, and the chairs in a circle round it, as if the inhabitants had but gone forth to view the devastation of the slide, and would shortly return, to thank heaven for their miraculous escape. all had left separate tokens, by which those who had known the family were made to shed a tear for each. who has not heard their name? the story has been told far and wide, and will forever be a legend of these mountains. poets have sung their fate. there were circumstances which led some to suppose that a stranger had been received into the cottage on this awful night, and had shared the catastrophe of all its inmates. others denied that there were sufficient grounds for such a conjecture. woe for the high-souled youth, with his dream of earthly immortality! his name and person utterly unknown; his history, his way of life, his plans, a mystery never to be solved, his death and his existence equally a doubt! whose was the agony of that death moment? peter goldthwaite's treasure "and so, peter, you won't even consider of the business?" said mr. john brown, buttoning his surtout over the snug rotundity of his person, and drawing on his gloves. "you positively refuse to let me have this crazy old house, and the land under and adjoining, at the price named?" "neither at that, nor treble the sum," responded the gaunt, grizzled, and threadbare peter goldthwaite. "the fact is, mr. brown, you must find another site for your brick block, and be content to leave my estate with the present owner. next summer, i intend to put a splendid new mansion over the cellar of the old house." "pho, peter!" cried mr. brown, as he opened the kitchen door; "content yourself with building castles in the air, where house-lots are cheaper than on earth, to say nothing of the cost of bricks and mortar. such foundations are solid enough for your edifices, while this underneath us is just the thing for mine; and so we may both be suited. what say you again?" "precisely what i said before, mr. brown," answered peter goldthwaite. "and as for castles in the air, mine may not be as magnificent as that sort of architecture, but perhaps as substantial, mr. brown, as the very respectable brick block with dry goods stores, tailors' shops, and banking rooms on the lower floor, and lawyers' offices in the second story, which you are so anxious to substitute." "and the cost, peter, eh?" said mr. brown, as he withdrew, in something of a pet. "that, i suppose, will be provided for, off-hand, by drawing a check on bubble bank!" john brown and peter goldthwaite had been jointly known to the commercial world between twenty and thirty years before, under the firm of goldthwaite & brown; which co-partnership, however, was speedily dissolved by the natural incongruity of its constituent parts. since that event, john brown, with exactly the qualities of a thousand other john browns, and by just such plodding methods as they used, had prospered wonderfully, and become one of the wealthiest john browns on earth. peter goldthwaite, on the contrary, after innumerable schemes, which ought to have collected all the coin and paper currency of the country into his coffers, was as needy a gentleman as ever wore a patch upon his elbow. the contrast between him and his former partner may be briefly marked; for brown never reckoned upon luck, yet always had it; while peter made luck the main condition of his projects, and always missed it. while the means held out, his speculations had been magnificent, but were chiefly confined, of late years, to such small business as adventures in the lottery. once he had gone on a gold-gathering expedition somewhere to the south, and ingeniously contrived to empty his pockets more thoroughly than ever; while others, doubtless, were filling theirs with native bullion by the handful. more recently he had expended a legacy of a thousand or two of dollars in purchasing mexican scrip, and thereby became the proprietor of a province; which, however, so far as peter could find out, was situated where he might have had an empire for the same money,--in the clouds. from a search after this valuable real estate peter returned so gaunt and threadbare that, on reaching new england, the scarecrows in the cornfields beckoned to him, as he passed by. "they did but flutter in the wind," quoth peter goldthwaite. no, peter, they beckoned, for the scarecrows knew their brother! at the period of our story his whole visible income would not have paid the tax of the old mansion in which we find him. it was one of those rusty, moss-grown, many-peaked wooden houses, which are scattered about the streets of our elder towns, with a beetle-browed second story projecting over the foundation, as if it frowned at the novelty around it. this old paternal edifice, needy as he was, and though, being centrally situated on the principal street of the town, it would have brought him a handsome sum, the sagacious peter had his own reasons for never parting with, either by auction or private sale. there seemed, indeed, to be a fatality that connected him with his birthplace; for, often as he had stood on the verge of ruin, and standing there even now, he had not yet taken the step beyond it which would have compelled him to surrender the house to his creditors. so here he dwelt with bad luck till good should come. here then in his kitchen, the only room where a spark of fire took off the chill of a november evening, poor peter goldthwaite had just been visited by his rich old partner. at the close of their interview, peter, with rather a mortified look, glanced downwards at his dress, parts of which appeared as ancient as the days of goldthwaite & brown. his upper garment was a mixed surtout, wofully faded, and patched with newer stuff on each elbow; beneath this he wore a threadbare black coat, some of the silk buttons of which had been replaced with others of a different pattern; and lastly, though he lacked not a pair of gray pantaloons, they were very shabby ones, and had been partially turned brown by the frequent toasting of peter's shins before a scanty fire. peter's person was in keeping with his goodly apparel. gray-headed, hollow-eyed, pale-cheeked, and lean-bodied, he was the perfect picture of a man who had fed on windy schemes and empty hopes, till he could neither live on such unwholesome trash, nor stomach more substantial food. but, withal, this peter goldthwaite, crack-brained simpleton as, perhaps, he was, might have cut a very brilliant figure in the world, had he employed his imagination in the airy business of poetry, instead of making it a demon of mischief in mercantile pursuits. after all, he was no bad fellow, but as harmless as a child, and as honest and honorable, and as much of the gentleman which nature meant him for, as an irregular life and depressed circumstances will permit any man to be. as peter stood on the uneven bricks of his hearth, looking round at the disconsolate old kitchen, his eyes began to kindle with the illumination of an enthusiasm that never long deserted him. he raised his hand, clinched it, and smote it energetically against the smoky panel over the fireplace. "the time is come!" said he. "with such a treasure at command, it were folly to be a poor man any longer. to-morrow morning i will begin with the garret, nor desist till i have torn the house down!" deep in the chimney-corner, like a witch in a dark cavern, sat a little old woman, mending one of the two pairs of stockings wherewith peter goldthwaite kept his toes from being frostbitten. as the feet were ragged past all darning, she had cut pieces out of a cast-off flannel petticoat, to make new soles. tabitha porter was an old maid, upwards of sixty years of age, fifty-five of which she had sat in that same chimney-corner, such being the length of time since peter's grandfather had taken her from the almshouse. she had no friend but peter, nor peter any friend but tabitha; so long as peter might have a shelter for his own head, tabitha would know where to shelter hers; or, being homeless elsewhere, she would take her master by the hand and bring him to her native home, the almshouse. should it ever be necessary, she loved him well enough to feed him with her last morsel, and clothe him with her under petticoat. but tabitha was a queer old woman, and, though never infected with peter's flightiness, had become so accustomed to his freaks and follies that she viewed them all as matters of course. hearing him threaten to tear the house down, she looked quietly up from her work. "best leave the kitchen till the last, mr. peter," said she. "the sooner we have it all down the better," said peter goldthwaite. "i am tired to death of living in this cold, dark, windy, smoky, creaking, groaning, dismal old house. i shall feel like a younger man when we get into my splendid brick mansion, as, please heaven, we shall by this time next autumn. you shall have a room on the sunny side, old tabby, finished and furnished as best may suit your own notions." "i should like it pretty much such a room as this kitchen," answered tabitha. "it will never be like home to me till the chimney-corner gets as black with smoke as this; and that won't be these hundred years. how much do you mean to lay out on the house, mr. peter?" "what is that to the purpose?" exclaimed peter, loftily. "did not my great-granduncle, peter goldthwaite, who died seventy years ago, and whose namesake i am, leave treasure enough to build twenty such?" "i can't say but he did, mr. peter," said tabitha, threading her needle. tabitha well understood that peter had reference to an immense hoard of the precious metals, which was said to exist somewhere in the cellar or walls, or under the floors, or in some concealed closet, or other out-of-the-way nook of the house. this wealth, according to tradition, had been accumulated by a former peter goldthwaite, whose character seems to have borne a remarkable similitude to that of the peter of our story. like him he was a wild projector, seeking to heap up gold by the bushel and the cartload, instead of scraping it together, coin by coin. like peter the second, too, his projects had almost invariably failed, and, but for the magnificent success of the final one, would have left him with hardly a coat and pair of breeches to his gaunt and grizzled person. reports were various as to the nature of his fortunate speculation: one intimating that the ancient peter had made the gold by alchemy; another, that he had conjured it out of people's pockets by the black art; and a third, still more unaccountable, that the devil had given him free access to the old provincial treasury. it was affirmed, however, that some secret impediment had debarred him from the enjoyment of his riches, and that he had a motive for concealing them from his heir, or at any rate had died without disclosing the place of deposit. the present peter's father had faith enough in the story to cause the cellar to be dug over. peter himself chose to consider the legend as an indisputable truth, and, amid his many troubles, had this one consolation that, should all other resources fail, he might build up his fortunes by tearing his house down. yet, unless he felt a lurking distrust of the golden tale, it is difficult to account for his permitting the paternal roof to stand so long, since he had never yet seen the moment when his predecessor's treasure would not have found plenty of room in his own strong box. but now was the crisis. should he delay the search a little longer, the house would pass from the lineal heir, and with it the vast heap of gold, to remain in its burial-place, till the ruin of the aged walls should discover it to strangers of a future generation. "yes!" cried peter goldthwaite, again, "to-morrow i will set about it." the deeper he looked at the matter the more certain of success grew peter. his spirits were naturally so elastic that even now, in the blasted autumn of his age, he could often compete with the spring-time gayety of other people. enlivened by his brightening prospects, he began to caper about the kitchen like a hobgoblin, with the queerest antics of his lean limbs, and gesticulations of his starved features. nay, in the exuberance of his feelings, he seized both of tabitha's hands, and danced the old lady across the floor, till the oddity of her rheumatic motions set him into a roar of laughter, which was echoed back from the rooms and chambers, as if peter goldthwaite were laughing in every one. finally he bounded upward almost out of sight, into the smoke that clouded the roof of the kitchen, and, alighting safely on the floor again, endeavored to resume his customary gravity. "to-morrow, at sunrise," he repeated, taking his lamp to retire to bed, "i'll see whether this treasure be hid in the wall of the garret." "and as we're out of wood, mr. peter," said tabitha, puffing and panting with her late gymnastics, "as fast as you tear the house down, i'll make a fire with the pieces." gorgeous that night were the dreams of peter goldthwaite! at one time he was turning a ponderous key in an iron door not unlike the door of a sepulchre, but which, being opened, disclosed a vault heaped up with gold coin, as plentifully as golden corn in a granary. there were chased goblets, also, and tureens, salvers, dinner dishes, and dish covers of gold, or silver gilt, besides chains and other jewels, incalculably rich, though tarnished with the damps of the vault; for, of all the wealth that was irrevocably lost to the man, whether buried in the earth or sunken in the sea, peter goldthwaite had found it in this one treasure-place. anon, he had returned to the old house as poor as ever, and was received at the door by the gaunt and grizzled figure of a man whom he might have mistaken for himself, only that his garments were of a much elder fashion. but the house, without losing its former aspect, had been changed into a palace of the precious metals. the floors, walls, and ceiling were of burnished silver; the doors, the window frames, the cornices, the balustrades and the steps of the staircase, of pure gold; and silver, with gold bottoms, were the chairs, and gold, standing on silver legs, the high chests of drawers, and silver the bedsteads, with blankets of woven gold, and sheets of silver tissue. the house had evidently been transmuted by a single touch; for it retained all the marks that peter remembered, but in gold or silver instead of wood; and the initials of his name, which, when a boy, he had cut in the wooden door-post, remained as deep in the pillar of gold. a happy man would have been peter goldthwaite except for a certain ocular deception, which, whenever he glanced backwards, caused the house to darken from its glittering magnificence into the sordid gloom of yesterday. up, betimes, rose peter, seized an axe, hammer, and saw, which he had placed by his bedside, and hied him to the garret. it was but scantily lighted up, as yet, by the frosty fragments of a sunbeam, which began to glimmer through the almost opaque bull's-eyes of the window. a moralizer might find abundant themes for his speculative and impracticable wisdom in a garret. there is the limbo of departed fashions, aged trifles. of a day, and whatever was valuable only to one generation of men, and which passed to the garret when that generation passed to the grave, not for safe keeping, but to be out of the way. peter saw piles of yellow and musty account-books, in parchment covers, wherein creditors, long dead and buried, had written the names of dead and buried debtors in ink now so faded that their moss-grown tombstones were more legible. he found old moth-eaten garments all in rags and tatters, or peter would have put them on. here was a naked and rusty sword, not a sword of service, but a gentleman's small french rapier, which had never left its scabbard till it lost it. here were canes of twenty different sorts, but no gold-headed ones, and shoe-buckles of various pattern and material, but not silver nor set with precious stones. here was a large box full of shoes, with high heels and peaked toes. here, on a shelf, were a multitude of phials, half-filled with old apothecaries' stuff, which, when the other half had done its business on peter's ancestors, had been brought hither from the death chamber. here--not to give a longer inventory of articles that will never be put up at auction--was the fragment of a full-length looking-glass, which, by the dust and dimness of its surface, made the picture of these old things look older than the reality. when peter not knowing that there was a mirror there, caught the faint traces of his own figure, he partly imagined that the former peter goldthwaite had come back, either to assist or impede his search for the hidden wealth. and at that moment a strange notion glimmered through his brain that he was the identical peter who had concealed the gold, and ought to know whereabout it lay. this, however, he had unaccountably forgotten. "well, mr. peter!" cried tabitha, on the garret stairs. "have you torn the house down enough to heat the teakettle?" "not yet, old tabby," answered peter; "but that's soon done--as you shall see." with the word in his mouth, he uplifted the axe, and laid about him so vigorously that the dust flew, the boards crashed, and, in a twinkling, the old woman had an apron full of broken rubbish. "we shall get our winter's wood cheap," quoth tabitha. the good work being thus commenced, peter beat down all before him, smiting and hewing at the joists and timbers, unclinching spike-nails, ripping and tearing away boards, with a tremendous racket, from morning till night. he took care, however, to leave the outside shell of the house untouched, so that the neighbors might not suspect what was going on. never, in any of his vagaries, though each had made him happy while it lasted, had peter been happier than now. perhaps, after all, there was something in peter goldthwaite's turn of mind, which brought him an inward recompense for all the external evil that it caused. if he were poor, ill-clad, even hungry, and exposed, as it were, to be utterly annihilated by a precipice of impending ruin, yet only his body remained in these miserable circumstances, while his aspiring soul enjoyed the sunshine of a bright futurity. it was his nature to be always young, and the tendency of his mode of life to keep him so. gray hairs were nothing, no, nor wrinkles, nor infirmity; he might look old, indeed, and be somewhat disagreeably connected with a gaunt old figure, much the worse for wear; but the true, the essential peter was a young man of high hopes, just entering on the world. at the kindling of each new fire, his burnt-out youth rose afresh from the old embers and ashes. it rose exulting now. having lived thus long--not too long, but just to the right age--a susceptible bachelor, with warm and tender dreams, he resolved, so soon as the hidden gold should flash to light, to go a-wooing, and win the love of the fairest maid in town. what heart could resist him? happy peter goldthwaite! every evening--as peter had long absented himself from his former lounging-places, at insurance offices, news-rooms, and bookstores, and as the honor of his company was seldom requested in private circles--he and tabitha used to sit down sociably by the kitchen hearth. this was always heaped plentifully with the rubbish of his day's labor. as the foundation of the fire, there would be a goodly-sized backlog of red oak, which, after being sheltered from rain or damp above a century, still hissed with the heat, and distilled streams of water from each end, as if the tree had been cut down within a week or two. next these were large sticks, sound, black, and heavy, which had lost the principle of decay, and were indestructible except by fire, wherein they glowed like red-hot bars of iron. on this solid basis, tabitha would rear a lighter structure, composed of the splinters of door panels, ornamented mouldings, and such quick combustibles, which caught like straw, and threw a brilliant blaze high up the spacious flue, making its sooty sides visible almost to the chimney-top. meantime, the gleam of the old kitchen would be chased out of the cobwebbed corners and away from the dusky cross-beams overhead, and driven nobody could tell whither, while peter smiled like a gladsome man, and tabitha seemed a picture of comfortable age. all this, of course, was but an emblem of the bright fortune which the destruction of the house would shed upon its occupants. while the dry pine was flaming and crackling, like an irregular discharge of fairy musketry, peter sat looking and listening, in a pleasant state of excitement. but, when the brief blaze and uproar were succeeded by the dark-red glow, the substantial heat, and the deep singing sound, which were to last throughout the evening, his humor became talkative. one night, the hundredth time, he teased tabitha to tell him something new about his great-granduncle. "you have been sitting in that chimney-corner fifty-five years, old tabby, and must have heard many a tradition about him," said peter. "did not you tell me that, when you first came to the house, there was an old woman sitting where you sit now, who had been housekeeper to the famous peter goldthwaite?" "so there was, mr. peter," answered tabitha, "and she was near about a hundred years old. she used to say that she and old peter goldthwaite had often spent a sociable evening by the kitchen fire--pretty much as you and i are doing now, mr. peter." "the old fellow must have resembled me in more points than one," said peter, complacently, "or he never would have grown so rich. but, methinks, he might have invested the money better than he did--no interest!--nothing but good security!--and the house to be torn down to come at it! what made him hide it so snug, tabby?" "because he could not spend it," said tabitha; "for as often as he went to unlock the chest, the old scratch came behind and caught his arm. the money, they say, was paid peter out of his purse; and he wanted peter to give him a deed of this house and land, which peter swore he would not do." "just as i swore to john brown, my old partner," remarked peter. "but this is all nonsense, tabby! i don't believe the story." "well, it may not be just the truth," said tabitha; "for some folks say that peter did make over the house to the old scratch, and that's the reason it has always been so unlucky to them that lived in it. and as soon as peter had given him the deed, the chest flew open, and peter caught up a handful of the gold. but, lo and behold!--there was nothing in his fist but a parcel of old rags." "hold your tongue, you silly old tabby!" cried peter in great wrath. "they were as good golden guineas as ever bore the effigies of the king of england. it seems as if i could recollect the whole circumstance, and how i, or old peter, or whoever it was, thrust in my hand, or his hand, and drew it out all of a blaze with gold. old rags, indeed!" but it was not an old woman's legend that would discourage peter goldthwaite. all night long he slept among pleasant dreams, and awoke at daylight with a joyous throb of the heart, which few are fortunate enough to feel beyond their boyhood. day after day he labored hard without wasting a moment, except at meal times, when tabitha summoned him to the pork and cabbage, or such other sustenance as she had picked up, or providence had sent them. being a truly pious man, peter never failed to ask a blessing; if the food were none of the best, then so much the more earnestly, as it was more needed;--nor to return thanks, if the dinner had been scanty, yet for the good appetite, which was better than a sick stomach at a feast. then did he hurry back to his toil, and, in a moment, was lost to sight in a cloud of dust from the old walls, though sufficiently perceptible to the ear by the clatter which he raised in the midst of it. how enviable is the consciousness of being usefully employed! nothing troubled peter; or nothing but those phantoms of the mind which seem like vague recollections, yet have also the aspect of presentiments. he often paused, with his axe uplifted in the air, and said to himself,--"peter goldthwaite, did you never strike this blow before?" or, "peter, what need of tearing the whole house down? think a little while, and you will remember where the gold is hidden." days and weeks passed on, however, without any remarkable discovery. sometimes, indeed, a lean, gray rat peeped forth at the lean, gray man, wondering what devil had got into the old house, which had always been so peaceable till now. and, occasionally, peter sympathized with the sorrows of a female mouse, who had brought five or six pretty, little, soft and delicate young ones into the world just in time to see them crushed by its ruin. but, as yet, no treasure! by this time, peter, being as determined as fate and as diligent as time, had made an end with the uppermost regions, and got down to the second story, where he was busy in one of the front chambers. it had formerly been the state bed-chamber, and was honored by tradition as the sleeping apartment of governor dudley, and many other eminent guests. the furniture was gone. there were remnants of faded and tattered paper-hangings, but larger spaces of bare wall ornamented with charcoal sketches, chiefly of people's heads in profile. these being specimens of peter's youthful genius, it went more to his heart to obliterate them than if they had been pictures on a church wall by michael angelo. one sketch, however, and that the best one, affected him differently. it represented a ragged man, partly supporting himself on a spade, and bending his lean body over a hole in the earth, with one hand extended to grasp something that he had found. but close behind him, with a fiendish laugh on his features, appeared a figure with horns, a tufted tail, and a cloven hoof. "avaunt, satan!" cried peter. "the man shall have his gold!" uplifting his axe, he hit the horned gentleman such a blow on the head as not only demolished him, but the treasure-seeker also, and caused the whole scene to vanish like magic. moreover, his axe broke quite through the plaster and laths, and discovered a cavity. "mercy on us, mr. peter, are you quarrelling with the old scratch?" said tabitha, who was seeking some fuel to put under the pot. without answering the old woman, peter broke down a further space of the wall, and laid open a small closet or cupboard, on one side of the fireplace, about breast high from the ground. it contained nothing but a brass lamp, covered with verdigris, and a dusty piece of parchment. while peter inspected the latter, tabitha seized the lamp, and began to rub it with her apron. "there is no use in rubbing it, tabitha," said peter. "it is not aladdin's lamp, though i take it to be a token of as much luck. look here tabby!" tabitha took the parchment and held it close to her nose, which was saddled with a pair of iron-bound spectacles. but no sooner had she began to puzzle over it than she burst into a chuckling laugh, holding both her hands against her sides. "you can't make a fool of the old woman!" cried she. "this is your own handwriting, mr. peter! the same as in the letter you sent me from mexico." "there is certainly a considerable resemblance," said peter, again examining the parchment. "but you know yourself, tabby, that this closet must have been plastered up before you came to the house, or i came into the world. no, this is old peter goldthwaite's writing; these columns of pounds, shillings, and pence are his figures, denoting the amount of the treasure; and this at the bottom is, doubtless, a reference to the place of concealment. but the ink has either faded or peeled off, so that it is absolutely illegible. what a pity!" "well, this lamp is as good as new. that's some comfort," said tabitha. "a lamp!" thought peter. "that indicates light on my researches." for the present, peter felt more inclined to ponder on this discovery than to resume his labors. after tabitha had gone down stairs, he stood poring over the parchment, at one of the front windows, which was so obscured with dust that the sun could barely throw an uncertain shadow of the casement across the floor. peter forced it open, and looked out upon the great street of the town, while the sun looked in at his old house. the air, though mild, and even warm, thrilled peter as with a dash of water. it was the first day of the january thaw. the snow lay deep upon the house-tops, but was rapidly dissolving into millions of water-drops, which sparkled downwards through the sunshine, with the noise of a summer shower beneath the eaves. along the street, the trodden snow was as hard and solid as a pavement of white marble, and had not yet grown moist in the spring-like temperature. but when peter thrust forth his head, he saw that the inhabitants, if not the town, were already thawed out by this warm day, after two or three weeks of winter weather. it gladdened him--a gladness with a sigh breathing through it--to see the stream of ladies, gliding along the slippery sidewalks, with their red cheeks set off by quilted hoods, boas, and sable capes, like roses amidst a new kind of foliage. the sleigh-bells jingled to and fro continually: sometimes announcing the arrival of a sleigh from vermont, laden with the frozen bodies of porkers, or sheep, and perhaps a deer or two; sometimes of a regular market-man, with chickens, geese, and turkeys, comprising the whole colony of a barn yard; and sometimes of a farmer and his dame, who had come to town partly for the ride, partly to go a-shopping, and partly for the sale of some eggs and butter. this couple rode in an old-fashioned square sleigh, which had served them twenty winters, and stood twenty summers in the sun beside their door. now, a gentleman and lady skimmed the snow in an elegant car, shaped somewhat like a cockle-shell. now, a stage-sleigh, with its cloth curtains thrust aside to admit the sun, dashed rapidly down the street, whirling in and out among the vehicles that obstructed its passage. now came, round a corner, the similitude of noah's ark on runners, being an immense open sleigh with seats for fifty people, and drawn by a dozen horses. this spacious receptacle was populous with merry maids and merry bachelors, merry girls and boys, and merry old folks, all alive with fun, and grinning to the full width of their mouths. they kept up a buzz of babbling voices and low laughter, and sometimes burst into a deep, joyous shout, which the spectators answered with three cheers, while a gang of roguish boys let drive their snowballs right among the pleasure party. the sleigh passed on, and, when concealed by a bend of the street, was still audible by a distant cry of merriment. never had peter beheld a livelier scene than was constituted by all these accessories: the bright sun, the flashing water-drops, the gleaming snow, the cheerful multitude, the variety of rapid vehicles, and the jingle jangle of merry bells which made the heart dance to their music. nothing dismal was to be seen, except that peaked piece of antiquity, peter goldthwaite's house, which might well look sad externally, since such a terrible consumption was preying on its insides. and peter's gaunt figure, half visible in the projecting second story, was worthy of his house. "peter! how goes it, friend peter?" cried a voice across the street, as peter was drawing in his head. "look out here, peter!" peter looked, and saw his old partner, mr. john brown, on the opposite sidewalk, portly and comfortable, with his furred cloak thrown open, disclosing a handsome surtout beneath. his voice had directed the attention of the whole town to peter goldthwaite's window, and to the dusty scarecrow which appeared at it. "i say, peter," cried mr. brown again, "what the devil are you about there, that i hear such a racket whenever i pass by? you are repairing the old house, i suppose,--making a new one of it, eh?" "too late for that, i am afraid, mr. brown," replied peter. "if i make it new, it will be new inside and out, from the cellar upwards." "had not you better let me take the job?" said mr. brown, significantly. "not yet!" answered peter, hastily shutting the window; for, ever since he had been in search of the treasure, he hated to have people stare at him. as he drew back, ashamed of his outward poverty, yet proud of the secret wealth within his grasp, a haughty smile shone out on peter's visage, with precisely the effect of the dim sunbeams in the squalid chamber. he endeavored to assume such a mien as his ancestor had probably worn, when he gloried in the building of a strong house for a home to many generations of his posterity. but the chamber was very dark to his snow-dazzled eyes, and very dismal too, in contrast with the living scene that he had just looked upon. his brief glimpse into the street had given him a forcible impression of the manner in which the world kept itself cheerful and prosperous, by social pleasures and an intercourse of business, while he, in seclusion, was pursuing an object that might possibly be a phantasm, by a method which most people would call madness. it is one great advantage of a gregarious mode of life that each person rectifies his mind by other minds, and squares his conduct to that of his neighbors, so as seldom to be lost in eccentricity. peter goldthwaite had exposed himself to this influence by merely looking out of the window. for a while, he doubted whether there were any hidden chest of gold, and, in that case, whether he was so exceedingly wise to tear the house down, only to be convinced of its non-existence. but this was momentary. peter, the destroyer, resumed the task which fate had assigned him, nor faltered again till it was accomplished. in the course of his search, he met with many things that are usually found in the ruins of an old house, and also with some that are not. what seemed most to the purpose was a rusty key, which had been thrust into a chink of the wall, with a wooden label appended to the handle, bearing the initials, p. g. another singular discovery was that of a bottle of wine, walled up in an old oven. a tradition ran in the family, that peter's grandfather, a jovial officer in the old french war, had set aside many dozens of the precious liquor for the benefit of topers then unborn. peter needed no cordial to sustain his hopes, and therefore kept the wine to gladden his success. many halfpence did he pick up, that had been lost through the cracks of the floor, and some few spanish coins, and the half of a broken sixpence, which had doubtless been a love token. there was likewise a silver coronation medal of george the third. but old peter goldthwaite's strong box fled from one dark corner to another, or otherwise eluded the second peter's clutches, till, should he seek much farther, he must burrow into the earth. we will not follow him in his triumphant progress, step by step. suffice it that peter worked like a steam-engine, and finished, in that one winter, the job which all the former inhabitants of the house, with time and the elements to aid them, had only half done in a century. except the kitchen, every room and chamber was now gutted. the house was nothing but a shell,--the apparition of a house,--as unreal as the painted edifices of a theatre. it was like the perfect rind of a great cheese, in which a mouse had dwelt and nibbled till it was a cheese no more. and peter was the mouse. what peter had torn down, tabitha had burned up; for she wisely considered that, without a house, they should need no wood to warm it; and therefore economy was nonsense. thus the whole house might be said to have dissolved in smoke, and flown up among the clouds, through the great black flue of the kitchen chimney. it was an admirable parallel to the feat of the man who jumped down his own throat. on the night between the last day of winter and the first of spring, every chink and cranny had been ransacked, except within the precincts of the kitchen. this fated evening was an ugly one. a snow-storm had set in some hours before, and was still driven and tossed about the atmosphere by a real hurricane, which fought against the house as if the prince of the air, in person, were putting the final stroke to peter's labors. the framework being so much weakened, and the inward props removed, it would have been no marvel if, in some stronger wrestle of the blast, the rotten walls of the edifice, and all the peaked roofs, had come crushing down upon the owner's head. he, however, was careless of the peril, but as wild and restless as the night itself, or as the flame that quivered up the chimney at each roar of the tempestuous wind. "the wine, tabitha!" he cried. "my grandfather's rich old wine! we will drink it now!" tabitha arose from her smoke-blackened bench in the chimney-corner, and placed the bottle before peter, close beside the old brass lamp, which had likewise been the prize of his researches. peter held it before his eyes, and, looking through the liquid medium, beheld the kitchen illuminated with a golden glory, which also enveloped tabitha and gilded her silver hair, and converted her mean garments into robes of queenly splendor. it reminded him of his golden dream. "mr. peter," remarked tabitha, "must the wine be drunk before the money is found?" "the money is found!" exclaimed peter, with a sort of fierceness. "the chest is within my reach. i will not sleep, till i have turned this key in the rusty lock. but, first of all, let us drink!" there being no corkscrew in the house, he smote the neck of the bottle with old peter goldthwaite's rusty key, and decapitated the sealed cork at a single blow. he then filled two little china teacups, which tabitha had brought from the cupboard. so clear and brilliant was this aged wine that it shone within the cups, and rendered the sprig of scarlet flowers, at the bottom of each, more distinctly visible than when there had been no wine there. its rich and delicate perfume wasted itself round the kitchen. "drink, tabitha!" cried peter. "blessings on the honest old fellow who set aside this good liquor for you and me! and here's to peter goldthwaite's memory!" "and good cause have we to remember him," quoth tabitha, as she drank. how many years, and through what changes of fortune and various calamity, had that bottle hoarded up its effervescent joy, to be quaffed at last by two such boon companions! a portion of the happiness of the former age had been kept for them, and was now set free, in a crowd of rejoicing visions, to sport amid the storm and desolation of the present time. until they have finished the bottle, we must turn our eyes elsewhere. it so chanced that, on this stormy night, mr. john brown found himself ill at ease in his wire-cushioned arm-chair, by the glowing grate of anthracite which heated his handsome parlor. he was naturally a good sort of a man, and kind and pitiful whenever the misfortunes of others happened to reach his heart through the padded vest of his own prosperity. this evening he had thought much about his old partner, peter goldthwaite, his strange vagaries, and continual ill luck, the poverty of his dwelling, at mr. brown's last visit, and peter's crazed and haggard aspect when he had talked with him at the window. "poor fellow!" thought mr. john brown. "poor, crackbrained peter goldthwaite! for old acquaintance' sake, i ought to have taken care that he was comfortable this rough winter." these feelings grew so powerful that, in spite of the inclement weather, he resolved to visit peter goldthwaite immediately. the strength of the impulse was really singular. every shriek of the blast seemed a summons, or would have seemed so, had mr. brown been accustomed to hear the echoes of his own fancy in the wind. much amazed at such active benevolence, he huddled himself in his cloak, muffled his throat and ears in comforters and handkerchiefs, and, thus fortified, bade defiance to the tempest. but the powers of the air had rather the best of the battle. mr. brown was just weathering the corner, by peter goldthwaite's house, when the hurricane caught him off his feet, tossed him face downward into a snow bank, and proceeded to bury his protuberant part beneath fresh drifts. there seemed little hope of his reappearance earlier than the next thaw. at the same moment his hat was snatched away, and whirled aloft into some far distant region, whence no tidings have as yet returned. nevertheless mr. brown contrived to burrow a passage through the snow-drift, and, with his bare head bent against the storm, floundered onward to peter's door. there was such a creaking and groaning and rattling, and such an ominous shaking throughout the crazy edifice, that the loudest rap would have been inaudible to those within. he therefore entered, without ceremony, and groped his way to the kitchen. his intrusion, even there, was unnoticed. peter and tabitha stood with their backs to the door, stooping over a large chest, which, apparently, they had just dragged from a cavity, or concealed closet, on the left side of the chimney. by the lamp in the old woman's hand, mr. brown saw that the chest was barred and clamped with iron, strengthened with iron plates and studded with iron nails, so as to be a fit receptacle in which the wealth of one century might be hoarded up for the wants of another. peter goldthwaite was inserting a key into the lock. "o tabitha!" cried he, with tremulous rapture, "how shall i endure the effulgence? the gold!--the bright, bright gold! methinks i can remember my last glance at it, just as the iron-plated lid fell down. and ever since, being seventy years, it has been blazing in secret, and gathering its splendor against this glorious moment! it will flash upon us like the noonday sun!" "then shade your eyes, mr. peter!" said tabitha, with somewhat less patience than usual. "but, for mercy's sake, do turn the key!" and, with a strong effort of both hands, peter did force the rusty key through the intricacies of the rusty lock. mr. brown, in the mean time, had drawn near, and thrust his eager visage between those of the other two, at the instant that peter threw up the lid. no sudden blaze illuminated the kitchen. "what's here?" exclaimed tabitha, adjusting her spectacles, and holding the lamp over the open chest. "old peter goldthwaite's hoard of old rags." "pretty much so, tabby," said mr. brown, lifting a handful of the treasure. oh, what a ghost of dead and buried wealth had peter goldthwaite raised, to scare himself out of his scanty wits withal! here was the semblance of an incalculable sum, enough to purchase the whole town, and build every street anew, but which, vast as it was, no sane man would have given a solid sixpence for. what then, in sober earnest, were the delusive treasures of the chest? why, here were old provincial bills of credit, and treasury notes, and bills of land, banks, and all other bubbles of the sort, from the first issue, above a century and a half ago, down nearly to the revolution. bills of a thousand pounds were intermixed with parchment pennies, and worth no more than they. "and this, then, is old peter goldthwaite's treasure!" said john brown. "your namesake, peter, was something like yourself; and, when the provincial currency had depreciated fifty or seventy-five per cent., he bought it up in expectation of a rise. i have heard my grandfather say that old peter gave his father a mortgage of this very house and land, to raise cash for his silly project. but the currency kept sinking, till nobody would take it as a gift; and there was old peter goldthwaite, like peter the second, with thousands in his strong box and hardly a coat to his back. he went mad upon the strength of it. but, never mind, peter! it is just the sort of capital for building castles in the air." "the house will be down about our ears!" cried tabitha, as the wind shook it with increasing violence. "let it fall!" said peter, folding his arms, as he seated himself upon the chest. "no, no, my old friend peter," said john brown. "i have house room for you and tabby, and a safe vault for the chest of treasure. to-morrow we will try to come to an agreement about the sale of this old house. real estate is well up, and i could afford you a pretty handsome price." "and i," observed peter goldthwaite, with reviving spirits, "have a plan for laying out the cash to great advantage." "why, as to that," muttered john brown to himself, "we must apply to the next court for a guardian to take care of the solid cash; and if peter insists upon speculating, he may do it, to his heart's content, with old peter goldthwaite's treasure." the shaker bridal one day, in the sick chamber of father ephraim, who had been forty years the presiding elder over the shaker settlement at goshen, there was an assemblage of several of the chief men of the sect. individuals had come from the rich establishment at lebanon, from canterbury, harvard, and alfred, and from all the other localities where this strange people have fertilized the rugged hills of new england by their systematic industry. an elder was likewise there, who had made a pilgrimage of a thousand miles from a village of the faithful in kentucky, to visit his spiritual kindred, the children of the sainted mother ann. he had partaken of the homely abundance of their tables, had quaffed the far-famed shaker cider, and had joined in the sacred dance, every step of which is believed to alienate the enthusiast from earth, and bear him onward to heavenly purity and bliss. his brethren of the north had now courteously invited him to be present on an occasion, when the concurrence of every eminent member of their community was peculiarly desirable. the venerable father ephraim sat in his easy chair, not only hoary headed and infirm with age, but worn down by a lingering disease, which, it was evident, would very soon transfer his patriarchal staff to other hands. at his footstool stood a man and woman, both clad in the shaker garb. "my brethren," said father ephraim to the surrounding elders, feebly exerting himself to utter these few words, "here are the son and daughter to whom i would commit the trust of which providence is about to lighten my weary shoulders. read their faces, i pray you, and say whether the inward movement of the spirit hath guided my choice aright." accordingly, each elder looked at the two candidates with a most scrutinizing gaze. the man, whose name was adam colburn, had a face sunburnt with labor in the fields, yet intelligent, thoughtful, and traced with cares enough for a whole lifetime, though he had barely reached middle age. there was something severe in his aspect, and a rigidity throughout his person, characteristics that caused him generally to be taken for a school-master, which vocation, in fact, he had formerly exercised for several years. the woman, martha pierson, was somewhat above thirty, thin and pale, as a shaker sister almost invariably is, and not entirely free from that corpse-like appearance which the garb of the sisterhood is so well calculated to impart. "this pair are still in the summer of their years," observed the elder from harvard, a shrewd old man. "i would like better to see the hoar-frost of autumn on their heads. methinks, also, they will be exposed to peculiar temptations, on account of the carnal desires which have heretofore subsisted between them." "nay, brother," said the elder from canterbury, "the hoar-frost and the black-frost hath done its work on brother adam and sister martha, even as we sometimes discern its traces in our cornfields, while they are yet green. and why should we question the wisdom of our venerable father's purpose although this pair, in their early youth, have loved one another as the world's people love? are there not many brethren and sisters among us, who have lived long together in wedlock, yet, adopting our faith, find their hearts purified from all but spiritual affection?" whether or no the early loves of adam and martha had rendered it inexpedient that they should now preside together over a shaker village, it was certainly most singular that such should be the final result of many warm and tender hopes. children of neighboring families, their affection was older even than their school-days; it seemed an innate principle, interfused among all their sentiments and feelings, and not so much a distinct remembrance, as connected with their whole volume of remembrances. but, just as they reached a proper age for their union, misfortunes had fallen heavily on both, and made it necessary that they should resort to personal labor for a bare subsistence. even under these circumstances, martha pierson would probably have consented to unite her fate with adam colburn's, and, secure of the bliss of mutual love, would patiently have awaited the less important gifts of fortune. but adam, being of a calm and cautious character, was loath to relinquish the advantages which a single man possesses for raising himself in the world. year after year, therefore, their marriage had been deferred. adam colburn had followed many vocations, had travelled far, and seen much of the world and of life. martha had earned her bread sometimes as a seamstress, sometimes as help to a farmer's wife, sometimes as school-mistress of the village children, sometimes as a nurse or watcher of the sick, thus acquiring a varied experience, the ultimate use of which she little anticipated. but nothing had gone prosperously with either of the lovers; at no subsequent moment would matrimony have been so prudent a measure as when they had first parted, in the opening bloom of life, to seek a better fortune. still they had held fast their mutual faith. martha might have been the wife of a man who sat among the senators of his native state, and adam could have won the hand, as he had unintentionally won the heart, of a rich and comely widow. but neither of them desired good fortune save to share it with the other. at length that calm despair which occurs only in a strong and somewhat stubborn character, and yields to no second spring of hope, settled down on the spirit of adam colburn. he sought an interview with martha, and proposed that they should join the society of shakers. the converts of this sect are oftener driven within its hospitable gates by worldly misfortune than drawn thither by fanaticism and are received without inquisition as to their motives. martha, faithful still, had placed her hand in that of her lover, and accompanied him to the shaker village. here the natural capacity of each, cultivated and strengthened by the difficulties of their previous lives, had soon gained them an important rank in the society, whose members are generally below the ordinary standard of intelligence. their faith and feelings had, in some degree, become assimilated to those of their fellow-worshippers. adam colburn gradually acquired reputation, not only in the management of the temporal affairs of the society, but as a clear and efficient preacher of their doctrines. martha was not less distinguished in the duties proper to her sex. finally, when the infirmities of father ephraim had admonished him to seek a successor in his patriarchal office, he thought of adam and martha, and proposed to renew, in their persons, the primitive form of shaker government, as established by mother ann. they were to be the father and mother of the village. the simple ceremony, which would constitute them such, was now to be performed. "son adam, and daughter martha," said the venerable father ephraim, fixing his aged eyes piercingly upon them, "if ye can conscientiously undertake this charge, speak, that the brethren may not doubt of your fitness." "father," replied adam, speaking with the calmness of his character, "i came to your village a disappointed man, weary of the world, worn out with continual trouble, seeking only a security against evil fortune, as i had no hope of good. even my wishes of worldly success were almost dead within me. i came hither as a man might come to a tomb, willing to lie down in its gloom and coldness, for the sake of its peace and quiet. there was but one earthly affection in my breast, and it had grown calmer since my youth; so that i was satisfied to bring martha to be my sister, in our new abode. we are brother and sister; nor would i have it otherwise. and in this peaceful village i have found all that i hoped for,--all that i desire. i will strive, with my best strength, for the spiritual and temporal good of our community. my conscience is not doubtful in this matter. i am ready to receive the trust." "thou hast spoken well, son adam," said the father. "god will bless thee in the office which i am about to resign." "but our sister!" observed the elder from harvard, "hath she not likewise a gift to declare her sentiments?" martha started, and moved her lips, as if she would have made a formal reply to this appeal. but, had she attempted it, perhaps the old recollections, the long-repressed feelings of childhood, youth, and womanhood, might have gushed from her heart, in words that it would have been profanation to utter there. "adam has spoken," said she hurriedly; "his sentiments are likewise mine." but while speaking these few words, martha grew so pale that she looked fitter to be laid in her coffin than to stand in the presence of father ephraim and the elders; she shuddered, also, as if there were something awful or horrible in her situation and destiny. it required, indeed, a more than feminine strength of nerve, to sustain the fixed observance of men so exalted and famous throughout the sect as these were. they had overcome their natural sympathy with human frailties and affections. one, when he joined the society, had brought with him his wife and children, but never, from that hour, had spoken a fond word to the former, or taken his best-loved child upon his knee. another, whose family refused to follow him, had been enabled--such was his gift of holy fortitude--to leave them to the mercy of the world. the youngest of the elders, a man of about fifty, had been bred from infancy in a shaker village, and was said never to have clasped a woman's hand in his own, and to have no conception of a closer tie than the cold fraternal one of the sect. old father ephraim was the most awful character of all. in his youth he had been a dissolute libertine, but was converted by mother ann herself, and had partaken of the wild fanaticism of the early shakers. tradition whispered, at the firesides of the village, that mother ann had been compelled to sear his heart of flesh with a red-hot iron before it could be purified from earthly passions. however that might be, poor martha had a woman's heart, and a tender one, and it quailed within her, as she looked round at those strange old men, and from them to the calm features of adam colburn. but perceiving that the elders eyed her doubtfully, she gasped for breath, and again spoke. "with what strength is left me by my many troubles," said she, "i am ready to undertake this charge, and to do my best in it." "my children, join your hands," said father ephraim. they did so. the elders stood up around, and the father feebly raised himself to a more erect position, but continued sitting in his great chair. "i have bidden you to join your hands," said he, "not in earthly affection, for ye have cast off its chains forever; but as brother and sister in spiritual love, and helpers of one another in your allotted task. teach unto others the faith which ye have received. open wide your gates,--i deliver you the keys thereof,--open them wide to all who will give up the iniquities of the world, and come hither to lead lives of purity and peace. receive the weary ones, who have known the vanity of earth,--receive the little children, that they may never learn that miserable lesson. and a blessing be upon your labors; so that the time may hasten on, when the mission of mother ann shall have wrought its full effect,--when children shall no more be born and die, and the last survivor of mortal race, some old and weary man like me, shall see the sun go down, nevermore to rise on a world of sin and sorrow!" the aged father sank back exhausted, and the surrounding elders deemed, with good reason, that the hour was come when the new heads of the village must enter on their patriarchal duties. in their attention to father ephraim, their eyes were turned from martha pierson, who grew paler and paler, unnoticed even by adam colburn. he, indeed, had withdrawn his hand from hers, and folded his arms with a sense of satisfied ambition. but paler and paler grew martha by his side, till, like a corpse in its burial clothes, she sank down at the feet of her early lover; for, after many trials firmly borne, her heart could endure the weight of its desolate agony no longer. endicott and the red cross at noon of on autumnal day, more than two centuries ago, the english colors were displayed by the standard-bearer of the salem trainband, which had mustered for martial exercise under the orders of john endicott. it was a period when the religious exiles were accustomed often to buckle on their armor, and practise the handling of their weapons of war. since the first settlement of new england, its prospects had never been so dismal. the dissensions between charles the first and his subjects were then, and for several years afterwards, confined to the floor of parliament. the measures of the king and ministry were rendered more tyrannically violent by an opposition, which had not yet acquired sufficient confidence in its own strength to resist royal injustice with the sword. the bigoted and haughty primate, laud, archbishop of canterbury, controlled the religious affairs of the realm, and was consequently invested with powers which might have wrought the utter ruin of the two puritan colonies, plymouth and massachusetts. there is evidence on record that our forefathers perceived their danger, but were resolved that their infant country should not fall without a struggle, even beneath the giant strength of the king's right arm. such was the aspect of the times when the folds of the english banner, with the red cross in its field, were flung out over a company of puritans. their leader, the famous endicott, was a man of stern and resolute countenance, the effect of which was heightened by a grizzled beard that swept the upper portion of his breastplate. this piece of armor was so highly polished that the whole surrounding scene had its image in the glittering steel. the central object in the mirrored picture was an edifice of humble architecture with neither steeple nor bell to proclaim it--what nevertheless it was--the house of prayer. a token of the perils of the wilderness was seen in the grim head of a wolf, which had just been slain within the precincts of the town, and according to the regular mode of claiming the bounty, was nailed on the porch of the meeting-house. the blood was still plashing on the doorstep. there happened to be visible, at the same noontide hour, so many other characteristics of the times and manners of the puritans, that we must endeavor to represent them in a sketch, though far less vividly than they were reflected in the polished breastplate of john endicott. in close vicinity to the sacred edifice appeared that important engine of puritanic authority, the whipping-post--with the soil around it well trodden by the feet of evil doers, who had there been disciplined. at one corner of the meeting-house was the pillory, and at the other the stocks; and, by a singular good fortune for our sketch, the head of an episcopalian and suspected catholic was grotesquely incased in the former machine while a fellow-criminal, who had boisterously quaffed a health to the king, was confined by the legs in the latter. side by side, on the meeting-house steps, stood a male and a female figure. the man was a tall, lean, haggard personification of fanaticism, bearing on his breast this label,--a wanton gospeller,--which betokened that he had dared to give interpretations of holy writ unsanctioned by the infallible judgment of the civil and religious rulers. his aspect showed no lack of zeal to maintain his heterodoxies, even at the stake. the woman wore a cleft stick on her tongue, in appropriate retribution for having wagged that unruly member against the elders of the church; and her countenance and gestures gave much cause to apprehend that, the moment the stick should be removed, a repetition of the offence would demand new ingenuity in chastising it. the above-mentioned individuals had been sentenced to undergo their various modes of ignominy, for the space of one hour at noonday. but among the crowd were several whose punishment would be life-long; some, whose ears had been cropped, like those of puppy dogs; others, whose cheeks had been branded with the initials of their misdemeanors; one, with his nostrils slit and seared; and another, with a halter about his neck, which he was forbidden ever to take off, or to conceal beneath his garments. methinks he must have been grievously tempted to affix the other end of the rope to some convenient beam or bough. there was likewise a young woman, with no mean share of beauty, whose doom it was to wear the letter a on the breast of her gown, in the eyes of all the world and her own children. and even her own children knew what that initial signified. sporting with her infamy, the lost and desperate creature had embroidered the fatal token in scarlet cloth, with golden thread and the nicest art of needlework; so that the capital a might have been thought to mean admirable, or anything rather than adulteress. let not the reader argue, from any of these evidences of iniquity, that the times of the puritans were more vicious than our own, when, as we pass along the very street of this sketch, we discern no badge of infamy on man or woman. it was the policy of our ancestors to search out even the most secret sins, and expose them to shame, without fear or favor, in the broadest light of the noonday sun. were such the custom now, perchance we might find materials for a no less piquant sketch than the above. except the malefactors whom we have described, and the diseased or infirm persons, the whole male population of the town, between sixteen years and sixty, were seen in the ranks of the trainband. a few stately savages, in all the pomp and dignity of the primeval indian, stood gazing at the spectacle. their flint-headed arrows were but childish weapons compared with the matchlocks of the puritans, and would have rattled harmlessly against the steel caps and hammered iron breastplates which inclosed each soldier in an individual fortress. the valiant john endicott glanced with an eye of pride at his sturdy followers, and prepared to renew the martial toils of the day. "come, my stout hearts!" quoth he, drawing his sword. "let us show these poor heathen that we can handle our weapons like men of might. well for them, if they put us not to prove it in earnest!" the iron-breasted company straightened their line, and each man drew the heavy butt of his matchlock close to his left foot, thus awaiting the orders of the captain. but, as endicott glanced right and left along the front, he discovered a personage at some little distance with whom it behooved him to hold a parley. it was an elderly gentleman, wearing a black cloak and band, and a high-crowned hat, beneath which was a velvet skull-cap, the whole being the garb of a puritan minister. this reverend person bore a staff which seemed to have been recently cut in the forest, and his shoes were bemired as if he had been travelling on foot through the swamps of the wilderness. his aspect was perfectly that of a pilgrim, heightened also by an apostolic dignity. just as endicott perceived him he laid aside his staff, and stooped to drink at a bubbling fountain which gushed into the sunshine about a score of yards from the corner of the meeting-house. but, ere the good man drank, he turned his face heavenward in thankfulness, and then, holding back his gray beard with one hand, he scooped up his simple draught in the hollow of the other. "what, ho! good mr. williams," shouted endicott. "you are welcome back again to our town of peace. how does our worthy governor winthrop? and what news from boston?" "the governor hath his health, worshipful sir," answered roger williams, now resuming his staff, and drawing near. "and for the news, here is a letter, which, knowing i was to travel hitherward to-day, his excellency committed to my charge. belike it contains tidings of much import; for a ship arrived yesterday from england." mr. williams, the minister of salem and of course known to all the spectators, had now reached the spot where endicott was standing under the banner of his company, and put the governor's epistle into his hand. the broad seal was impressed with winthrop's coat of arms. endicott hastily unclosed the letter and began to read, while, as his eye passed down the page, a wrathful change came over his manly countenance. the blood glowed through it, till it seemed to be kindling with an internal heat, nor was it unnatural to suppose that his breastplate would likewise become red-hot with the angry fire of the bosom which it covered. arriving at the conclusion, he shook the letter fiercely in his hand, so that it rustled as loud as the flag above his head. "black tidings these, mr. williams," said he; "blacker never came to new england. doubtless you know their purport?" "yea, truly," replied roger williams; "for the governor consulted, respecting this matter, with my brethren in the ministry at boston; and my opinion was likewise asked. and his excellency entreats you by me, that the news be not suddenly noised abroad, lest the people be stirred up unto some outbreak, and thereby give the king and the archbishop a handle against us." "the governor is a wise man--a wise man, and a meek and moderate," said endicott, setting his teeth grimly. "nevertheless, i must do according to my own best judgment. there is neither man, woman, nor child in new england, but has a concern as dear as life in these tidings; and if john endicott's voice be loud enough, man, woman, and child shall hear them. soldiers, wheel into a hollow square! ho, good people! here are news for one and all of you." the soldiers closed in around their captain; and he and roger williams stood together under the banner of the red cross; while the women and the aged men pressed forward, and the mothers held up their children to look endicott in the face. a few taps of the drum gave signal for silence and attention. "fellow-soldiers--fellow-exiles," began endicott, speaking under strong excitement, yet powerfully restraining it, "wherefore did ye leave your native country? wherefore, i say, have we left the green and fertile fields, the cottages, or, perchance, the old gray halls, where we were born and bred, the churchyards where our forefathers lie buried? wherefore have we come hither to set up our own tombstones in a wilderness? a howling wilderness it is! the wolf and the bear meet us within halloo of our dwellings. the savage lieth in wait for us in the dismal shadow of the woods. the stubborn roots of the trees break our ploughshares, when we would till the earth. our children cry for bread, and we must dig in the sands of the sea-shore to satisfy them. wherefore, i say again, have we sought this country of a rugged soil and wintry sky? was it not for the enjoyment of our civil rights? was it not for liberty to worship god according to our conscience?" "call you this liberty of conscience?" interrupted a voice on the steps of the meeting-house. it was the wanton gospeller. a sad and quiet smile flitted across the mild visage of roger williams. but endicott, in the excitement of the moment, shook his sword wrathfully at the culprit--an ominous gesture from a man like him. "what hast thou to do with conscience, thou knave?" cried he. "i said liberty to worship god, not license to profane and ridicule him. break not in upon my speech, or i will lay thee neck and heels till this time tomorrow! hearken to me, friends, nor heed that accursed rhapsodist. as i was saying, we have sacrificed all things, and have come to a land whereof the old world hath scarcely heard, that we might make a new world unto ourselves, and painfully seek a path from hence to heaven. but what think ye now? this son of a scotch tyrant--this grandson of a papistical and adulterous scotch woman, whose death proved that a golden crown doth not always save an anointed head from the block--" "nay, brother, nay," interposed mr. williams; "thy words are not meet for a secret chamber, far less for a public street." "hold thy peace, roger williams!" answered endicott, imperiously. "my spirit is wiser than thine for the business now in hand. i tell ye, fellow-exiles, that charles of england, and laud, our bitterest persecutor, arch-priest of canterbury, are resolute to pursue us even hither. they are taking counsel, saith this letter, to send over a governor-general, in whose breast shall be deposited all the law and equity of the land. they are minded, also, to establish the idolatrous forms of english episcopacy; so that, when laud shall kiss the pope's toe, as cardinal of rome, he may deliver new england, bound hand and foot, into the power of his master!" a deep groan from the auditors,--a sound of wrath, as well as fear and sorrow,--responded to this intelligence. "look ye to it, brethren," resumed endicott, with increasing energy. "if this king and this arch-prelate have their will, we shall briefly behold a cross on the spire of this tabernacle which we have builded, and a high altar within its walls, with wax tapers burning round it at noonday. we shall hear the sacring bell, and the voices of the romish priests saying the mass. but think ye, christian men, that these abominations may be suffered without a sword drawn? without a shot fired? without blood spilt, yea, on the very stairs of the pulpit? no,--be ye strong of hand and stout of heart! here we stand on our own soil, which we have bought with our goods, which we have won with our swords, which we have cleared with our axes, which we have tilled with the sweat of our brows, which we have sanctified with our prayers to the god that brought us hither! who shall enslave us here? what have we to do with this mitred prelate,--with this crowned king? what have we to do with england?" endicott gazed round at the excited countenances of the people, now full of his own spirit, and then turned suddenly to the standard-bearer, who stood close behind him. "officer, lower your banner!" said he. the officer obeyed; and, brandishing his sword, endicott thrust it through the cloth, and, with his left hand, rent the red cross completely out of the banner. he then waved the tattered ensign above his head. "sacrilegious wretch!" cried the high-churchman in the pillory, unable longer to restrain himself, "thou hast rejected the symbol of our holy religion!" "treason, treason!" roared the royalist in the stocks. "he hath defaced the king's banner!" "before god and man, i will avouch the deed," answered endicott. "beat a flourish, drummer!--shout, soldiers and people!--in honor of the ensign of new england. neither pope nor tyrant hath part in it now!" with a cry of triumph, the people gave their sanction to one of the boldest exploits which our history records. and forever honored be the name of endicott! we look back through the mist of ages, and recognize in the rending of the red cross from new england's banner the first omen of that deliverance which our fathers consummated after the bones of the stern puritan had lain more than a century in the dust. note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/ / / / / / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/ / / / / / -h.zip) strange true stories of louisiana by george w. cable author of "the grandissimes," "bonaventure," etc. illustrated [illustration: "tonton." (from a portrait now in the possession of mme. veuve alcibiade de blanc.)] to my friend james birney guthrie contents page how i got them the young aunt with white hair the adventures of franÇoise and suzanne. i. the two sisters ii. making up the expedition iii. the embarkation iv. alix carpentier v. down bayou plaquemine.--the fight with wild nature vi. the twice-married countess vii. odd partners in the bolero dance viii. a bad storm in a bad place ix. maggie and the robbers x. alix puts away the past xi. alix plays fairy.--parting tears. xii. little paris xiii. the countess madelaine xiv. "poor little alix!" xv. the discovery of the hat xvi. the ball xvii. picnic and farewell alix de morainville salome mÜller, the white slave. i. salome and her kindred ii. six months at anchor iii. famine at sea iv. sold into bondage v. the lost orphans vi. christian roselius vii. miller versus belmonti viii. the trial ix. the evidence x. the crowning proof xi. judgment xii. before the supreme court the "haunted house" in royal street. i. as it stands now ii. madame lalaurie iii. a terrible revelation iv. the lady's flight v. a new use vi. evictions attalie brouillard. i. furnished rooms ii. john bull iii. ducour's meditations iv. proxy v. the nuncupative will vi. men can be better than their laws war diary of a union woman in the south i. secession ii. the volunteers.--fort sumter iii. tribulation iv. a beleaguered city v. married vi. how it was in arkansas vii. the fight for food and clothing viii. drowned out and starved out ix. homeless and shelterless x. frights and perils in steele's bayou xi. wild times in mississippi xii. vicksburg xiii. preparations for the siege xiv. the siege itself xv. gibraltar falls list of illustrations. from photographs of the originals, in possession of mr. george w. cable. "tonton" frontispiece some of the manuscripts part of françois's first page part of first page, "alix manuscript" the court papers the entrance of the "haunted house" printed on wall paper in the siege of vicksburg fac-simile of a letter from adj.-gen. thomas l. snead [illustration: some of the manuscripts court papers in miller vs. belmonti. letter from suzanne. the "alix ms." louisa cheval's letter. francois's pages. the war diary (underneath).] strange true stories of louisiana. how i got them. - . true stories are not often good art. the relations and experiences of real men and women rarely fall in such symmetrical order as to make an artistic whole. until they have had such treatment as we give stone in the quarry or gems in the rough they seldom group themselves with that harmony of values and brilliant unity of interest that result when art comes in--not so much to transcend nature as to make nature transcend herself. yet i have learned to believe that good stories happen oftener than once i thought they did. within the last few years there have dropped into my hands by one accident or another a number of these natural crystals, whose charms, never the same in any two, are in each and all enough at least to warn off all tampering of the fictionist. happily, moreover, without being necessary one to another, they yet have a coherent sequence, and follow one another like the days of a week. they are mine only by right of discovery. from various necessities of the case i am sometimes the story-teller, and sometimes, in the reader's interest, have to abridge; but i add no fact and trim naught of value away. here are no unconfessed "restorations," not one. in time, place, circumstance, in every essential feature, i give them as i got them--strange stories that truly happened, all partly, some wholly, in louisiana. in the spring of , being one night the guest of my friend dr. francis bacon, in new haven, connecticut, and the conversation turning, at the close of the evening, upon wonderful and romantic true happenings, he said: "you are from new orleans; did you never hear of salome müller?" "no." thereupon he told the story, and a few weeks later sent me by mail, to my home in new orleans, whither i had returned, a transcription, which he had most generously made, of a brief summary of the case--it would be right to say tragedy instead of case--as printed in "the law reporter" some forty years ago. that transcription lies before me now, beginning, "the supreme court of the state of louisiana has lately been called upon to investigate and decide one of the most interesting cases which has ever come under the cognizance of a judicial tribunal." this episode, which had been the cause of public excitement within the memory of men still living on the scene, i, a native resident of new orleans and student of its history, stumbled upon for the first time nearly two thousand miles from home. i mentioned it to a number of lawyers of new orleans, one after another. none remembered ever having heard of it. i appealed to a former chief-justice of the state, who had a lively personal remembrance of every member of the bench and the bar concerned in the case; but of the case he had no recollection. one of the medical experts called in by the court for evidence upon which the whole merits of the case seemed to hang was still living--the distinguished creole physician, dr. armand mercier. he could not recall the matter until i recounted the story, and then only in the vaguest way. yet when my friend the former chief-justice kindly took down from his shelves and beat free of dust the right volume of supreme court decisions, there was the terse, cold record, no. . i went to the old newspaper files under the roof of the city hall, and had the pleasure speedily to find, under the dates of and , such passing allusions to the strange facts of which i was in search as one might hope to find in those days when a serious riot was likely to receive no mention, and a steamboat explosion dangerously near the editorial rooms would be recorded in ten lines of colorless statement. i went to the courts, and, after following and abandoning several false trails through two days' search, found that the books of record containing the object of my quest had been lost, having unaccountably disappeared in--if i remember aright-- . there was one chance left: it was to find the original papers. i employed an intelligent gentleman at so much a day to search till he should find them. in the dusty garret of one of the court buildings--the old spanish cabildo, that faces jackson square--he rummaged for ten days, finding now one desired document and now another, until he had gathered all but one. several he drew out of a great heap of papers lying in the middle of the floor, as if it were a pile of rubbish; but this one he never found. yet i was content. through the perseverance of this gentleman and the intervention of a friend in the legal profession, and by the courtesy of the court, i held in my hand the whole forgotten story of the poor lost and found salome müller. how through the courtesy of some of the reportorial staff of the "new orleans picayune" i found and conversed with three of salome's still surviving relatives and friends, i shall not stop to tell. while i was still in search of these things, the editor of the "new orleans times-democrat" handed me a thick manuscript, asking me to examine and pronounce upon its merits. it was written wholly in french, in a small, cramped, feminine hand. i replied, when i could, that it seemed to me unfit for the purposes of transient newspaper publication, yet if he declined it i should probably buy it myself. he replied that he had already examined it and decided to decline it, and it was only to know whether i, not he, could use it that i had been asked to read it. i took it to an attorney, and requested him, under certain strict conditions, to obtain it for me with all its rights. "what is it?" "it is the minute account, written by one of the travelers, a pretty little creole maiden of seventeen, of an adventurous journey made, in , from new orleans through the wilds of louisiana, taking six weeks to complete a tour that could now be made in less than two days." but this is written by some one else; see, it says [handwriting: voyage de ma grand'mere] "yes," i rejoined, "it purports to be a copy. we must have the little grandmother's original manuscript, written in ; that or nothing." so a correspondence sprang up with a gentle and refined old creole lady with whom i later had the honor to become acquainted and now count among my esteemed friends--grand-daughter of the grandmother who, after innumerable recountings by word of mouth to mother, sisters, brothers, friends, husband, children, and children's children through twenty-seven years of advancing life, sat down at last and wrote the oft-told tale for her little grand-children, one of whom, inheriting her literary instinct and herself become an aged grandmother, discovers the manuscript among some old family papers and recognizes its value. the first exchange of letters disclosed the fact that the "new orleans bee" ("l'abeille") had bought the right to publish the manuscript in french; but the moment its editors had proper assurance that there was impending another arrangement more profitable to her, they chivalrously yielded all they had bought, on merely being reimbursed. the condition that required the delivery of the original manuscript, written over sixty years before, was not so easily met. first came the assurance that its spelling was hideous, its writing bad and dimmed by time, and the sheets tattered and torn. later followed the disclosure that an aged and infirm mother of the grandmother owned it, and that she had some time before compelled its return to the private drawer from which the relic-loving daughter had abstracted it. still later came a letter saying that since the attorney was so relentlessly exacting, she had written to her mother praying her to part with the manuscript. then followed another communication,--six large, closely written pages of despair,--inclosing a letter from the mother. the wad of papers, always more and more in the way and always "smelling bad," had been put into the fire. but a telegram followed on the heels of the mail, crying joy! an old letter had been found and forwarded which would prove that such a manuscript had existed. but it was not in time to intercept the attorney's letter saying that, the original manuscript being destroyed, there could be no purchase or any need of further correspondence. the old letter came. it was genuine beyond a doubt, had been written by one of the party making the journey, and was itself forty-seven years old. the paper was poor and sallow, the hand-writing large, and the orthography--! [handwriting: ma bien chair niaice je ressoit ta lette ce mattin] but let us translate: st. john baptist[ ] august my very dear niece. i received your letter this morning in which you ask me to tell you what i remember of the journey to attakapas made in by papa, m. -----, [and] my younger sister françoise afterward your grandmother. if it were with my tongue i could answer more favorably; but writing is not my forte; i was never calculated for a public writer, as your grandmother was. by the way, she wrote the journey, and very prettily; what have you done with it? it is a pity to lose so pretty a piece of writing.... we left new orleans to go to the attakapas in the month of may, , and in an old barge ["vieux chalant qui senté le rat mord a plien nez"]. we were françoise and i suzanne, pearl of the family, and papa, who went to buy lands; and one joseph charpentier and his dear and pretty little wife alix [whom] i love so much; irish, father mother and son [fice]; lastly mario, whom you knew, with celeste, formerly lady's maid to marianne--who is now my sister-in-law.... if i knew better how to write i would tell you our adventures the alligators tried to devour us. we barely escaped perishing in lake chicot and many other things.... at last we arrived at a pretty village st. martinville called also little paris and full of barons, marquises, counts and countesses[ ] that were an offense to my nose and my stomach. your grandmother was in raptures. it was there we met the beautiful tonton, your aunt by marriage. i have a bad finger and must stop.... your loving aunty [ta tantine qui temme] suzanne ---- née ---- the kind of letter to expect from one who, as a girl of eighteen, could shoot and swim and was called by her father "my son"; the antipode of her sister françoise. my attorney wrote that the evidence was sufficient. his letter had hardly got into the mail-bag when another telegram cried hold! that a few pages of the original manuscript had been found and forwarded by post. they came. they were only nine in all--old, yellow, ragged, torn, leaves of a plantation account-book whose red-ruled columns had long ago faded to a faint brown, one side of two or three of them preoccupied with charges in bad french of yards of cottonade, "mouslin à dames," "jaconad," dozens of soap, pounds of tobacco, pairs of stockings, lace, etc.; but to our great pleasure each page corresponding closely, save in orthography and syntax, with a page of the new manuscript, and the page numbers of the old running higher than those of the new! here was evidence which one could lay before a skeptical world that the transcriber had not expanded the work of the original memoirist. the manuscript passed into my possession, our creole lady-correspondent reiterating to the end her inability to divine what could be wanted with "an almost illegible scrawl" (griffonage), full of bad spelling and of rather inelegant diction. but if old manuscript was the object of desire, why, here was something else; the very document alluded to by françoise in her memoir of travel--the autobiography of the dear little countess, her beloved alix de morainville, made fatherless and a widow by the guillotine in the reign of terror. "was that all?" inquired my agent, craftily, his suspicions aroused by the promptness with which the supply met the demand. "had she not other old and valuable manuscripts?" "no, alas! only that one." thus reassured, he became its purchaser. it lies before me now, in an inner wrapper of queer old black paper, beside its little tight-fitting bag, or case of a kind of bright, large-flowered silken stuff not made in these days, and its outer wrapper of discolored brief-paper; a pretty little document of sixty-eight small pages in a feminine hand, perfect in its slightly archaic grammar, gracefully composed, and, in spite of its flimsy yellowed paper, as legible as print: "histoire d'alix de morainville écrite à la louisiane ce aout . pour mes chères amies, suzanne et françoise bossier." one day i told the story to professor charles eliot norton of harvard university. he generously offered to see if he could find the name of the count de morainville on any of the lists of persons guillotined during the french revolution. he made the search, but wrote, "i am sorry to say that i have not been able to find it either in prudhomme, 'dictionnaire des individues envoyés à la mort judiciairement, - ,' or in the list given by wallon in the sixth volume of his very interesting 'histoire du tribunal revolutionnaire de paris.' possibly he was not put to death in paris," etc. and later he kindly wrote again that he had made some hours' further search, but in vain. here was distress. i turned to the little manuscript roll of which i had become so fond, and searched its pages anew for evidence of either genuineness or its opposite. the wrapper of black paper and the close-fitting silken bag had not been sufficient to keep it from taking on the yellowness of age. it was at least no modern counterfeit. presently i noticed the total absence of quotation marks from its passages of conversation. now, at the close of the last century, the use of quotation marks was becoming general, but had not become universal and imperative. their entire absence from this manuscript of sixty-eight pages, abounding in conversations, meant either age or cunning pretense. but would a pretender carry his or her cunning to the extreme of fortifying the manuscript in every possible way against the sallowing touch of time, lay it away in a trunk of old papers, lie down and die without mentioning it, and leave it for some one in the second or third generation afterward to find? i turned the leaves once more, and lo! one leaf that had had a large corner torn off had lost that much of its text; it had been written upon before it was torn; while on another torn leaf, for there are two, the writing reads--as you shall see--uninterruptedly around the torn edge; the writing has been done after the corner was torn off. the two rents, therefore, must have occurred at different times; for the one which mutilates the text is on the earlier page and surely would not have been left so by the author at the time of writing it, but only by some one careless of it, and at some time between its completion and the manifestly later date, when it was so carefully bestowed in its old-fashioned silken case and its inner wrapper of black paper. the manuscript seemed genuine. maybe the name de morainville is not, but was a convenient fiction of alix herself, well understood as such by françoise and suzanne. everything points that way, as was suggested at once by madame sidonie de la houssaye --there! i have let slip the name of my creole friend, and can only pray her to forgive me! "tout porte à le croire" (everything helps that belief), she writes; although she also doubts, with reason, i should say, the exhaustive completeness of those lists of the guillotined. "i recall," she writes in french, "that my husband has often told me the two uncles of his father, or grandfather, were guillotined in the revolution; but though search was made by an advocate, no trace of them was found in any records." an assumed name need not vitiate the truth of the story; but discoveries made since, which i am still investigating, offer probabilities that, after all, the name is genuine. we see, however, that an intention to deceive, were it supposable, would have to be of recent date. now let me show that an intention to deceive could not be of recent date, and at the same time we shall see the need of this minuteness of explanation. notice, then, that the manuscript comes directly from the lady who says she found it in a trunk of her family's private papers. a prominent paper-maker in boston has examined it and says that, while its age cannot be certified to from its texture, its leaves are of three different kinds of paper, each of which might be a hundred years old. but, bluntly, this lady, though a person of literary tastes and talent, who recognized the literary value of alix's _history_, esteemed original _documents_ so lightly as, for example, to put no value upon louisa cheval's thrilling letter to her brother. she prized this alix manuscript only because, being a simple, succinct, unadorned narrative, she could use it, as she could not françoise's long, pretty story, for the foundation of a nearly threefold expanded romance. and this, in fact, she had written, copyrighted, and arranged to publish when our joint experience concerning françoise's manuscript at length readjusted her sense of values. she sold me the little alix manuscript at a price still out of all proportion below her valuation of her own writing, and counting it a mistake that the expanded romance should go unpreferred and unpublished. but who, then, wrote the smaller manuscript? madame found it, she says, in the possession of her very aged mother, the daughter and namesake of françoise. surely she was not its author; it is she who said she burned almost the whole original draft of françoise's "voyage," because it was "in the way and smelt bad." neither could françoise have written it. her awkward handwriting, her sparkling flood of words and details, and her ignorance of the simplest rules of spelling, make it impossible. nor could suzanne have done it. she wrote and spelled no better at fifty-nine than françoise at forty-three. nor could any one have imposed it on either of the sisters. so, then, we find no intention to deceive, either early or recent. i translated the manuscript, it went to the magazine, and i sat down to eat, drink, and revel, never dreaming that the brazen water-gates of my babylon were standing wide open. for all this time two huge, glaring anachronisms were staring me, and half a dozen other persons, squarely in the face, and actually escaping our notice by their serene audacity. but hardly was the pie--i mean the magazine--opened when these two birds began to sing. wasn't that--interesting? of course louis de la houssaye, who in "had lately come from san domingo," had _not_ "been fighting the insurgents"--who did not revolt until four or five years afterward! and of course the old count, who so kindly left the family group that was bidding madelaine de livilier good-bye, was not the prime minister maurepas, who was _not_ "only a few months returned from exile," and who was _not_ then "at the pinnacle of royal favor"; for these matters were of earlier date, and this "most lovable old man in the world" wasn't any longer in the world at all, and had not been for eight years. he was dead and buried. and so, after all, fraudulent intent or none, _this_ manuscript, just as it is, could never have been written by alix. on "this d of august, ," she could not have perpetrated such statements as these two. her memory of persons and events could not have been so grotesquely at fault, nor could she have hoped so to deceive any one. the misstatements are of later date, and from some one to whom the two events were historical. but the manuscript is all in one simple, undisguised, feminine handwriting, and with no interlineation save only here and there the correction of a miswritten word. now in translating madame's "voyage de ma grandmère," i noticed something equivalent to an interlineation, but in her own writing like all the rest, and added in a perfectly unconcealed, candid manner, at the end of a paragraph near the close of the story. it struck me as an innocent gloss of the copyist, justified in her mind by some well-credited family tradition. it was this: "just as we [françoise and alix] were parting, she [alix] handed me the story of her life." i had already called my friend's attention to the anachronisms, and she was in keen distress, because totally unable to account for them. but as i further pondered them, this gloss gained new significance and i mentioned it. my new inquiry flashed light upon her aged memory. she explained at once that, to connect the two stories of françoise and alix, she had thought it right to impute these few words to françoise rather than for mere exactness to thrust a detailed explanation of her own into a story hurrying to its close. my question called back an incident of long ago and resulted first in her rummaging a whole day among her papers, and then in my receiving the certificate of a gentleman of high official standing in louisiana that, on the th of last april ( ), this lady, in his presence, took from a large trunk of written papers, variously dated and "appearing to be perfectly genuine," a book of memoranda from which, writes he, "i copy the following paragraph written by madame s. de la houssaye herself in the middle of the book, on page ." then follows in french: june , .--m. gerbeau has dined here again. what a singular story he tells me. we talked of my grandmother and madame carpentier, and what does m. gerbeau tell me but that alix had not finished her history when my grandmother and my aunt returned, and that he had promised to get it to them. "and i kept it two years for want of an opportunity," he added. how mad grandmamma must have been! how the delay must have made her suffer! well and good! then alix did write her story! but if she wrote for both her "dear and good friends," suzanne and françoise, then françoise, the younger and milder sister, would the more likely have to be content, sooner or later, with a copy. this, i find no reason to doubt, is what lies before me. indeed, here (crossed out in the manuscript, but by me restored and italicized) are signs of a copyist's pen: "mais helas! il desesperoit de reussir quand' _il desespe_ rencontra," etc. is not that a copyist's repetition? or this:"--et lui, mon mari apres tout se fit mon _marim_ domestique." and here the copyist misread the original: "lorsque le maire entendit les noms et les _personnes_ prenoms de la mariée," etc. in the manuscript personnes is crossed out, and the correct word, prenoms, is written above it. whoever made this copy it remains still so simple and compact that he or she cannot be charged with many embellishments. and yet it is easy to believe that some one, with that looseness of family tradition and largeness of ancestral pride so common among the creoles, in half-knowledge and half-ignorance should have ventured aside for an instant to attribute in pure parenthesis to an ancestral de la houssaye the premature honor of a san domingan war; or, incited by some tradition of the old prime minister's intimate friendship with madelaine's family, should have imputed a gracious attention to the wrong count de maurepas, or to the wrong count altogether. i find no other theory tenable. to reject the whole matter as a forgery flies into the face of more incontestable facts than the anachronisms do. we know, from suzanne and françoise, without this manuscript, that there was an alix carpentier, daughter of a count, widow of a viscount, an _emigrée_ of the revolution, married to a norman peasant, known to m. gerbeau, beloved of suzanne and françoise, with whom they journeyed to attakapas, and who wrote for them the history of her strange life. i hold a manuscript carefully kept by at least two generations of françoise's descendants among their valuable private papers. it professes to be that history--a short, modest, unadorned narrative, apparently a copy of a paper of like compass, notwithstanding the evident insertion of two impossible statements whose complete omission does not disturb the narrative. i see no room to doubt that it contains the true story of a real and lovely woman. but to come back to my attorney. while his grave negotiations were still going on, there met me one evening at my own gate a lady in black, seeking advice concerning her wish to sell to some publisher a private diary never intended for publication. "that kind is the best," i said. "did you write it during the late war?" i added at a guess. "yes." "i suppose, then, it contains a careful record of each day's public events." "no, i'm sorry to say--" "nay, don't be sorry; that lack may save it from the waste-basket." then my heart spoke. "ah! madam, if you had only done what no woman seems to have seen the importance of doing--written the women's side of that awful war--" "that's just what i have done," she interrupted. "i was a union woman, in the confederacy. i couldn't talk; i had to write. i was in the siege of vicksburg from beginning to end." "leave your manuscript with me," i said. "if, on examining it, i find i can recommend it to a publisher, i will do so. but remember what i have already told you--the passage of an unknown writer's work through an older author's hands is of no benefit to it whatever. it is a bad sign rather than a good one. your chances of acceptance will be at least no less if you send this to the publishers yourself." no, she would like me to intervene. how my attorney friend and i took a two days' journey by rail, reading the manuscript to each other in the pullman car; how a young newly married couple next us across the aisle, pretending not to notice, listened with all their might; how my friend the attorney now and then stopped to choke down tears; and how the young stranger opposite came at last, with apologies, asking where this matter would be published and under what title, i need not tell. at length i was intercessor for a manuscript that publishers would not lightly decline. i bought it for my little museum of true stories, at a price beyond what i believe any magazine would have paid--an amount that must have filled the widow's heart with joy, but as certainly was not beyond its worth to me. i have already contributed a part of this manuscript to "the century" as one of its "wax-papers." but by permission it is restored here to its original place. judge farrar, with whom i enjoyed a slight but valued acquaintance, stopped me one day in carondelet street, new orleans, saying, "i have a true story that i want you to tell. you can dress it out--" i arrested him with a shake of the head. "dress me no dresses. story me no stories. there's not one of a hundred of them that does not lack something essential, for want of which they are good for naught. keep them for after-dinner chat; but for the novelist they are good to smell, not to eat. and yet--tell me your story. i have a use for it--a cabinet of true things that have never had and shall not have a literary tool lifted up against them; virgin shells from the beach of the sea of human events. it may be i shall find a place for it there." so he told me the true story which i have called "attalie brouillard," because, having forgotten the woman's real name, it pleased his fancy to use that name in recounting the tale: "attalie brouillard." i repeated the story to a friend, a gentleman of much reading. his reply dismayed me. "i have a faint impression," he said, "that you will find something very much like that in one of lever's novels." but later i thought, "even so, what then? good stories repeat themselves." i remembered having twice had experiences in my own life the accounts of which, when given, would have been great successes only that they were old anecdotes--great in their day, but long worn out in the club-rooms and abandoned to clergymen's reunions. the wise thing was not to find out or care whether lever had somewhere told something like it, but whether the story was ever a real event in new orleans, and, if so, to add it to my now, to me, priceless collection. meeting the young judge again, i asked boldly for the story's full authentication. he said promptly that the man who told it of his own knowledge was the late judge t. wharton collins; that the incidents occurred about , and that judge mccaleb could doubtless give the name of the notary public who had been an actor in the affair. "let us go to his office right now," said my obliging friend. we went, found him, told him our errand. he remembered the story, was confident of its entire verity, and gave a name, which, however, he begged i would submit for verification to an aged notary public in another street, a gentleman of the pure old creole type. i went to him. he heard the story through in solemn silence. from first to last i mentioned no name, but at the end i asked: "now, can you tell me the name of the notary in that case?" "yes." i felt a delicious tingling as i waited for the disclosure. he slowly said: "dthere eeze wan troub' 'bout dat. to _which_ case do you _riffer? 'cause, you know, dey got t'ree, four case' like dat_. an' you better not mention no name, 'cause you don't want git nobody in troub', you know. now dthere's dthe case of----. and dthere's dthe case of----. and dthere's the case of----. he had to go away; yes; 'cause when _he_ make dthe dade man make his will, he git _behine_ dthe dade man in bade, an' hole 'im up in dthe bade." i thanked him and departed, with but the one regret that the tale was true so many more times than was necessary. in all this collection the story of the so-called haunted house in royal street is the only one that must ask a place in literature as partly a twice-told tale. the history of the house is known to thousands in the old french quarter, and that portion which antedates the late war was told in brief by harriet martineau as far back as when she wrote her book of american travel. in printing it here i fulfill an oft-repeated promise; for many a one has asked me if i would not, or, at least, why i did not, tell its dark story. so i have inventoried my entire exhibit--save one small matter. it turned out after, all that the dear old creole lady who had sold us the ancient manuscript, finding old paper commanding so much more per ton than it ever had commanded before, raked together three or four more leaves--stray chips of her lovely little ancestress françoise's workshop, or rather the shakings of her basket of cherished records,--to wit, three creole african songs, which i have used elsewhere; one or two other scraps, of no value; and, finally, a long letter telling its writer's own short story--a story so tragic and so sad that i can only say pass it, if you will. it stands first because it antedates the rest. as you will see, its time is something more than a hundred years ago. the writing was very difficult to read, owing entirely to the badness--mainly the softness--of the paper. i have tried in vain to find exactly where fort latourette was situated. it may have had but a momentary existence in galvez's campaign against the english. all along the gulf shore the sites and remains of the small forts once held by the spaniards are known traditionally and indiscriminately as "spanish fort." when john law,--author of that famed mississippi bubble, which was in paris what the south sea bubble was in london,--failed in his efforts at colonization on the arkansas, his arkansas settlers came down the mississippi to within some sixty miles of new orleans and established themselves in a colony at first called the _côte allemande_ (german coast), and later, owing to its prosperity, the _côte d'or_, or golden coast. thus the banks of the mississippi became known on the rhine, a goodly part of our louisiana creoles received a german tincture, and the father and the aunt of suzanne and françoise were not the only alsatians we shall meet in these wild stories of wild times in louisiana. footnotes: [ ] name of the parish, or county.--translator. [ ] royalist refugees of ' .--translator. the young aunt with white hair. . the date of this letter--i hold it in one hand as i write, and for the first time noticed that it has never in its hundred years been sealed or folded, but only doubled once, lightly, and rolled in the hand, just as the young spanish officer might have carried it when he rode so hard to bear it to its destination--its date is the last year but one of our american revolution. france, spain, and the thirteen colonies were at war with great britain, and the indians were on both sides. galvez, the heroic young governor of louisiana, had just been decorated by his king and made a count for taking the forts at manchac, baton rouge, natchez, and mobile, and besieging and capturing the stronghold of pensacola, thus winning all west florida, from the mississippi to the appalachicola, for spain. but this vast wilderness was not made safe; fort panmure (natchez) changed hands twice, and the land was full of indians, partly hireling friends and partly enemies. the waters about the bahamas and the greater and lesser antilles were fields for the movements of hostile fleets, corsairs, and privateers. yet the writer of this letter was tempted to run the gauntlet of these perils, expecting, if all went well, to arrive in louisiana in midsummer. "how many times," says the memorandum of her brother's now aged great-granddaughter,--"how many times during my childhood has been told me the story of my aunt louise. it was not until several years after the death of my grandmother that, on examining the contents of the basket which she had given me, i found at the bottom of a little black-silk bag the letter written by my grand-aunt to her brother, my own ancestor. frankly, i doubt that my grandmother had intended to give it to me, so highly did she prize it, though it was very difficult to read. the orthography is perfect; the difficulty is all owing to the paper and, moreover, to the situation of the poor wounded sufferer." it is in french: _to my brother mister pierre bossier. in the parish[ ] of st. james._ fort latourette, the august, . my good dear brother: ah! how shall i tell you the frightful position in which i am placed! i would that i were dead! i seem to be the prey of a horrible nightmare! o pierre! my brother! hasten with all speed to me. when you left germany, your little sister was a blooming girl, very beautiful in your eyes, very happy! and to-day! ah! to-day, my brother, come see for yourself. after having received your letter, not only my husband and i decided to leave our village and go to join you, but twelve of our friends united with us, and on the may, , we quitted strasbourg on the little vessel north star [Étoile du nord],[ ] which set sail for new orleans, where you had promised to come to meet us. let me tell you the names of my fellow-travelers. o brother! what courage i need to write this account: first my husband, leonard cheval, and my son pierre, poor little angel who was not yet two years old! fritz newman, his wife nina, and their three children; irwin vizey; william hugo, his wife, and their little daughter; jacques lewis, his daughter, and their son henry. we were full of hope: we hoped to find fortune in this new country of which you spoke with so much enthusiasm. how in that moment did i bless my parents and you my brother, for the education you had procured me. you know how good a musician my leonard was, and our intention was on arriving to open a boarding-school in new orleans; in your last letter you encouraged the project--all of us, movables with us, all our savings, everything we owned in this world. this paper is very bad, brother, but the captain of the fort says it is all he has; and i write lying down, i am so uncomfortable. the earlier days of the voyage passed without accident, without disturbance, but often leonard spoke to me of his fears. the vessel was old, small, and very poorly supplied. the captain was a drunkard [here the writer attempted to turn the sheet and write on the back of it], who often incapacitated himself with his first officers [word badly blotted]; and then the management of the vessel fell to the mate, who was densely ignorant. moreover, we knew that the seas were infested with pirates. i must stop, the paper is too bad. the captain has brought me another sheet. our uneasiness was great. often we emigrants assembled on deck and told each other our anxieties. living on the frontier of france, we spoke german and french equally well; and when the sailors heard us, they, who spoke only english, swore at us, accused us of plotting against them, and called us saurkrouts. at such times i pressed my child to my heart and drew nearer to leonard, more dead than alive. a whole month passed in this constant anguish. at its close, fevers broke out among us, and we discovered, to our horror, there was not a drop of medicine on board. we had them lightly, some of us, but only a few; and [bad blot] newman's son and william hugo's little daughter died, ... and the poor mother soon followed her child. my god! but it was sad. and the provisions ran low, and the captain refused to turn back to get more. one evening, when the captain, his lieutenant, and two other officers were shut in their cabin drinking, the mate, of whom i had always such fear, presented himself before us surrounded by six sailors armed, like himself, to the teeth, and ordered us to surrender all the money we had. to resist would have been madness; we had to yield. they searched our trunks and took away all that we possessed: they left us nothing, absolutely nothing. ah! why am i not dead? profiting by the absence of their chiefs they seized the [or some--the word is blotted] boats and abandoned us to our fate. when, the next day, the captain appeared on deck quite sober, and saw the cruelty of our plight, he told us, to console us, that we were very near the mouth of the mississippi, and that within two days we should be at new orleans. alas! all that day passed without seeing any land[ ], but towards evening the vessel, after incredible efforts, had just come to a stop--at what i supposed should be the mouth of the river. we were so happy to have arrived that we begged captain andrieux to sail all night. he replied that our men, who had worked all day in place of the sailors, were tired and did not understand at all sufficiently the handling of a vessel to sail by night. he wanted to get drunk again. as in fact our men were worn out, we went, all of us, to bed. o great god! give me strength to go on. all at once we were awakened by horrible cries, not human sounds: we thought ourselves surrounded by ferocious beasts. we poor women clasped our children to our breasts, while our husbands armed themselves with whatever came to hand and dashed forward to meet the danger. my god! my god! we saw ourselves hemmed in by a multitude of savages yelling and lifting over us their horrible arms, grasping hatchets, knives, and tomahawks. the first to fall was my husband, my dear leonard; all, except irwin vizey, who had the fortune to jump into the water unseen, all were massacred by the monsters. one indian tore my child from me while another fastened my arms behind my back. in response to my cries, to my prayers, the monster who held my son took him by one foot and, swinging him several times around, shattered his head against the wall. and i live to write these horrors!... i fainted, without doubt, for on opening my eyes i found i was on land [blot], firmly fastened to a stake. nina newman and kate lewis were fastened as i was: the latter was covered with blood and appeared to be dangerously wounded. about daylight three indians came looking for them and took them god knows where! alas! i have never since heard of either of them or their children. i remained fastened to the stake in a state of delirium, which saved me doubtless from the horrors of my situation. i recall one thing: that is, having seen those savages eat human flesh, the members of a child--at least it seemed so. ah! you see plainly i must have been mad to have seen all that without dying! they had stripped me of my clothing and i remained exposed, half naked, to a july sun and to clouds of mosquitoes. an indian who spoke french informed me that, as i was young and fat, they were reserving me for the dinner of the chief, who was to arrive next day. in a moment i was dead with terror; in that instant i lost all feeling. i had become indifferent to all. i saw nothing, i heard nothing. towards evening one of the sub-chiefs approached and gave me some water in a gourd. i drank without knowing what i did; thereupon he set himself to examine me as the butcher examines the lamb that he is about to kill; he seemed to find me worthy to be served on the table of the head-chief, but as he was hungry and did not wish to wait [blot], he drew from its sheath the knife that he carried at his belt and before i had had time to guess what he intended to do [enough to say, in place of literal translation, that the savage, from the outside of her right thigh, flayed off a large piece of her flesh.] it must be supposed that i again lost consciousness. when i came to myself, i was lying some paces away from the stake of torture on a heap of cloaks, and a soldier was kneeling beside me, while i was surrounded by about a hundred others. the ground was strewed with dead indians. i learned later that vizey had reached the woods and by chance had stumbled into fort latourette, full of troops. without loss of time, the brave soldiers set out, and arrived just in time to save me. a physician dressed my wound, they put me into an ambulance and brought me away to fort latourette, where i still am. a fierce fever took possession of me. my generous protectors did not know to whom to write; they watched over me and showed every care imaginable. now that i am better, i write you, my brother, and close with these words: i await you! make all haste! your sister, louisa cheval. [illustration] "my grandmother," resumes the memorandum of the creole great-grandniece, "had often read this letter, and had recounted to me the incidents that followed its reception. she was then but three years old, but as her aunt lived three years in her (_i.e._, the aunt's) brother's family, my grandmother had known her, and described her to me as a young woman with white hair and walking with a staff. it was with difficulty that she used her right leg. my great-grandfather used to tell his children that his sister louise had been blooming and gay, and spoke especially of her beautiful blonde hair. a few hours had sufficed to change it to snow, and on the once charming countenance of the poor invalid to stamp an expression of grief and despair. "it was lieutenant rosello, a young spaniard, who came on horseback from fort latourette to carry to my great-grandfather his sister's letter.... not to lose a moment, he [the brother] began, like lieutenant rosello, the journey on horseback, procuring a large ambulance as he passed through new orleans.... he did all he could to lighten the despair of his poor sister.... all the members of the family lavished upon her every possible care and attention; but alas! the blow she had received was too terrible. she lingered three years, and at the end of that time passed peaceably away in the arms of her brother, the last words on her lips being 'leonard!--my child!'" so we make way for the bright and happy story of how françoise made evangeline's journey through the dark wilds of atchafalaya. footnotes: [ ] county. [ ] if this was an english ship,--for her crew was english and her master's name seems to have been andrews,--she was probably not under british colors.--translator. [ ] the treeless marshes of the delta would be very slow coming into view.--translator. the adventures of franÇoise and suzanne. . years passed by. our war of the revolution was over. the indians of louisiana and florida were all greedy, smiling gift-takers of his catholic majesty. so were some others not indians; and the spanish governors of louisiana, scheming with them for the acquisition of kentucky and the regions intervening, had allowed an interprovincial commerce to spring up. flatboats and barges came floating down the mississippi past the plantation home where little suzanne and françoise were growing up to womanhood. many of the immigrants who now came to louisiana were the royalist _noblesse_ flying from the horrors of the french revolution. governor carondelet was strengthening his fortifications around new orleans; for creole revolutionists had slipped away to kentucky and were there plotting an armed descent in flatboats upon his little capital, where the rabble were singing the terrible songs of bloody paris. agents of the revolution had come from france and so "contaminated," as he says, "the greater part of the province" that he kept order only "at the cost of sleepless nights, by frightening some, punishing others, and driving several out of the colony." it looks as though suzanne had caught a touch of dis-relish for _les aristocrates_, whose necks the songs of the day were promising to the lampposts. to add to all these commotions, a hideous revolution had swept over san domingo; the slaves in louisiana had heard of it, insurrection was feared, and at length, in , when susanne was seventeen and françoise fifteen, it broke out on the mississippi no great matter over a day's ride from their own home, and twenty-three blacks were gibbeted singly at intervals all the way down by their father's plantation and on to new orleans, and were left swinging in the weather to insure the peace and felicity of the land. two other matters are all we need notice for the ready comprehension of françoise's story. immigration was knocking at every gate of the province, and citizen Étienne de boré had just made himself forever famous in the history of louisiana by producing merchantable sugar; land was going to be valuable, even back on the wild prairies of opelousas and attakapas, where, twenty years before, the acadians,--the cousins of evangeline,--wandering from far nova scotia, had settled. such was the region and such were the times when it began to be the year . by good fortune one of the undestroyed fragments of françoise's own manuscript is its first page. she was already a grandmother forty-three years old when in she wrote the tale she had so often told. part of the dedication to her only daughter and namesake--one line, possibly two--has been torn off, leaving only the words, "ma fille unique a la grasse [meaning 'grace'] de dieu [sic]," over her signature and the date, " julet [sic], ." i. the two sisters. it is to give pleasure to my dear daughter fannie and to her children that i write this journey. i shall be well satisfied if i can succeed in giving them this pleasure: by the grace of god, amen. papa, mr. pierre bossier, planter of st. james parish, had been fifteen days gone to the city (new orleans) in his skiff with two rowers, louis and baptiste, when, returning, he embraced us all, gave us some caramels which he had in his pockets, and announced that he counted on leaving us again in four or five days to go to attakapas. he had long been speaking of going there. papa and mamma were german, and papa loved to travel. when he first came to louisiana it was with no expectation of staying. but here he saw mamma; he loved her, married her, and bought a very fine plantation, where he cultivated indigo. you know they blue clothes with that drug, and dye cottonade and other things. there we, their eight children, were born.... [illustration: part of franÇois's first page.] when my father used to go to new orleans he went in his skiff, with a canopy over his head to keep off the sun, and two rowers, who sang as they rowed. sometimes papa took me with him, and it was very entertaining. we would pass the nights of our voyage at the houses of papa's friends [des zami de papa]. sometimes mamma would come, and suzanne always--always. she was the daughter next older than i. she barely missed being a boy. she was eighteen years of age, went hunting with our father, was skillful with a gun, and swam like a fish. papa called her "my son." you must understand the two boys were respectively but two years and three months old, and papa, who greatly desired a son, had easily made one of suzanne. my father had brought a few books with him to louisiana, and among them, you may well suppose, were several volumes of travel. for myself, i rarely touched them; but they were the only books that suzanne read. and you may well think, too, that my father had no sooner spoken of his intention than suzanne cried: "i am going with you, am i not, papa?" "naturally," replied my father; "and françoise shall go also." françoise--that was i; poor child of sixteen, who had but six months before quitted the school-bench, and totally unlike my sister--blonde, where suzanne was dark; timid, even cowardly, while she had the hardihood and courage of a young lioness; ready to cry at sight of a wounded bird, while she, gun in hand, brought down as much game as the most skillful hunter. i exclaimed at my father's speech. i had heard there were many indians in attakapas; the name means man-eaters. i have a foolish terror of indians, and a more reasonable one for man-eaters. but papa and suzanne mocked at my fears; and as, after all, i burned with desire for the journey, it was decided that i should go with them. necessarily we wanted to know how we were to go--whether we should travel by skiff, and how many negroes and negresses would go with us. for you see, my daughter, young people in were exactly what they are in ; they could do nothing by themselves, but must have a domestic to dress and undress them. especially in traveling, where one had to take clothes out of trunks and put them back again, assistance became an absolute necessity. think, then, of our astonishment, of our vexation, when papa assured us that he would not take a single slave; that my sister and i would be compelled to help each other, and that the skiff would remain behind, tied up at the landing where it then lay. "but explain yourself, papa, i beg of you," cried suzanne, with her habitual petulance. "that is what i am trying to do," said he. "if you will listen in silence, i will give you all the explanation you want." here, my daughter, to save time, i will borrow my father's speech and tell of the trip he had made to new orleans; how he had there found means to put into execution his journey to attakapas, and the companions that were to accompany him. ii. making up the expedition. in new orleans was nothing but a mere market town. the cathedral, the convent of the ursulines, five or six cafés, and about a hundred houses were all of it.[ ] can you believe, there were but two dry-goods stores! and what fabulous prices we had to pay! pins twenty dollars a paper. poor people and children had to make shift with thorns of orange and _amourette_ [honey locust?]. a needle cost fifty cents, very indifferent stockings five dollars a pair, and other things accordingly. on the levee was a little pothouse of the lowest sort; yet from that unclean and smoky hole was destined to come one of the finest fortunes in louisiana. they called the proprietor "père la chaise."[ ] he was a little old marten-faced man, always busy and smiling, who every year laid aside immense profits. along the crazy walls extended a few rough shelves covered with bottles and decanters. three planks placed on boards formed the counter, with père la chaise always behind it. there were two or three small tables, as many chairs, and one big wooden bench. here gathered the city's working-class, and often among them one might find a goodly number of the city's élite; for the wine and the beer of the old _cabaretier_ were famous, and one could be sure in entering there to hear all the news told and discussed. by day the place was quiet, but with evening it became tumultuous. père la chaise, happily, did not lose his head; he found means to satisfy all, to smooth down quarrels without calling in the police, to get rid of drunkards, and to make delinquents pay up. my father knew the place, and never failed to pay it a visit when he went to new orleans. poor, dear father! he loved to talk as much as to travel. père la chaise was acquainted with him. one evening papa entered, sat down at one of the little tables, and bade père la chaise bring a bottle of his best wine. the place was already full of people, drinking, talking, and singing. a young man of twenty-six or twenty-seven entered almost timidly and sat down at the table where my father was--for he saw that all the other places were occupied--and ordered a half-bottle of cider. he was a norman gardener. my father knew him by sight; he had met him here several times without speaking to him. you recognized the peasant at once; and yet his exquisite neatness, the gentleness of his face, distinguished him from his kind. joseph carpentier was dressed[ ] in a very ordinary gray woolen coat; but his coarse shirt was very white, and his hair, when he took off his broad-brimmed hat, was well combed and glossy. as carpentier was opening his bottle a second frequenter entered the _cabaret_. this was a man of thirty or thirty-five, with strong features and the frame of a hercules. an expression of frankness and gayety overspread his sunburnt face. cottonade pantaloons, stuffed into a pair of dirty boots, and a _vareuse_ of the same stuff made up his dress. his vareuse, unbuttoned, showed his breast, brown and hairy; and a horrid cap with long hair covered, without concealing, a mass of red locks that a comb had never gone through. a long whip, the stock of which he held in his hand, was coiled about his left arm. he advanced to the counter and asked for a glass of brandy. he was a drayman named john gordon--an irishman. but, strange, john gordon, glass in hand, did not drink; carpentier, with his fingers round the neck of the bottle, failed to pour his cider; and my father himself, his eyes attracted to another part of the room, forgot his wine. every one was looking at an individual gesticulating and haranguing in the middle of the place, to the great amusement of all. my father recognized him at first sight. he was an italian about the age of gordon; short, thick-set, powerful, swarthy, with the neck of a bull and hair as black as ebony. he was telling rapidly, with strong gestures, in an almost incomprehensible mixture of spanish, english, french, and italian, the story of a hunting party that he had made up five years before. this was mario carlo. a neapolitan by birth, he had for several years worked as a blacksmith on the plantation of one of our neighbors, m. alphonse perret. often papa had heard him tell of this hunt, for nothing could be more amusing than to listen to carlo. six young men, with carlo as sailor and cook, had gone on a two-months' expedition into the country of the attakapas. "yes," said the italian, in conclusion, "game never failed us; deer, turkeys, ducks, snipe, two or three bears a week. but the sublimest thing was the rich land. ah! one must see it to believe it. plains and forests full of animals, lakes and bayous full of fish. ah! fortune is there. for five years i have dreamed, i have worked, with but one object in view; and today the end is reached. i am ready to go. i want only two companions to aid me in the long journey, and those i have come to look for here." john gordon stepped forward, laid a hand upon the speaker's shoulder, and said: "my friend, i am your man." mario carlo seized the hand and shook it with all his force. "you will not repent the step. but"--turning again to the crowd--"we want one more." joseph carpentier rose slowly and advanced to the two men. "comrades, i will be your companion if you will accept me." before separating, the three drank together and appointed to meet the next day at the house of gordon, the irishman. when my father saw gordon and carpentier leave the place, he placed his hand on mario's shoulder and said in italian, "my boy, i want to talk with you." at that time, as now, parents were very scrupulous as to the society into which they introduced their children, especially their daughters; and papa knew of a certain circumstance in carlo's life to which my mother might greatly object. but he knew the man had an honest and noble heart. he passed his arm into the italian's and drew him to the inn where my father was stopping, and to his room. here he learned from mario that he had bought one of those great barges that bring down provisions from the west, and which, when unloaded, the owners count themselves lucky to sell at any reasonable price. when my father proposed to mario to be taken as a passenger the poor devil's joy knew no bounds; but it disappeared when papa added that he should take his two daughters with him. the trouble was this: mario was taking with him in his flatboat his wife and his four children; his wife and four children were simply--mulattoes. however, then as now, we hardly noticed those things, and the idea never entered our minds to inquire into the conduct of our slaves. suzanne and i had known celeste, mario's wife, very well before her husband bought her. she had been the maid of marianne perret, and on great occasions marianne had sent her to us to dress our hair and to prepare our toilets. we were therefore enchanted to learn that she would be with us on board the flatboat, and that papa had engaged her services in place of the attendants we had to leave behind. it was agreed that for one hundred dollars mario carlo would receive all three of us as passengers, that he would furnish a room simply but comfortably, that papa would share this room with us, that mario would supply our table, and that his wife would serve as maid and laundress. it remained to be seen now whether our other fellow-travelers were married, and, if so, what sort of creatures their wives were. [the next day the four intended travelers met at gordon's house. gordon had a wife, maggie, and a son, patrick, aged twelve, as unlovely in outward aspect as were his parents. carpentier, who showed himself even more plainly than on the previous night a man of native refinement, confessed to a young wife without offspring. mario told his story of love and alliance with one as fair of face as he, and whom only cruel law forbade him to call wife and compelled him to buy his children; and told the story so well that at its close the father of françoise silently grasped the narrator's hand, and carpentier, reaching across the table where they sat, gave his, saying: "you are an honest man, monsieur carlo." "will your wife think so?" asked the italian. "my wife comes from a country where there are no prejudices of race." françoise takes the pains to say of this part of the story that it was not told her and suzanne at this time, but years afterward, when they were themselves wives and mothers. when, on the third day, her father saw carpentier's wife at the norman peasant's lodgings, he was greatly surprised at her appearance and manner, and so captivated by them that he proposed that their two parties should make one at table during the projected voyage--a proposition gratefully accepted. then he left new orleans for his plantation home, intending to return immediately, leaving his daughters in st. james to prepare for the journey and await the arrival of the flatboat, which must pass their home on its way to the distant wilds of attakapas.] footnotes: [ ] an extreme underestimate, easy for a girl to make of a scattered town hidden among gardens and groves.--translator. [ ] without doubting the existence of the _cabaret_ and the nickname, the de la chaise estate, i think, came from a real de la chaise, true nephew of pere la chaise, the famous confessor of louis xiv. the nephew was royal commissary under bienville, and one of the worthiest fathers of the colony of louisiana.--translator. [ ] in all likelihood described here as seen by the writer herself later, on the journey.--translator. iii. the embarkation. you see, my dear child, at that time one post-office served for three parishes: st. james, st. john the baptist, and st. charles. it was very far from us, at the extremity of st. john the baptist, and the mail came there on the first of each month. we had to pay--though the price was no object--fifty cents postage on a letter. my father received several journals, mostly european. there was only one paper, french and spanish, published in new orleans--"the gazette."[ ] to send to the post-office was an affair of state. our father, you see, had not time to write; he was obliged to come to us himself. but such journeys were a matter of course in those days. "and above all things, my children," said my father, "don't have too much baggage." i should not have thought of rebelling; but suzanne raised loud cries, saying it was an absolute necessity that we go with papa to new orleans, so as not to find ourselves on our journey without traveling-dresses, new neckerchiefs, and a number of things. in vain did poor papa endeavor to explain that we were going into a desert worse than arabia; suzanne put her two hands to her ears and would hear nothing, until, weary of strife, poor papa yielded. our departure being decided upon, he wished to start even the very next day; and while we were instructing our sisters elinore and marie concerning some trunks that we should leave behind us, and which they must pack and have ready for the flatboat, papa recommended to mamma a great slaughter of fowls, etc., and especially to have ready for embarkation two of our best cows. ah! in those times if the planter wished to live well he had to raise everything himself, and the poultry yard and the dairy were something curious to see. dozens of slaves were kept busy in them constantly. when my mother had raised two thousand chickens, besides turkeys, ducks, geese, guinea-fowls, and pea-fowls, she said she had lost her crop.[ ] and the quantity of butter and cheese! and all this without counting the sauces, the jellies, the preserves, the gherkins, the syrups, the brandied fruits. and not a ham, not a chicken, not a pound of butter was sold; all was served on the master's table, or, very often, given to those who stood in need of them. where, now, can you find such profusion? ah! commerce has destroyed industry. the next day, after kissing mamma and the children, we got into the large skiff with papa and three days later stepped ashore in new orleans. we remained there a little over a week, preparing our traveling-dresses. despite the admonitions of papa, we went to the fashionable modiste of the day, madame cinthelia lefranc, and ordered for each a suit that cost one hundred and fifty dollars. the costume was composed of a petticoat of _camayeu_, very short, caught up in puffs on the side by a profusion of ribbons; and a very long-pointed black velvet jacket (_casaquin_), laced in the back with gold and trimmed on the front with several rows of gilt buttons. the sleeves stopped at the elbows and were trimmed with lace. now, my daughter, do you know what camayeu was? you now sometimes see an imitation of it in door and window curtains. it was a stuff of great fineness, yet resembling not a little the unbleached cotton of to-day, and over which were spread very brilliant designs of prodigious size. for example, suzanne's petticoat showed bunches of great radishes--not the short kind--surrounded by long, green leaves and tied with a yellow cord; while on mine were roses as big as a baby's head, interlaced with leaves and buds and gathered into bouquets graced with a blue ribbon. it was ten dollars an ell; but, as the petticoats were very short, six ells was enough for each. at that time real hats were unknown. for driving or for evening they placed on top of the high, powdered hair what they called a _catogan_, a little bonnet of gauze or lace trimmed with ribbons; and during the day a sun-bonnet of silk or velvet. you can guess that neither suzanne nor i, in spite of papa's instructions, forgot these. our traveling-dresses were gray _cirsacas_,--the skirt all one, short, without puffs; the jacket coming up high and with long sleeves,--a sunbonnet of cirsacas, blue stockings, embroidered handkerchief or blue cravat about the neck, and high-heeled shoes. as soon as celeste heard of our arrival in new orleans she hastened to us. she was a good creature; humble, respectful, and always ready to serve. she was an excellent cook and washer, and, what we still more prized, a lady's maid and hairdresser of the first order. my sister and i were glad to see her, and overwhelmed her with questions about carlo, their children, their plans, and our traveling companions. "ah! momzelle suzanne, the little madame carpentier seems to me a fine lady, ever so genteel; but the irish woman! ah! _grand dieu!_ she puts me in mind of a soldier. i'm afraid of her. she smokes--she swears--she carries a pistol, like a man." at last the th of may came, and papa took us on board the flatboat and helped us to find our way to our apartment. if my father had allowed carlo, he would have ruined himself in furnishing our room; but papa stopped him and directed it himself. the flatboat had been divided into four chambers. these were covered by a slightly arching deck, on which the boat was managed by the moving of immense sweeps that sent her forward. the room in the stern, surrounded by a sort of balcony, which monsieur carpentier himself had made, belonged to him and his wife; then came ours, then that of celeste and her family, and the one at the bow was the irishwoman's. carlo and gordon had crammed the provisions, tools, carts, and plows into the corners of their respective apartments. in the room which our father was to share with us he had had mario make two wooden frames mounted on feet. these were our beds, but they were supplied with good bedding and very white sheets. a large cypress table, on which we saw a pile of books and our workboxes; a washstand, also of cypress, but well furnished and surmounted by a mirror; our trunks in a corner; three rocking-chairs--this was all our furniture. there was neither carpet nor curtain. all were on board except the carpentier couple. suzanne was all anxiety to see the irishwoman. poor suzanne! how distressed she was not to be able to speak english! so, while i was taking off my _capotte_--as the sun-bonnet of that day was called--and smoothing my hair at the glass, she had already tossed her capotte upon papa's bed and sprung up the ladder that led to the deck. (each room had one.) i followed a little later and had the satisfaction of seeing madame margaretto gordon, commonly called "maggie" by her husband and "maw" by her son patrick. she was seated on a coil of rope, her son on the boards at her feet. an enormous dog crouched beside them, with his head against maggie's knee. the mother and son were surprisingly clean. maggie had on a simple brown calico dress and an apron of blue ticking. a big red kerchief was crossed on her breast and its twin brother covered her well combed and greased black hair. on her feet were blue stockings and heavy leather shoes. the blue ticking shirt and pantaloons and waistcoat of master pat were so clean that they shone; his black cap covered his hair--as well combed as his mother's; but he was barefooted. gordon, mario, and celeste's eldest son, aged thirteen, were busy about the deck; and papa, his cigar in his mouth and his hands in his pockets, stood looking out on the levee. i sat down on one of the rough benches that had been placed here and there, and presently my sister came and sat beside me. "madame carpentier seems to be a laggard," she said. she was burning to see the arrival of her whom we had formed the habit of calling "the little french peasant." [presently suzanne begins shooting bonbons at little patrick, watching the effect out of the corners of her eyes, and by and by gives that smile, all her own,--to which, says françoise, all flesh invariably surrendered,--and so became dumbly acquainted; while carlo was beginning to swear "fit to raise the dead," writes the memoirist, at the tardiness of the norman pair. but just then--] a carriage drove up to within a few feet of our _chaland_ and joseph carpentier alighted, paid the driver, and lifted from it one so delicate, pretty, and small that you might take her at first glance for a child of ten years. suzanne and i had risen quickly and came and leaned over the balustrade. to my mortification my sister had passed one arm around the waist of the little irishman and held one of his hands in hers. suzanne uttered a cry of astonishment. "look, look, françoise!" but i was looking, with eyes wide with astonishment. the gardener's wife had alighted, and with her little gloved hand shook out and re-arranged her toilet. that toilet, very simple to the eyes of madame carpentier, was what petrified us with astonishment. i am going to describe it to you, my daughter. we could not see her face, for her hood of blue silk, trimmed with a light white fur, was covered with a veil of white lace that entirely concealed her features. her traveling-dress, like ours, was of cirsacas, but ours was cotton, while hers was silk, in broad rays of gray and blue; and as the weather was a little cool that morning, she had exchanged the unfailing casaquin for a sort of _camail_ to match the dress, and trimmed, like the capotte, with a line of white fur. her petticoat was very short, lightly puffed on the sides, and ornamented only with two very long pockets trimmed like the camail. below the folds of the robe were two cinderella feet in blue silk stockings and black velvet slippers. it was not only the material of this toilet that astonished us, but the way in which it was made. "maybe she is a modiste. who knows?" whispered suzanne. another thing: madame carpentier wore a veil and gloves, two things of which we had heard but which we had never seen. madame ferrand had mentioned them, but said that they sold for their weight in gold in paris, and she had not dared import them, for fear she could not sell them in louisiana. and here was the wife of a laboring gardener, who avowed himself possessor of but two thousand francs, dressed like a duchess and with veil and gloves! i could but notice with what touching care joseph assisted his wife on board. he led her straight to her room, and quickly rejoined us on deck to put himself at the disposition of his associates. he explained to mario his delay, caused by the difficulty of finding a carriage; at which carlo lifted his shoulders and grimaced. joseph added that madame--i noticed that he rarely called her alix--was rather tired, and would keep her room until dinner time. presently our heavy craft was under way. pressing against the long sweeps, which it required a herculean strength to move, were seen on one side carlo and his son celestino, or 'tino, and on the other joseph and gordon. it moved slowly; so slowly that it gave the effect of a great tortoise. footnotes: [ ] another error easy to make. for "gazette" read "moniteur"; "the gazette" appeared a little later.--translator. [ ] the translator feels constrained to say that he was not on the spot. iv. alix carpentier. towards noon we saw celeste come on deck with her second son, both carrying baskets full of plates, dishes, covers, and a tablecloth. you remember i have often told you of an awning stretched at the stern of the flatboat? we found that in fine weather our dining-room was to be under this. there was no table; the cloth was simply spread on the deck, and those who ate had to sit _à la turque_ or take their plates on their knees. the irish family ate in their room. just as we were drawing around our repast madame carpentier, on her husband's arm, came up on deck. dear little alix! i see you yet as i saw you then. and here, twenty-seven years after our parting, i have before me the medallion you gave me, and look tenderly on your dear features, my friend! she had not changed her dress; only she had replaced her camail with a scarf of blue silk about her neck and shoulders and had removed her gloves and _capuche_. her rich chestnut hair, unpowdered, was combed back _à la chinoise_, and the long locks that descended upon her shoulders were tied by a broad blue ribbon forming a rosette on the forepart of her head. she wore no jewelry except a pearl at each ear and her wedding ring. suzanne, who always saw everything, remarked afterward that madame carpentier wore two. "as for her earrings," she added, "they are nothing great. marianne has some as fine, that cost, i think, ten dollars." poor suzanne, a judge of jewelry! madame carpentier's earrings were two great pearls, worth at least two hundred dollars. never have i met another so charming, so lovely, as alix carpentier. her every movement was grace. she moved, spoke, smiled, and in all things acted differently from all the women i had ever met until then. she made one think she had lived in a world all unlike ours; and withal she was simple, sweet, good, and to love her seemed the most natural thing on earth. there was nothing extraordinary in her beauty; the charm was in her intelligence and her goodness. maggie, the irishwoman, was very taciturn. she never mingled with us, nor spoke to any one except suzanne, and to her in monosyllables only when addressed. you would see her sometimes sitting alone at the bow of the boat, sewing, knitting, or saying her beads. during this last occupation her eyes never quitted alix. one would say it was to her she addressed her prayers; and one day, when she saw my regard fixed upon alix, she said to me: "it does me good to look at her; she must look like the virgin mary." her little form, so graceful and delicate, had, however, one slight defect; but this was hidden under the folds of her robe or of the scarf that she knew how to arrange with such grace. one shoulder was a trifle higher than the other. after having greeted my father, whom she already knew, she turned to us, hesitated a moment, and then, her two little hands extended, and with a most charming smile, she advanced, first to me and then to suzanne, and embraced us both as if we had been old acquaintances. and from that moment we were good friends. it had been decided that the boat should not travel by night, notwithstanding the assurance of carlo, who had a map of attakapas. but in the mississippi there was no danger; and as papa was pressed to reach our plantation, we traveled all that first night. the next day alix--she required us to call her by that name--invited us to visit her in her room. suzanne and i could not withhold a cry of surprise as we entered the little chamber. (remember one thing: papa took nothing from home, not knowing even by what means we should return; but the carpentiers were going for good and taking everything.) joseph had had the rough walls whitewashed. a cheap carpet--but high-priced in those times--of bright colors covered the floor; a very low french bed occupied one corner, and from a sort of dais escaped the folds of an embroidered bobbinet mosquito-bar. it was the first mosquito-bar of that kind we had ever seen. alix explained that she had made it from the curtains of the same bed, and that both bed and curtains she had brought with her from england. new mystery! beside the bed a walnut dressing-table and mirror, opposite to it a washstand, at the bed's foot a _príedieu_, a center-table, three chairs--these were all the furniture; but [an enumeration follows of all manner of pretty feminine belongings, in crystal, silver, gold, with a picture of the crucifixion and another of the virgin]. on the shelves were a rich box of colors, several books, and some portfolios of music. from a small peg hung a guitar. but suzanne was not satisfied. her gaze never left an object of unknown form enveloped in green serge. alix noticed, laughed, rose, and, lifting the covering, said: "this is my harp, suzanne; later i will play it for you." the second evening and those that followed, papa, despite carlo's representation and the magnificent moonlight, opposed the continuation of the journey by night; and it was not until the morning of the fifth day that we reached st. james. you can fancy the joy with which we were received at the plantation. we had but begun our voyage, and already my mother and sisters ran to us with extended arms as though they had not seen us for years. needless to say, they were charmed with alix; and when after dinner we had to say a last adieu to the loved ones left behind, we boarded the flatboat and left the plantation amid huzzas,[ ] waving handkerchiefs, and kisses thrown from finger-tips. no one wept, but in saying good-bye to my father, my mother asked: "pierre, how are you going to return?" "dear wife, by the mercy of god all things are possible to the man with his pocket full of money." during the few days that we passed on the mississippi each day was like the one before. we sat on the deck and watched the slow swinging of the long sweeps, or read, or embroidered, or in the chamber of alix listened to her harp or guitar; and at the end of another week, we arrived at plaquemine. footnotes: [ ] according to a common habit of the southern slaves.--translator. v. down bayou plaquemine--the fight with wild nature. plaquemine was composed of a church, two stores, as many drinking-shops, and about fifty cabins, one of which was the court-house. here lived a multitude of catalans, acadians, negroes, and indians. when suzanne and maggie, accompanied by my father and john gordon, went ashore, i declined to follow, preferring to stay aboard with joseph and alix. it was at plaquemine that we bade adieu to the old mississippi. here our flatboat made a détour and entered bayou plaquemine.[ ] hardly had we started when our men saw and were frightened by the force of the current. the enormous flatboat, that suzanne had likened to a giant tortoise, darted now like an arrow, dragged by the current. the people of plaquemine had forewarned our men and recommended the greatest prudence. "do everything possible to hold back your boat, for if you strike any of those tree-trunks of which the bayou is full it would easily sink you." think how reassuring all this was, and the more when they informed us that this was the first time a flatboat had ventured into the bayou! mario, swearing in all the known languages, sought to reassure us, and, aided by his two associates, changed the manoeuvring, and with watchful eye found ways to avoid the great uprooted trees in which the lakes and bayous of attakapas abound. but how clouded was carpentier's brow! and my father? ah! he repented enough. then he realized that gold is not always the vanquisher of every obstacle. at last, thanks to heaven, our flatboat came off victor over the snags, and after some hours we arrived at the indian village of which you have heard me tell. if i was afraid at sight of a dozen savages among the spaniards of plaquemine, what was to become of me now? the bank was entirely covered with men, their faces painted, their heads full of feathers, moccasins on their feet, and bows on shoulder--indians indeed, with women simply wrapped in blankets, and children without the shadow of a garment; and all these indians running, calling to one another, making signs to us, and addressing us in incomprehensible language. suzanne, standing up on the bow of the flatboat, replied to their signs and called with all the force of her lungs every indian word that--god knows where--she had learned: "chacounam finnan! o choctaw! conno poposso!" and the indians clapped their hands, laughing with pleasure and increasing yet more their gestures and cries. the village, about fifty huts, lay along the edge of the water. the unfortunates were not timid. presently several came close to the flatboat and showed us two deer and some wild turkeys and ducks, the spoils of their hunting. then came the women laden with sacks made of bark and full of blackberries, vegetables, and a great quantity of baskets; showing all, motioning us to come down, and repeating in french and spanish, "money, money!" it was decided that mario and gordon should stay on board and that all the rest of the joyous band should go ashore. my father, m. carpentier, and 'tino loaded their pistols and put them into their belts. suzanne did likewise, while maggie called tom, her bulldog, to follow her. celeste declined to go, because of her children. as to alix and me, a terrible contest was raging in us between fright and curiosity, but the latter conquered. suzanne and papa laughed so about our fears that alix, less cowardly than i, yielded first, and joined the others. this was too much. grasping my father's arm and begging him not to leave me for an instant, i let him conduct me, while alix followed me, taking her husband's arm in both her hands. in front marched 'tino, his gun on his shoulder; after him went maggie, followed by tom; and then suzanne and little patrick, inseparable friends. hardly had we gone a few steps when we were surrounded by a human wall, and i realized with a shiver how easy it would be for these savages to get rid of us and take all our possessions. but the poor devils certainly never thought of it: they showed us their game, of which papa bought the greater part, as well as several sacks of berries, and also vegetables. but the baskets! they were veritable wonders. as several of those that i bought that day are still in your possession, i will not lose much time telling of them. how those half-savage people could make things so well contrived and ornamented with such brilliant colors is still a problem to us. papa bought for mamma thirty-two little baskets fitting into one another, the largest about as tall as a child of five years, and the smallest just large enough to receive a thimble. when he asked the price i expected to hear the seller say at least thirty dollars, but his humble reply was five dollars. for a deer he asked one dollar; for a wild turkey, twenty-five cents. despite the advice of papa, who asked us how we were going to carry our purchases home, suzanne and i bought, between us, more than forty baskets, great and small. to papa's question, suzanne replied with an arch smile: "god will provide." maggie and alix also bought several; and alix, who never forgot any one, bought two charming little baskets that she carried to celeste. each of us, even maggie, secured a broad parti-colored mat to use on the deck as a couch _à la turque_. our last purchases were two indian bows painted red and blue and adorned with feathers; the first bought by celestino carlo, and the other by suzanne for her chevalier, patrick gordon. an indian woman who spoke a little french asked if we would not like to visit the queen. we assented, and in a few moments she led us into a hut thatched with palmetto leaves and in all respects like the others. its interior was disgustingly unclean. the queen was a woman quite or nearly a hundred years old. she sat on a mat upon the earth, her arms crossed on her breast, her eyes half closed, muttering between her teeth something resembling a prayer. she paid no attention to us, and after a moment we went out. we entered two or three other huts and found the same poverty and squalor. the men did not follow us about, but the women--the whole tribe, i think--marched step by step behind us, touching our dresses, our _capuches_, our jewelry, and asking for everything; and i felt well content when, standing on our deck, i could make them our last signs of adieu. our flatboat moved ever onward. day by day, hour by hour, every minute it advanced--slowly it is true, in the diminished current, but it advanced. i no longer knew where i was. we came at times where i thought we were lost; and then i thought of mamma and my dear sisters and my two pretty little brothers, whom i might never see again, and i was swallowed up. then suzanne would make fun of me and alix would caress me, and that did me good. there were many bayous,--a labyrinth, as papa said,--and mario had his map at hand showing the way. sometimes it seemed impracticable, and it was only by great efforts of our men ["no zomme," says the original] that we could pass on. one thing is sure--those who traverse those same lakes and bayous to-day have not the faintest idea of what they were [il zété] in . great vines hung down from lofty trees that shaded the banks and crossed one another a hundred--a thousand--ways to prevent the boat's passage and retard its progress, as if the devil himself was mixed in it; and, frankly, i believe that he had something to do with us in that cavern. often our emigrants were forced to take their axes and hatchets in hand to open a road. at other times tree-trunks, heaped upon one another, completely closed a bayou. then think what trouble there was to unbar that gate and pass through. and, to make all complete, troops of hungry alligators clambered upon the sides of our flatboat with jaws open to devour us. there was much outcry; i fled, alix fled with me, suzanne laughed. but our men were always ready for them with their guns. footnotes: [ ] flowing, not into, but out of, the mississippi, and, like it, towards the gulf.--translator. vi. the twice-married countess. but with all the sluggishness of the flatboat, the toils, the anxieties, and the frights, what happy times, what gay moments, we passed together on the rough deck of our rude vessel, or in the little cells that we called our bedrooms. it was in these rooms, when the sun was hot on deck, that my sister and i would join alix to learn from her a new stitch in embroidery, or some of the charming songs she had brought from france and which she accompanied with harp or guitar. often she read to us, and when she grew tired put the book into my hands or suzanne's, and gave us precious lessons in reading, as she had in singing and in embroidery. at times, in these moments of intimacy, she made certain half-disclosures that astonished us more and more. one day suzanne took between her own two hands that hand so small and delicate and cried out all at once: "how comes it, alix, that you wear two wedding rings?" "because," she sweetly answered, "if it gives you pleasure to know, i have been twice married." we both exclaimed with surprise. "ah!" she said, "no doubt you think me younger [bocou plus jeune] than i really am. what do you suppose is my age?" suzanne replied: "you look younger than françoise, and she is sixteen." "i am twenty-three," replied alix, laughing again and again. another time my sister took a book, haphazard, from the shelves. ordinarily [audinaremend] alix herself chose our reading, but she was busy embroidering. suzanne sat down and began to read aloud a romance entitled "two destinies." "ah!" cried my sister, "these two girls must be françoise and i." "oh no, no!" exclaimed alix, with a heavy sigh, and suzanne began her reading. it told of two sisters of noble family. the elder had been married to a count, handsome, noble, and rich; and the other, against her parents' wish, to a poor workingman who had taken her to a distant country, where she died of regret and misery. alix and i listened attentively; but before suzanne had finished, alix softly took the book from her hands and replaced it on the shelf. "i would not have chosen that book for you; it is full of exaggerations and falsehoods." "and yet," said suzanne, "see with what truth the lot of the countess is described! how happy she was in her emblazoned coach, and her jewels, her laces, her dresses of velvet and brocade! ah, françoise! of the two destinies i choose that one." alix looked at her for a moment and then dropped her head in silence. suzanne went on in her giddy way: "and the other: how she was punished for her plebeian tastes!" "so, my dear suzanne," responded alix, "you would not marry--" "a man not my equal--a workman? ah! certainly not." madame carpentier turned slightly pale. i looked at suzanne with eyes full of reproach; and suzanne remembering the gardener, at that moment in his shirt sleeves pushing one of the boat's long sweeps, bit her lip and turned to hide her tears. but alix--the dear little creature!--rose, threw her arms about my sister's neck, kissed her, and said: "i know very well that you had no wish to give me pain, dear suzanne. you have only called up some dreadful things that i am trying to forget. i am the daughter of a count. my childhood and youth were passed in châteaux and palaces, surrounded by every pleasure that an immense fortune could supply. as the wife of a viscount i have been received at court; i have been the companion of princesses. to-day all that is a dreadful dream. before me i have a future the most modest and humble. i am the wife of joseph the gardener; but poor and humble as is my present lot, i would not exchange it for the brilliant past, hidden from me by a veil of blood and tears. some day i will write and send you my history; for i want to make it plain to you, suzanne, that titles and riches do not make happiness, but that the poorest fate illumined by the fires of love is very often radiant with pleasure." we remained mute. i took alix's hand in mine and silently pressed it. even suzanne, the inquisitive suzanne, spoke not a word. she was content to kiss alix and wipe away her tears. if the day had its pleasures, it was in the evenings, when we were all reunited on deck, that the moments of gayety began. when we had brilliant moonlight the flatboat would continue its course to a late hour. then, in those calm, cool moments, when the movement of our vessel was so slight that it seemed to slide on the water, amid the odorous breezes of evening, the instruments of music were brought upon deck and our concerts began. my father played the flute delightfully; carlo, by ear, played the violin pleasantly; and there, on the deck of that old flatboat, before an indulgent audience, our improvised instruments waked the sleeping creatures of the centuries-old forest and called around us the wondering fishes and alligators. my father and alix played admirable duos on flute and harp, and sometimes carlo added the notes of his violin or played for us cotillons and spanish dances. finally suzanne and i, to please papa, sang together spanish songs, or songs of the negroes, that made our auditors nearly die a-laughing; or french ballads, in which alix would mingle her sweet voice. then carlo, with gestures that always frightened patrick, made the air resound with italian refrains, to which almost always succeeded the irish ballads of the gordons. but when it happened that the flatboat made an early stop to let our men rest, the programme was changed. celeste and maggie went ashore to cook the two suppers there. their children gathered wood and lighted the fires. mario and gordon, or gordon and 'tino, went into the forest with their guns. sometimes my father went along, or sat down by m. carpentier, who was the fisherman. alix, too, generally sat near her husband, her sketch-book on her knee, and copied the surrounding scene. often, tired of fishing, we gathered flowers and wild fruits. i generally staid near alix and her husband, letting suzanne run ahead with patrick and tom. it was a strange thing, the friendship between my sister and this little irish boy. never during the journey did he address one word to me; he never answered a question from alix; he ran away if my father or joseph spoke to him; he turned pale and hid if mario looked at him. but with suzanne he talked, laughed, obeyed her every word, called her miss souzie, and was never so happy as when serving her. and when, twenty years afterward, she made a journey to attakapas, the wealthy m. patrick gordon, hearing by chance of her presence, came with his daughter to make her his guest for a week, still calling her miss souzie, as of old. vii. odd partners in the bolero dance. only one thing we lacked--mass and sunday prayers. but on that day the flatboat remained moored, we put on our sunday clothes, gathered on deck, and papa read the mass aloud surrounded by our whole party, kneeling; and in the parts where the choir is heard in church, alix, my sister, and i, seconded by papa and mario, sang hymns. one evening--we had already been five weeks on our journey--the flatboat was floating slowly along, as if it were tired of going, between the narrow banks of a bayou marked in red ink on carlo's map, "bayou sorrel." it was about six in the afternoon. there had been a suffocating heat all day. it was with joy that we came up on deck. my father, as he made his appearance, showed us his flute. it was a signal: carlo ran for his violin, suzanne for alix's guitar, and presently carpentier appeared with his wife's harp. ah! i see them still: gordon and 'tino seated on a mat; celeste and her children; mario with his violin; maggie; patrick at the feet of suzanne; alix seated and tuning her harp; papa at her side; and m. carpentier and i seated on the bench nearest the musicians. my father and alix had already played some pieces, when papa stopped and asked her to accompany him in a new bolero which was then the vogue in new orleans. in those days, at all the balls and parties, the boleros, fandangos, and other spanish dances had their place with the french contra-dances and waltzes. suzanne had made her entrance into society three years before, and danced ravishingly. not so with me. i had attended my first ball only a few months before, and had taken nearly all my dancing-lessons from suzanne. what was to become of me, then, when i heard my father ask me to dance the bolero which he and alix were playing!... every one made room for us, crying, "_oh, oui, mlle. suzanne; dancez! oh, dancez, mlle. françoise!_" i did not wish to disobey my father. i did not want to disoblige my friends. suzanne loosed her red scarf and tossed one end to me. i caught the end of the shawl that suzanne was already waving over her head and began the first steps, but it took me only an instant to see that the task was beyond my powers. i grew confused, my head swam, and i stopped. but alix did not stop playing; and suzanne, wrapped in her shawl and turning upon herself, cried, "play on!" i understood her intention in an instant. harp and flute sounded on, and suzanne, ever gliding, waltzing, leaping, her arms gracefully lifted above her head, softly waved her scarf, giving it a thousand different forms. thus she made, twice, the circuit of the deck, and at length paused before mario carlo. but only for a moment. with a movement as quick as unexpected, she threw the end of her scarf to him. it wound about his neck. the italian with a shoulder movement loosed the scarf, caught it in his left hand, threw his violin to celeste, and bowed low to his challenger. all this as the etiquette of the bolero inexorably demanded. then maestro mario smote the deck sharply with his heels, let go a cry like an indian's war-whoop, and made two leaps into the air, smiting his heels against each other. he came down on the points of his toes, waving the scarf from his left hand; and twining his right arm about my sister's waist, he swept her away with him. they danced for at least half an hour, running the one after the other, waltzing, tripping, turning, leaping. the children and gordon shouted with delight, while my father, m. carpentier, and even alix clapped their hands, crying, "hurrah!" suzanne's want of dignity exasperated me; but when i tried to speak of it, papa and alix were against me. "on board a flatboat," said my father, "a breach of form is permissible." he resumed his flute with the first measures of a minuet. "ah, our turn!" cried alix; "our turn, françoise! i will be the cavalier!" i could dance the minuet as well as i could the bolero--that is, not at all; but alix promised to guide me: and as, after all, i loved the dance as we love it at sixteen, i was easily persuaded, and fan in hand followed alix, who for the emergency wore her husband's hat; and our minuet was received with as much enthusiasm as suzanne's bolero. this ball was followed by others, and alix gave me many lessons in the dance, that some weeks later were very valuable in the wilderness towards which we were journeying. viii. a bad storm in a bad place. the flatboat continued its course, and some slight signs of civilization began to appear at long intervals. towards the end of a beautiful day in june, six weeks after our departure from new orleans, the flatboat stopped at the pass of lake chicot.[ ] the sun was setting in a belt of gray clouds. our men fastened their vessel securely and then cast their eyes about them. "ah!" cried mario, "i do not like this place; it is inhabited." he pointed to a wretched hut half hidden by the forest. except two or three little cabins seen in the distance, this was the first habitation that had met our eyes since leaving the mississippi.[ ] a woman showed herself at the door. she was scarcely dressed at all. her feet were naked, and her tousled hair escaped from a wretched handkerchief that she had thrown upon her head. hidden in the bushes and behind the trees half a dozen half-nude children gazed at us, ready to fly at the slightest sound. suddenly two men with guns came out of the woods, but at the sight of the flatboat stood petrified. mario shook his head. "if it were not so late i would take the boat farther on." [yet he went hunting with 'tino and gordon along the shore, leaving the father of françoise and suzanne lying on the deck with sick headache, joseph fishing in the flatboat's little skiff, and the women and children on the bank, gazed at from a little distance by the sitting figures of the two strange men and the woman. then the hunters returned, supper was prepared, and both messes ate on shore. gordon and mario joining freely in the conversation of the more cultivated group, and making altogether a strange babel of english, french, spanish, and italian.] after supper joseph and alix, followed by my sister and me, plunged into the denser part of the woods. "take care, comrade," we heard mario say; "don't go far." the last rays of the sun were in the treetops. there were flowers everywhere. alix ran here and there, all enthusiasm. presently suzanne uttered a cry and recoiled with affright from a thicket of blackberries. in an instant joseph was at her side; but she laughed aloud, returned to the assault, and drew by force from the bushes a little girl of three or four years. the child fought and cried; but suzanne held on, drew her to the trunk of a tree, sat down, and held her on her lap by force. the poor little thing was horribly dirty, but under its rags there were pretty features and a sweetness that inspired pity. alix sat down by my sister and stroked the child's hair, and, like suzanne, spite of the dirt, kissed her several times; but the little creature still fought, and yelled [in english]: "let me alone! i want to go home! i want to go home!" joseph advised my sister to let the child go, and suzanne was about to do so when she remembered having at supper filled her pocket with pecans. she quickly filled the child's hands with them and the rubicon was passed.... she said that her name was annie; that her father, mother, and brothers lived in the hut. that was all she could say. she did not know her parents' name. when suzanne put her down she ran with all her legs towards the cabin to show alix's gift, her pretty ribbon. before the sun went down the wind rose. great clouds covered the horizon; large rain-drops began to fall. joseph covered the head of his young wife with her mantle, and we hastened back to the camp. "do you fear a storm, joseph?" asked alix. "i do not know too much," he replied; "but when you are near, all dangers seem great." we found the camp deserted; all our companions were on board the flatboat. the wind rose to fury, and now the rain fell in torrents. we descended to our rooms. papa was asleep. we did not disturb him, though we were greatly frightened.... joseph and gordon went below to sleep. mario and his son loosed the three bull-dogs, but first removed the planks that joined the boat to the shore. then he hoisted a great lantern upon a mast in the bow, lighted his pipe, and sat down to keep his son awake with stories of voyages and hunts. the storm seemed to increase in violence every minute. the rain redoubled its fury. frightful thunders echoed each other's roars. the flatboat, tossed by the wind and waves, seemed to writhe in agony, while now and then the trunks of uprooted trees, lifted by the waves, smote it as they passed. without a thought of the people in the hut, i made every effort to keep awake in the face of these menaces of nature. suzanne held my hand tightly in hers, and several times spoke to me in a low voice, fearing to wake papa, whom we could hear breathing regularly, sleeping without a suspicion of the surrounding dangers. yet an hour had not passed ere i was sleeping profoundly. a knock on the partition awoke us and made us run to the door. mario was waiting there. "quick, monsieur! get the young ladies ready. the flatboat has probably but ten minutes to live. we must take the women and children ashore. and please, signorina,"--to my sister,--"call m. and mme. carpentier." but joseph had heard all, and showed himself at the door of our room. "ashore? at such a time?" "we have no choice. we must go or perish." "but where?" "to the hut. we have no time to talk. my family is ready".... it took but a few minutes to obey papa's orders. we were already nearly dressed; and as sabots were worn at that time to protect the shoes from the mud and wet, we had them on in a moment. a thick shawl and a woolen hood completed our outfits. alix was ready in a few moments. "save your jewels,--those you prize most,--my love," cried carpentier, "while i dress." alix ran to her dressing-case, threw its combs, brushes, etc., pell-mell into the bureau, opened a lower part of the case and took out four or five jewel-boxes that glided into her pockets, and two lockets that she hid carefully in her corsage. joseph always kept their little fortune in a leathern belt beneath his shirt. he put on his vest and over it a sort of great-coat, slung his gun by its shoulder-belt, secured his pistols, and then taking from one of his trunks a large woolen cloak he wrapped alix in it, and lifted her like a child of eight, while she crossed her little arms about his neck and rested her head on his bosom. then he followed us into mario's room, where his two associates were waiting. at another time we might have laughed at maggie, but not now. she had slipped into her belt two horse-pistols. in one hand she held in leash her bull-dog tom, and in the other a short carbine, her own property. footnotes: [ ] that is, "lake full of snags."--translator. [ ] the indian village having the mississippi probably but a few miles in its rear.--translator. ix. maggie and the robbers. "we are going out of here together," said mario; "but john and i will conduct you only to the door of the hut. thence we shall return to the flatboat, and all that two men can do to save our fortune shall be done. you, monsieur, have enough to do to take care of your daughters. to you, m. carpentier--to you, son celestino, i give the care of these women and children." "i can take care of myself," said maggie. "you are four, well armed," continued mario. (my father had his gun and pistols.) "this dog is worth two men. you have no risks to run; the danger, if there be any, will be with the boat. seeing us divided, they may venture an attack; but one of you stand by the window that faces the shore. if one of those men in the hut leaves it, or shows a wish to do so, fire one pistol-shot out of the window, and we shall be ready for them; but if you are attacked, fire two shots and we will come. now, forward!" we went slowly and cautiously: 'tino first, with a lantern; then the irish pair and child; then mario, leading his two younger boys, and celeste, with her daughter asleep in her arms; and for rear-guard papa with one of us on each arm, and joseph with his precious burden. the wind and the irregularities of the ground made us stumble at every step. the rain lashed us in the face and extorted from time to time sad lamentations from the children. but, for all that, we were in a few minutes at the door of the hovel. "m. carpentier," said mario, "i give my family into your care." joseph made no answer but to give his hand to the italian. mario strode away, followed by gordon. "knock on the door," said joseph to 'tino. the boy knocked. no sound was heard inside, except the growl of a dog. "knock again." the same silence. "we can't stay here in this beating rain; open and enter," cried carpentier. 'tino threw wide the door and we walked in. there was but one room. a large fire burned in a clay chimney that almost filled one side of the cabin. in one corner four or five chickens showed their heads. in another, the woman was lying on a wretched pallet in all her clothes. by her slept the little creature suzanne had found, her ribbon still on her frock. near one wall was a big chest on which another child was sleeping. a rough table was in the middle, on it some dirty tin plates and cups, and under it half a dozen dogs and two little boys. i never saw anything else like it. on the hearth stood the pot and skillet, still half full of hominy and meat. kneeling by the fire was a young man molding bullets and passing them to his father, seated on a stool at a corner of the chimney, who threw them into a jar of water, taking them out again to even them with the handle of a knife. i see it still as if it was before my eyes. the woman opened her eyes, but did not stir. the dogs rose tumultuously, but tom showed his teeth and growled, and they went back under the table. the young man rose upon one knee, he and his father gazing stupidly at us, the firelight in their faces. we women shrank against our protectors, except maggie, who let go a strong oath. the younger man was frightfully ugly; pale-faced, large-eyed, haggard, his long, tangled, blonde hair on his shoulders. the father's face was written all over with depravity and crime. joseph advanced and spoke to him. "what the devil of a language is that?" he asked of his son in english. "he is asking you," said maggie, "to let us stay here till the storm is over." "and where do you come from this way?" "from that flatboat tied to the bank." "well, the house isn't big nor pretty, but you are its masters." maggie went and sat by the window, ready to give the signal. pat sank at her feet, and laying his head upon tom went straight to sleep. papa sat down by the fire on an inverted box and took me on one knee. with her head against his other, suzanne crouched upon the floor. we were silent, our hearts beating hard, wishing ourselves with mamma in st. james. joseph set alix upon a stool beside him and removed her wrapping. "hello!" said the younger stranger, "i thought you were carrying a child. it's a woman!" an hour passed. the woman in the corner seemed to sleep; celeste, too, slumbered. when i asked suzanne, softly, if she was asleep, she would silently shake her head. the men went on with their task, not speaking. at last they finished, divided the balls between them, put them into a leather pouch at their belt, and the father, rising, said: "let us go. it is time." maggie raised her head. the elder man went and got his gun and loaded it with two balls, and while the younger was muffling himself in an old blanket-overcoat such as we give to plantation negroes, moved towards the door and was about to pass out. but quicker than lightning maggie had raised the window, snatched a pistol from her belt, and fired. the two men stood rooted, the elder frowning at maggie. tom rose and showed two rows of teeth. "what did you fire that pistol for? what signal are you giving?" "that is understood at the flatboat," said maggie, tranquilly. "i was to fire if you left the house. you started, i fired, and that's all." "----! and did you know, by yourself, what we were going to do?" "i haven't a doubt. you were simply going to attack and rob the flatboat." a second oath, fiercer than the first, escaped the man's lips. "you talk that way to me! do you forget that you're in my power?" "ah! do you think so?" cried maggie, resting her fists on her hips. "ah, ha, ha!" that was the first time i ever heard her laugh--and such a laugh! "don't you know, my dear sir, that at one turn of my hand this dog will strangle you like a chicken? don't you see four of us here armed to the teeth, and at another signal our comrades yonder ready to join us in an instant? and besides, this minute they are rolling a little cannon up to the bow of the boat. go, meddle with them, you'll see." she lied, but her lie averted the attack. she quietly sat down again and paid the scoundrel not the least attention. "and that's the way you pay us for taking you in, is it? accuse a man of crime because he steps out of his own house to look at the weather? well, that's all right." while the man spoke he put his gun into a corner, resumed his seat, and lighted a cob pipe. the son had leaned on his gun during the colloquy. now he put it aside and lay down upon the floor to sleep. the awakened children slept. maggie sat and smoked. my father, joseph, and 'tino talked in low tones. all at once the old ruffian took his pipe from his mouth and turned to my father. "where do you come from?" "from new orleans, sir." "how long have you been on the way?" "about a month." "and where are you going," etc. joseph, like papa, remained awake, but like him, like all of us, longed with all his soul for the end of that night of horror. at the first crowing of the cock the denizens of the hut were astir. the father and son took their guns and went into the forest. the fire was relighted. the woman washed some hominy in a pail and seemed to have forgotten our presence; but the little girl recognized alix, who took from her own neck a bright silk handkerchief and tied it over the child's head, put a dollar in her hand, and kissed her forehead. then it was suzanne's turn. she covered her with kisses. the little one laughed, and showed the turban and the silver that "the pretty lady," she said, had given her. next, my sister dropped, one by one, upon the pallet ten dollars, amazing the child with these playthings; and then she took off her red belt and put it about her little pet's neck. my father handed me a handful of silver. "they are very poor, my daughter; pay them well for their hospitality." as i approached the woman i heard joseph thank her and offer her money. "what do you want me to do with that?" she said, pushing my hand away. "instead of that, send me some coffee and tobacco." that ended it; i could not pay in money. but when i looked at the poor woman's dress so ragged and torn, i took off [j'autai] my shawl, which was large and warm, and put it on her shoulders,--i had another in the boat,--and she was well content. when i got back to the flatboat i sent her some chemises, petticoats, stockings, and a pair of shoes. the shoes were papa's. alix also sent her three skirts and two chemises, and suzanne two old dresses and two chemises for her children, cutting down what was too large. before quitting the hut celeste had taken from her two lads their knitted neckerchiefs and given them to the two smaller boys, and maggie took the old shawl that covered pat's shoulders and threw it upon the third child, who cried out with joy. at length we returned to our vessel, which had triumphantly fought the wind and floating trees. mario took to the cabin our gifts, to which we added sugar, biscuits, and a sack of pecans. x. alix puts away the past. for two weeks more our boat continued its slow and silent voyage among the bayous. we saw signs of civilization, but they were still far apart. these signs alarmed mario. he had already chosen his place of abode and spoke of it with his usual enthusiasm; a prairie where he had camped for two weeks with his young hunters five years before. "a principality--that is what i count on establishing there," he cried, pushing his hand through his hair. "and think!--if, maybe, some one has occupied it! oh, the thief! the robber! let him not fall into my hands! i'll strangle--i'll kill him!" my father, to console him, would say that it would be easy to find other tracts just as fine. "never!" replied he, rolling his eyes and brandishing his arms; and his fury would grow until maggie cried: "he is satan himself! he's the devil!" one evening the flatboat stopped a few miles only from where is now the village of pattersonville. the weather was magnificent, and while papa, gordon, and mario went hunting, joseph, alix, and we two walked on the bank. little by little we wandered, and, burying ourselves in the interior, we found ourselves all at once confronting a little cottage embowered in a grove of oranges. alix uttered a cry of admiration and went towards the house. we saw that it was uninhabited and must have been long abandoned. the little kitchen, the poultry-house, the dovecote, were in ruins. but the surroundings were admirable: in the rear a large court was entirely shaded with live-oaks; in front was the green belt of orange trees; farther away bayou teche, like a blue ribbon, marked a natural boundary, and at the bottom of the picture the great trees of the forest lifted their green-brown tops. "oh!" cried alix, "if i could stay here i should be happy." "who knows?" replied joseph. "the owner has left the house; he may be dead. who knows but i may take this place?" "oh! i pray you, joseph, try. try!" at that moment my father and mario appeared, looking for us, and alix cried: "welcome, gentlemen, to my domain." joseph told of his wife's wish and his hope.... "in any case," said mario, "count on us. if you decide to settle here we will stay two weeks--a month, if need be--to help you establish yourself." as soon as we had breakfasted my father and joseph set out for a plantation which they saw in the distance. they found it a rich estate. the large, well-built house was surrounded by outbuildings, stables, granaries, and gardens; fields of cane and corn extended to the limit of view. the owner, m. gerbeau, was a young frenchman. he led them into the house, presented them to his wife, and offered them refreshments. [m. gerbeau tells the travelers how he had come from the mississippi river parish of st. bernard to this place with all his effects in a schooner--doubtless via the mouth of the river and the bay of atchafalaya; while joseph is all impatience to hear of the little deserted home concerning which he has inquired. but finally he explains that its owner, a lone swede, had died of sunstroke two years before, and m. gerbeau's best efforts to find, through the swedish consul at new orleans or otherwise, a successor to the little estate had been unavailing. joseph could take the place if he would. he ended by generously forcing upon the father of françoise and suzanne the free use of his traveling-carriage and "two horses, as gentle as lambs and as swift as deer," with which to make their journey up the teche to st. martinville,[ ] the gay, not to say giddy, little capital of the royalist _émigrés_.] my father wished to know what means of transport he could secure, on his return to this point, to take us home. "don't let that trouble you; i will arrange that. i already have a plan--you shall see." the same day the work began on the carpentier's home. the three immigrants and 'tino fell bravely to work, and m. gerbeau brought his carpenter and a cart-load of lumber. two new rooms were added. the kitchen was repaired, then the stable, the dovecote, the poultry-house; the garden fences were restored; also those of the field. my father gave joseph one of his cows; the other was promised to carlo. mme. gerbeau was with us much, helping alix, as were we. we often dined with her. one sunday m. gerbeau came for us very early and insisted that mario and gordon should join us. maggie, with her usual phlegm, had declined. at dinner our host turned the conversation upon st. martinville, naming again all the barons, counts, and marquises of whom he had spoken to my father, and descanting especially on the grandeur of the balls and parties he had there attended. "and we have only our camayeu skirts!" cried suzanne. "daughter," observed papa, "be content with what you have. you are neither a duchess nor a countess, and besides you are traveling." "and," said m. gerbeau, "the stores there are full of knickknacks that would capture the desires of a queen." on returning to our flatboat alix came into my room, where i was alone, and laying her head on my shoulder: "françoise," she said, "i have heard mentioned today the dearest friend i ever had. that countess de la houssaye of whom m. gerbeau spoke is madelaine de livilier, my companion in convent, almost my sister. we were married nearly at the same time; we were presented at court the same day; and now here we are, both, in louisiana!" "o alix!" i cried, "i shall see her. papa has a letter to her husband; i shall tell her; she will come to see you; and--" "no, no! you must not speak of me, françoise. she knew and loved the countess alix de morainville. i know her; she would repel with scorn the wife of the gardener. i am happy in my obscurity. let nothing remind me of other days." seeing that alix said nothing of all this to suzanne, i imitated her example. with all her goodness, suzanne was so thoughtless and talkative! footnotes: [ ] now generally miscalled st. martinsville.--translator. xi. alix plays fairy.--parting tears. in about fifteen days the work on the cottage was nearly done and the moving began, celeste, and even maggie, offering us their services. alix seemed enchanted. "two things, only, i lack," she said--"a sofa, and something to cover the walls." one morning m. gerbeau sent to carpentier a horse, two fine cows and their calves, and a number of sheep and pigs. at the same time two or three negresses, loaded down with chickens, geese, and ducks, made their appearance. also m. gerbeau. "what does all this mean?" asked joseph. "this is the succession of the dead swede," replied the generous young man. "but i have no right to his succession." "that's a question," responded m. gerbeau. "you have inherited the house, you must inherit all. if claimants appear--well, you will be responsible to them. you will please give me a receipt in due form; that is all." tears came into carpentier's eyes.... as he was signing the receipt m. gerbeau stopped him. "wait; i forgot something. at the time of karl's [the swede's] death, i took from his crib fifty barrels of corn; add that." "o sir!" cried joseph, "that is too much--too much." "write!" said m. gerbeau, laying his hand on joseph's shoulder, "if you please. i am giving you nothing; i am relieving myself of a burden." * * * * * my dear daughter, if i have talked very much about alix it is because talking about her is such pleasure. she has been so good to my sister and me! the memory of her is one of the brightest of my youth. the flatboat was to go in three days. one morning, when we had passed the night with mme. gerbeau, patrick came running to say that "madame 'lix" wished to see us at once. we hastened to the cottage. alix met us on the gallery [veranda]. "come in, dear girls. i have a surprise for you and a great favor to ask. i heard you say, suzanne, you had nothing to wear--" "but our camayeu petticoats!" "but your camayeu petticoats." she smiled. "and they, it seems, do not tempt your vanity. you want better?" "ah, indeed we do!" replied suzanne. "well, let us play cinderella. the dresses of velvet, silk, and lace, the jewels, the slippers--all are in yonder chest. listen, my dear girls. upon the first signs of the revolution my frightened mother left france and crossed into england. she took with her all her wardrobe, her jewels, the pictures from her bedroom, and part of her plate. she bought, before going, a quantity of silks and ribbons.... when i reached england my mother was dead, and all that she had possessed was restored to me by the authorities. my poor mother loved dress, and in that chest is all her apparel. part of it i had altered for my own use; but she was much larger than i--taller than you. i can neither use them nor consent to sell them. if each of you will accept a ball toilet, you will make me very happy." and she looked at us with her eyes full of supplication, her hands clasped. we each snatched a hand and kissed it. then she opened the chest, and for the first and last time in my life i saw fabrics, ornaments, and coiffures that truly seemed to have been made by the fairies. after many trials and much debate she laid aside for me a lovely dress of blue brocade glistening with large silver flowers the reflections of which seemed like rays of light. it was short in front, with a train; was very full on the sides, and was caught up with knots of ribbon. the long pointed waist was cut square and trimmed with magnificent laces that re-appeared on the half-long sleeves. the arms, to the elbow, were to be covered with white frosted gloves fastened with twelve silver buttons. to complete my toilet she gave me a blue silk fan beautifully painted, blue satin slippers with high heels and silver buckles, white silk stockings with blue clocks, a broidered white cambric handkerchief trimmed with brussels point lace, and, last, a lovely set of silver filigree that she assured us was of slight value, comprising the necklace, the comb, the earrings, bracelets, and a belt whose silver tassels of the same design fell down the front of the dress. my sister's toilet was exactly like mine, save that it was rose color. alix had us try them on. while our eyes were ravished, she, with more expert taste, decided to take up a little in one place, lower a ribbon in another, add something here, take away there, and, above all, to iron the whole with care. we staid all day helping her; and when, about o'clock, all was finished, our fairy godmother said she would now dress our hair, and that we must observe closely. "for suzanne will have to coiffe françoise and françoise coiffe suzanne," she said. she took from the chest two pasteboard boxes that she said contained the headdresses belonging to our costumes, and, making me sit facing my sister, began to dress her hair. i was all eyes. i did not lose a movement of the comb. she lifted suzanne's hair to the middle of the head in two rosettes that she called _riquettes_ and fastened them with a silver comb. next, she made in front, or rather on the forehead, with hairpins, numberless little knots, or whorls, and placed on each side of the head a plume of white, rose-tipped feathers, and in front, opposite the riquettes, placed a rose surrounded with silver leaves. long rose-colored, silver-frosted ribbons falling far down on the back completed the headdress, on which alix dusted handfuls of silver powder. can you believe it, my daughter, that was the first time my sister and i had ever seen artificial flowers? they made very few of them, even in france, in those days. while suzanne admired herself in the mirror i took her place. my headdress differed from hers in the ends of my feathers being blue, and in the rose being white, surrounded by pale blue violets and a few silver leaves. and now a temptation came to all of us. alix spoke first: "now put on your ball-dresses and i will send for our friends. what do you think?" "oh, that would be charming!" cried suzanne. "let us hurry!" and while we dressed, pat, always prowling about the cottage, was sent to the flatboat to get his parents and the carlos, and to m. gerbeau's to ask my father and m. and mme. gerbeau to come at once to the cottage.... no, i cannot tell the cries of joy that greeted us. the children did not know us, and maggie had to tell pat over and over that these were miss souzie and miss francise. my father's eyes filled with tears as he thanked alix for her goodness and generosity to us. alas! the happiest days, like the saddest, have an end. on the morrow the people in the flatboat came to say good-bye. mario cried like a child. celeste carried Àlix's hands to her lips and said in the midst of her tears: "o madame! i had got so used to you--i hoped never to leave you." "i will come to see you, celeste," replied alix to the young mulattress, "i promise you." maggie herself seemed moved, and in taking leave of alix put two vigorous kisses on her cheeks. as to our father, and us, too, the adieus were not final, we having promised mario and gordon to stop [on their journey up the shore of the bayou] as soon as we saw the flatboat. "and we hope, my dear carlo, to find you established in your principality." "amen!" responded the italian. alix added to her gifts two pairs of chamois-skin gloves and a box of lovely artificial flowers. two days after the flatboat had gone, we having spent the night with alix, came m. gerbeau's carriage to take us once more upon our journey. ah! that was a terrible moment. even alix could scarce hold back the tears. we refused to get into the carriage, and walked, all of us together, to m. gerbeau's, and then parted amid tears, kisses, and promises. xii. little paris. [so the carriage rolled along the margin of bayou teche, with two big trunks besides monsieur's on back and top, and a smaller one, lent by alix, lashed underneath; but shawls, mats, and baskets were all left behind with the carpentiers. the first stop was at the plantation and residence of captain patterson, who "offered his hand in the english way, saying only, 'welcomed, young ladies.'" in , the narrator stops to say, one might see in and about new orleans some two-story houses; but along the banks of bayou teche, as well as on the mississippi, they were all of one sort,--like their own; like captain patterson's,--a single ground floor with three rooms facing front and three back. yet the very next stop was at a little cottage covered with roses and with its front yard full of ducks and geese,--"'a genuine german cottage,' said papa,"--where a german girl, to call her father, put a great ox's horn to her lips and blew a loud blast. almost every one was english or german till they came to where was just beginning to be the town of franklin. one harlman, a german, offered to exchange all his land for the silver watch that it best suited monsieur to travel with. the exchange was made, the acts were all signed and sealed, and--when suzanne, twenty years after, made a visit to attakapas there was harlman and his numerous family still in peaceful possession of the place.... "and i greatly fear that when some day our grandchildren awaken from that apathy with which i have always reproached the creoles, i fear, my daughter, they will have trouble to prove their titles." but they journeyed on, françoise ever looking out the carriage window for the flatboat, and suzanne crying: "annie, my sister annie, do you see nothing coming?" and about two miles from where franklin was to be they came upon it, greeted with joyous laughter and cries of "miss souzie! o miss souzie!" from the women and the children, and from mario: "i have it, signor! i have it! my prinicipality, miss souzie! it is mine, signorina françoise!" while he danced, laughed, and brandished his arms. "he had taken up enough land," says françoise, "for five principalities, and was already knocking the flatboat to pieces." she mentioned meeting jacques and charles picot, st. domingan refugees, whose story of adventures she says was very wonderful, but with good artistic judgement omits them. the travelers found, of course, a _charmante cordialité_ at the home of m. agricole fuselier[ ], and saw a little girl of five who afterward became a great beauty--uranie fuselier. they passed another indian village, where françoise persuaded them not to stop. its inhabitants were chetimachas, more civilized than those of the village near plaquemine, and their sworn enemies, living in constant fear of an attack from them. at new iberia, a town founded by spaniards, the voyagers saw "several houses, some drinking-shops and other buildings," and spent with "the pretty little madame dubuclet ... two of the pleasantest days of their lives."] at length, one beautiful evening in july, under a sky resplendent with stars, amid the perfume of gardens and caressed by the cool night breeze, we made our entry into the village of st. martinville--the little paris, the oasis in the desert. my father ordered julien [the coachman] to stop at the best inn. he turned two or three corners and stopped near the bayou [teche] just beside the bridge, before a house of the strangest aspect possible. there seemed first to have been built a _rez-de-chaussée_ house of ordinary size, to which had been hastily added here a room, there a cabinet, a balcony, until the "white pelican"--i seem to see it now--was like a house of cards, likely to tumble before the first breath of wind. the host's name was morphy. he came forward, hat in hand, a pure-blooded american, but speaking french almost like a frenchman. in the house all was comfortable and shining with cleanness. madame morphy took us to our room, adjoining papa's ["tou ta côté de selle de papa"], the two looking out, across the veranda, upon the waters of the teche. after supper my father proposed a walk. madame morphy showed us, by its lights, in the distance, a theater! "they are playing, this evening, 'the barber of seville.'" we started on our walk, moving slowly, scanning the houses and listening to the strains of music that reached us from the distance. it seemed but a dream that at any moment might vanish. on our return to the inn, papa threw his letters upon the table and began to examine their addresses. "to whom will you carry the first letter, papa?" i asked. "to the baron du clozel," he replied. "i have already met him in new orleans, and even had the pleasure to render him a slight service." mechanically suzanne and i examined the addresses and amused ourselves reading the pompous title's. "'le chevalier louis de blanc!'" began my sister; "'l'honorable a. déclouet'; 'le comte louis le pelletrier de la houssaye'! ah!" she cried, throwing the packet upon the table, "the aristocrats! i am frightened, poor little plebeian that i am." "yes, my daughter," responded my father, "these names represent true aristocrats, as noble in virtues as in blood. my father has often told me of two uncles of the count de la houssaye: the first, claude de la pelletrier de la houssaye, was prime minister to king louis xv.; and the second, barthelemy, was employed by the minister of finance. the count, he to whom i bear this letter, married madelaine victoire de livilier. these are noble names." then alix was not mistaken; it was really her friend, the countess madelaine, whom i was about to meet. footnotes: [ ] when i used the name of agricole fuselier (or agricola fusilier, as i have it in my novel "the grandissimes") i fully believed it was my own careful coinage; but on publishing it i quickly found that my supposed invention was but an unconscious reminiscence. the name still survives, i am told, on the teche.--translator. xiii. the countess madelaine. early the next day i saw, through the partly open door, my father finishing his toilet. he had already fastened over his black satin breeches his garters secured with large buckles of chased silver. similar buckles were on his shoes. his silver-buttoned vest of white piqué reached low down, and his black satin coat faced with white silk had large lappets cut square. such dress seemed to me very warm for summer; but the fashion and etiquette allowed only silk and velvet for visits of ceremony, and though you smothered you had to obey those tyrants. at the moment when i saw him out of the corner of my eye he was sticking a cluster diamond pin into his shirt-frill and another diamond into his lace cravat. it was the first time i ever saw papa so fine, so dressed! presently we heard him call us to arrange his queue, and although it was impossible for us to work up a club and pigeon wings like those i saw on the two young du clozels and on m. neville déclouet, we arranged a very fine queue wrapped with a black ribbon, and after smiling at himself in the glass and declaring that he thought the whole dress was in very good taste he kissed us, took his three-cornered hat and his gold-headed cane and went out. with what impatience we awaited his return! about two hours afterward we saw papa coming back accompanied by a gentleman of a certain age, handsome, noble, elegant in his severe suit of black velvet. he had the finest black eyes in the world, and his face beamed with wit and amiability. you have guessed it was the baron du clozel. the baron bowed to us profoundly. he certainly knew who we were, but etiquette required him to wait until my father had presented us; but immediately then he asked papa's permission to kiss us, and you may suppose your grandfather did not refuse. m. du clozel had been sent by the baroness to oppose our sojourn at the inn, and to bring us back with him. "run, put on your hoods," said papa; "we will wait for you here." mr. and mrs. morphy were greatly disappointed to see us go, and the former declared that if these nobles kept on taking away their custom they would have to shut up shop. papa, to appease him, paid him double what he asked. and the baron gave his arm to suzanne, as the elder, while i followed, on papa's. madame du clozel and her daughter met us at the street gate. the baroness, though not young, was still pretty, and so elegant, so majestic! a few days later i could add, so good, so lovable! celeste du clozel was eighteen. her hair was black as ebony, and her eyes a beautiful blue. the young men of the village called her _celeste la bien nommée_ [celeste the well named]; and for all her beauty, fortune, and high position she was good and simple and always ready to oblige. she was engaged, we learned afterward, to the chevalier de blanc, the same who in was made post-commandant of attakapas.[ ] olivier and charles du clozel turned everything to our entertainment, and it was soon decided that we should all go that same evening to the theater. hardly was the sun down when we shut ourselves into our rooms to begin the work of dressing. celeste put herself at our service, assuring us that she knew perfectly how to dress hair. the baroness asked us to let her lend us ornaments, ribbons--whatever we might need. we could see that she supposed two young girls who had never seen the great world, who came from a region where nearly all articles of luxury were wanting, could hardly have a choice wardrobe. we thanked them, assuring celeste that we had always cultivated the habit of dressing each other's hair. we put on our camayeu petticoats and our black velvet waists, adding gloves; and in our hair, sparkling with gold powder, we put, each of us, a bunch of the roses given us by alix. we found ourselves charming, and hoped to create a sensation. but if the baroness was satisfied she showed no astonishment. her hair, like her daughter's, was powdered, and both wore gloves. suzanne on the arm of olivier, i on charles's, celeste beside her fiancé, the grandparents in front, we entered the theater of st. martinville, and in a moment more were the observed of all observers. the play was a vaudeville, of which i remember only the name, but rarely have i seen amateurs act so well: all the prominent parts were rendered by young men. but if the french people are polite, amiable, and hospitable, we know that they are also very inquisitive. suzanne was more annoyed than i can tell; yet we knew that our toilets were in excellent taste, even in that place full of ladies covered with costly jewels. when i asked celeste how the merchants of st. martinville could procure these costly goods, she explained that near by there was a place named the _butte à la rose_ that greatly shortened the way to market.[ ] they were bringing almost everything from london, owing to the revolution. between the acts many persons came to greet madame du clozel. oh, how i longed to see the friend of alix! but i would not ask anything; i resolved to find her by the aid of my heart alone. presently, as by a magnetic power, my attention was drawn to a tall and beautiful young lady dressed in white satin, with no ornaments except a set of gold and sapphires, and for headdress a _résille_ the golden tassels of which touched her neck. ah! how quickly i recognized those brown eyes faintly proud, that kind smile, that queenly bearing, that graceful step! i turned to charles du clozel, who sat beside me, and said: "that is the countess de la houssaye, isn't it?" "do you know her?" "i see her for the first time; but--i guessed it." several times i saw her looking at me, and once she smiled. during the last two acts she came and shook hands with us, and, caressing our hair with her gloved hand, said her husband had seen papa's letter; that it was from a dear friend, and that she came to ask madame du clozel to let her take us away with her. against this the baroness cried out, and then the countess madelaine said to us: "well, you will come spend the day with me day after to-morrow, will you? i shall invite only young people. may i come for you?" ah, that day! how i remember it!... madame de la houssaye was fully five or six years older than madame carpentier, for she was the mother of four boys, the eldest of whom was fully twelve.[ ] her house was, like madame du clozel's, a single rez-de-chaussée surmounted by a mansard.... from the drawing-room she conducted us to a room in the rear of the house at the end of the veranda [galerie], where ... a low window let into a garden crossed and re-crossed with alleys of orange and jasmine. several lofty magnolias filled the air with the fragrance of their great white flowers.... xiv. "poor little alix!" hardly had we made a few steps into the room when a young girl rose and advanced, supported on the arm of a young man slightly overdressed. his club and pigeon-wings were fastened with three or four pins of gold, and his white-powdered queue was wrapped with a black velvet ribbon shot with silver. the heat was so great that he had substituted silk for velvet, and his dress-coat, breeches, and long vest were of pearl-gray silk, changing to silver, with large silver buttons. on the lace frill of his embroidered shirt shone three large diamonds, on his cravat was another, and his fingers were covered with rings.[ ] the young girl embraced us with ceremony, while her companion bowed profoundly. she could hardly have been over sixteen or seventeen. one could easily guess by her dress that the pretty creature was the slave of fashion. "madame du rocher," said charles du clozel, throwing a wicked glance upon her. "madame!" i stammered. "impossible!" cried suzanne. "don't listen to him!" interrupted the young lady, striking charles's fingers with her fan. "he is a wretched falsifier. i am called tonton de blanc." "the widow du rocher!" cried olivier, from the other side. "ah, this is too much!" she exclaimed. "if you don't stop these ridiculous jokes at once i'll make neville call you out upon the field of battle." ... but a little while afterward celeste whispered in my ear that her brothers had said truly. at thirteen years tonton, eldest daughter of commandant louis de blanc and sister of chevalier de blanc, had been espoused to dr. du rocher, at least forty years older than she. he was rich, and two years later he died, leaving all his fortune to his widow.... one after another madame de la houssaye introduced to us at least twenty persons, the most of whose names, unfortunately, i have forgotten. i kept notes, but have mislaid them.... a few moments before dinner the countess re-appeared among us, followed by two servants in livery bearing salvers of fruit; and while we ate she seated herself at the harpsichord and played. "do you sing?" she asked me. "a little, madame." [the two sisters sang a song together.] "children," she cried, "tell me, i pray you, who taught you that duet?" "a young french lady, one of our friends," replied suzanne. "but her name! what is her name?" "madame carpentier." the name meant nothing to her. she sighed, and asked us to sing on.... at dinner we met again my father and the count. after dinner the countess sent for me to come to her chamber while she was nursing her babe. after a few unimportant words she said: "you have had your lessons from a good musician." "yes, madame, our friend plays beautifully on the harp." "on the harp! and you say her name is--" "madame joseph carpentier." "it is strange," said madame de la houssaye. "the words of your duet are by me, and the music by my friend the viscomptesse alix de morainville. all manner of things have happened in this terrible revolution; i had for a moment the hope that she had found chance to emigrate and that you had met her. do you know m. carpentier?" "yes, madame; he was with her. he is--in fact--a laboring gardener." "oh! then there is no hope. i had the thought of a second marriage, but alix de morainville could never stoop so low. poor, dear, innocent little alix! she must be dead--at the hand of butchers, as her father and her husband are." when we returned to the joyous company in the garden all wanted to speak at once. the countess imposed silence, and then tonton informed us that a grand ball was proposed in our honor, to be given in the large dining-room of mr. morphy's tavern, under the direction of neville déclouet, the following monday--that is, in four days. oh, that ball! i lay my pen on the table and my head in my hands and see the bright, pretty faces of young girls and richly clad cavaliers, and hear the echoes of that music so different from what we have to-day. alas! the larger part of that company are sleeping now in the cemetery of st. martinville. wherever you went, whoever you met, the ball was the subject of all conversation. all the costumes, masculine and feminine, were prepared in profound secrecy. each one vowed to astonish, dazzle, surpass his neighbor. my father, forgetting the presents from alix, gave us ever so much money and begged madame du clozel to oversee our toilets; but what was the astonishment of the dear baroness to see us buy only some vials of perfumery and two papers of pins. we paid ten dollars for each vial and fifteen for the pins! celeste invited us to see her costume the moment it reached her. it certainly did great honor to the dressmaker of st. martinville. the dress was simply made, of very fine white muslin caught up _en paniers_ on a skirt of blue satin. her beautiful black hair was to be fastened with a pearl comb, and to go between its riquettes she showed us two bunches of forget-me-nots as blue as her eyes. the extremely long-pointed waist of her dress was of the same color as the petticoat, was decolleté, and on the front had a drapery of white muslin held in place by a bunch of forget-me-nots falling to the end of the point. in the whole village she could get no white gloves. she would have to let that pass and show her round white arms clasped with two large bracelets of pearls. she showed also a necklace and earrings of pearls. madame du clozel, slave to the severe etiquette of that day, did not question us, but did go so far as to say in our presence that camayeu was never worn at night. "we know that, madame," replied my sister, slightly hurt. we decided to show our dresses to our hostess. we arranged them on the bed. when the baroness and her daughter entered our chamber they stood stupefied. the baroness spoke first. "oh, the villains! how they have fooled us! these things are worthy of a queen. they are court costumes." i said to myself, "poor, dear little alix!" footnotes: [ ] ancestor of the late judge alcibiade de blanc of st. martinville, noted in reconstruction days.--translator. [ ] by avoiding the spanish custom-house.--translator. [ ] this seems to be simply a girl's thoughtless guess. she reports alix as saying that madelaine and she "were married nearly at the same time." but this tiny, frail, spiritual alix, who between twenty-two and twenty-three looked scant sixteen, could hardly, even in those times, have been married under the age of fifteen, that is not before - ; whereas if madelaine had been married thirteen years she would have been married when alix was but ten years old. this bit of careless guessing helps to indicate the genuineness of alix's history. for when, by the light of françoise's own statements, we correct this error--totally uncorrected by any earlier hand--the correction agrees entirely with the story of alix as told in the separate manuscript. there alix is married in march, , and madelaine about a year before. in midsummer, , madelaine had been married between seven and eight years and her infant was, likely enough, her fourth child.--translator. [ ] the memoirist omits to say that this person was neville déclouet.--translator. xv. the discovery of the hat. "oh!" cried celeste, "but what will tonton say when she sees you?" "do not let her know a thing about it, girls," said madame du clozel, "or, rather than yield the scepter of beauty and elegance for but one evening, she will stay in the white chapel. what! at sixteen you don't know what the white chapel is? it is our bed." before the ball, came sunday. madame du clozel had told us that the population of the little city--all catholics--was very pious, that the little church could hardly contain the crowd of worshipers; and celeste had said that there was a grand display of dress there. we thought of having new dresses made, but the dressmaker declared it impossible; and so we were obliged to wear our camayeus a second time, adding only a lace scarf and a hat. a hat! but how could one get in that little town in the wilderness, amid a maze of lakes and bayous, hundreds of miles from new orleans, so rare and novel a thing as a hat? ah, they call necessity the mother of invention, but i declare, from experience, that vanity has performed more miracles of invention, and made greater discoveries than galileo or columbus. the women of st. martinville, tonton at their head, had revolted against fate and declared they would have hats if they had to get them at the moon. behold, now, by what a simple accident the hat was discovered. tonton de blanc had one of the prettiest complexions in the world, all lily and rose, and what care she took of it! she never went into the yard or the garden without a sunbonnet and a thick veil. yet for all that her jealous critics said she was good and sensible, and would forget everything, even her toilet, to succor any one in trouble. one day tonton heard a great noise in the street before her door. she was told that a child had just been crushed by a vehicle. without stopping to ask whether the child was white or black or if it still lived, tonton glanced around for her sun-bonnet, but, not finding it at hand, darted bareheaded into the street. at the door she met her young brother, and, as the sun was hot, she took his hat and put it on her own head. the rubicon was crossed--tonton had discovered the hat! all she had heard was a false alarm. the crushed child was at play again before its mother's door. it had been startled by a galoping team, had screamed, and instantly there had been a great hubbub and crowd. but ten minutes later the little widow, the hat in her hand, entered the domicile of its maker and astonished the woman by ordering a hat for her own use, promising five dollars if the work was done to her satisfaction. the palmetto was to be split into the finest possible strips and platted into the form furnished by madame tonton. it was done; and on sunday the hat, trimmed with roses and ribbons, made its appearance in the church of st. martin, on the prettiest head in the world. the next sunday you could see as many hats as the hatmaker had had time to make, and before the end of the month all the women in st. martinville were wearing palmetto hats. to-day the modistes were furnishing them at the fabulous price of twenty-five dollars,--trimmed, you understand,--and palmetto hats were really getting to be a branch of the commerce of the little city; but ours, thanks to alix's flowers and ribbons, cost but ten dollars. the church was crowded. the service, performed by an old priest nearly a hundred years of age, was listened to with interest; but what astonished me was to see the crowd stop at the church door, the women kissing; to hear laughter, chat, and criticism at the door of this sacred place as if it were the public square. i understood the discontent that knit my father's brows and the alacrity with which he descended the church steps. tonton saw and came to us--so fresh, so young, she was indeed the queen of beauty and fashion. out of nothing tonton could work wonders. her dress to-day was of camayeu the pattern of which was bunches of strawberries--the very same stuff as our dresses; but how had she made it to look so different? and her hat! it was a new marvel of her invention. she had taken a man's felt hat and entirely covered it with the feathers of the cardinal bird, without other ornament than a bunch of white ribbon on the front and two long cords of white silk falling clear to the waist. that was the first hat of the kind i ever saw, but it was not the last. with one turn of her little hand she could make the whole female population of st. martinville go as she pleased. before we left st. martinville we had the chance to admire more than fifty hats covered with the feathers of peacocks, geese, and even guinea-fowl, and--must we confess it?--when we got home we enlisted all our hunter friends to bring us numerous innocent cardinals, and tried to make us hats; but they did not look the least like the pretty widow's. sunday was also the day given to visiting. being already dressed, it was so easy to go see one's friends.... among the new visitors was saint marc d'arby--engaged to little constance de blanc, aged thirteen. he came to invite us to a picnic on the coming wednesday. "ah," i cried, with regret, "the very day papa has chosen for us to leave for the town of opelousas!" ... since arriving in st. martinville we had hardly seen papa. he left early each morning and returned late in the evening, telling of lands he had bought during the day. his wish was to go to opelousas to register them.... to-day the whole town of opelousas belongs to his heirs; but those heirs, with creole heedlessness and afraid to spend a dollar, let strangers enjoy the possession of the beautiful lands acquired by their ancestor for so different an end. shame on all of them! it was decided for papa to leave us with the baroness during his visit to opelousas. "and be ready to depart homeward," said he, "on the following monday." xvi. the ball. the evening before that of the ball gave us lively disappointment. a fine rain began to fall. but celeste came to assure us that in st. martinville a storm had never prevented a ball, and if one had to go by boat, still one had to go. later the weather improved, and several young gentlemen came to visit us.... "will there be a supper, chevalier?" asked the baroness of her future son-in-law.--"ah, good! for me the supper is the best part of the affair." alas! man proposes. the next morning she was in bed suffering greatly with her throat. "neither supper nor ball for me this evening," she said. "the countess de la houssaye will take care of you and celeste this evening."... at last our toilets were complete.... when madame de la houssaye opened the door and saw us, instead of approaching, she suddenly stopped with her hands clasped convulsively, and with eyes dilated and a pallor and look of astonishment that i shall never forget. i was about to speak when she ran to suzanne and seized her by the arm. "child! for pity answer me! where did that dress--these jewels, come from?" "madame!" said my sister, quickly taking offense. "françoise!" cried the countess, "you will answer me. listen. the last time i saw the countess aurélie de morainville, six years ago, was at a reception of queen marie antoinette, and she wore a dress exactly like that of suzanne's. my child, pity my emotions and tell me where you bought that toilet." i answered, almost as deeply moved as she: "we did not buy it, madame. these costumes were given to us by madame carpentier." "given! do you know the price of these things?" "yes; and, moreover, madame du clozel has told us." "and you tell me a poor woman, the wife of a gardener, made you these presents. oh! i must see this madame carpentier. she must have known alix. and who knows--oh, yes, yes! i must go myself and see her." "and i must give her forewarning," i said to myself. but, alas! as i have just said, "man proposes, god disposes." about six months after our return to st. james we heard of the death of the countess de la houssaye, which had occurred only two months after our leaving st. martinville.... * * * * * oh, how my heart beat as i saw the lights of the ball-room and heard its waves of harmony! i had already attended several dances in the neighborhood of our home, but they could not compare with this. the walls were entirely covered with green branches mingled with flowers of all colors, especially with magnolias whose odor filled the room. hidden among the leaves were millions of fantastically colored lampions seeming like so many glow-worms.[ ] to me, poor little rustic of sixteen, it seemed supernaturally beautiful. but the prettiest part--opposite the door had been raised a platform surmounted by a dais made of three flags: the french, spanish, and prussian--prussia was papa's country. and under these colors, on a pedestal that supported them, were seen, in immense letters composed of flowers, the one german word, _bewillkommen_! papa explained that the word meant "welcome." on the platform, attired with inconceivable elegance, was the master of ceremonies, the handsome neville déclouet himself, waiting to wish us welcome anew. it would take volumes, my daughter, to describe the admirable toilets, masculine as well as feminine, of that memorable night. the thing is impossible. but i must describe that of the king of the festival, the young neville, that you may understand the immense difference between the toilets of and those of . neville had arranged his hair exactly as on the day we first saw him. it was powdered white; his pigeon-wings were fastened with the same pins of gold, and his long queue was wrapped with a rose-colored ribbon. his coat was of frosted rose silk with broad facings of black velvet. his vest came down nearly to his knees. it also was of rose silk, but covered with black buttons. his breeches, also rose, were fastened at the knees with black velvet ribbons escaping from diamond buckles and falling upon silk stockings shot alternately with black and rose. diamonds sparkled again on his lace frill, at his wrists, on his cravat of rose silk, and on the buckles of his pumps. i cast my eye around to find tonton, but she had not come. some one near me said, "do you know who will escort madame du rocher to the ball?" and another said, "here is neville, so who will replace him at the side of the pretty widow?" as we entered the room the baron du clozel passed his arm under papa's and conducted him to the platform, while his sons, following, drew us forward to receive the tributes prepared for us. neville bowed low and began his address. at first he spoke with feeling and eloquence, but by and by he lost the thread. he cast a look of despair upon the crowd, which did not conceal its disposition to laugh, turned again quickly towards us, passed his hand twice across his forehead, and finished with: "yes, i repeat it, we are glad to see you; you are welcome among us, and--i say to you only that!" there was a general burst of laughter. but my father pitied the young man's embarrassment. he mounted the platform, shook his hand, and thanked him, as well as all the people of st. martinville, for his gracious welcome and their warm hospitality. then, to our great joy, the ball opened. it began with a minuet danced by twelve couples at once, six on each side. the minuet in vogue just then was well danced by but few persons. it had been brought to st. martinville by émigrés who had danced it at the french court ... but, thanks to the lessons given us by alix, we had the pleasure to surprise them. now i ought to tell you, my daughter, that these male costumes, so effeminate, extravagant, and costly, had met great opposition from part of the people of st. martin parish. they had been brought in by the french émigrés, and many had adopted them, while others had openly revolted against them. a league had been formed against them. among its members were the chevalier de blanc, the elder of the d'arbys, the chevalier de la houssaye, brother of the count, paul briant, adrian dumartrait, young morse, and many others. they had thrown off entirely the fashionable dress and had replaced it with an attire much like what men wear now. it was rumored that the pretty tonton favored the reform of which her brother was one of the chiefs. just as the minuet was being finished a loud murmur ran through the hall. all eyes were turned to the door and some couples confused their steps in the dance. tonton had come. she was received with a cry of surprise; not for her beauty, not for her exquisite toilet, but because of him who entered with her. "great god!" exclaimed celeste du clozel, "it is tréville de saint julien!"--"oh!" cried madame de la houssaye, "tonton is a fool, an arch-fool. does she want to see bloodshed this evening?"--"the countess madelaine is going to faint!" derisively whispered olivier in my ear. "who," asked suzanne, "is tréville de saint julien?" "he is 'the hermit of bayou tortue,'" responded the gentle celeste de blanc. "what pretense of simplicity, look you!" said charles du clozel, glancing towards him disdainfully. "but look at madame du rocher," cried a girl standing on a bench, "how she is dressed. what contempt of fashion and propriety! it is positively shameful." and tonton, indifferent to these remarks, which she heard and to which she was accustomed, and to the furious glances thrown upon her cavalier by neville déclouet, continued, with her arm in his, to chat and laugh with him as they walked slowly around the hall. if i describe to you, my daughter, the toilets of tonton and of tréville de saint julien, i write it for you alone, dear child, and it seems to me it would be a theft against you if i did not. but this is the last time i shall stop to describe petticoats, gowns, and knee-breeches. tréville was twenty-five; large, dark, of a manly, somber beauty. a great unhappiness had overtaken him in childhood and left a permanent trace on his forehead. he wore his hair slightly long, falling behind without queue or powder. in only soldiers retained their beard. tréville de saint julien, despite the fashion, kept the fine black mustache on his proud lip. his shirt, without a frill, was fastened with three gold buttons. his broad-skirted coat, long vest, and breeches were of black woolen stuff. his black stockings were also of wool. his garters and shoes were without buckles. but serving him as a garter, and forming a rosette on the front of the leg, he wore a ribbon of plaided rose and black. and tonton. over a dress--a real dress, such as we have nowadays--of rose satin, with long-pointed waist, was draped another, of black lace. the folds, running entirely around the skirt, were caught up by roses surrounded by their buds and leaves. the same drapery was repeated on the waist, and in front and on the shoulders re-appeared the roses. the sleeves were very short, and the arms bare and without gloves. it was simple, but prettier than you can think. her hair was in two wide braids, without powder, forming a heart and falling low upon the neck. among these tresses she had placed a rose like those on the skirt. for ornaments she had only a necklace and bracelets of jet to heighten the fresh whiteness of her complexion. they had said tonton would die of jealousy at our rich toilets. nothing of the sort. she came to us with her habitual grace, kissed us, ignoring etiquette and the big eyes made by the countess madelaine. without an allusion to our dress or seeming to see it, she sat down between us, told us persons' names, pointed out the beauty of this one, the pretty dress of that one, always admiring, never criticising. she knew well she was without a rival. i amused myself watching tréville and neville out of the corner of my eyes. tréville seemed to see but one woman in the room. he danced several times, always with her, and when he did not dance he went aside, spoke with no one, but followed with his glances her whom he seemed to adore. he made no attempt to hide his adoration; it shone from his eyes: his every movement was full of it. when she returned to her place, he came, remained before her chair, leaned towards her, listened with ravished ear, and rarely sat down by her side. it was good to watch neville. his eyes flashed with anger, his fists fidgeted, and more than once i saw him quit the hall, no doubt to make a quarrel with his rival. not once did he come near tonton! not once did he dance with her! but he danced with all the young girls in the room and pretended to be very gay. while i was dancing with him i said: "how pretty tonton is this evening!" and i understood the spite that made him reply: "ah! mademoiselle, her beauty is certainly not to be compared with yours." after the supper, which was magnificent, the bolero was danced. twelve couples were engaged, continually changing partners. tonton danced with tréville, suzanne with olivier, and i with neville. alas, alas! all things earthly have an end, and at two in the morning the ball was over. when we reached our chamber i saw that my sister had something to tell me. "ah!" said she, "have patience. i will tell you after we get into bed." [what she told was the still famous saint julien feud. tréville and neville were representatives of the two sides in that, one of the darkest vendettas known in the traditions of louisiana. the omission of this episode in the present translation is the only liberty taken with the original that probably calls for an apology.] footnotes: [ ] number of millions not stated.--translator. xvii. picnic and farewell. the day of the picnic rose brightly. oh, what a day we passed under those grand trees, on the margin of that clear lake full of every imaginable sort of fish! what various games! what pleasant companions! all our friends were there except tréville de saint julien, and madame tonton gave her smiles and sweet looks to neville, who never left her a moment. oh, how i regretted that my father was not with us! he had gone to opelousas. he had bought several plantations in st. martin parish, and in a region called fausse pointe, and in another known as the côte gelée. the days that followed were equally fête days--a dinner here, a dance there, and everywhere the most gracious reception. at length came the day for us to meet at la fontaine--a real spring near st. martinville, belonging to neville déclouet's uncle. about five in the afternoon we gathered on the bank of the bayou. we never saw tonton twice in the same dress. to-day she was all in blue. suddenly the sound of distant music, and an open flat--not like our boat--approached, arched over with green branches and flowers. benches stood about, and in the middle the orchestra played. in the prow stood the captain [neville déclouet], and during the moments of the journey the music was mingled with the laughter and songs of our joyous company. about o'clock all the trees about la fontaine were illuminated, and neville led us to a floored place encircled by magnolia trees in bloom and by garlands running from tree to tree and mingling their perfume with the languishing odor of the magnolias. only heaven can tell how neville was praised and thanked. i felt sure that tonton's good taste had directed the details. there was something singular in this young woman. without education save what she had taught herself, tonton spoke with remarkable correctness, and found means to amuse every one. her letters were curious to see, not a single word correctly spelled; yet her style was charming, and i cannot express the pleasure they gave me, for during more than a year i received them by every opportunity that presented itself. but to return to la fontaine. about seven the handsome tréville de st. julien came on a horse as black as ebony, and i saw the color mount to suzanne's forehead. for a wonder he paid tonton only the attentions required by politeness, and the pretty widow, while still queen of all, belonged that evening entirely to neville. the following saturday my father arrived. the next day, after mass, our friends came in a body to say adieu. and on the morrow, amid kisses, handshaking, regrets, tears, and waving handkerchiefs, we departed in the carriage that was to bear us far and forever from little paris, and the friends we shall never meet again. suzanne and i wept like children. on the fourth day after, the carriage stopped before the door of m. gerbeau's house. i must confess we were not over-polite to mme. gerbeau. we embraced her hurriedly, and, leaving my father talking about lands, started on a run for alix's dwelling. oh, dear alix! how happy she seemed to see us again! how proud to show us the innovations made in her neat little house! with what touching care had she prepared our chamber! she had wished for a sofa, and joseph had made her one and covered it with one of the velvet robes of the countess aurelia de morainville. and when we went into alix's own room, suzanne, whose eye nothing ever escaped, pointed out to me, half hidden behind the mosquito-net of the bed, the prettiest little cradle in the world. "yes," said alix, blushing, "i am blessed. i am perfectly happy." we told her all our adventures and pleasures. she wept when she heard that the countess de la houssaye had not forgotten her. "you will see her," said suzanne. "she will come to see you, without a doubt." "ah, heaven prevent it! our destinies are too unlike now. me perhaps the countess madelaine might welcome affectionately; but joseph? oh, no! my husband's lot is mine; i have no wish for any other. it is better that she and i remain strangers." and joseph? how he confessed his joy in seeing us! during our absence m. gerbeau had found means for us to return to st. james. it seems that two little boats, resembling steamboats in form, kept up a constant trade in wood--clapboards, _pieux_ [split boards], shingles, even cordwood--between the lakes and the bayou teche plantation. m. gerbeau had taken his skiff and two oarsmen and gone in search of one of these boats, which, as he guessed, was not far away. in fact he met it in mexican [now berwick's] bay, and for two hundred dollars persuaded the captain to take us to st. james. "yes," said m. gerbeau to us, "you will make in a week a journey that might have taken you two months." the following monday the captain tied up at m. gerbeau's landing. it was a droll affair, his boat. you must have seen on plantations what they call a horse-mill--a long pole on which a man sits, and to which a horse or mule is hitched. such was the machinery by which we moved. the boat's cabin was all one room. the berths, one above another, ran all round the room, hung with long curtains, and men, women, and children--when there were any--were all obliged to stay in the same apartment. we remained with alix to the last moment. the morning we left she gave suzanne a pretty ring, and me a locket containing her portrait. in return my sister placed upon her finger a ruby encircled with little diamonds; and i, taking off the gold medal i always wore on my neck, whispered: "wear it for love of me." she smiled. [just as we were parting she handed me the story of her life.[ ]] at an early hour my father had our trunks, baskets, and mats sent aboard the _sirène_; and after many tears, and promises to write and to return, we took our leave. we had quitted st. james the th of may. we landed there once more on the th of september. need i recount the joy of my mother and sisters? you understand all that. and now, my daughter, the tale is told. read it to your children and assure them that all is true; that there is here no exaggeration; that they can put faith in their old grandmother's story and take their part in her pleasures, her friendships, and her emotions. footnotes: [ ] see "how i got them," page . [illustration: part of first page, "alix ms."] alix de morainville - . _written in louisiana this d of august, , for my dear friends suzanne and françoise bossier_. i have promised you the story of my life, my very dear and good friends with whom i have had so much pleasure on board the flatboat which has brought us all to attakapas. i now make good my promise. and first i must speak of the place where i was born, of the beautiful château de morainville, built above the little village named morainville in honor of its lords. this village, situated in normandy on the margin of the sea, was peopled only and entirely by fishermen, who gained a livelihood openly by sardine-fishing, and secretly, it was said, by smuggling. the château was built on a cliff, which it completely occupied. this cliff was formed of several terraces that rose in a stair one above another. on the topmost one sat the château, like an eagle in its nest. it had four dentilated turrets, with great casements and immense galleries, that gave it the grandest possible aspect. on the second terrace you found yourself in the midst of delightful gardens adorned with statues and fountains after the fashion of the times. then came the avenue, entirely overshaded with trees as old as noah, and everywhere on the hill, forming the background of the picture, an immense park. how my suzanne would have loved to hunt in that beautiful park full of deer, hare, and all sorts of feathered game! and yet no one inhabited that beautiful domain. its lord and mistress, the count gaston and countess aurélie, my father and mother, resided in paris, and came to their château only during the hunting season, their sojourn never exceeding six weeks. already they had been five years married. the countess, a lady of honor to the young dauphine, marie antoinette, bore the well-merited reputation of being the most charming woman at the court of the king, louis the fifteenth. count and countess, wealthy as they were and happy as they seemed to be, were not overmuch so, because of their desire for a son; for one thing, which is not seen in this country, you will not doubt, dear girls, exists in france and other countries of europe: it is the eldest son, and never the daughter, who inherits the fortune and titles of the family. and in case there were no children, the titles and fortune of the morainvilles would have to revert in one lump to the nephew of the count and son of his brother, to abner de morainville, who at that time was a mere babe of four years. this did not meet the wishes of m. and mme. de morainville, who wished to retain their property in their own house. but great news comes to morainville: the countess is with child. the steward of the château receives orders to celebrate the event with great rejoicings. in the avenue long tables are set covered with all sorts of inviting meats, the fiddlers are called, and the peasants dance, eat, and drink to the health of the future heir of the morainvilles. a few months later my parents arrived bringing a great company with them; and there were feasts and balls and hunting-parties without end. it was in the course of one of these hunts that my mother was thrown from her horse. she was hardly in her seventh month when i came into the world. she escaped death, but i was born as large as--a mouse! and with one shoulder much higher than the other. i must have died had not the happy thought come to the woman-in-waiting to procure catharine, the wife of the gardener, guillaume carpentier, to be my nurse; and it is to her care, to her rubbings, and above all to her good milk, that i owe the capability to amuse you, my dear girls and friends, with the account of my life--that life whose continuance i truly owe to my mother catharine. when my actual mother had recovered she returned to paris; and as my nurse, who had four boys, could not follow her, it was decided that i should remain at the château and that my mother catharine should stay there with me. her cottage was situated among the gardens. her husband, father guillaume, was the head gardener, and his four sons were joseph, aged six years; next matthieu, who was four; then jerome, two; and my foster-brother bastien, a big lubber of three months. my father and mother did not at all forget me. they sent me playthings of all sorts, sweetmeats, silken frocks adorned with embroideries and laces, and all sorts of presents for mother catharine and her children. i was happy, very happy, for i was worshiped by all who surrounded me. mother catharine preferred me above her own children. father guillaume would go down upon his knees before me to get a smile [risette], and joseph often tells me he swooned when they let him hold me in his arms. it was a happy time, i assure you; yes, very happy. i was two years old when my parents returned, and as they had brought a great company with them the true mother instructed my nurse to take me back to her cottage and keep me there, that i might not be disturbed by noise. mother catharine has often said to me that my mother could not bear to look at my crippled shoulder, and that she called me a hunchback. but after all it was the truth, and my nurse-mother was wrong to lay that reproach upon my mother aurélie. seven years passed. i had lived during that time the life of my foster-brothers, flitting everywhere with them over the flowery grass like the veritable lark that i was. two or three times during that period my parents came to see me, but without company, quite alone. they brought me a lot of beautiful things; but really i was afraid of them, particularly of my mother, who was so beautiful and wore a grand air full of dignity and self-regard. she would kiss me, but in a way very different from mother catharine's way--squarely on the forehead, a kiss that seemed made of ice. one fine day she arrived at the cottage with a tall, slender lady who wore blue spectacles on a singularly long nose. she frightened me, especially when my mother told me that this was my governess, and that i must return to the château with her and live there to learn a host of fine things of which even the names were to me unknown; for i had never seen a book except my picture books. i uttered piercing cries; but my mother, without paying any attention to my screams, lifted me cleverly, planted two spanks behind, and passed me to the hands of mme. levicq--that was the name of my governess. the next day my mother left me and i repeated my disturbance, crying, stamping my feet, and calling to mother catharine and bastien. (to tell the truth, jerome and matthieu were two big lubbers [rougeots] very peevish and coarse-mannered, which i could not endure.) madame put a book into my hands and wished to have me repeat after her; i threw the book at her head. then, rightly enough, in despair she placed me where i could see the cottage in the midst of the garden and told me that when the lesson was ended i might go and see my mother catharine and play with my brothers. i promptly consented, and that is how i learned to read. this mme. levicq was most certainly a woman of good sense. she had a kind heart and much ability. she taught me nearly all i know--first of all, french; the harp, the guitar, drawing, embroidery; in short, i say again, all that i know. i was fourteen years old when my mother came, and this time not alone. my cousin abner was with her. my mother had me called into her chamber, closely examined my shoulder, loosed my hair, looked at my teeth, made me read, sing, play the harp, and when all this was ended smiled and said: "you are beautiful, my daughter; you have profited by the training of your governess; the defect of your shoulder has not increased. i am satisfied--well satisfied; and i am going to tell you that i have brought the viscomte abner de morainville because i have chosen him for your future husband. go, join him in the avenue." i was a little dismayed at first, but when i had seen my intended my dismay took flight--he was such a handsome fellow, dressed with so much taste, and wore his sword with so much grace and spirit. at the end of two days he loved me to distraction and i doted on him. i brought him to my nurse's cabin and told her all our plans of marriage and all my happiness, not observing the despair of poor joseph, who had always worshiped me and who had not doubted he would have me to love. but who would have thought it--a laboring gardener lover of his lord's daughter? ah, i would have laughed heartily then if i had known it! on the evening before my departure--i had to leave with my mother this time--i went to say adieu to mother catharine. she asked me if i loved abner. "oh, yes, mother!" i replied, "i love him with all my soul"; and she said she was happy to hear it. then i directed joseph to go and request monsieur the curé, in my name, to give him lessons in reading and writing, in order to be able to read the letters that i should write to my nurse-mother and to answer them. this order was carried out to the letter, and six months later joseph was the correspondent of the family and read to them my letters. that was his whole happiness. i had been quite content to leave for paris: first, because abner went with me, and then because i hoped to see a little of all those beautiful things of which he had spoken to me with so much charm; but how was i disappointed! my mother kept me but one day at her house, and did not even allow abner to come to see me. during that day i must, she said, collect my thoughts preparatory to entering the convent. for it was actually to the convent of the ursulines, of which my father's sister was the superior, that she conducted me next day. think of it, dear girls! i was fourteen, but not bigger than a lass of ten, used to the open air and to the caresses of mother catharine and my brothers. it seemed to me as if i were a poor little bird shut in a great dark cage. my aunt, the abbess, agnes de morainville, took me to her room, gave me bonbons and pictures, told me stories, and kissed and caressed me, but her black gown and her bonnet appalled me, and i cried with all my might: "i want mother catharine! i want joseph! i want bastien!" my aunt, in despair, sent for three or four little pupils to amuse me; but this was labor lost, and i continued to utter the same outcries. at last, utterly spent, i fell asleep, and my aunt bore me to my little room and put me to bed, and then slowly withdrew, leaving the door ajar. on the second floor of the convent there were large dormitories, where some hundreds of children slept; but on the first there were a number of small chambers, the sole furniture of each being a folding bed, a washstand, and a chair, and you had to pay its weight in gold for the privilege of occupying one of these cells, in order not to be mixed with the daughters of the bourgeoisie, of lawyers and merchants. my mother, who was very proud, had exacted absolutely that they give me one of these select cells. hardly had my aunt left me when i awoke, and fear joined itself to grief. fancy it! i had never lain down in a room alone, and here i awoke in a corner of a room half lighted by a lamp hung from the ceiling. you can guess i began again my writhings and cries. thereupon appeared before me in the open door the most beautiful creature imaginable. i took her for a fairy, and fell to gazing at her with my eyes full of amazement and admiration. you have seen madelaine, and you can judge of her beauty in her early youth. it was a fabulous beauty joined to a manner fair, regal, and good. she took me in her arms, dried my tears, and at last, at the extremity of her resources, carried me to her bed; and when i awoke the next day i found myself still in the arms of madelaine de livilier. from that moment began between us that great and good friendship which was everything for me during the time that i passed in the convent. i should have died of loneliness and grief without madelaine. i had neither brothers nor sisters; she was both these to me: she was older than i, and protected me while she loved me. she was the niece of the rich cardinal de ségur, who had sent and brought her from louisiana. this is why madelaine had such large privileges at the convent. she told me she was engaged to the young count louis le pelletrier de la houssaye, and i, with some change of color, told her of abner. one day madelaine's aunt, the countess de ségur, came to take her to spend the day at her palace. my dear friend besought her aunt with such graciousness that she obtained permission to take me with her, and for the first time i saw the count louis, madelaine's _fiancé_. he was a very handsome young man, of majestic and distinguished air. he had hair and eyes as black as ink, red lips, and a fine mustache. he wore in his buttonhole the cross of the royal order of st. louis, and on his shoulders the epaulettes of a major. he had lately come from san domingo [where he had been fighting the insurgents at the head of his regiment].[ ] yes, he was a handsome young man, a bold cavalier; and madelaine idolized him. after that day i often accompanied my friend in her visits to the home of her aunt. count louis was always there to wait upon his betrothed, and abner, apprised by him, came to join us. ah! that was a happy time, very happy. at the end of a year my dear madelaine quitted the convent to be married. ah, how i wept to see her go! i loved her so! i had neither brothers nor sisters, and madelaine was my heart's own sister. i was very young, scarcely fifteen; yet, despite my extreme youth, madelaine desired me to be her bridesmaid, and her aunt, the countess de ségur, and the baroness de chevigné, count louis's aunt, went together to find my mother and ask her to permit me to fill that office. my mother made many objections, saying that i was too young; but--between you and me--she could refuse nothing to ladies of such high station. she consented, therefore, and proceeded at once to order my costume at the dressmaker's. it was a mass of white silk and lace with intermingled pearls. for the occasion my mother lent me her pearls, which were of great magnificence. but, finest of all, the queen, marie antoinette, saw me at the church of notre dame, whither all the court had gathered for the occasion,--for count louis de la houssaye was a great favorite,--and now the queen sent one of her lords to apprise my mother that she wished to see me, and commanded that i be presented at court--_grande rumeur_! mamma consented to let me remain the whole week out of the convent. every day there was a grand dinner or breakfast and every evening a dance or a grand ball. always it was abner who accompanied me. i wrote of all my pleasures to my mother catharine. joseph read my letters to her, and, as he told me in later days, they gave him mortal pain. for the presentation my mother ordered a suit all of gold and velvet. madelaine and i were presented the same day. the countess de ségur was my escort [marraine] and took me by the hand, while mme. de chevigné rendered the same office to madelaine. abner told me that day i was as pretty as an angel. if i was so to him, it was because he loved me. i knew, myself, i was too small, too pale, and ever so different from madelaine. it was she you should have seen. i went back to the convent, and during the year that i passed there i was lonely enough to have died. it was decided that i should be married immediately on leaving the convent, and my mother ordered for me the most beautiful wedding outfit imaginable. my father bought me jewels of every sort, and abner did not spare of beautiful presents. i had been about fifteen days out of the convent when terrible news caused me many tears. my dear madelaine was about to leave me forever and return to america. the reason was this: there was much disorder in the colony of louisiana, and the king deciding to send thither a man capable of restoring order, his choice fell upon count louis de la houssaye, whose noble character he had recognized. count louis would have refused, for he had a great liking for france; but [he had lately witnessed the atrocities committed by the negroes of san domingo, and[ ]] something--a presentiment--warned him that the revolution was near at hand. he was glad to bear his dear wife far from the scenes of horror that were approaching with rapid strides. madelaine undoubtedly experienced pleasure in thinking that she was again going to see her parents and her native land, but she regretted to leave france, where she had found so much amusement and where i must remain behind her without hope of our ever seeing each other again. she wept, oh, so much! she had bidden me good-bye and we had wept long, and her last evening, the eve of the day when she was to take the diligence for havre, where the vessel awaited them, was to be passed in family group at the residence of the baroness de chevigné. here were present, first the young couple; the cardinal, the count and countess de ségur; then barthelemy de la houssaye, brother of the count, and the old count de [maurepas, only a few months returned from exile and now at the pinnacle of royal favor].[ ] he had said when he came that he could stay but a few hours and had ordered his coach to await him below. he was the most lovable old man in the world. all at once madelaine said: "ah! if i could see alix once more--only once more!" the old count without a word slipped away, entered his carriage, and had himself driven to the morainville hotel, where there was that evening a grand ball. tarrying in the ante-chamber, he had my mother called. she came with alacrity, and when she knew the object of the count's visit she sent me to get a great white burnoose, enveloped me in it, and putting my hand into the count's said to me: "you have but to show yourself to secure the carriage." but the count promised to bring me back himself. oh, how glad my dear madelaine was to see me! with what joy she kissed me! but she has recounted this little scene to you, as you, françoise, have told me. a month after the departure of the de la houssayes, my wedding was celebrated at notre dame. it was a grand occasion. the king was present with all the court. as my husband was in the king's service, the queen wished me to become one of her ladies of honor. directly after my marriage i had bastien come to me. i made him my confidential servant. he rode behind my carriage, waited upon me at table, and, in short, was my man of all work. i was married the th of march, , at the age of sixteen. already the rumbling murmurs of the revolution were making themselves heard like distant thunder. on the th of july the bastille was taken and the head of the governor de launay [was] carried through the streets.[ ] my mother was frightened and proposed to leave the country. she came to find me and implored me to go with her to england, and asked abner to accompany us. my husband refused with indignation, declaring that his place was near his king. "and mine near my husband," said i, throwing my arms around abner's neck. my father, like my husband, had refused positively to leave the king, and it was decided that mamma should go alone. she began by visiting the shops, and bought stuffs, ribbons, and laces. it was i who helped her pack her trunks, which she sent in advance to morainville. she did not dare go to get her diamonds, which were locked up in the bank of france; that would excite suspicion, and she had to content herself with such jewelry as she had at her residence. she left in a coach with my father, saying as she embraced me that her absence would be brief, for it would be easy enough to crush the vile mob. she went down to morainville, and there, thanks to the devotion of guillaume carpentier and of his sons, she was carried to england in a contrabandist vessel. as she was accustomed to luxury, she put into her trunks the plate of the château and also several valuable pictures. my father had given her sixty thousand francs and charged her to be economical. soon i found myself in the midst of terrible scenes that i have not the courage, my dear girls, to recount. the memory of them makes me even to-day tremble and turn pale. i will only tell you that one evening a furious populace entered our palace. i saw my husband dragged far from me by those wretches, and just as two of the monsters were about to seize me bastien took me into his arms, and holding me tightly against his bosom leaped from a window and took to flight with all his speed. happy for us that it was night and that the monsters were busy pillaging the house. they did not pursue us at all, and my faithful bastien took me to the home of his cousin claudine leroy. she was a worker in lace, whom, with my consent, he was to have married within the next fortnight. i had lost consciousness, but claudine and bastien cared for me so well that they brought me back to life, and i came to myself to learn that my father and my husband had been arrested and conveyed to the conciergerie. my despair was great, as you may well think. claudine arranged a bed for me in a closet [cloisette] adjoining her chamber, and there i remained hidden, dying of fear and grief, as you may well suppose. at the end of four days i heard some one come into claudine's room, and then a deep male voice. my heart ceased to beat and i was about to faint away, when i recognized the voice of my faithful joseph. i opened the door and threw myself upon his breast, crying over and over: "o joseph! dear joseph!" he pressed me to his bosom, giving me every sort of endearing name, and at length revealed to me the plan he had formed, to take me at once to morainville under the name of claudine leroy. he went out with claudine to obtain a passport. thanks to god and good angels claudine was small like me, had black hair and eyes like mine, and there was no trouble in arranging the passport. we took the diligence, and as i was clothed in peasant dress, a suit of claudine's, i easily passed for her. joseph had the diligence stop beside the park gate, of which he had brought the key. he wished to avoid the village. we entered therefore by the park, and soon i was installed in the cottage of my adopted parents, and joseph and his brothers said to every one that claudine leroy, appalled by the horrors being committed in paris, had come for refuge to morainville. then joseph went back to paris to try to save my father and my husband. bastien had already got himself engaged as an assistant in the prison. but alas! all their efforts could effect nothing, and the only consolation that joseph brought back to morainville was that he had seen its lords on the fatal cart and had received my father's last smile. these frightful tidings failed to kill me; i lay a month between life and death, and joseph, not to expose me to the recognition of the morainville physician, went and brought one from rouen. the good care of mother catharine was the best medicine for me, and i was cured to weep over my fate and my cruel losses. it was at this juncture that for the first time i suspected that joseph loved me. his eyes followed me with a most touching expression; he paled and blushed when i spoke to him, and i divined the love which the poor fellow could not conceal. it gave me pain to see how he loved me, and increased my wish to join my mother in england. i knew she had need of me, and i had need of her. meanwhile a letter came to the address of father guillaume. it was a contrabandist vessel that brought it and of the first evening other to the address recognized the writing set me to sobbing all, my heart i began (_torn off and gone_.) demanded of my father of saying that country well added that abner and i must come also, and that it was nonsense to wish to remain faithful to a lost cause. she begged my father to go and draw her diamonds from the bank and to send them to her with at least a hundred thousand francs. oh! how i wept after seeing letter! mother catharine to console me but then to make. then and said to me, will to make you (_torn off and gone_.) england, madame oh! yes, joseph would be so well pleased poor fellow the money of family. i from the way in which, the cabin was built, one could see any one coming who had business there. but one day--god knows how it happened--a child of the village all at once entered the chamber where i was and knew me. "madame alix!" he cried, took to his heels and went down the terrace pell-mell [quatre à quatre] to give the alarm. ten minutes later matthieu came at a full run and covered with sweat, to tell us that all the village was in commotion and that those people to whom i had always been so good were about to come and arrest me, to deliver me to the executioners. i ran to joseph, beside myself with affright. "save me, joseph! save me!" "i will use all my efforts for that, mme. la viscomtesse." at that moment jerome appeared. he came to say that a representative of the people was at hand and that i was lost beyond a doubt. "not yet," responded joseph. "i have foreseen this and have prepared everything to save you, mme. la viscomtesse, if you will but let me make myself well understood." "oh, all, all! do _thou_ understand, joseph, i will do everything thou desirest." "then," he said, regarding me fixedly and halting at each word--"then it is necessary that you consent to take joseph carpentier for your spouse." i thought i had [been] misunderstood and drew back haughtily. "my son!" cried mother catharine. "oh, you see," replied joseph, "my mother herself accuses me, and you--you, madame, have no greater confidence in me. but that is nothing; i must save you at any price. we will go from here together; we will descend to the village; we will present ourselves at the mayoralty--" in spite of myself i made a gesture. "let me speak, madame," he said. "we have not a moment to lose. yes, we will present ourselves at the mayoralty, and there i will espouse you, not as claudine leroy, but as alix de morainville. once my wife you have nothing to fear. having become one of the people, the people will protect you. after the ceremony, madame, i will hand you the certificate of our marriage, and you will tear it up the moment we shall have touched the soil of england. keep it precious till then; it is your only safeguard. nothing prevents me from going to england to find employment, and necessarily my wife will go with me. are you ready, madame?" for my only response i put my hand in his; i was too deeply moved to speak. mother catharine threw both her arms about her son's neck and cried, "my noble child!" and we issued from the cottage guarded by guillaume and his three other sons, armed to the teeth. when the mayor heard the names and surnames of the wedding pair he turned to joseph, saying: "you are not lowering yourself, my boy." at the door of the mayoralty we found ourselves face to face with an immense crowd. i trembled violently and pressed against joseph. he, never losing his presence of mind [sans perdre la carte], turned, saying: "allow me, my friends, to present to you my wife. the viscomtesse de morainville no longer exists; hurrah for the citoyenne carpentier." and the hurrahs and cries of triumph were enough to deafen one. those who the moment before were ready to tear me into pieces now wanted to carry me in triumph. arrived at the house, joseph handed me our act of marriage. "keep it, madame," said he; "you can destroy it on your arrival in england." at length one day, three weeks after our marriage, joseph came to tell me that he had secured passage on a vessel, and that we must sail together under the name of citoyen and citoyenne carpentier. i was truly sorry to leave my adopted parents and foster-brother, yet at the bottom of my heart i was rejoiced that i was going to find my mother. but alas! when i arrived in london, at the address that she had given me, i found there only her old friend the chevalier d'ivoy, who told me that my mother was dead, and that what was left of her money, with her jewels and chests, was deposited in the bank of england. i was more dead than alive; all these things paralyzed me. but my good joseph took upon himself to do everything for me. he went and drew what had been deposited in the bank. indeed of money there remained but twelve thousand francs; but there were plate, jewels, pictures, and many vanities in the form of gowns and every sort of attire. joseph rented a little house in a suburb of london, engaged an old frenchwoman to attend me, and he, after all my husband, made himself my servant, my gardener, my factotum. he ate in the kitchen with the maid, waited upon me at table, and slept in the garret on a pallet. "am i not very wicked?" said i to myself every day, especially when i saw his pallor and profound sadness. they had taught me in the convent that the ties of marriage were a sacred thing and that one could not break them, no matter how they might have been made; and when my patrician pride revolted at the thought of this union with the son of my nurse my heart pleaded and pleaded hard the cause of poor j joseph. his (_evidently torn before alix care, his wrote on it, as no words presence, became are wanting in the text_.) more and more necessary. i knew not how to do anything myself, but made him my all in all, avoiding myself every shadow of care or trouble. i must say, moreover, that since he had married me i had a kind of fear of him and was afraid that i should hear him speak to me of love; but he scarcely thought of it, poor fellow: reverence closed his lips. thus matters stood when one evening joseph entered the room (_opposite page of the where i was reading, same torn sheet. alix and standing has again written upright before around the rent_.) me, his hat in his hand, said to me that he had something to tell me. his expression was so unhappy that i felt the tears mount to my eyes. "what is it, dear joseph?" i asked; and when he could answer nothing on account of his emotion, i rose, crying: "more bad news? what has happened to my nurse-mother? speak, speak, joseph!" "nothing, mme. la viscomtesse," he replied. "my mother and bastien, i hope, are well. it is of myself i wish to speak." then my heart made a sad commotion in my bosom, for i thought he was about to speak of love. but not at all. he began again, in a low voice: "i am going to america, madame." i sprung towards him. "you go away? you go away?" i cried. "and i, joseph?" "you, madame?" said he. "you have money. the revolution will soon be over, and you can return to your country. there you will find again your friends, your titles, your fortune." "stop!" i cried. "what shall i be in france? you well know my château, my palace are pillaged and burned, my parents are dead." "my mother and bastien are in france," he responded. "but thou--thou, joseph; what can i do without thee? why have you accustomed me to your tenderness, to your protection, and now come threatening to leave me? hear me plainly. if you go i go with you." he uttered a smothered cry and staggered like a drunken man. "alix--madame--" "i have guessed your secret," continued i. "you seek to go because you love me--because you fear you may forget that respect which you fancy you owe me. but after all i am your wife, joseph. i have the right to follow thee, and i am going with thee." and slowly i drew from my dressing-case the act of our marriage. he looked, at me, oh! in such a funny way, and--extended his arms. i threw myself into them, and for half an hour it was tears and kisses and words of love. for after all i loved joseph, not as i had loved abner, but altogether more profoundly. the next day a catholic priest blessed our marriage. a month later we left for louisiana, where joseph hoped to make a fortune for me. but alas! he was despairing of success, when he met mr. carlo, and--you know, dear girls, the rest. * * * * * roll again and slip into its ancient silken case the small, square manuscript which some one has sewed at the back with worsted of the pale tint known as "baby-blue." blessed little word! time justified the color. if you doubt it go to the teche; ask any of the de la houssayes--or count, yourself, the carpentiers and charpentiers. you will be more apt to quit because you are tired than because you have finished. and while there ask, over on the attakapas side, for any trace that any one may be able to give of dorothea müller. she too was from france: at least, not from normandy or paris, like alix, but, like françoise's young aunt with the white hair, a german of alsace, from a village near strasbourg; like her, an emigrant, and, like françoise, a voyager with father and sister by flatboat from old new orleans up the mississippi, down the atchafalaya, and into the land of attakapas. you may ask, you may seek; but if you find the faintest trace you will have done what no one else has succeeded in doing. we shall never know her fate. her sister's we can tell; and we shall now see how different from the stories of alix and françoise is that of poor salome müller, even in the same land and almost in the same times. footnotes: [ ] inserted by a later hand than the author's.--translator. [ ] inserted by a later hand than the author's.--translator. [ ] alix makes a mistake here of one day. the bastille fell on the th.--translator. salome mÜller, the white slave. - . i. salome and her kindred. she may be living yet, in . for when she came to louisiana, in , she was too young for the voyage to fix itself in her memory. she could not, to-day, be more than seventy-five. in alsace, france, on the frontier of the department of lower rhine, about twenty english miles from strasburg, there was in those days, as i suppose there still is, a village called langensoultz. the region was one of hills and valleys and of broad, flat meadows yearly overflowed by the rhine. it was noted for its fertility; a land of wheat and wine, hop-fields, flax-fields, hay-stacks, and orchards. it had been three hundred and seventy years under french rule, yet the people were still, in speech and traditions, german. those were not the times to make them french. the land swept by napoleon's wars, their firesides robbed of fathers and sons by the conscription, the awful mortality of the russian campaign, the emperor's waning star, waterloo--these were not the things or conditions to give them comfort in french domination. there was a widespread longing among them to seek another land where men and women and children were not doomed to feed the ambition of european princes. in the summer of there lay at the dutch port of helder--for the great ship-canal that now lets the largest vessels out from amsterdam was not yet constructed--a big, foul, old russian ship which a certain man had bought purposing to crowd it full of emigrants to america. these he had expected to find up the rhine, and he was not disappointed. hundreds responded from alsace; some in strasburg itself, and many from the surrounding villages, grain-fields, and vineyards. they presently numbered nine hundred, husbands, wives, and children. there was one family named thomas, with a survivor of which i conversed in . and there was eva kropp, _née_ hillsler, and her husband, with their daughter of fifteen, named for her mother. also eva kropp's sister margaret and her husband, whose name does not appear. and there were koelhoffer and his wife, and frau schultzheimer. there is no need to remember exact relationships. all these except the thomases were of langensoultz. as they passed through another village some three miles away they were joined by a family of name not given, but the mother of which we shall know by and by, under a second husband's name, as madame fleikener. and there too was one wagner, two generations of whose descendants were to furnish each a noted journalist to new orleans. i knew the younger of these in my boyhood as a man of, say, fifty. and there was young frank schuber, a good, strong-hearted, merry fellow who two years after became the husband of the younger eva kropp; he hailed from strasburg; i have talked with his grandson. and lastly there were among the langensoultz group two families named müller. the young brothers henry and daniel müller were by birth bavarians. they had married, in the hillsler family, two sisters of eva and margaret. they had been known in the village as lockmaker müller and shoemaker müller. the wife of daniel, the shoemaker, was dorothea. henry, the locksmith, and his wife had two sons, the elder ten years of age and named for his uncle daniel, the shoemaker. daniel and dorothea had four children. the eldest was a little boy of eight years, the youngest was an infant, and between these were two little daughters, dorothea and salome. and so the villagers were all bound closely together, as villagers are apt to be. eva kropp's young daughter eva was godmother to salome. frau koelhoffer had lived on a farm about an hour's walk from the müllers and had not known them; but frau schultzheimer was a close friend, and had been a schoolmate and neighbor of salome's mother. the husband of her who was afterward madame fleikener was a nephew of the müller brothers, frank schuber was her cousin, and so on. ii. six months at anchor. setting out thus by whole families and with brothers' and sisters' families on the right and on the left, we may safely say that, once the last kisses were given to those left behind and the last look taken of childhood's scenes, they pressed forward brightly, filled with courage and hope. they were poor, but they were bound for a land where no soldier was going to snatch the beads and cross from the neck of a little child, as one of napoleon's had attempted to do to one of the thomas children. they were on their way to golden america; through philadelphia to the virgin lands of the great west. early in august they reached amsterdam. there they paid their passage in advance, and were carried out to the helder, where, having laid in their provisions, they embarked and were ready to set sail. but no sail was set. word came instead that the person who had sold the ship had not been paid its price and had seized the vessel; the delays of the law threatened, when time was a matter of fortune or of ruin. and soon came far worse tidings. the emigrants refused to believe them as long as there was room for doubt. henry and daniel müller--for locksmith müller, said wagner twenty-seven years afterwards on the witness-stand, "was a brave man and was foremost in doing everything necessary to be done for the passengers"--went back to amsterdam to see if such news could be true, and returned only to confirm despair. the man to whom the passage money of the two hundred families--nine hundred souls--had been paid had absconded. they could go neither forward nor back. days, weeks, months passed, and there still lay the great hulk teeming with its population and swinging idly at anchor; fathers gazing wistfully over the high bulwarks, mothers nursing their babes, and the children, eva, daniel, henry, andrew, dorothea, salome, and all the rest, by hundreds. salome was a pretty child, dark, as both her parents were, and looking much like her mother; having especially her black hair and eyes and her chin. playing around with her was one little cousin, a girl of her own age,--that is, somewhere between three and five,--whose face was strikingly like salome's. it was she who in later life became madame karl rouff, or, more familiarly, madame karl. provisions began to diminish, grew scanty, and at length were gone. the emigrants' summer was turned into winter; it was now december. so pitiful did their case become that it forced the attention of the dutch government. under its direction they were brought back to amsterdam, where many of them, without goods, money, or even shelter, and strangers to the place and to the language, were reduced to beg for bread. but by and by there came a word of great relief. the government offered a reward of thirty thousand gilders--about twelve thousand dollars--to any merchant or captain of a vessel who would take them to america, and a certain grandsteiner accepted the task. for a time he quartered them in amsterdam, but by and by, with hearts revived, they began to go again on shipboard. this time there were three ships in place of the one; or two ships, and one of those old dutch, flattish-bottomed, round-sided, two-masted crafts they called galiots. the number of ships was trebled--that was well; but the number of souls was doubled, and eighteen hundred wanderers from home were stowed in the three vessels. iii. famine at sea. these changes made new farewells and separations. common aims, losses, and sufferings had knit together in friendship many who had never seen each other until they met on the deck of the big russian ship, and now not a few of these must part. the first vessel to sail was one of the two ships, the _johanna maria_. her decks were black with people: there were over six hundred of them. among the number, waving farewell to the kropps, the koelhoffers, the schultzheimers, to frank schuber and to the müllers, stood the thomases, madame fleikener, as we have to call her, and one whom we have not yet named, the jungfrau hemin, of würtemberg, just turning nineteen, of whom the little salome and her mother had made a new, fast friend on the old russian ship. a week later the _captain grone_--that is, the galiot--hoisted the dutch flag as the _johanna maria_ had done, and started after her with other hundreds on her own deck, i know not how many, but making eleven hundred in the two, and including, for one, young wagner. then after two weeks more the remaining ship, the _johanna_, followed, with grandsteiner as supercargo, and seven hundred emigrants. here were the müllers and most of their relatives and fellow-villagers. frank schuber was among them, and was chosen steward for the whole shipful. at last they were all off. but instead of a summer's they were now to encounter a winter's sea, and to meet it weakened and wasted by sickness and destitution. the first company had been out but a week when, on new year's night, a furious storm burst upon the crowded ship. with hatches battened down over their heads they heard and felt the great buffetings of the tempest, and by and by one great crash above all other noises as the mainmast went by the board. the ship survived; but when the storm was over and the people swarmed up once more into the pure ocean atmosphere and saw the western sun set clear, it set astern of the ship. her captain had put her about and was steering for amsterdam. "she is too old," the travelers gave him credit for saying, when long afterwards they testified in court; "too old, too crowded, too short of provisions, and too crippled, to go on such a voyage; i don't want to lose my soul that way." and he took them back. they sailed again; but whether in another ship, or in the same with another captain, i have not discovered. their sufferings were terrible. the vessel was foul. fevers broke out among them. provisions became scarce. there was nothing fit for the sick, who daily grew more numerous. storms tossed them hither and yon. water became so scarce that the sick died for want of it. one of the thomas children, a little girl of eight years, whose father lay burning with fever and moaning for water, found down in the dark at the back of one of the water-casks a place where once in a long time a drop of water fell from it. she placed there a small vial, and twice a day bore it, filled with water-drops, to the sick man. it saved his life. of the three ship-loads only two families reached america whole, and one of these was the thomases. a younger sister told me in that though the child lived to old age on the banks of the mississippi river, she could never see water wasted and hide her anger. the vessels were not bound for philadelphia, as the russian ship had been. either from choice or of necessity the destination had been changed before sailing, and they were on their way to new orleans. that city was just then--the war of - being so lately over--coming boldly into notice as commercially a strategic point of boundless promise. steam navigation had hardly two years before won its first victory against the powerful current of the mississippi, but it was complete. the population was thirty-three thousand; exports, thirteen million dollars. capital and labor were crowding in, and legal, medical, and commercial talent were hurrying to the new field. scarcely at any time since has the new orleans bar, in proportion to its numbers, had so many brilliant lights. edward livingston, of world-wide fame, was there in his prime. john r. grymes, who died a few years before the opening of the late civil war, was the most successful man with juries who ever plead in louisiana courts. we must meet him in the court-room by and by, and may as well make his acquaintance now. he was emphatically a man of the world. many anecdotes of him remain, illustrative rather of intrepid shrewdness than of chivalry. he had been counsel for the pirate brothers lafitte in their entanglements with the custom-house and courts, and was believed to have received a hundred thousand dollars from them as fees. only old men remember him now. they say he never lifted his voice, but in tones that grew softer and lower the more the thought behind them grew intense would hang a glamour of truth over the veriest sophistries that intellectual ingenuity could frame. it is well to remember that this is only tradition, which can sometimes be as unjust as daily gossip. it is sure that he could entertain most showily. the young duke of saxe-weimar-eisenach, was once his guest. in his book of travels in america ( - ) he says: my first excursion [in new orleans] was to visit mr. grymes, who here inhabits a large, massive, and splendidly furnished house.... in the evening we paid our visit to the governor of the state.... after this we went to several coffee-houses where the lower classes amuse themselves.... mr. grymes took me to the masked ball, which is held every evening during the carnival at the french theater.... the dress of the ladies i observed to be very elegant, but understood that most of those dancing did not belong to the better class of society.... at a dinner, which mr. grymes gave me with the greatest display of magnificence,... we withdrew from the first table, and seated ourselves at the second, in the same order in which we had partaken of the first. as the variety of wines began to set the tongues of the guests at liberty, the ladies rose, retired to another apartment, and resorted to music. some of the gentlemen remained with the bottle, while others, among whom i was one, followed the ladies.... we had waltzing until o'clock, when we went to the masquerade in the theater in st. philip street.... the female company at the theater consisted of quadroons, who, however, were masked. such is one aspect given us by history of the new orleans towards which that company of emigrants, first of the three that had left the other side, were toiling across the waters. iv. sold into bondage. they were fever-struck and famine-wasted. but february was near its end, and they were in the gulf of mexico. at that time of year its storms have lulled and its airs are the perfection of spring; march is a kind of may. and march came. they saw other ships now every day; many of them going their way. the sight cheered them; the passage had been lonely as well as stormy. their own vessels, of course,--the other two,--they had not expected to see, and had not seen. they did not know whether they were on the sea or under it. at length pilot-boats began to appear. one came to them and put a pilot on board. then the blue water turned green, and by and by yellow. a fringe of low land was almost right ahead. other vessels were making for the same lighthouse towards which they were headed, and so drew constantly nearer to one another. the emigrants line the bulwarks, watching the nearest sails. one ship is so close that some can see the play of waters about her bows. and now it is plain that her bulwarks, too, are lined with emigrants who gaze across at them. she glides nearer, and just as the cry of recognition bursts from this whole company the other one yonder suddenly waves caps and kerchiefs and sends up a cheer. their ship is the _johanna_. do we dare draw upon fancy? we must not. the companies did meet on the water, near the mississippi's mouth, though whether first inside or outside the stream i do not certainly gather. but they met; not the two vessels only, but the three. they were towed up the river side by side, the _johanna_ here, the _captain grone_ there, and the other ship between them. wagner, who had sailed on the galiot, was still alive. many years afterwards he testified: "we all arrived at the balize [the river's mouth] the same day. the ships were so close we could speak to each other from on board our respective ships. we inquired of one another of those who had died and of those who still remained." madame fleikener said the same: "we hailed each other from the ships and asked who lived and who had died. the father and mother of madame schuber [kropp and his wife] told me daniel müller and family were on board." but they had suffered loss. of the _johanna's_ souls only were left alive. henry müller's wife was dead. daniel müller's wife, dorothea, had been sick almost from the start; she was gone, with the babe at her bosom. henry was left with his two boys, and daniel with his one and his little dorothea and salome. grandsteiner, the supercargo, had lived; but of homeless poor whom the dutch king's gilders had paid him to bring to america, foul ships and lack of food and water had buried in the sea. the vessels reached port and the passengers prepared to step ashore, when to their amazement and dismay grandsteiner laid the hand of the law upon them and told them they were "redemptioners." a redemptioner was an emigrant whose services for a certain period were liable to be sold to the highest bidder for the payment of his passage to america. it seems that in fact a large number of those on board the _johanna_ had in some way really become so liable; but it is equally certain that of others, the kropps, the schultzheimers, the koelhoffers, the müllers, and so on, the transportation had been paid for in advance, once by themselves and again by the government of holland. yet daniel müller and his children were among those held for their passage money. some influential german residents heard of these troubles and came to the rescue. suits were brought against grandsteiner, the emigrants remaining meanwhile on the ships. mr. grymes was secured as counsel in their cause; but on some account not now remembered by survivors scarce a week had passed before they were being sold as redemptioners. at least many were, including daniel müller and his children. then the dispersion began. the people were bound out before notaries and justices of the peace, singly and in groups, some to one, some to two years' service, according to age. "they were scattered,"--so testified frank schuber twenty-five years afterwards,--"scattered about like young birds leaving a nest, without knowing anything of each other." they were "taken from the ships," says, the jungfrau hemin, "and went here and there so that one scarcely knew where the other went." many went no farther than new orleans or its suburbs, but settled, some in and about the old rue chartres--the thomas family, for example; others in the then new faubourg marigny, where eva kropp's daughter, salome's young cousin eva, for one, seems to have gone into domestic service. others, again, were taken out to plantations near the city; madame fleikener to the well-known estate of maunsell white, madame schultzheimer to the locally famous hopkins plantation, and so on. but others were carried far away; some, it is said, even to alabama. madame hemin was taken a hundred miles up the river, to baton rouge, and henry müller and his two little boys went on to bayou sara, and so up beyond the state's border and a short way into mississippi. when all his relatives were gone daniel müller was still in the ship with his little son and daughters. certainly he was not a very salable redemptioner with his three little motherless children about his knees. but at length, some fifteen days after the arrival of the ships, frank schuber met him on the old customhouse wharf with his little ones and was told by him that he, müller, was going to attakapas. about the same time, or a little later, müller came to the house where young eva kropp, afterwards schuber's wife, dwelt, to tell her good-bye. she begged to be allowed to keep salome. during the sickness of the little one's mother and after the mother's death she had taken constant maternal care of the pretty, black-eyed, olive-skinned godchild. but müller would not leave her behind. v. the lost orphans. the prospective journey was the same that we saw suzanne and françoise, joseph and alix, take with toil and danger, yet with so much pleasure, in . the early company went in a flatboat; these went in a round-bottom boat. the journey of the latter was probably the shorter. its adventures have never been told, save one line. when several weeks afterwards the boat returned, it brought word that daniel müller had one day dropped dead on the deck and that his little son had fallen overboard and was drowned. the little girls had presumably been taken on to their destination by whoever had been showing the way; but that person's name and residence, if any of those left in new orleans had known them, were forgotten. only the wide and almost trackless region of attakapas was remembered, and by people to whom every day brought a struggle for their own existence. besides, the children's kindred were bound as redemptioners. those were days of rapid change in new orleans. the redemptioners worked their way out of bondage into liberty. at the end of a year or two those who had been taken to plantations near by returned to the city. the town was growing, but the upper part of the river front in faubourg ste. marie, now in the heart of the city, was still lined with brick-yards, and thitherward cheap houses and opportunities for market gardening drew the emigrants. they did not colonize, however, but merged into the community about them, and only now and then, casually, met one another. young schuber was an exception; he throve as a butcher in the old french market, and courted and married the young eva kropp. when the fellow-emigrants occasionally met, their talk was often of poor shoemaker müller and his lost children. no clear tidings of them came. once the children of some germans who had driven cattle from attakapas to sell them in the shambles at new orleans corroborated to frank schuber the death of the father; but where salome and dorothea were they could not say, except that they were in attakapas. frank and eva were specially diligent inquirers after eva's lost godchild; as also was henry müller up in or near woodville, mississippi. he and his boys were, in their small german way, prospering. he made such effort as he could to find the lost children. one day in the winter of - he somehow heard that there were two orphan children named miller--the müllers were commonly called miller--in the town of natchez, some thirty-five miles away on the mississippi. he bought a horse and wagon, and, leaving his own children, set out to rescue those of his dead brother. about midway on the road from woodville to natchez the homochitto creek runs through a swamp which in winter overflows. in here müller lost his horse. but, nothing daunted, he pressed on, only to find in natchez the trail totally disappear. again, in the early spring of , a man driving cattle from attakapas to bayou sara told him of two little girls named müller living in attakapas. he was planning another and bolder journey in search of them, when he fell ill; and at length, without telling his sons, if he knew, where to find their lost cousins, he too died. years passed away. once at least in nearly every year young daniel miller--the "u" was dropped--of woodville came down to new orleans. at such times he would seek out his relatives and his father's and uncle's old friends and inquire for tidings of the lost children. but all in vain. frank and eva schuber too kept up the inquiry in his absence, but no breath of tidings came. on the city's south side sprung up the new city of lafayette, now the fourth district of new orleans, and many of the aforetime redemptioners moved thither. its streets near the river became almost a german quarter. other german immigrants, hundreds and hundreds, landed among them and in the earlier years many of these were redemptioners. among them one whose name will always be inseparable from the history of new orleans has a permanent place in this story. vi. christian roselius. one morning many years ago, when some business had brought me into a corridor of one of the old court buildings facing the place d'armes, a loud voice from within one of the court-rooms arrested my own and the general ear. at once from all directions men came with decorous haste towards the spot whence it proceeded. i pushed in through a green door into a closely crowded room and found the supreme court of the state in session. a short, broad, big-browed man of an iron sort, with silver hair close shorn from a roman head, had just begun his argument in the final trial of a great case that had been before the court for many years, and the privileged seats were filled with the highest legal talent, sitting to hear him. it was a famous will case[ ], and i remember that he was quoting from "king lear" as i entered. "who is that?" i asked of a man packed against me in the press. "roselius," he whispered; and the name confirmed my conjecture: the speaker looked like all i had once heard about him. christian roselius came from brunswick, germany, a youth of seventeen, something more than two years later than salome müller and her friends. like them he came an emigrant under the dutch flag, and like them his passage was paid in new orleans by his sale as a redemptioner. a printer bought his services for two years and a half. his story is the good old one of courage, self-imposed privations, and rapid development of talents. from printing he rose to journalism, and from journalism passed to the bar. by , at thirty-three years of age, he stood in the front rank of that brilliant group where grymes was still at his best. before he was forty he had been made attorney-general of the state. punctuality, application, energy, temperance, probity, bounty, were the strong features of his character. it was a common thing for him to give his best services free in the cause of the weak against the strong. as an adversary he was decorous and amiable, but thunderous, heavy-handed, derisive if need be, and inexorable. a time came for these weapons to be drawn in defense of salome müller. footnotes: [ ] the will of r.d. shepherd. vii. miller _versus_ belmonti. in frank and eva schuber had moved to a house on the corner of jackson and annunciation streets.[ ] they had brought up sons, two at least, who were now old enough to be their father's mainstay in his enlarged business of "farming" (leasing and subletting) the poydras market. the father and mother and their kindred and companions in long past misfortunes and sorrows had grown to wealth and standing among the german-americans of new orleans and lafayette. the little girl cousin of salome müller, who as a child of the same age had been her playmate on shipboard at the helder and in crossing the atlantic, and who looked so much like salome, was a woman of thirty, the wife of karl rouff. one summer day she was on some account down near the lower limits of new orleans on or near the river front, where the population was almost wholly a lower class of spanish people. passing an open door her eye was suddenly arrested by a woman of about her own age engaged in some humble service within with her face towards the door. madame karl paused in astonishment. the place was a small drinking-house, a mere _cabaret_; but the woman! it was as if her aunt dorothea, who had died on the ship twenty-five years before, stood face to face with her alive and well. there were her black hair and eyes, her olive skin, and the old, familiar expression of countenance that belonged so distinctly to all the hillsler family. madame karl went in. "my name," the woman replied to her question, "is mary." and to another question, "no; i am a yellow girl. i belong to mr. louis belmonti, who keeps this 'coffee-house.' he has owned me for four or five years. before that? before that, i belonged to mr. john fitz müller, who has the saw-mill down here by the convent. i always belonged to him." her accent was the one common to english-speaking slaves. but madame karl was not satisfied. "you are not rightly a slave. your name is müller. you are of pure german blood. i knew your mother. i know you. we came to this country together on the same ship, twenty-five years ago." "no," said the other; "you must be mistaking me for some one else that i look like." but madame karl: "come with me. come up into lafayette and see if i do not show you to others who will know you the moment they look at you." the woman enjoyed much liberty in her place and was able to accept this invitation. madame karl took her to the home of frank and eva schuber. their front door steps were on the street. as madame karl came up to them eva stood in the open door much occupied with her approach, for she had not seen her for two years. another woman, a stranger, was with madame karl. as they reached the threshold and the two old-time friends exchanged greetings, eva said: "why, it is two years since last i saw you. is that a german woman?--i know her!" "well," said madame karl, "if you know her, who is she?" "my god!" cried eva,--"the long-lost salome müller!" "i needed nothing more to convince me," she afterwards testified in court. "i could recognize her among a hundred thousand persons." frank schuber came in, having heard nothing. he glanced at the stranger, and turning to his wife asked: "is not that one of the girls who was lost?" "it is," replied eva; "it is. it is salome müller!" on that same day, as it seems, for the news had not reached them, madame fleikener and her daughter--they had all become madams in creole america--had occasion to go to see her kinswoman, eva schuber. she saw the stranger and instantly recognized her, "because of her resemblance to her mother." they were all overjoyed. for twenty-five years dragged in the mire of african slavery, the mother of quadroon children and ignorant of her own identity, they nevertheless welcomed her back to their embrace, not fearing, but hoping, she was their long-lost salome. but another confirmation was possible, far more conclusive than mere recognition of the countenance. eva knew this. for weeks together she had bathed and dressed the little salome every day. she and her mother and all henry müller's family had known, and had made it their common saying, that it might be difficult to identify the lost dorothea were she found; but if ever salome were found they could prove she was salome beyond the shadow of a doubt. it was the remembrance of this that moved eva schuber to say to the woman: "come with me into this other room." they went, leaving madame karl, madame fleikener, her daughter, and frank schuber behind. and when they returned the slave was convinced, with them all, that she was the younger daughter of daniel and dorothea müller. we shall presently see what fixed this conviction. the next step was to claim her freedom. she appears to have gone back to belmonti, but within a very few days, if not immediately, madame schuber and a certain mrs. white--who does not become prominent--followed down to the cabaret. mrs. white went out somewhere on the premises, found salome at work, and remained with her, while madame schuber confronted belmonti, and, revealing salome's identity and its proofs, demanded her instant release. belmonti refused to let her go. but while doing so he admitted his belief that she might be of pure white blood and of right entitled to freedom. he confessed having gone back to john f. müller[ ] soon after buying her and proposing to set her free; but müller, he said, had replied that in such a case the law required her to leave the country. thereupon belmonti had demanded that the sale be rescinded, saying: "i have paid you my money for her." "but," said müller, "i did not sell her to you as a slave. she is as white as you or i, and neither of us can hold her if she chooses to go away." such at least was belmonti's confession, yet he was as far from consenting to let his captive go after this confession was made as he had been before. he seems actually to have kept her for a while; but at length she went boldly to schuber's house, became one of his household, and with his advice and aid asserted her intention to establish her freedom by an appeal to law. belmonti replied with threats of public imprisonment, the chain-gang, and the auctioneer's block. salome, or sally, for that seems to be the nickname by which her kindred remembered her, was never to be sold again; but not many months were to pass before she was to find herself, on her own petition and bond of $ , a prisoner, by the only choice the laws allowed her, in the famous calaboose, not as a criminal, but as sequestered goods in a sort of sheriff's warehouse. says her petition: "your petitioner has good reason to believe that the said belmonti intends to remove her out of the jurisdiction of the court during the pendency of the suit"; wherefore not _he_ but _she_ went to jail. here she remained for six days and was then allowed to go at large, but only upon _giving still another bond and security_, and in a much larger sum than she had ever been sold for. the original writ of sequestration lies before me as i write, indorsed as follows: no. , . sally miller ) sequestration. ) vs. ) sigur, caperton ) louis belmonti. ) and bonford. received th january, , and on the th of the same month sequestered the body of the plaintiff and committed her to prison for safe keeping; but on the st february, , she was released from custody, having entered bond in the sum of one thousand dollars with francis schuber as the security conditioned according to law, and which bond is herewith returned this d february, . b.f. lewis, d'y sh'ff. inside is the bond with the signatures, frantz schuber in german script, and above in english, [illustration: the court papers.] [illustration: handwritten text] also the writ, ending in words of strange and solemn irony: "in the year of our lord one thousand eight hundred and forty-four and in the sixty-eighth year of the independence of the united states." we need not follow the history at the slow gait of court proceedings. at belmonti's petition john f. miller was called in warranty; that is, made the responsible party in belmonti's stead. there were "prayers" and rules, writs and answers, as the cause slowly gathered shape for final contest. here are papers of date february and --it was leap year--and april , , , and . on the th of may frank schuber asked leave, and on the th was allowed, to substitute another bondsman in his place in order that he himself might qualify as a witness; and on the d of may the case came to trial. viii. the trial. it had already become famous. early in april the press of the city, though in those days unused to giving local affairs more than the feeblest attention, had spoken of this suit as destined, if well founded, to develop a case of "unparalleled hardship, cruelty, and oppression." the german people especially were aroused and incensed. a certain newspaper spoke of the matter as the case "that had for several days created so much excitement throughout the city." the public sympathy was with salome. but by how slender a tenure was it held! it rested not on the "hardship, cruelty, and oppression" she had suffered for twenty years, but only on the fact, which she might yet fail to prove, that she had suffered these things without having that tincture of african race which, be it ever so faint, would entirely justify, alike in the law and in the popular mind, treatment otherwise counted hard, cruel, oppressive, and worthy of the public indignation. and now to prove the fact. in a newspaper of that date appears the following: hon. a.m. buchanan, _judge_. sally miller _vs_. belmonti. }--no. , . this cause came on to-day for trial before the court, roselius and upton for plaintiff, canon for defendant, grymes and micou for warrantor; when after hearing evidence the same is continued until to-morrow morning at o'clock. salome's battle had begun. besides the counsel already named, there were on the slave's side a second upton and a bonford, and on the master's side a sigur, a caperton, and a lockett. the redemptioners had made the cause their own and prepared to sustain it with a common purse. neither party had asked for a trial by jury; the decision was to come from the bench. the soldier, in the tableaux of judge buchanan's life, had not dissolved perfectly into the justice, and old lawyers of new orleans remember him rather for unimpeachable integrity than for fine discrimination, a man of almost austere dignity, somewhat quick in temper. before him now gathered the numerous counsel, most of whose portraits have long since been veiled and need not now be uncovered. at the head of one group stood roselius, at the head of the other, grymes. and for this there were good reasons. roselius, who had just ceased to be the state's attorney-general, was already looked upon as one of the readiest of all champions of the unfortunate. he was in his early prime, the first full spread of his powers, but he had not forgotten the little dutch brig _jupiter_, or the days when he was himself a redemptioner. grymes, on the other side, had had to do--as we have seen--with these same redemptioners before. the uncle and the father of this same sally miller, so called, had been chief witnesses in the suit for their liberty and hers, which he had--blamelessly, we need not doubt--lost some twenty-five years before. directly in consequence of that loss salome had gone into slavery and disappeared. and now the loser of that suit was here to maintain that slavery over a woman who, even if she should turn out not to be the lost child, was enough like to be mistaken for her. true, causes must have attorneys, and such things may happen to any lawyer; but here was a cause which in our lights to-day, at least, had on the defendant's side no moral right to come into court. one other person, and only one, need we mention. many a new york city lawyer will recall in his reminiscences of thirty years ago a small, handsome, gold-spectacled man with brown hair and eyes, noted for scholarship and literary culture; a brilliant pleader at the bar, and author of two books that became authorities, one on trade-marks, the other on prize law. even some who do not recollect him by this description may recall how the gifted frank upton--for it is of him i write--was one day in or struck down by apoplexy while pleading in the well-known peterhoff case. or they may remember subsequently his constant, pathetic effort to maintain his old courtly mien against his resultant paralysis. this was the young man of about thirty, of uncommon masculine beauty and refinement, who sat beside christian roselius as an associate in the cause of sally miller _versus_ louis belmonti. footnotes: [ ] long since burned down. [ ] the similarity in the surnames of salome and her master is odd, but is accidental and without significance. ix. the evidence. we need not linger over the details of the trial. the witnesses for the prosecution were called. first came a creole woman, so old that she did not know her own age, but was a grown-up girl in the days of the spanish governor-general galvez, sixty-five years before. she recognized in the plaintiff the same person whom she had known as a child in john f. miller's domestic service with the mien, eyes, and color of a white person and with a german accent. next came madame hemin, who had not known the müllers till she met them on the russian ship and had not seen salome since parting from them at amsterdam, yet who instantly identified her "when she herself came into the court-room just now." "witness says," continues the record, "she perceived the family likeness in plaintiff's face when she came in the door." the next day came eva and told her story; and others followed, whose testimony, like hers, we have anticipated. again and again was the plaintiff recognized, both as salome and as the girl mary, or mary bridget, who for twenty years and upward had been owned in slavery, first by john f. miller, then by his mother, mrs. canby, and at length by the cabaret keeper louis belmonti. if the two persons were but one, then for twenty years at least she had lived a slave within five miles, and part of the time within two, of her kindred and of freedom. that the two persons were one it seemed scarcely possible to doubt. not only did every one who remembered salome on shipboard recognize the plaintiff as she, but others, who had quite forgotten her appearance then, recognized in her the strong family likeness of the müllers. this likeness even witnesses for the defense had to admit. so, on salome's side, testified madame koelhoffer, madame schultzheimer, and young daniel miller (müller) from mississippi. she was easily pointed out in the throng of the crowded court-room. and then, as we have already said, there was another means of identification which it seemed ought alone to have carried with it overwhelming conviction. but this we still hold in reserve until we have heard the explanation offered by john f. miller both in court and at the same time in the daily press in reply to its utterances which were giving voice to the public sympathy for salome. it seems that john fitz miller was a citizen of new orleans in high standing, a man of property, money, enterprises, and slaves. john lawson lewis, commanding-general of the state militia, testified in the case to mr. miller's generous and social disposition, his easy circumstances, his kindness to his eighty slaves, his habit of entertaining, and the exceptional fineness of his equipage. another witness testified that complaints were sometimes made by miller's neighbors of his too great indulgence of his slaves. others, ladies as well as gentlemen, corroborated these good reports, and had even kinder and higher praises for his mother, mrs. canby. they stated with alacrity, not intending the slightest imputation against the gentleman's character, that he had other slaves even fairer of skin than this mary bridget, who nevertheless, "when she was young," they said, "looked like a white girl." one thing they certainly made plain--that mr. miller had never taken the müller family or any part of them to attakapas or knowingly bought a redemptioner. he accounted for his possession of the plaintiff thus: in august, , one anthony williams, being or pretending to be a negro-trader and from mobile, somehow came into contact with mr. john fitz miller in new orleans. he represented that he had sold all his stock of slaves except one girl, mary bridget, ostensibly twelve years old, and must return at once to mobile. he left this girl with mr. miller to be sold for him for his (williams's) account under a formal power of attorney so to do, mr. miller handing him one hundred dollars as an advance on her prospective sale. in january, , williams had not yet been heard from, nor had the girl been sold; and on the st of february mr. miller sold her to his own mother, with whom he lived--in other words, _to himself_, as we shall see. in this sale her price was three hundred and fifty dollars and her age was still represented as about twelve. "from that time she remained in the house of my mother," wrote miller to the newspapers, "as a domestic servant" until , when "she was sold to belmonti." mr. miller's public statement was not as full and candid as it looked. how, if the girl was sold to mrs. canby, his mother--how is it that belmonti bought her of miller himself? the answer is that while williams never re-appeared, the girl, in february, , "the girl bridget," now the mother of three children, was with these children bought back again by that same mr. miller from the entirely passive mrs. canby, for the same three hundred and fifty dollars; the same price for the four which he had got, or had seemed to get, for the mother alone when she was but a child of twelve years. thus had mr. miller become the owner of the woman, her two sons, and her daughter, had had her service for the keeping, and had never paid but one hundred dollars. this point he prudently overlooked in his public statement. nor did he count it necessary to emphasize the further fact that when this slave-mother was about twenty-eight years old and her little daughter had died, he sold her alone, away from her two half-grown sons, for ten times what he had paid for her, to be the bond-woman of the wifeless keeper of a dram-shop. but these were not the only omissions. why had williams never come back either for the slave or for the proceeds of her sale? mr. miller omitted to state, what he knew well enough, that the girl was so evidently white that williams could not get rid of her, even to him, by an open sale. when months and years passed without a word from williams, the presumption was strong that williams knew the girl was not of african tincture, at least within the definition of the law, and was content to count the provisional transfer to miller equivalent to a sale. miller, then, was--heedless enough, let us call it--to hold in african bondage for twenty years a woman who, his own witnesses testified, had every appearance of being a white person, without ever having seen the shadow of a title for any one to own her, and with everything to indicate that there was none. whether he had any better right to own the several other slaves whiter than this one whom those same witnesses of his were forward to state he owned and had owned, no one seems to have inquired. such were the times; and it really was not then remarkable that this particular case should involve a lady noted for her good works and a gentleman who drove "the finest equipage in new orleans." one point, in view of current beliefs of to-day, compels attention. one of miller's witnesses was being cross-examined. being asked if, should he see the slave woman among white ladies, he would not think her white, he replied: "i cannot say. there are in new orleans many white persons of dark complexion and many colored persons of light complexion." the question followed: "what is there in the features of a colored person that designates them to be such?" "i cannot say. persons who live in countries where there are many colored persons acquire an instinctive means of judging that cannot be well explained." and yet neither this man's "instinct" nor that of any one else, either during the whole trial or during twenty years' previous knowledge of the plaintiff, was of the least value to determine whether this poor slave was entirely white or of mixed blood. it was more utterly worthless than her memory. for as to that she had, according to one of miller's own witnesses, in her childhood confessed a remembrance of having been brought "across the lake"; but whether that had been from germany, or only from mobile, must be shown in another way. that way was very simple, and we hold it no longer in suspense. x. the crowning proof. "if ever our little salome is found," eva kropp had been accustomed to say, "we shall know her by two hair moles about the size of a coffee-bean, one on the inside of each thigh, about midway up from the knee. nobody can make those, or take them away without leaving the tell-tale scars." and lo! when madame karl brought mary bridget to frank schuber's house, and eva schuber, who every day for weeks had bathed and dressed her godchild on the ship, took this stranger into another room apart and alone, there were the birth-marks of the lost salome. this incontestable evidence the friends of salome were able to furnish, but the defense called in question the genuineness of the marks. the verdict of science was demanded, and an order of the court issued to two noted physicians, one chosen by each side, to examine these marks and report "the nature, appearance, and cause of the same." the kindred of salome chose warren stone, probably the greatest physician and surgeon in one that new orleans has ever known. mr. grymes's client chose a creole gentleman almost equally famed, dr. armand mercier. dr. stone died many years ago; dr. mercier, if i remember aright, in . when i called upon dr. mercier in his office in girod street in the summer of , to appeal to his remembrance of this long-forgotten matter, i found a very noble-looking, fair old gentleman whose abundant waving hair had gone all to a white silken floss with age. he sat at his desk in persistent silence with his strong blue eyes fixed steadfastly upon me while i slowly and carefully recounted the story. two or three times i paused inquiringly; but he faintly shook his head in the negative, a slight frown of mental effort gathering for a moment between the eyes that never left mine. but suddenly he leaned forward and drew his breath as if to speak. i ceased, and he said: "my sister, the wife of pierre soulé, refused to become the owner of that woman and her three children because they were so white!" he pressed me eagerly with an enlargement of his statement, and when he paused i said nothing or very little; for, sad to say, he had only made it perfectly plain that it was not the girl mary bridget whom he was recollecting, but _another case_. he did finally, though dimly, call to mind having served with dr. stone in such a matter as i had described. but later i was made independent of his powers of recollection, when the original documents of the court were laid before me. there was the certificate of the two physicians. and there, over their signatures, "mercier d.m.p." standing first, in a bold heavy hand underscored by a single broad quill-stroke, was this "conclusion": " . these marks ought to be considered as _noevi materni_. " . they are congenital; or, in other words, the person was born with them. " . there is no process by means of which artificial spots bearing all the character of the marks can be produced." [illustration: handwritten conclusion number and signatures of mercier dmp and dr. stone.] xi. judgment. on the th of june the case of sally miller _versus_ louis belmonti was called up again and the report of the medical experts received. could anything be offered by mr. grymes and his associates to offset that? yes; they had one last strong card, and now they played it. it was, first, a certificate of baptism of a certain mary's child john, offered in evidence to prove that this child was born at a time when salome müller, according to the testimony of her own kindred, was too young by a year or two to become a mother; and secondly, the testimony of a free woman of color, that to her knowledge that mary was this bridget or sally, and the child john this woman's eldest son lafayette. and hereupon the court announced that on the morrow it would hear the argument of counsel. salome's counsel besought the court for a temporary postponement on two accounts: first, that her age might be known beyond a peradventure by procuring a copy of her own birth record from the official register of her native langensoultz, and also to procure in new orleans the testimony of one who was professionally present at the birth of her son, and who would swear that it occurred some years later than the date of the baptismal record just accepted as evidence. "we are taken by surprise," exclaimed in effect roselius and his coadjutors, "in the production of testimony by the opposing counsel openly at variance with earlier evidence accepted from them and on record. the act of the sale of this woman and her children from sarah canby to john fitz miller in , her son lafayette being therein described as but five years of age, fixes his birth by irresistible inference in , in which year by the recorded testimony of her kindred salome müller was fifteen years old." but the combined efforts of roselius, upton, and others were unavailing, and the newspapers of the following day reported: "this cause, continued from yesterday, came on again to-day, when, after hearing arguments of counsel, the court took the same under consideration." it must be a dull fancy that will not draw for itself the picture, when a fortnight later the frequenters of the court-room hear the word of judgment. it is near the end of the hot far-southern june. the judge begins to read aloud. his hearers wait languidly through the prolonged recital of the history of the case. it is as we have given it here: no use has been made here of any testimony discredited in the judge's reasons for his decision. at length the evidence is summed up and every one attends to catch the next word. the judge reads: "the supposed identity is based upon two circumstances: first, a striking resemblance of plaintiff to the child above mentioned and to the family of that child. second, two certain marks or moles on the inside of the thighs [one on each thigh], which marks are similar in the child and in the woman. this resemblance and these marks are proved by several witnesses. are they sufficient to justify me in declaring the plaintiff to be identical with the german child in question? i answer this question in the negative." what stir there was in the room when these words were heard the silent records lying before me do not tell, or whether all was silent while the judge read on; but by and by his words were these: "i must admit that the relatives of the said family of redemptioners seem to be very firmly convinced of the identity which the plaintiff claims.... as, however, it is quite out of the question to take away a man's property upon grounds of this sort, i would suggest that the friends of the plaintiff, if honestly convinced of the justice of her pretensions, should make some effort to settle _à l'aimable_ with the defendant, who has honestly and fairly paid his money for her. they would doubtless find him well disposed to part on reasonable terms with a slave from whom he can scarcely expect any service after what has passed. judgment dismissing the suit with costs." the white slave was still a slave. we are left to imagine the quiet air of dispatch with which as many of the counsel as were present gathered up any papers they may have had, exchanged a few murmurous words with their clients, and, hats in hand, hurried off and out to other business. also the silent, slow dejection of salome, eva, frank, and their neighbors and kin--if so be, that they were there--as they rose and left the hall where a man's property was more sacred than a woman's freedom. but the attorney had given them ground of hope. application would be made for a new trial; and if this was refused, as it probably would be, then appeal would be made to the supreme court of the state. so it happened. only two days later the plaintiff, through one of her counsel, the brother of frank upton, applied for a new trial. she stated that important evidence not earlier obtainable had come to light; that she could produce a witness to prove that john f. miller had repeatedly said she was white; and that one of miller's own late witnesses, his own brother-in-law, would make deposition of the fact, recollected only since he gave testimony, that the girl bridget brought into miller's household in was much darker than the plaintiff and died a few years afterwards. and this witness did actually make such deposition. in the six months through which the suit had dragged since salome had made her first petition to the court and signed it with her mark she had learned to write. the application for a new trial is signed-- [illustration: signature] the new trial was refused. roselius took an appeal. the judge "allowed" it, fixing the amount of salome's bond at $ . frank schuber gave the bond and the case went up to the supreme court. in that court no witnesses were likely to be examined. new testimony was not admissible; all testimony taken in the inferior courts "went up" by the request of either party as part of the record, and to it no addition could ordinarily be made. the case would be ready for argument almost at once. xii. before the supreme court. once more it was may, when in the populous but silent court-room the clerk announced the case of miller _versus_ louis belmonti, and john f. miller, warrantor. well-nigh a year had gone by since the appeal was taken. two full years had passed since madame karl had found salome in belmonti's cabaret. it was now ; grymes was still at the head of one group of counsel, and roselius of the other. there again were eva and salome, looking like an elder and a younger sister. on the bench sat at the right two and at the left two associate judges, and between them in the middle the learned and aged historian of the state, chief-justice martin. the attorneys had known from the first that the final contest would be here, and had saved their forces for this; and when on the th of may the deep, rugged voice of roselius resounded through the old cabildo, a nine-days' contest of learning, eloquence, and legal tactics had begun. roselius may have filed a brief, but i have sought it in vain, and his words in salome's behalf are lost. yet we know one part in the defense which he must have retained to himself; for francis upton was waiting in reserve to close the argument on the last day of the trial, and so important a matter as this that we shall mention would hardly have been trusted in any but the strongest hands. it was this: roselius, in the middle of his argument upon the evidence, proposed to read a certain certified copy of a registry of birth. grymes and his colleagues instantly objected. it was their own best gun captured and turned upon them. they could not tolerate it. it was no part of the record, they stoutly maintained, and must not be introduced nor read nor commented upon. the point was vigorously argued on both sides; but when roselius appealed to an earlier decision of the same court the bench decided that, as then, so now, "in suits for freedom, and _in favorem_ libertatis_, they would notice facts which come credibly before them, even though they be _dehors_ the record."[ ] and so roselius thundered it out. the consul for baden at new orleans had gone to europe some time before, and was now newly returned. he had brought an official copy, from the records of the prefect of salome's native village, of the registered date of her birth. this is what was now heard, and by it salome and her friends knew to their joy, and belmonti to his chagrin, that she was two years older than her kinsfolk had thought her to be. who followed roselius is not known, but by and by men were bending the ear to the soft persuasive tones and finished subtleties of the polished and courted grymes. he left, we are told, no point unguarded, no weapon unused, no vantage-ground unoccupied. the high social standing and reputation of his client were set forth at their best. every slenderest discrepancy of statement between salome's witnesses was ingeniously expanded. by learned citation and adroit appliance of the old spanish laws concerning slaves, he sought to ward off as with a toledo blade the heavy blows by which roselius and his colleagues endeavored to lay upon the defendants the burden of proof which the lower court had laid upon salome. he admitted generously the entire sincerity of salome's kinspeople in believing plaintiff to be the lost child; but reminded the court of the credulity of ill-trained minds, the contagiousness of fanciful delusions, and especially of what he somehow found room to call the inflammable imagination of the german temperament. he appealed to history; to the scholarship of the bench; citing the stories of martin guerre, the russian demetrius, perkin warbeck, and all the other wonderful cases of mistaken or counterfeited identity. thus he and his associates pleaded for the continuance in bondage of a woman whom their own fellow-citizens were willing to take into their houses after twenty years of degradation and infamy, make their oath to her identity, and pledge their fortunes to her protection as their kinswoman. day after day the argument continued. at length the sabbath broke its continuity, but on monday it was resumed, and on tuesday francis upton rose to make the closing argument for the plaintiff. his daughter, miss upton, now of washington, once did me the honor to lend me a miniature of him made about the time of salome's suit for freedom. it is a pleasing evidence of his modesty in the domestic circle--where masculine modesty is rarest--that his daughter had never heard him tell the story of this case, in which, it is said, he put the first strong luster on his fame. in the picture he is a very david--"ruddy and of a fair countenance"; a countenance at once gentle and valiant, vigorous and pure. lifting this face upon the wrinkled chief-justice and associate judges, he began to set forth the points of law, in an argument which, we are told, "was regarded by those who heard it as one of the happiest forensic efforts ever made before the court." he set his reliance mainly upon two points: one, that, it being obvious and admitted that plaintiff was not entirely of african race, the presumption of law was in favor of liberty and with the plaintiff, and therefore that the whole burden of proof was upon the defendants, belmonti and miller; and the other point, that the presumption of freedom in such a case could be rebutted only by proof that she was descended from a slave mother. these points the young attorney had to maintain as best he could without precedents fortifying them beyond attack; but "adele _versus_ beauregard" he insisted firmly established the first point and implied the court's assent to the second, while as legal doctrines "wheeler on slavery" upheld them both. when he was done salome's fate was in the hands of her judges. almost a month goes by before their judgment is rendered. but at length, on the st of june, the gathering with which our imagination has become familiar appears for the last time. the chief-justice is to read the decision from which there can be no appeal. as the judges take their places one seat is left void; it is by reason of sickness. order is called, silence falls, and all eyes are on the chief-justice. he reads. to one holding the court's official copy of judgment in hand, as i do at this moment, following down the lines as the justice's eyes once followed them, passing from paragraph to paragraph, and turning the leaves as his hand that day turned them, the scene lifts itself before the mind's eye despite every effort to hold it to the cold letter of the time-stained files of the court. in a single clear, well-compacted paragraph the court states salome's claim and belmonti's denial; in another, the warrantor miller's denial and defense; and in two lines more, the decision of the lower court. and now-- "the first inquiry," so reads the chief-justice--"the first inquiry that engages our attention is, what is the color of the plaintiff?" but this is far from bringing dismay to salome and her friends. for hear what follows: "persons of color"--meaning of mixed blood, not pure negro--"are presumed to be free.... the burden of proof is upon him who claims the colored person as a slave.... in the highest courts of the state of virginia ... a person of the complexion of the plaintiff, without evidence of descent from a slave mother, would be released even on _habeas corpus_.... not only is there no evidence of her [plaintiff] being descended from a slave mother, or even a mother of the african race, but no witness has ventured a positive opinion that she is of that race." glad words for salome and her kindred. the reading proceeds: "the presumption is clearly in favor of the plaintiff." but suspense returns, for--"it is next proper," the reading still goes on, "to inquire how far that presumption has been weakened or justified or repelled by the testimony of numerous witnesses in the record.... if a number of witnesses had sworn"--here the justice turns the fourth page; now he is in the middle of it, yet all goes well; he is making a comparison of testimony for and against, unfavorable to that which is against. and now--"but the proof does not stop at mere family resemblance." he is coming to the matter of the birth-marks. he calls them "evidence which is not impeached." he turns the page again, and begins at the top to meet the argument of grymes from the old spanish partidas. but as his utterance follows his eye down the page he sets that argument aside as not good to establish such a title as that by which miller received the plaintiff. he _exonerates_ miller, but accuses the absent williams of imposture and fraud. one may well fear the verdict after that. but now he turns a page which every one can see is the last: "it has been said that the german witnesses are imaginative and enthusiastic, and their confidence ought to be distrusted. that kind of enthusiasm is at least of a quiet sort, evidently the result of profound conviction and certainly free from any taint of worldly interest, and is by no means incompatible with the most perfect conscientiousness. if they are mistaken as to the identity of the plaintiff; if there be in truth two persons about the same age bearing a strong resemblance to the family of miller [müller] and having the same identical marks from their birth, and the plaintiff is not the real lost child who arrived here with hundreds of others in , it is certainly one of the most extraordinary things in history. if she be not, then nobody has told who she is. after the most mature consideration of the case, we are of opinion the plaintiff is free, and it is our duty to declare her so. "it is therefore ordered, adjudged, and decreed, that the judgment of the district court be reversed; and ours is that the plaintiff be released from the bonds of slavery, that the defendants pay the costs of the appeal, and that the case be remanded for further proceedings as between the defendant and his warrantor." so ends the record of the court. "the question of damage," says the "law reporter," "is the subject-matter of another suit now pending against jno. f. miller and mrs. canby." but i have it verbally from salome's relatives that the claim was lightly and early dismissed. salome being free, her sons were, by law, free also. but they could only be free mulattoes, went to tennessee and kentucky, were heard of once or twice as stable-boys to famous horses, and disappeared. a mississippi river pilot, john given by name, met salome among her relatives, and courted and married her. as might readily be supposed, this alliance was only another misfortune to salome, and the pair separated. salome went to california. her cousin, henry schuber, tells me he saw her in in sacramento city, living at last a respected and comfortable life. footnotes: [ ] marie louise _vs._ marot, la. r. the "haunted house" in royal street. - . i. as it stands now. when you and----- make that much-talked-of visit to new orleans, by all means see early whatever evidences of progress and aggrandizement her hospitable citizens wish to show you; new orleans belongs to the living present, and has serious practical relations with these united states and this great living world and age. and yet i want the first morning walk that you two take together and alone to be in the old french quarter. go down royal street. you shall not have taken many steps in it when, far down on the right-hand side, where the narrow street almost shuts its converging lines together in the distance, there will begin to rise above the extravagant confusion of intervening roofs and to stand out against the dazzling sky a square, latticed remnant of a belvedere. you can see that the house it surmounts is a large, solid, rectangular pile, and that it stands directly on the street at what residents call the "upper, river corner," though the river is several squares away on the right. there are fifty people in this old rue royale who can tell you their wild versions of this house's strange true story against any one who can do this present writer the honor to point out the former residence of 'sieur george, madame délicieuse, or doctor mossy, or the unrecognizably restored dwelling of madame delphine. i fancy you already there. the neighborhood is very still. the streets are almost empty of life, and the cleanness of their stone pavements is largely the cleanness of disuse. the house you are looking at is of brick, covered with stucco, which somebody may be lime-washing white, or painting yellow or brown, while i am saying it is gray. an uncovered balcony as wide as the sidewalk makes a deep arcade around its two street sides. the last time i saw it it was for rent, and looked as if it had been so for a long time; but that proves nothing. every one of its big window-shutters was closed, and by the very intensity of their rusty silence spoke a hostile impenetrability. just now it is occupied. they say that louis philippe, afterwards king of the french, once slept in one of its chambers. that would have been in ; but in they were not building such tall buildings as this in new orleans--did not believe the soil would uphold them. as late as , when 'sieur george's house, upon the st. peter street corner, was begun, people shook their heads; and this house is taller than 'sieur george's. i should like to know if the rumor is true. lafayette, too, they say, occupied the same room. maybe so. that would have been in - . but we know he had elegant apartments, fitted up for him at the city's charge, in the old cabildo. still-- it was, they say, in those, its bright, early days, the property of the pontalbas, a noble franco-spanish family; and i have mentioned these points, which have no close bearing upon our present story, mainly to clear the field of all mere they-says, and leave the ground for what we know to be authenticated fact, however strange. the entrance, under the balcony, is in royal street. within a deep, white portal, the walls and ceiling of which are covered with ornamentations, two or three steps, shut off from the sidewalk by a pair of great gates of open, ornamental iron-work with gilded tops, rise to the white door. this also is loaded with a raised work of urns and flowers, birds and fonts, and phoebus in his chariot. inside, from a marble floor, an iron-railed, winding stair ("said the spider to the fly") leads to the drawing-rooms on the floor even with the balcony. these are very large. the various doors that let into them, and the folding door between them, have carved panels. a deep frieze covered with raised work--white angels with palm branches and folded wings, stars, and wreaths--runs all around, interrupted only by high, wide windows that let out between fluted corinthian pilasters upon the broad open balcony. the lofty ceilings, too, are beautiful with raised garlandry. [illustration: the entrance of the haunted house. from a photograph.] measure one of the windows--eight feet across. each of its shutters is four feet wide. look at those old crystal chandeliers. and already here is something uncanny--at the bottom of one of these rooms, a little door in the wall. it is barely a woman's height, yet big hinges jut out from the jamb, and when you open it and look in you see only a small dark place without steps or anything to let you down to its floor below, a leap of several feet. it is hardly noteworthy; only neither you nor----can make out what it ever was for. the house is very still. as you stand a moment in the middle of the drawing-room looking at each other you hear the walls and floors saying those soft nothings to one another that they so often say when left to themselves. while you are looking straight at one of the large doors that lead into the hall its lock gives a whispered click and the door slowly swings open. no cat, no draft, you and----exchange a silent smile and rather like the mystery; but do you know? that is an old trick of those doors, and has made many an emotional girl smile less instead of more; although i doubt not any carpenter could explain it. i assume, you see, that you visit the house when it is vacant. it is only at such times that you are likely to get in. a friend wrote me lately: "miss ---- and i tried to get permission to see the interior. madame said the landlord had requested her not to allow visitors; that over three hundred had called last winter, and had been refused for that reason. i thought of the three thousand who would call if they knew its story." another writes: "the landlord's orders are positive that no photographer of any kind shall come into his house." the house has three stories and an attic. the windows farthest from the street are masked by long, green latticed balconies or "galleries," one to each story, which communicate with one another by staircases behind the lattices and partly overhang a small, damp, paved court which is quite hidden from outer view save from one or two neighboring windows. on your right as you look down into this court a long, narrow wing stands out at right angles from the main house, four stories high, with the latticed galleries continuing along the entire length of each floor. it bounds this court on the southern side. each story is a row of small square rooms, and each room has a single high window in the southern wall and a single door on the hither side opening upon the latticed gallery of that floor. wings of that sort were once very common in new orleans in the residences of the rich; they were the house's slave quarters. but certainly some of the features you see here never were common--locks seven inches across; several windows without sashes, but with sturdy iron gratings and solid iron shutters. on the fourth floor the doorway communicating with the main house is entirely closed twice over, by two pairs of full length batten shutters held in on the side of the main house by iron hooks eighteen inches long, two to each shutter. and yet it was through this doorway that the ghosts--figuratively speaking, of course, for we are dealing with plain fact and history--got into this house. will you go to the belvedere? i went there once. unless the cramped stair that reaches it has been repaired you will find it something rickety. the newspapers, writing fifty-five years ago in the heat and haste of the moment, must have erred as to heavy pieces of furniture being carried up this last cramped flight of steps to be cast out of the windows into the street far below. besides, the third-story windows are high enough for the most thorough smashing of anything dropped from them for that purpose. the attic is cut up into little closets. lying in one of them close up under the roof maybe you will still find, as i did, all the big iron keys of those big iron locks down-stairs. the day i stepped up into this belvedere it was shaking visibly in a squall of wind. an electric storm was coming out of the north and west. yet overhead the sun still shone vehemently through the rolling white clouds. it was grand to watch these. they were sailing majestically hither and thither southward across the blue, leaning now this way and now that like a fleet of great ships of the line manoeuvring for position against the dark northern enemy's already flashing and thundering onset. i was much above any neighboring roof. far to the south and south-west the newer new orleans spread away over the flat land. north-eastward, but near at hand, were the masts of ships and steamers, with glimpses here and there of the water, and farther away the open breadth of the great yellow river sweeping around slaughterhouse point under an air heavy with the falling black smoke and white steam of hurrying tugs. closer by, there was a strange confusion of roofs, trees, walls, vines, tiled roofs, brown and pink, and stuccoed walls, pink, white, yellow, red, and every sort of gray. the old convent of the ursulines stood in the midst, and against it the old chapel of st. mary with a great sycamore on one side and a willow on the other. almost under me i noticed some of the semicircular arches of rotten red brick that were once a part of the spanish barracks. in the north the "old third" (third city district) lay, as though i looked down upon it from a cliff--a tempestuous gray sea of slate roofs dotted with tossing green tree-tops. beyond it, not far away, the deep green, ragged line of cypress swamp half encircled it and gleamed weirdly under a sky packed with dark clouds that flashed and growled and boomed and growled again. you could see rain falling from one cloud over lake pontchartrain; the strong gale brought the sweet smell of it. westward, yonder, you may still descry the old calaboose just peeping over the tops of some lofty trees; and that bunch a little at the left is congo square; but the _old_, old calaboose--the one to which this house was once strangely related--is hiding behind the cathedral here on the south. the street that crosses royal here and makes the corner on which the house stands is hospital street; and yonder, westward, where it bends a little to the right and runs away so bright, clean, and empty between two long lines of groves and flower gardens, it is the old bayou road to the lake. it was down that road that the mistress of this house fled in her carriage from its door with the howling mob at her heels. before you descend from the belvedere turn and note how the roof drops away in eight different slopes; and think--from whichever one of these slopes it was--of the little fluttering, befrocked lump of terrified childhood that leaped from there and fell clean to the paved yard below. a last word while we are still here: there are other reasons--one, at least, besides tragedy and crime--that make people believe this place is haunted. this particular spot is hardly one where a person would prefer to see a ghost, even if one knew it was but an optical illusion; but one evening, some years ago, when a bright moon was mounting high and swinging well around to the south, a young girl who lived near by and who had a proper skepticism for the marvels of the gossips passed this house. she was approaching it from an opposite sidewalk, when, glancing up at this belvedere outlined so loftily on the night sky, she saw with startling clearness, although pale and misty in the deep shadow of the cupola,--"it made me shudder," she says, "until i reasoned the matter out,"--a single, silent, motionless object; the figure of a woman leaning against its lattice. by careful scrutiny she made it out to be only a sorcery of moonbeams that fell aslant from the farther side through the skylight of the belvedere's roof and sifted through the lattice. would that there were no more reality to the story before us. ii. madame lalaurie. on the th of august, , before octave de armas, notary, one e. soniat dufossat sold this property to a madame lalaurie. she may have dwelt in the house earlier than this, but here is where its tragic history begins. madame lalaurie was still a beautiful and most attractive lady, though bearing the name of a third husband. her surname had been first mccarty,--a genuine spanish-creole name, although of irish origin, of course,--then lopez, or maybe first lopez and then mccarty, and then blanque. she had two daughters, the elder, at least, the issue of her first marriage. the house is known to this day as madame blanque's house,--which, you notice, it never was,--so distinctly was she the notable figure in the household. her husband was younger than she. there is strong sign of his lesser importance in the fact that he was sometimes, and only sometimes, called doctor--dr. louis lalaurie. the graces and graciousness of their accomplished and entertaining mother quite outshone his step-daughters as well as him. to the frequent and numerous guests at her sumptuous board these young girls seemed comparatively unanimated, if not actually unhappy. not so with their mother. to do her full share in the upper circles of good society, to dispense the pleasures of drawing-room and dining-room with generous frequency and captivating amiability, was the eager pursuit of a lady who nevertheless kept the management of her money affairs, real estate, and slaves mainly in her own hands. of slaves she had ten, and housed most of them in the tall narrow wing that we have already noticed. we need not recount again the state of society about her at that time. the description of it given by the young german duke whom we quoted without date in the story of "salome muller" belongs exactly to this period. grymes stood at the top and front of things. john slidell was already shining beside him. they were co-members of the elkin club, then in its glory. it was trying energetically to see what incredible quantities of madeira it could drink. judge mazereau was "avocat-général" and was being lampooned by the imbecile wit of the singers and dancers of the calinda in congo square. the tree-planted levee was still populous on summer evenings with promenaders and loungers. the quadroon caste was in its dying splendor, still threatening the moral destruction of private society, and hated--as only woman can hate enemies of the hearthstone--by the proud, fair ladies of the creole pure-blood, among whom madame lalaurie shone brilliantly. her elegant house, filled with "furniture of the most costly description,"--says the "new orleans bee" of a date which we shall come to,--stood central in the swirl of "downtown" gayety, public and private. from royal into hospital street, across circus street--rue de la cirque--that was a good way to get into bayou road, white, almost as snow, with its smooth, silent pavement of powdered shells. this road followed the slow, clear meanderings of bayou st. jean, from red-roofed and embowered suburb st. jean to the lake, the swamp of giant, grizzly bearded cypresses hugging it all the way, and the whole five miles teeming with gay, swift carriages, some filled with smokers, others with ladies and children, the finest equipage of all being, as you may recollect, that of john fitz miller. he was at that very time master of salome muller, and of "several others fairer than salome." he belongs in the present story only here in this landscape, and here not as a typical, but only as an easily possible, slaveholder. for that matter, madame lalaurie, let it be plainly understood, was only another possibility, not a type. the two stories teach the same truth: that a public practice is answerable for whatever can happen easier with it than without it, no matter whether it must, or only may, happen. however, let the moral wait or skip it entirely if you choose: a regular feature of that bright afternoon throng was madame lalaurie's coach with the ever-so-pleasant madame lalaurie inside and her sleek black coachman on the box. "think," some friend would say, as he returned her courteous bow--"think of casting upon that woman the suspicion of starving and maltreating her own house-servants! look at that driver; his skin shines with good keeping. the truth is those jealous americans"-- there was intense jealousy between the americans and the creoles. the americans were just beginning in public matters to hold the odds. in private society the creoles still held power, but it was slipping from them even there. madame lalaurie was a creole. whether louisiana or st. domingo born was no matter; she should not be criticised by american envy! nor would the creoles themselves go nosing into the secretest privacy of her house. "why, look you, it is her common practice, even before her guests, to leave a little wine in her glass and hand it, with some word of kindness, to the slave waiting at her back. thin and hollow-chested--the slaves? yes, to be sure: but how about your rich uncle, or my dear old mother: are they not hollow-chested? well!" but this kind of logic did not satisfy everybody, not even every creole; and particularly not all her neighbors. the common populace too had unflattering beliefs. "do you see this splendid house? do you see those attic windows? there are slaves up there confined in chains and darkness and kept at the point of starvation." a creole gentleman, m. montreuil, who seems to have been a neighbor, made several attempts to bring the matter to light, but in vain. yet rumors and suspicious indications grew so rank that at length another prominent citizen, an "american" lawyer, who had a young creole studying law in his office, ventured to send him to the house to point out to madame lalaurie certain laws of the state. for instance there was article xx. of the old black code: "slaves who shall not be properly fed, clad, and provided for by their masters, may give information thereof to the attorney-general or the superior council, or to all the other officers of justice of an inferior jurisdiction, and may put the written exposition of their wrongs into their hands; upon which information, and even ex officio, should the information come from another quarter, the attorney-general shall prosecute said masters," etc. but the young law student on making his visit was captivated by the sweetness of the lady whom he had been sent to warn against committing unlawful misdemeanors, and withdrew filled with indignation against any one who could suspect her of the slightest unkindness to the humblest living thing. iii. a terrible revelation. the house that joined madame lalaurie's premises on the eastern side had a staircase window that looked down into her little courtyard. one day all by chance the lady of that adjoining house was going up those stairs just when the keen scream of a terrified child resounded from the next yard. she sprung to the window, and, looking down, saw a little negro girl about eight years old run wildly across the yard and into the house, with madame lalaurie, a cow-hide whip in her hand, following swiftly and close upon her. they disappeared; but by glimpses through the dark lattices and by the sound of the tumult, the lady knew that the child was flying up stairway after stairway, from gallery to gallery, hard pressed by her furious mistress. soon she heard them rise into the belvedere and the next instant they darted out upon the roof. down into its valleys and up over its ridges the little fugitive slid and scrambled. she reached the sheer edge, the lady at the window hid her face in her hands, there came a dull, jarring thud in the paved court beneath, and the lady, looking down, saw the child lifted from the ground and borne out of sight, limp, silent, dead. she kept her place at the window. hours passed, the day waned, darkness settled down. then she saw a torch brought, a shallow hole was dug,--as it seemed to her; but in fact a condemned well of slight depth, a mere pit, was uncovered,--and the little broken form was buried. she informed the officers of justice. from what came to light at a later season, it is hard to think that in this earlier case the investigation was more than superficial. yet an investigation was made, and some legal action was taken against madame lalaurie for cruelty to her slaves. they were taken from her and--liberated? ah! no. they were sold by the sheriff, bid in by her relatives, and by them sold back to her. let us believe that this is what occurred, or at least was shammed; for unless we do we must accept the implication of a newspaper statement of two or three years afterwards, and the confident impression of an aged creole gentleman and notary still living who was an eye-witness to much of this story, that all madame lalaurie ever suffered for this part of her hideous misdeeds was a fine. lawyers will doubtless remind us that madame lalaurie was not legally chargeable with the child's death. the lady at the window was not the only witness who might have been brought. a woman still living, who after the civil war was for years a domestic in this "haunted house," says her husband, now long dead, then a lad, was passing the place when the child ran out on the roof, and he saw her scrambling about on it seeking to escape. but he did not see the catastrophe that followed. no one saw more than what the law knows as assault; and the child was a slave. miss martineau, in her short account of the matter, which she heard in new orleans and from eye-witnesses only a few years after it had occurred, conjectures that madame lalaurie's object in buying back these slaves was simply to renew her cruelties upon them. but a much easier, and even kinder, guess would be that they knew things about her that had not been and must not be told, if she could possibly prevent it. a high temper, let us say, had led her into a slough of misdoing to a depth beyond all her expectation, and the only way out was on the farther side. yet bring to bear all the generous conjecture one can, and still the fact stands that she did starve, whip, and otherwise torture these poor victims. she even mistreated her daughters for conveying to them food which she had withheld. was she not insane? one would hope so; but we cannot hurry to believe just what is most comfortable or kindest. that would be itself a kind of "emotional insanity." if she was insane, how about her husband? for miss martineau, who was told that he was no party to her crimes, was misinformed; he was as deep in the same mire as passive complicity could carry him. if she was insane her insanity stopped abruptly at her plump, well-fed coachman. he was her spy against all others. and if she was insane, then why did not her frequent guests at table suspect it? all that society knew was that she had carried her domestic discipline to excess, had paid dearly for it, and no doubt was desisting and would henceforth desist from that kind of thing. enough allowance can hardly be made in our day for the delicacy society felt about prying into one of its own gentleman or lady member's treatment of his or her own servants. who was going to begin such an inquiry--john fitz miller? and so time passed, and the beautiful and ever sweet and charming madame lalaurie--whether sane or insane we leave to the doctors, except dr. lalaurie--continued to drive daily, yearly, on the gay bayou road, to manage her business affairs, and to gather bright groups around her tempting board, without their suspicion that she kept her cook in the kitchen by means of a twenty-four-foot chain fastened to her person and to the wall or floor. and yet let this be said to the people's credit, that public suspicion and indignation steadily grew. but they were still only growing when one day, the both of april, , the aged cook,--she was seventy,--chained as she was, purposely set the house on fire. it is only tradition that, having in a dream the night before seen the drawing-room window curtains on fire, she seized the happy thought and made the dream a reality. but it is in the printed record of the day that she confessed the deed to the mayor of the city. the desperate stratagem succeeds. the alarm of fire spreads to the street and a hundred men rush, in, while a crowd throngs the streets. some are neighbors, some friends, some strangers. one is m. montreuil, the gentleman who has so long been watching his chance to bring the law upon the house and its mistress. young d----, a notary's clerk, is another. and another is judge cononge--aha! and there are others of good and well-known name! the fire has got a good start; the kitchen is in flames; the upper stories are filling with smoke. strangers run to the place whence it all comes and fall to fighting the fire. friends rally to the aid of monsieur and madame lalaurie. the pretty lady has not lost one wit--is at her very best. her husband is as passive as ever. "this way," she cries; "this way! take this--go, now, and hurry back, if you please. this way!" and in a moment they are busy carrying out, and to places of safety, plate, jewels, robes, and the lighter and costlier pieces of furniture. "this way, please, gentlemen; that is only the servants' quarters." the servants' quarters--but where are the servants? madame's answers are witty but evasive. "never mind them now--save the valuables!" somebody touches judge canonge--"those servants are chained and locked up and liable to perish." "where?" "in the garret rooms." he hurries towards them, but fails to reach them, and returns, driven back and nearly suffocated by the smoke. he looks around him--this is no sketch of the fancy; we have his deposition sworn before a magistrate next day--and sees some friends of the family. he speaks to them: "i am told"--so and so--"can it be? will you speak to monsieur or to madame?" but the friends repulse him coldly. he turns and makes fresh inquiries of others. he notices two gentlemen near him whom he knows. one is montreuil. "here, montreuil, and you, fernandez, will you go to the garret and search? i am blind and half smothered." another--he thinks it was felix lefebre--goes in another direction, most likely towards the double door between the attics of the house and wing. montreuil and fernandez come back saying they have searched thoroughly and found nothing. madame lalaurie begs them, with all her sweetness, to come other ways and consider other things. but here is lefebre. he cries, "i have found some of them! i have broken some bars, but the doors are locked!" judge canonge hastens through the smoke. they reach the spot. "break the doors down!" down come the doors. the room they push into is a "den." they bring out two negresses. one has a large heavy iron collar at the neck and heavy irons on her feet. the fire is subdued now, they say, but the search goes on. here is m. guillotte; he has found another victim in another room. they push aside a mosquito-net and see a negro woman, aged, helpless, and with a deep wound in the head. some of the young men lift her and carry her out. judge canonge confronts doctor lalaurie again: "are there slaves still in your garret, monsieur?" and the doctor "replies with insulting tone that 'there are persons who would do much better by remaining at home than visiting others to dictate to them laws in the quality of officious friends.'" the search went on. the victims were led or carried out. the sight that met the public eye made the crowd literally groan with horror and shout with indignation. "we saw," wrote the editor of the "advertiser" next day, "one of these miserable beings. the sight was so horrible that we could scarce look upon it. the most savage heart could not have witnessed the spectacle unmoved. he had a large hole in his head; his body from head to foot was covered with scars and filled with worms! the sight inspired us with so much horror that even at the moment of writing this article we shudder from its effects. those who have seen the others represent them to be in a similar condition." one after another, seven dark human forms were brought forth, gaunt and wild-eyed with famine and loaded with irons, having been found chained and tied in attitudes in which they had been kept so long that they were crippled for life. it must have been in the first rush of the inside throng to follow these sufferers into the open air and sunlight that the quick-witted madame lalaurie clapped to the doors of her house with only herself and her daughters--possibly the coachman also--inside, and nothing but locks and bars to defend her from the rage of the populace. the streets under her windows--royal street here, hospital yonder--and the yard were thronged. something by and by put some one in mind to look for buried bodies. there had been nine slaves besides the coachman; where were the other two? a little digging brought their skeletons to light--an adult's out of the soil, and the little child's out of the "condemned well"; there they lay. but the living seven--the indiscreet crowd brought them food and drink in fatal abundance, and before the day was done two more were dead. the others were tenderly carried--shall we say it?--to prison;--to the calaboose. thither "at least two thousand people" flocked that day to see, if they might, these wretched sufferers. a quiet fell upon the scene of the morning's fire. the household and its near friends busied themselves in getting back the jewelry, plate, furniture, and the like, the idle crowd looking on in apathy and trusting, it may be, to see arrests made. but the restoration was finished and the house remained close barred; no arrest was made. as for dr. lalaurie, he does not appear in this scene. then the crowd, along in the afternoon, began to grow again; then to show anger and by and by to hoot and groan, and cry for satisfaction. iv. the lady's flight. the old bayou road saw a strange sight that afternoon. down at its farther end lay a little settlement of fishermen and spanish moss gatherers, pot-hunters, and shrimpers, around a custom-house station, a lighthouse, and a little fort. there the people who drove out in carriages were in the habit of alighting and taking the cool air of the lake, and sipping lemonades, wines, and ices before they turned homeward again along the crowded way that they had come. in after years the place fell into utter neglect. the customs station was removed, the fort was dismantled, the gay carriage people drove on the "new shell road" and its tributaries, bienville and canal streets, washington and carrollton avenues, and sipped and smoked in the twilights and starlights of carrollton gardens and the "new lake end." the older haunt, once so bright with fashionable pleasure-making, was left to the sole illumination of "st. john light" and the mongrel life of a bunch of cabins branded crabtown, and became, in popular superstition at least, the yearly rendezvous of the voodoos. then all at once in latter days it bloomed out in electrical, horticultural, festal, pyrotechnical splendor as "spanish fort," and the carriages all came rolling back. so, whenever you and----visit spanish fort and stroll along the bayou's edge on the fort side, and watch the broad schooners glide out through the bayou's mouth and into the open water, you may say: "somewhere just along this bank, within the few paces between here and yonder, must be where that schooner lay, moored and ready to sail for mandeville the afternoon that madame lalaurie, fleeing from the mob," etc. for on that afternoon, when the people surrounded the house, crying for vengeance, she never lost, it seems, her cunning. she and her sleek black coachman took counsel together, and his plan of escape was adopted. the early afternoon dinner-hour of those times came and passed and the crowd still filled the street, but as yet had done nothing. presently, right in the midst of the throng, her carriage came to the door according to its well-known daily habit at that hour, and at the same moment the charming madame lalaurie, in all her pretty manners and sweetness of mien, stepped quickly across the sidewalk and entered the vehicle. the crowd was taken all aback. when it gathered its wits the coach-door had shut and the horses were starting. then her audacity was understood. "she is getting away!" was the cry, and the multitude rushed upon her. "seize the horses!" they shouted, and dashed at the bits and reins. the black driver gave the word to his beasts, and with his coach whip lashed the faces of those who sprung forward. the horses reared and plunged, the harness held, and the equipage was off. the crowd went with it. "turn the coach over!" they cry, and attempt it, but fail. "drag her out!" they try to do it, again and again, but in vain; away it rattles! away it flashes! down hospital street, past bourbon, dauphine, burgundy, and the rampart, with the crowd following, yelling, but fast growing thin and thinner. "stop her! stop her! stop that carriage! stop that _carriage_!" in vain! on it spins! out upon the bayou road come the pattering hoofs and humming wheels--not wildly driven, but just at their most telling speed--into the whole whirling retinue of fashionable new orleans out for its afternoon airing. past this equipage; past that one; past half a dozen; a dozen; a score! their inmates sit chatting in every sort of mood over the day's sensation, when--what is this? a rush from behind, a whirl of white dust, and--"as i live, there she goes now, on her regular drive! what scandalous speed! and--see here! they are after her!" past fifty gigs and coaches; past a hundred; around this long bend in the road; around that one. good-bye, pursuers! never a chance to cut her off, the swamp forever on the right, the bayou on the left; she is getting away, getting away! the crowd is miles behind! the lake is reached. the road ends. what next? the coach dashes up to the bayou's edge and stops. why just here? ah! because just here so near the bayou's mouth a schooner lies against the bank. is dr. lalaurie's hand in this? the coachman parleys a moment with the schooner-master and hands him down a purse of gold. the coach-door is opened, the lady alights, and is presently on the vessel's deck. the lines are cast off, the great sails go up, the few lookers-on are there without reference to her and offer no interruption; a little pushing with poles lets the wind fill the canvas, and first slowly and silently, and then swiftly and with a grateful creaking of cordage and spars, the vessel glides out past the lighthouse, through the narrow opening, and stands away towards the northern horizon, below which, some thirty miles away, lies the little watering-place of mandeville with roads leading as far away northward as one may choose to fly. madame lalaurie is gone! the brave coachman--one cannot help admiring the villain's intrepidity--turned and drove back towards the city. what his plan was is not further known. no wonder if he thought he could lash and dash through the same mob again. but he mistook. he had not reached town again when the crowd met him. this time they were more successful. they stopped the horses--killed them. what they did with the driver is not told; but one can guess. they broke the carriage into bits. then they returned to the house. they reached it about o'clock in the evening. the two daughters had just escaped by a window. the whole house was locked and barred; "hermetically sealed," says "l'abeille" of the next morning. the human tempest fell upon it, and "in a few minutes," says "the courier," "the doors and windows were broken open, the crowd rushed in, and the work of destruction began." "those who rush in are of all classes and colors" continues "the courier" of next day; but "no, no!" says a survivor of to-day who was there and took part; "we wouldn't have allowed that!" in a single hour everything movable disappeared or perished. the place was rifled of jewelry and plate; china was smashed; the very stair-balusters were pulled piece from piece; hangings, bedding and table linen were tossed into the streets; and the elegant furniture, bedsteads, wardrobes, buffets, tables, chairs, pictures, "pianos," says the newspaper, were taken with pains to the third-story windows, hurled out and broken--"smashed into a thousand pieces"--upon the ground below. the very basements were emptied, and the floors, wainscots, and iron balconies damaged as far as at the moment they could be. the sudden southern nightfall descended, and torches danced in the streets and through the ruined house. the débris was gathered into hot bonfires, feather-beds were cut open, and the pavements covered with a thick snow of feathers. the night wore on, but the mob persisted. they mounted and battered the roof; they defaced the inner walls. morning found them still at their senseless mischief, and they were "in the act of pulling down the walls when the sheriff and several citizens interfered and put an end to their work." it was proposed to go at once to the houses of others long suspected of like cruelties to their slaves. but against this the highest gentility of the city alertly and diligently opposed themselves. not at all because of sympathy with such cruelties. the single reason has its parallel in our own day. it was the fear that the negroes would be thereby encouraged to seek by violence those rights which their masters thought it not expedient to give them. the movement was suppressed, and the odious parties were merely warned that they were watched. madame lalaurie, we know by notarial records, was in mandeville ten days after, when she executed a power of attorney in favor of her new orleans business agent, in which act she was "authorized and assisted by her husband, louis lalaurie." so he disappears. his wife made her way to mobile--some say to the north--and thence to paris. being recognized and confronted there, she again fled. the rest of her story is tradition, but comes very directly. a domestic in a creole family that knew madame lalaurie--and slave women used to enjoy great confidence and familiarity in the creole households at times--tells that one day a letter from prance to one of the family informed them that madame lalaurie, while spending a season at pau, had engaged with a party of fashionable people in a boar-hunt, and somehow meeting the boar while apart from her companions had been set upon by the infuriated beast, and too quickly for any one to come to her rescue had been torn and killed. if this occurred after or it has no disagreement with harriet martineau's account, that at the latter date madame lalaurie was supposed to be still "skulking about some french province under a false name." the house remained untouched for at least three years, "ornamented with various writings expressive of indignation and just punishment." the volume of "l'abeille" containing this account seems to have been abstracted from the city archives. it was in the last week of april or the first week of may, , that miss martineau saw the house. it "stands," she wrote about a year later, "and is meant to stand, in its ruined state. it was the strange sight of its gaping windows and empty walls, in the midst of a busy street, which excited my wonder, and was the cause of my being told the story the first time. i gathered other particulars afterwards from eye-witnesses." so the place came to be looked upon as haunted. in march, , madame lalaurie's agent sold the house to a man who held it but a little over three months and then sold it at the same price that he had paid--only fourteen thousand dollars. the notary who made the earlier act of sale must have found it interesting. he was one of those who had helped find and carry out madame lalaurie's victims. it did not change hands again for twenty-five years. and then--in what state of repair i know not--it was sold at an advance equal to a yearly increase of but six-sevenths of one per cent, on the purchase price of the gaping ruin sold in . there is a certain poetry in notarial records. but we will not delve for it now. idle talk of strange sights and sounds crowded out of notice any true history the house may have had in those twenty-five years, or until war had destroyed that slavery to whose horridest possibilities the gloomy pile, even when restored and renovated, stood a ghost-ridden monument. yet its days of dark romance were by no means ended. v. a new use. the era of political reconstruction came. the victorious national power decreed that they who had once been master and slave should enter into political partnership on terms of civil equality. the slaves grasped the boon; but the masters, trained for generations in the conviction that public safety and private purity were possible only by the subjection of the black race under the white, loathed civil equality as but another name for private companionship, and spurned, as dishonor and destruction in one, the restoration of their sovereignty at the price of political copartnership with the groveling race they had bought and sold and subjected easily to the leash and lash. what followed took every one by surprise. the negro came at once into a larger share of power than it was ever intended he should or expected he would attain. his master, related to him long and only under the imagined necessities of plantation government, vowed the issue must and should be, not how shall the two races share public self-government in prosperous amity? but, which race shall exclusively rule the other, race by race? the necessities of national authority tipped the scale, and the powers of legislation and government and the spoils of office tumbled, all together, into the freedman's ragged lap. thereupon there fell upon new orleans, never well governed at the best, a volcanic shower of corruption and misrule. and yet when history's calm summing-up and final judgment comes, there must this be pointed out, which was very hard to see through the dust and smoke of those days: that while plunder and fraud ran riot, yet no serious attempt was ever made by the freedman or his allies to establish any un-american principle of government, and for nothing else was he more fiercely, bloodily opposed than for measures approved by the world's best thought and in full harmony with the national scheme of order. we shall see now what these things have to do with our strange true story. in new orleans the american public school system, which recognizes free public instruction as a profitable investment of the public funds for the common public safety, had already long been established. the negro adopted and enlarged it. he recognized the fact that the relation of pupils in the public schools is as distinctly a public and not a private relation as that of the sidewalk, the market, the public park, or the street-car. but recognizing also the impracticabilities of place and time, he established separate schools for whites and blacks. in one instance, however, owing mainly to smallness of numbers, it seemed more feasible to allow a common enjoyment of the civil right of public instruction without separation by race than to maintain two separate schools, one at least of which would be very feeble for lack of numbers. now, it being so decided, of all the buildings in new orleans which one was chosen for this experiment but the "haunted house" in royal street! i shall never forget the day--although marked by no startling incident--when i sat in its lofty drawing-rooms and heard its classes in their annual examination. it was june, and the teachers and pupils were clad in recognition of the special occasion and in the light fabrics fitted to the season. the rooms were adorned with wreaths, garlands, and bouquets. among the scholars many faces were beautiful, and all were fresh and young. much gallic blood asserted itself in complexion and feature, generally of undoubted, unadulterated "caucasian" purity, but sometimes of visible and now and then of preponderating african tincture. only two or three, unless i have forgotten, were of pure negro blood. there, in the rooms that had once resounded with the screams of madame lalaurie's little slave fleeing to her death, and with the hootings and maledictions of the enraged mob, was being tried the experiment of a common enjoyment of public benefits by the daughters of two widely divergent races, without the enforcement of private social companionship. from such enforcement the school was as free as any school is or ought to be. the daily discipline did not require any two pupils to be social, but only every one to be civil, and civil to all. these pages are written, however, to tell a strange true story, and not to plead one cause or another. whatever the story itself pleads, let it plead. outside the "haunted house," far and near, the whole community was divided into two fiercely hostile parties, often at actual war with each other, the one striving to maintain government upon a co-citizenship regardless of race in all public relations, the other sworn to make race the supreme, sufficient, inexorable condition of supremacy on the one part and subjection on the other. yet for all this the school prospered. nevertheless, it suffered much internal unrest. many a word was spoken that struck like a club, many a smile stung like a whip-lash, many a glance stabbed like a knife; even in the midst of recitations a wounded one would sometimes break into sobs or silent tears while the aggressor crimsoned and palpitated with the proud indignation of the master caste. the teachers met all such by-play with prompt, impartial repression and concentration upon the appointed duties of the hour. sometimes another thing restored order. few indeed of the pupils, of whatever racial purity or preponderance, but held more or less in awe the ghostly traditions of the house; and at times it chanced to be just in the midst of one of these ebullitions of scorn, grief, and resentful tears that noiselessly and majestically the great doors of the reception-rooms, untouched by visible hands, would slowly swing open, and the hushed girls would call to mind madame lalaurie. not all who bore the tincture of the despised race suffered alike. some were fierce and sturdy, and played a savage tit-for-tat. some were insensible. a few bore themselves inflexibly by dint of sheer nerve; while many, generally much more white than black, quivered and winced continually under the contumely that fell, they felt, with peculiar injustice and cruelty upon them. odd things happened from time to time to remind one of the house's early history. one day a deep hidden well that no one had suspected the existence of was found in the basement of the main house. another time--but we must be brief. matters went on thus for years. but at length there was a sudden and violent change. vi. evictions. the "radical" party in louisiana, gorged with private spoils and loathed and hated by the all but unbroken ranks of well-to-do society, though it held a creed as righteous and reasonable as any political party ever held, was going to pieces by the sheer weakness of its own political corruption. it was made mainly of the poor and weak elements of the people. had it been ever so pure it could not have made headway against the strongest ranks of society concentrating against it with revolutionary intent, when deserted by the power which had called it to responsibility and--come! this history of a house must not run into the history of a government. it is a fact in our story, however, that in the "conservative" party there sprung up the "white league," purposing to wrest the state government from the "radicals" by force of arms. on the th of september, , the white league met and defeated the metropolitan police in a hot and bloody engagement of infantry and artillery on the broad steamboat landing in the very middle of new orleans. but the federal authority interfered. the "radical" government resumed control. but the white league survived and grew in power. in november elections were held, and the state legislature was found to be republican by a majority of only two. one bright, spring-like day in december, such as a northern march might give in its best mood, the school had gathered in the "haunted house" as usual, but the hour of duty had not yet struck. two teachers sat in an upper class-room talking over the history of the house. the older of the two had lately heard of an odd new incident connected with it, and was telling of it. a distinguished foreign visitor, she said, guest at a dinner-party in the city the previous season, turned unexpectedly to his hostess, the talk being of quaint old new orleans houses, and asked how to find "the house where that celebrated tyrant had lived who was driven from the city by a mob for maltreating her slaves." the rest of the company sat aghast, while the hostess silenced him by the severe coldness with which she replied that she "knew nothing about it." one of madame lalaurie's daughters was sitting there, a guest at the table. when the teacher's story was told her companion made no comment. she had noticed a singular sound that was increasing in volume. it was out-of-doors--seemed far away; but it was drawing nearer. she started up, for she recognized it now as a clamor of human voices, and remembered that the iron gates had not yet been locked for the day. they hurried to the window, looked down, and saw the narrow street full from wall to wall for a hundred yards with men coming towards them. the front of the crowd had already reached the place and was turning towards the iron gates. the two women went quickly to the hall, and, looking down the spiral staircase to the marble pavement of the entrance three stories below, saw the men swarming in through the wide gateway and doorway by dozens. while they still leaned over the balustrade, marguerite, one of their pupils, a blue-eyed blonde girl of lovely complexion, with red, voluptuous lips, and beautiful hair held by a carven shell comb, came and bent over the balustrade with them. suddenly her comb slipped from its hold, flashed downward, and striking the marble pavement flew into pieces at the feet of the men who were about to ascend. several of them looked quickly up. "it was my mother's comb!" said marguerite, turned ashy pale, and sunk down in hysterics. the two teachers carried her to a remote room, the bed-chamber of the janitress, and then obeyed an order of the principal calling her associates to the second floor. a band of men were coming up the winding stair with measured, military tread towards the landing, where the principal, with her assistants gathered around her, stood to confront them. she was young, beautiful, and of calm temper. her skin, says one who was present, was of dazzling clearness, her abundant hair was golden auburn, and in happy hours her eyes were as "soft as velvet." but when the leader of the band of men reached the stair-landing, threw his coat open, and showed the badge of the white league, her face had blanched and hardened to marble, and her eyes darkened to black as they glowed with indignation. "we have come," said the white leaguer, "to remove the colored pupils. you will call your school to order." to which the principal replied: "you will permit me first to confer with my corps of associates." he was a trifle disconcerted. "oh, certainly." the teachers gathered in the principal's private room. some were dumb, one broke into tears, another pleaded devotion to the principal, and one was just advising that the onus of all action be thrown upon the intruders, when the door was pushed open and the white leaguer said: "ladies, we are waiting. assemble the school; we are going to clean it out." the pupils, many of them trembling, weeping, and terrified, were with difficulty brought to order in the assembly room. this place had once been madame lalaurie's dining-hall. a frieze of angels ran round its four walls, and, oddly, for some special past occasion, a legend in crimson and gold on the western side bore the words, "the eye of god is on us." "gentlemen, the school is assembled," said the principal. "call the roll," was the reply, "and we will challenge each name." it was done. as each name was called its young bearer rose and confronted her inquisitors. and the inquisitors began to blunder. accusations of the fatal taint were met with denials and withdrawn with apologies. sometimes it was truth, and sometimes pure arrogance and falsehood, that triumphed over these champions of instinctive racial antagonism. one dark girl shot up haughtily at the call of her name-- "i am of indian blood, and can prove it!" "you will not be disturbed." "coralie----," the principal next called. a thin girl of mixed blood and freckled face rose and said: "my mother is white." "step aside!" commanded the white leaguer. "but by the law the color follows the mother, and so i am white." "step aside!" cried the man, in a fury. (in truth there was no such law.) "octavie ----." a pretty, oriental looking girl rises, silent, pale, but self-controlled. "are you colored?" "yes; i am colored." she moves aside. "marie o ----." a girl very fair, but with crinkling hair and other signs of negro extraction, stands up and says: "i am the sister of the hon.----," naming a high democratic official, "and i shall not leave this school." "you may remain; your case will be investigated." "eugénie ----." a modest girl, visibly of mixed race, rises, weeping silently. "step aside." "marcelline v----." a bold-eyed girl of much african blood stands up and answers: "i am not colored! we are spanish, and _my brother will call on you and prove it."_ she is allowed to stay. at length the roll-call is done. "now, madam, you will dismiss these pupils that we have set aside, at once. we will go down and wait to see that they come out." the men tramped out of the room, went down-stairs, and rejoined the impatient crowd that was clamoring in the street. then followed a wild scene within the old house. restraint was lost. terror ruled. the girls who had been ordered into the street sobbed and shrieked and begged: "oh, save us! we cannot go out there; the mob will kill us! what shall we do?" one girl of grand and noble air, as dark and handsome as an east indian princess, and standing first in her class for scholarship, threw herself at her teacher's feet, crying, "have pity on me, miss ----!" "my poor léontine," replied the teacher, "what can i do? there are good 'colored' schools in the city; would it not have been wiser for your father to send you to one of them?" but the girl rose up and answered: "must i go to school with my own servants to escape an unmerited disdain?" and the teacher was silent, while the confusion increased. "the shame of it will kill me!" cried gentle eugénie l----. and thereupon, at last, a teacher, commonly one of the sternest in discipline, exclaimed: "if eugénie goes, marcelline shall go, if i have to put her out myself! spanish, indeed! and eugénie a pearl by the side of her!" just then eugénie's father came. he had forced his way through the press in the street, and now stood bidding his child have courage and return with him the way he had come. "tie your veil close, eugénie," said the teacher, "and they will not know you." and so they went, the father and the daughter. but they went alone. none followed. this roused the crowd to noisy anger. "why don't the rest come?" it howled. but the teachers tried in vain to inspire the panic-stricken girls with courage to face the mob, and were in despair, when a school official arrived, and with calm and confident authority bade the expelled girls gather in ranks and follow him through the crowd. so they went out through the iron gates, the great leaves of which closed after them with a rasping of their key and shooting of their bolts, while a teacher said: "come; the reporters will soon be here. let us go and see after marguerite." they found her in the room of the janitress, shut in and fast asleep. "do you think," one asked of the janitress, "that mere fright and the loss of that comb made this strong girl ill?" "no. i think she must have guessed those men's errand, and her eye met the eye of some one who knew her." "but what of that?" "she is 'colored.'" "impossible!" "i tell you, yes!" "why, i thought her as pure german as her name." "no, the mixture is there; though the only trace of it is on her lips. her mother--she is dead now--was a beautiful quadroon. a german sea-captain loved her. the law stood between them. he opened a vein in his arm, forced in some of her blood, went to court, swore he had african blood, got his license, and married her. marguerite is engaged to be married to a white man, a gentleman who does not know this. it was like life and death, so to speak, for her not to let those men turn her out of here." the teacher turned away, pondering. the eviction did not, at that time, hold good. the political struggle went on, fierce and bitter. the "radical" government was doomed, but not dead. a few weeks after the scene just described the evicted girls were reinstated. a long term of suspense followed. the new year became the old and went out. twice this happened. in there were two governors and two governments in louisiana. in sight from the belvedere of the "haunted house," eight squares away up royal street, in the state house, the _de facto_ government was shut up under close military siege by the _de jure_ government, and the girls' high school in madame lalaurie's old house, continuing faithfully their daily sessions, knew with as little certainty to which of the two they belonged as though new orleans had been some italian city of the fifteenth century. but to guess the white league, was not far from right, and in april the radical government expired. a democratic school-board came in. june brought commencement day, and some of the same girls who had been evicted in were graduated by the new board in . during the summer the schools and school-laws were overhauled, and in september or october the high school was removed to another place, where each pupil suspected of mixed blood was examined officially behind closed doors and only those who could prove white or _indian_ ancestry were allowed to stay. a "colored" high school was opened in madame lalaurie's house with a few pupils. it lasted one session, maybe two, and then perished. in the "haunted house" had become a conservatory of music. chamber concerts were frequent in madame lalaurie's old dining-hall. on a certain sweet evening in the spring of that year there sat among those who had gathered to hear the haunted place filled with a deluge of sweet sounds one who had been a teacher there when the house had been, as some one--conservative or radical, who can tell which?--said on the spot, "for the second time purged of its iniquities." the scene was "much changed," says the auditor; but the ghosts were all there, walking on the waves of harmony. and thickest and fastest they trooped in and out when a passionate song thrilled the air with the promise that "some day--some day eyes clearer grown the truth may see." attalie brouillard. . i. furnished rooms. the strange true stories we have thus far told have all been matter of public or of private record. pages of history and travel, law reports, documents of court, the testimony of eye-witnesses, old manuscripts and letters, have insured to them the full force and charm of their reality. but now we must have it clearly and mutually understood that here is one the verity of which is vouched for stoutly, but only by tradition. it is very much as if we had nearly finished a strong, solid stone house and would now ask permission of our underwriters to add to it at the rear a small frame lean-to. it is a mere bit of lawyers' table-talk, a piece of after-dinner property. it originally belonged, they say, to judge collins of new orleans, as i believe we have already mentioned; his by right of personal knowledge. i might have got it straight from him had i heard of it but a few years sooner. his small, iron-gray head, dark, keen eyes, and nervous face and form are in my mind's eye now, as i saw him one day on the bench interrupting a lawyer at the bar and telling him in ten words what the lawyer was trying to tell in two hundred and fifty. that the judge's right to this story was that of discovery, not of invention, is well attested; and if he or any one else allowed fictitious embellishments to gather upon it by oft telling of it in merry hours, the story had certainly lost all such superfluities the day it came to me, as completely as if some one had stolen its clothes while it was in swimming. the best i can say is that it came unmutilated, and that i have done only what any humane person would have done--given it drapery enough to cover its nakedness. to speak yet plainer, i do not, even now, put aside, abridge, or alter a single _fact_; only, at most, restore one or two to spaces that indicate just what has dropped out. if a dentist may lawfully supply the place of a lost tooth, or an old beau comb his hair skillfully over a bald spot, then am i guiltless. i make the tale not less, and only just a trifle more, true; not more, but only a trifle less, strange. and this is it: in this attalie brouillard--so called, mark you, for present convenience only--lived in the french quarter of new orleans; i think they say in bienville street, but that is no matter; somewhere in the _vieux carré_ of bienville's original town. she was a worthy woman; youngish, honest, rather handsome, with a little money--just a little; of attractive dress, with good manners, too; alone in the world, and--a quadroon. she kept furnished rooms to rent--as a matter of course; what would she do? hence she was not so utterly alone in the world as she might have been. she even did what stevenson says is so good, but not so easy, to do, "to keep a few friends, but these without capitulation." for instance there was camille ducour. that was not his name; but as we have called the woman a.b., let the man be represented as c.d. he, too, was a quadroon; an f.m.c.[ ] his personal appearance has not been described to us, but he must have had one. fancy a small figure, thin, let us say, narrow-chested, round-shouldered, his complexion a dull clay color spattered with large red freckles, his eyes small, gray, and close together, his hair not long or bushy, but dense, crinkled, and hesitating between a dull yellow and a hot red; his clothes his own and his linen last week's. he is said to have been a shrewd fellow; had picked up much practical knowledge of the law, especially of notarial business, and drove a smart trade giving private advice on points of law to people of his caste. from many a trap had he saved his poor clients of an hour. out of many a danger of their own making had he safely drawn them, all unseen by, though not unknown to, the legitimate guild of judges, lawyers, and notaries out of whose professional garbage barrel he enjoyed a sort of stray dog's privilege of feeding. his meetings with attalie brouillard were almost always on the street and by accident. yet such meetings were invariably turned into pleasant visits in the middle of the sidewalk, after the time-honored southern fashion. hopes, ailments, the hardness of the times, the health of each one's "folks," and the condition of their own souls, could not be told all in a breath. he never failed, when he could detain her no longer, to bid her feel free to call on him whenever she found herself in dire need of a wise friend's counsel. there was always in his words the hint that, though he never had quite enough cash for one, he never failed of knowledge and wisdom enough for two. and the gentle attalie believed both clauses of his avowal. attalie had another friend, a white man. footnotes: [ ] free man of color. ii. john bull. this other friend was a big, burly englishman, forty-something years old, but looking older; a big pink cabbage-rose of a man who had for many years been attalie's principal lodger. he, too, was alone in the world. and yet neither was he so utterly alone as he might have been. for he was a cotton buyer. in there was no business like the cotton business. everything else was subservient to that. the cotton buyer's part, in particular, was a "pretty business." the cotton _factor_ was harassingly responsible to a whole swarm of planter patrons, of whose feelings he had to be all the more careful when they were in his debt. the cotton _broker_ could be bullied by his buyer. but the _buyer_ was answerable only to some big commercial house away off in havre or hamburg or liverpool, that had to leave all but a few of the largest and most vital matters to his discretion. commendations and criticisms alike had to come by mail across the atlantic. now, if a cotton buyer of this sort happened to be a bachelor, with no taste for society, was any one likely to care what he substituted, out of business hours, for the conventional relations of domestic life? no one answers. cotton buyers of that sort were apt to have very comfortable furnished rooms in the old french quarter. this one in attalie's house had the two main rooms on the first floor above the street. honestly, for all our winking and tittering, we know nothing whatever against this person's private character except the sad fact that he was a man and a bachelor. at forty-odd, it is fair to suppose, one who knows the world well enough to be the trusted agent of others, thousands of miles across the ocean, has bid farewell to all mere innocence and has made choice between virtue and vice. but we have no proof whatever that attalie's cotton buyer had not solemnly chosen virtue and stuck to his choice as an englishman can. all we know as to this, really, is that for many years here he had roomed, and that, moved by some sentiment, we know not certainly what, he had again and again assured attalie that she should never want while he had anything, and that in his will, whenever he should make it, she would find herself his sole legatee. on neither side of the water, said he, had he any one to whom the law obliged him to leave his property nor, indeed, any large wealth; only a little money in bank--a very indefinite statement. in the will was still unwritten. there is little room to doubt that this state of affairs did much interest camille ducour--at a distance. the englishman may have known him by sight. the kind of acquaintance he might have had with the quadroon was not likely to vary much from an acquaintance with some unknown neighbor's cat on which he mildly hoped to bestow a pitcher of water if ever he caught him under his window. camille mentioned the englishman approvingly to three other friends of attalie, when, with what they thought was adroitness, they turned conversation upon her pecuniary welfare. they were jean d'eau, a slumberous butcher; richard reau, an embarrassed baker; and one ---- ecswyzee, an illiterate but prosperous candlestick-maker. these names may sound inexact, but _can you prove_ that these were not their names and occupations? we shall proceed. these three simple souls were bound to attalie by the strong yet tender bonds of debit and credit. she was not distressingly but only interestingly "behind" on their well-greased books, where camille's account, too, was longer on the left-hand side. when they alluded inquiringly to her bill, he mentioned the englishman vaguely and assured them it was "good paper to hold," once or twice growing so extravagant as to add that his (camille's) own was hardly better! the tradesmen replied that they hadn't a shadow of doubt. in fact, they said, their mention, of the matter was mere jest, etc. iii. ducour's meditations. there were a few points in this case upon which camille wished he could bring to bear those purely intellectual--not magical--powers of divination which he modestly told his clients were the secret of all his sagacious advice. he wished he could determine conclusively and exactly what was the mutual relation of attalie and her lodger. out of the minutest corner of one eye he had watched her for years. a quadroon woman's lot was a hard one; any true woman would say that, even while approving the laws and popular notions of necessity that made that lot what it was. the law, popular sentiment, public policy, always looked at attalie's sort with their right eye shut. and according to all the demands of the other eye camille knew that attalie was honest, faithful. but was that all; or did she stand above and beyond the demands of law and popular sentiment? in a word, to whom was she honest, faithful; to the englishman merely, or actually to herself? if to herself actually, then in case of his early death, for camille had got a notion of that, and had got it from attalie, who had got it from the englishman,--what then? would she get his money, or any of it? no, not if camille knew men--especially white men. for a quadroon woman to be true to herself and to her god was not the kind of thing that white men--if he knew them--rewarded. but if the case was not of that sort, and the relation was what he _hoped_ it was, and according to his ideas of higher law it had a right to be, why, then, she might reasonably hope for a good fat slice--if there should turn out, after all, to be any fat to slice. thence arose the other question--had the englishman any money? and if so, was it much, or was it so little as to make it hardly worth while for the englishman to die early at all? you can't tell just by looking at a man or his clothes. in fact, is it not astonishing how quietly a man--of the quiet kind--can either save great shining stacks of money, or get rid of all he makes as fast as he makes it? isn't it astonishing? being a cotton buyer did not answer the question. he might be getting very large pay or very small; or even none. some men had got rich without ever charging anything for their services. the cotton business those days was a perfectly lovely business--so many shady by-paths and circuitous labyrinths. even in the law--why, sometimes even he, camille ducour, did not charge anything. but that was not often. only one thing was clear--there ought to be a written will. for attalie brouillard, f. w. c, could by no means be or become the englishman's legal heir. the law mumbled something about "one-tenth," but for the rest answered in the negative and with a black frown. her only chance--but we shall come to that. all in a tremor one day a messenger, attalie's black slave girl, came to camille to say that her mistress was in trouble! in distress! in deeper distress than he could possibly imagine, and in instant need of that wise counsel which camille ducour had so frequently offered to give. "i am busy," he said, in the creole-negro _patois_, "but--has anybody--has anything happened to--to anybody in madame brouillard's house?" "yes," the messenger feared that "_ce michié qui poté soulié jaune_--that gentleman who wears yellow shoes--is ill. madame brouillard is hurrying to and fro and crying." "very loud?" "no, silently; yet as though her heart were breaking." "and the doctor?" asks camille, as he and the messenger are hurrying side by side out of exchange alley into bienville street. "---- was there yesterday and the day before." they reach the house. attalie meets her counselor alone at the top of the stairs. "_li bien malade_," she whispers, weeping; "he is very ill." "---- wants to make his will?" asks camille. all their talk is in their bad french. attalie nods, answers inaudibly, and weeps afresh. presently she manages to tell how the sick man had tried to write, and failed, and had fallen back exclaiming, "attalie--attalie--i want to leave it all to you--what little--" and did not finish, but presently gasped out, "bring a notary." "and the doctor?" "---- has not come to-day. michié told the doctor if he came again he would kick him downstairs. yes, and the doctor says whenever a patient of his says that he stops coming." they reach the door of the sick man's bedchamber. attalie pushes it softly, looks into the darkened chamber and draws back, whispering, "he has dropped asleep." camille changes places with her and looks in. then he moves a step across the threshold, leans forward peeringly, and then turns about, lifts his ill-kept forefinger, and murmurs while he fixes his little eyes on hers: "if you make a noise, or in any way let any one know what has happened, it will cost you all he is worth. i will leave you alone with him just ten minutes." he makes as if to pass by her towards the stair, but she seizes him by the wrist. "what do you mean?" she asks, with alarm. "hush! you speak too loud. he is dead." the woman leaps by him, slamming him against the banisters, and disappears within the room. camille hears her loud, long moan as she reaches the bedside. he takes three or four audible steps away from the door and towards the stairs, then turns, and darting with the swift silence of a cat surprises her on her knees by the bed, disheveled, unheeding, all moans and tears, and covering with passionate kisses the dead man's--hands only! to impute moral sublimity to a white man and a quadroon woman at one and the same time and in one and the same affair was something beyond the powers of camille's small soul. but he gave attalie, on the instant, full credit, over credit it may be, and felt a momentary thrill of spiritual contagion that he had scarcely known before in all his days. he uttered not a sound; but for all that he said within himself, drawing his breath in through his clenched teeth, and tightening his fists till they trembled, "oho-o!--aha!--no wonder you postponed the writing of your will day by day, month by month, year in and year out! but you shall see, my fine michié white man--dead as you are, you shall see--you'll see if you shan't!--she shall have the money, little or much! unless there are heirs she shall have every picayune of it!" almost as quickly as it had flashed up, the faint flicker of moral feeling died out; yet the resolution remained. he was going to "beat" a dead white man. iv. proxy. camille glided to the woman's side and laid a gentle yet commanding touch upon her. "come, there is not a moment to lose." "what do you want?" asked attalie. she neither rose nor turned her head, nor even let go the dead man's hand. "i must make haste to fulfill the oft-repeated request of my friend here." "_your_ friend!" she still knelt, and held the hand, but turned her face, full of pained resentment, upon the speaker behind her. he was calm. "our friend; yes, this man here. you did not know that i was his secret confidential adviser? well, that was all right; i told him to tell no one. but now i must carry out his instructions. madame brouillard, this man wished to leave you every cent he had in the world." attalie slowly laid her lips on the big cold hand lying in her two hot ones and let the silent tears wet all three. camille spoke on to her averted form: "he may never have told you so till to-day, but he has often told me. 'i tell you, camille,' he used to say, 'because i can trust you: i can't trust a white man in a matter like this.' he told you? yes; then you know that i speak the truth. but one thing you did not know; that this intention of his was the result of my earnest advice.--stop! madame brouillard--if you please--we have no time for amazement or questions now; and less than none for expressions of gratitude. listen to me. you know he was always afraid he would die some day suddenly? yes, of course; everybody knew that. one night--our meetings were invariably at night--he said to me, 'camille, my dear friend, if i should go all of a sudden some day before i write that will, _you know what to do_.' those were his exact words: 'camille, my dear friend, _you know what to do_.'" all this was said to the back of attalie's head and neck; but now the speaker touched her with one finger: "madame, are your lodgers all up town?" she nodded. "good. and you have but the one servant. go tell her that our dear friend has been in great suffering but is now much better, quite free from pain, in fact, and wants to attend to some business. send her to exchange alley, to the office of eugene favre. he is a notary public"--he murmured some further description. "understand?" attalie, still kneeling, kept her eyes on his in silence, but she understood; he saw that. "she must tell him," he continued, "to come at once. but before she goes there she must stop on the way and tell three persons to come and witness a notarial act. now whom shall they be? for they must be white male residents of the parish, and they must not be insane, deaf, dumb, blind, nor disqualified by crime. i will tell you: let them be jean d'eau--at the french market. he will still be there; it is his turn to scrub the market to-day. get him, get richard reau, and old man ecswyzee. and on no account must the doctor be allowed to come. do that, madame brouillard, as quickly as you can. i will wait here." but the kneeling figure hesitated, with intense distress in her upturned face: "what are you going to do, michié ducour?" "we are going to make you sole legatee." "i do not want it! how are you going to do it? how?" "in a way which he knows about and approves." attalie hid her shapely forehead again on the dead hand. "i cannot leave him. do what you please, only let me stay here. oh! let me stay here." "i see," said camille, with cold severity, "like all women, you count the foolish sentiments of the living of more value than the reasonable wish of the dead." he waited a moment for these words to take effect upon her motionless form, and then, seeing that--again like a woman--she was waiting and wishing for compulsion, he lifted her by one arm. "come. go. and make haste to get back again; we are losing priceless time." she went. but just outside the door she seemed to halt. camille put out his freckled face and turtle neck. "well?" "o michié ducour!" the trembling woman whispered, "those three witnesses will never do. i am in debt to every one of them!" "madame brouillard, the one you owe the most to will be the best witness. well? what next?" "o my dear friend! what is this going to cost?--in money, i mean. i am so afraid of lawyers' accounts! i have nothing, and if it turns out that he has very, very little--it is true that i sent for you, but--i did not think you--what must you charge?" "nothing!" whispered camille. "madame brouillard, whether he leaves you little or much, this must be for me a labor of love to him who was secretly my friend, or i will not touch it. he certainly had something, however, or he would not have tried to write a will. but, my dear madame, if you do not right here, now, stop looking scared, as if you were about to steal something instead of saving something from being stolen, it will cost us a great deal. go. make haste! that's right!--ts-s-st! hold on! which is your own bedroom, upstairs?--never mind why i ask; tell me. yes; all right i now, go!--ts-s-st! bring my hat up as you return." she went downstairs. camille tiptoed quickly back into the death chamber, whipped off his shoes, ran to a small writing-table, then to the bureau, then to the armoire, trying their drawers. they were locked, every one. he ran to the bed and searched swiftly under pillows and mattresses--no keys. never mind. he wrapped a single sheet about the dead man's form, stepped lightly to the door, looked out, listened, heard nothing, and tripped back again. and then with all his poor strength he lifted the bulk, still limp, in his arms, and with only two or three halts in the toilsome journey, to dash the streaming sweat from his brows and to better his hold so that the heels should not drag on the steps, carried it up to attalie's small room and laid it, decently composed, on her bed. then he glided downstairs again and had just slipped into his shoes when attalie came up hastily from below. she was pale and seemed both awe-struck and suspicious. as she met him outside the door grief and dismay were struggling in her eyes with mistrust, and as he coolly handed her the key of her room indignation joined the strife. she reddened and flashed: "my god! you have not, yourself, already?" "i could not wait, madame brouillard. we must run up now, and do for him whatever cannot be put off; and then you must let me come back, leaving my hat and shoes and coat up there, and--you understand?" yes; the whole thing was heartless and horrible, but--she understood. they went up. v. the nuncupative will. in their sad task upstairs attalie held command. camille went and came on short errands to and from the door of her room, and was let in only once or twice when, for lifting or some such thing, four hands were indispensable. soon both he and she came down to the door of the vacated room again together. he was in his shirt sleeves and without his shoes; but he had resumed command. "and now, madame brouillard, to do this thing in the very best way i ought to say to you at once that our dear friend--did he ever tell you what he was worth?" the speaker leaned against the door-post and seemed to concern himself languidly with his black-rimmed finger-nails, while in fact he was watching attalie from head to foot with all his senses and wits. she looked grief-stricken and thoroughly wretched. "no," she said, very quietly, then suddenly burst into noiseless fresh tears, sank into a chair, buried her face in her wet handkerchief, and cried, "ah! no, no, no! that was none of my business. he was going to leave it all to me. i never asked if it was little or much." while she spoke camille was reckoning with all his might and speed: "she has at least some notion as to whether he is rich or poor. she seemed a few minutes ago to fear he is poor, but i must try her again. let me see: if he is poor and i say he is rich she will hope i know better than she, and will be silent. but if he is rich and she knows it, and i say he is poor, she will suspect fraud and will out with the actual fact indignantly on the spot." by this time she had ceased, and he spoke out: "well, madame brouillard, the plain fact is he was--as you may say--poor." she looked up quickly from her soaking handkerchief, dropped her hands into her lap, and gazing at camille through her tears said, "alas! i feared it. that is what i feared. but ah! since it makes no difference to him now, it makes little to me. i feared it. that accounts for his leaving it to me, poor _milatraise_." "but would you have imagined, madame, that all he had was barely three thousand dollars?" "ah! three thousand--ah! michié ducour," she said between a sob and a moan, "that is not so little. three thousand! in paris, where my brother lives, that would be fifteen thousand francs. ah! michié ducour, i never guessed half that much, michié ducour, i tell you--he was too good to be rich." her eyes stood full. camille started busily from his leaning posture and they began again to be active. but, as i have said, their relations were reversed once more. he gave directions from within the room, and she did short errands to and from the door. the witnesses came: first jean d'eau, then richard reau, and almost at the same moment the aged ecswyzee. the black maid led them up from below, and attalie, tearless now, but meek and red-eyed, and speaking low through the slightly opened door from within the englishman's bed-chamber, thanked them, explained that a will was to be made, and was just asking them to find seats in the adjoining front room, when the notary, aged, bent, dark-goggled, and as insensible as a machine, arrived. attalie's offers to explain were murmurously waved away by his wrinkled hand, and the four men followed her into the bedchamber. the black maid-of-all-work also entered. the room was heavily darkened. there was a rich aroma of fine brandy on its air. the englishman's little desk had been drawn up near the bedside. two candles were on it, unlighted, in small, old silver candlesticks. attalie, grief-worn, distressed, visibly agitated, moved close to the bedside. her sad figure suited the place with poetic fitness. the notary stood by the chair at the desk. the three witnesses edged along the wall where the curtained windows glimmered, took seats there, and held their hats in their hands. all looked at one object. it was a man reclining on the bed under a light covering, deep in pillows, his head and shoulders much bundled up in wrappings. he moaned faintly and showed every sign of utmost weakness. his eyes opened only now and then, but when they did so they shone intelligently, though with a restless intensity apparently from both pain and anxiety. he gasped a faint word. attalie hung over him for an instant, and then turning quickly to her maid, who was lighting the candles for the notary and placing them so they should not shine into the eyes of the man in bed, said: "his feet--another hot-water bottle." the maid went to get it. while she was gone the notary asked the butcher, then the baker, and then the candlestick-maker, if they could speak and understand english, and where they resided. their answers were satisfactory. then he sat down, bent low to the desk, and wrote on a blank form the preamble of a nuncupative will. by the time he had finished, the maid had got back and the hot bottle had been properly placed. the notary turned his goggles upon the reclining figure and asked in english, with a strong creole accent: "what is your name?" the words of the man in the bed were an inaudible gasp. but attalie bent her ear quickly, caught them, and turning repeated: "more brandy." the black girl brought a decanter from the floor behind the bureau, and a wine-glass from the washstand. attalie poured, the patient drank, and the maid replaced glass and decanter. the eyes of the butcher and the baker followed the sparkling vessel till it disappeared, and the maker of candlesticks made a dry swallow and faintly licked his lips. the notary remarked that there must be no intervention of speakers between himself and the person making the will, nor any turning aside to other matters; but that merely stopping a moment to satisfy thirst without leaving the room was not a vitiative turning aside and would not be, even if done by others besides the party making the will. but here the patient moaned and said audibly, "let us go on." and they went on. the notary asked the patient's name, the place and date of his birth, etc., and the patient's answers were in every case whatever the englishman's would have been. presently the point was reached where the patient should express his wishes unprompted by suggestion or inquiry. he said faintly, "i will and bequeath"-- the servant girl, seeing her mistress bury her face in her handkerchief, did the same. the patient gasped audibly and said again, but more faintly: "i will and bequeath--some more brandy." the decanter was brought. he drank again. he let attalie hand it back to the maid and the maid get nearly to the bureau when he said in a low tone of distinct reproof: "pass it 'round." the four visitors drank. then the patient resumed with stronger voice. "i will and bequeath to my friend camille ducour"-- attalie started from her chair with a half-uttered cry of amazement and protest, but dropped back again at the notary's gesture for silence, and the patient spoke straight on without hesitation--"to my friend camille ducour, the sum of fifteen hundred dollars in cash." attalie and her handmaiden looked at each other with a dumb show of lamentation; but her butcher and her baker turned slowly upon her candlestick-maker, and he upon them, a look of quiet but profound approval. the notary wrote, and the patient spoke again: "i will everything else which i may leave at my death, both real and personal property, to madame attalie brouillard." "ah!" exclaimed attalie, in the manner of one largely, but not entirely, propitiated. the maid suited her silent movement to the utterance, and the three witnesses exchanged slow looks of grave satisfaction. mistress and maid, since the will seemed to them so manifestly and entirely finished, began to whisper together, although the patient and the notary were still perfecting some concluding formalities. but presently the notary began to read aloud the instrument he had prepared, keeping his face buried in the paper and running his nose and purblind eyes about it nervously, like a new-born thing hunting the warm fountain of life. all gave close heed. we need not give the document in its full length, nor its creole accent in its entire breadth. this is only something like it: "dthee state of louisiana," etc. "be h-it known dthat on dthees h-eighth day of dthee month of may, one thousan' h-eight hawndred and fifty-five, dthat i, eugene favre, a not-arie pewblic een and for dthe state of louisiana, parrish of orleans, duly commission-ed and qualeefi-ed, was sue-mon-ed to dthe domee-ceel of mr. [the englishman's name], number [so-and-so] bienville street; ...dthat i found sayed mr. [englishman] lyingue in heez bade in dthee rear room of dthee second floor h-of dthee sayed house ... at about two o'clawk in dthee h-afternoon, and beingue informed by dthee sayed mr. [englishman] dthat he _diz_-i-red too make heez weel, i, sayed not-arie, sue-mon-ed into sayed bedchamber of dthe sayed mr. [englishman] dthe following nam-ed wit_nes_ses of lawfool h-age and residents of dthe sayed cittie, parrish, and state, to wit: mr. jean d'eau, mr. richard reau, and mr. v. deblieux ecswyzee. that there _up_-on sayed mr. [englishman] being seek in bodie but of soun' mine, which was _hap_parent to me not-arie and dthe sayed wit_nes_ses by heez lang-uage and h-actions then and there in dthe presence of sayed wit_nes_ses _dic_tated to me not-arie dthe following as heez laz weel and tes_tam_ent, wheech was written by me sayed not-arie as _dic_tated by the sayed mr. [englishman], to wit: "'my name ees [john bull]. i was born in,' etc. 'my father and mother are dade. i have no chil'ren. i have never had annie brawther or seester. i have never been marri-ed. thees is my laz weel. i have never made a weel befo'. i weel and _bick_weath to my fran' camille ducour dthe sawm of fifteen hawndred dollars in cash. i weel h-everything h-else wheech i may leave at my daith, both real and personal property, to madame attalie brouillard, leevingue at number,' etc. 'i appoint my sayed fran' camille ducour as my testamentary executor, weeth-out bon', and grant heem dthe seizin' of my h-estate, h-and i dir-ect heem to pay h-all my juz debts.' "thees weel and tes_tam_ent as thus _dic_tated too me by sayed _tes_tator and wheech was wreeten by me notarie by my h-own han' jus' as _dic_tated, was thane by me not-arie rade to sayed mr. [englishman] in an au_dib_le voice and in the presence of dthe aforesayed three witnesses, and dthe sayed mr. [englishman] _dic_lar-ed that he well awnder-stood me not-arie and per_sev_er-ed een _dic_laring the same too be his laz weel; all of wheech was don' at one time and place weethout in_ter_'uption and weethout turningue aside to other acts. "thus done and pass-ed," etc. the notary rose, a wet pen in one hand and the will--with his portfolio under it for a tablet--in the other. attalie hurried to the bedside and stood ready to assist. the patient took the pen with a trembling hand. the writing was laid before him, and attalie with a knee on the bed thrust her arm under the pillows behind him to make a firmer support. the patient seemed to summon all his power to poise and steady the pen, but his hand shook, his fingers loosened, and it fell upon the document, making two or three blots there and another on the bed-covering, whither it rolled. he groped faintly for it, moaned, and then relaxed. "he cannot sign!" whispered attalie, piteously. "yes," gasped the patient. the notary once more handed him the pen, but the same thing happened again. the butcher cleared his throat in a way to draw attention. attalie looked towards him and he drawled, half rising from his chair: "i t'ink--a li'l more cognac"-- "yass," murmured the baker. the candlestick-maker did not speak, but unconsciously wet his lips with his tongue and wiped them with the back of his forefinger. but every eye turned to the patient, who said: "i cannot write--my hand--shakes so." the notary asked a formal question or two, to which the patient answered "yes" and "no." the official sat again at the desk, wrote a proper statement of the patient's incapacity to make his signature, and then read it aloud. the patient gave assent, and the three witnesses stepped forward and signed. then the notary signed. as the four men approached the door to depart the baker said, lingeringly, to attalie, smiling diffidently as he spoke: "dat settin' still make a man mighty dry, yass." "yass, da's true," said attalie. "yass," he added, "same time he dawn't better drink much _water_ dat hot weader, no." the butcher turned and smiled concurrence; but attalie, though she again said "yass," only added good-day, and the maid led them and the notary down stairs and let them out. vi. men can be better than their laws. an hour later, when the black maid returned from an errand, she found her mistress at the head of the stairs near the englishman's door, talking in suppressed tones to camille ducour, who, hat in hand, seemed to have just dropped in and to be just going out again. he went, and attalie said to her maid that he was "so good" and was going to come and sit up all night with the sick man. the next morning the maid--and the neighborhood--was startled to hear that the cotton buyer had died in the night. the physician called and gave a certificate of death without going up to the death chamber. the funeral procession was short. there was first the carriage with the priest and the acolytes; then the hearse; then a carriage in which sat the cotton buyer's clerk,--he had had but one,--his broker, and two men of that singular sort that make it a point to go to everybody's funeral; then a carriage occupied by attalie's other lodgers, and then, in a carriage bringing up the rear, were camille ducour and madame brouillard. she alone wept, and, for all we have seen, we yet need not doubt her tears were genuine. such was the cortége. oh! also, in his private vehicle, driven by himself, was a very comfortable and genteel-looking man, whom neither camille nor attalie knew, but whom every other attendant at the funeral seemed to regard with deference. while the tomb was being sealed camille sidled up to the broker and made bold to ask who the stranger was. attalie did not see the movement, and camille did not tell her what the broker said. late in the next afternoon but one camille again received word from attalie to call and see her in all haste. he found her in the englishman's front room. five white men were sitting there with her. they not only looked amused, but plainly could have looked more so but for the restraints of rank and station. attalie was quite as visibly frightened. camille's knees weakened and a sickness came over him as he glanced around the group. for in the midst sat the stranger who had been at the funeral, while on his right sat two, and on his left two, men, the terror of whose presence we shall understand in a moment. "mr. ducour," said the one who had been at the funeral, "as friends of mr. [englishman] we desire to express our satisfaction at the terms of his last will and testament. we have had a long talk with madame brouillard; but for myself, i already know his wish that she should have whatever he might leave. but a wish is one thing; a will, even a nuncupative will by public act, is another and an infinitely better and more effective thing. but we wish also to express our determination to see that you are not hindered in the execution of any of the terms of this will, whose genuineness we, of course, do not for a moment question." he looked about upon his companions. three of them shook their heads gravely; but the fourth, in his over-zeal, attempted to, say "no," and burst into a laugh; whereupon they all broadly smiled, while camille looked ghastly. the speaker resumed. "i am the custodian of all mr. [englishman's] accounts and assets. this gentleman is a judge, this one is a lawyer,--i believe you know them all by sight,--this one is a banker, and this one--a--in fact, a detective. we wish you to feel at all times free to call upon any or all of us for advice, and to bear in mind that our eyes are ever on you with a positively solicitous interest. you are a busy man, mr. ducour, living largely by your wits, and we must not detain you longer. we are glad that you are yourself to receive fifteen hundred dollars. we doubt not you have determined to settle the affairs of the estate without other remuneration, and we not merely approve but distinctly recommend that decision. the task will involve an outlay of your time and labor, for which fifteen hundred dollars will be a generous, a handsome, but not an excessive remuneration. you will be glad to know there will still be something left for madame brouillard. and now, mr. ducour,"--he arose and approached the pallid scamp, smiling benevolently,--"_remember_ us as your friends, who will _watch_ you"--he smote him on the shoulder with all the weight of his open palm--"with no _ordinary_ interest. be assured you shall get your fifteen hundred, and attalie shall have the rest, which--as attalie tells me she has well known for years--will be about thirty thousand dollars. gentlemen, our dinner at the lake will be waiting. good-day, mr. ducour. good-day, madame brouillard. have no fear. mr. ducour is going to render you full justice,--without unnecessary delay,--in solid cash." and he did. war diary of a union woman in the south. - . [the following diary was originally written in lead pencil and in a book the leaves of which were too soft to take ink legibly. i have it direct from the hands of its writer, a lady whom i have had the honor to know for nearly thirty years. for good reasons the author's name is omitted, and the initials of people and the names of places are sometimes fictitiously given. many of the persons mentioned were my own acquaintances and friends. when some twenty years afterwards she first resolved to publish it, she brought me a clear, complete copy in ink. it had cost much trouble, she said, for much of the pencil writing had been made under such disadvantages and was so faint that at times she could decipher it only under direct sunlight. she had succeeded, however, in making a copy, _verbatim_ except for occasional improvement in the grammatical form of a sentence, or now and then the omission, for brevity's sake, of something unessential. the narrative has since been severely abridged to bring it within the limits of this volume. in reading this diary one is much charmed with its constant understatement of romantic and perilous incidents and conditions. but the original penciled pages show that, even in copying, the strong bent of the writer to be brief has often led to the exclusion of facts that enhance the interest of exciting situations, and sometimes the omission robs her own heroism of due emphasis. i have restored one example of this in the short paragraph following her account of the night she spent fanning her sick husband on their perilous voyage down the mississippi.] g.w.c. i. secession. _new orleans, dec. , _.--i understand it now. keeping journals is for those who can not, or dare not, speak out. so i shall set up a journal, being only a rather lonely young girl in a very small and hated minority. on my return here in november, after a foreign voyage and absence of many months, i found myself behind in knowledge of the political conflict, but heard the dread sounds of disunion and war muttered in threatening tones. surely no native-born woman loves her country better than i love america. the blood of one of its revolutionary patriots flows in my veins, and it is the union for which he pledged his "life, fortune, and sacred honor" that i love, not any divided or special section of it. so i have been reading attentively and seeking light from foreigners and natives on all questions at issue. living from birth in slave countries, both foreign and american, and passing through one slave insurrection in early childhood, the saddest and also the pleasantest features of slavery have been familiar. if the south goes to war for slavery, slavery is doomed in this country. to say so is like opposing one drop to a roaring torrent. this is a good time to follow st. paul's advice that women should refrain from speaking, but they are speaking more than usual and forcing others to speak against their will. _sunday, dec.--, _.--in this season for peace i had hoped for a lull in the excitement, yet this day has been full of bitterness. "come, g.," said mrs. f. at breakfast, "leave _your_ church for to-day and come with us to hear dr. ---- on the situation. he will convince you." "it is good to be convinced," i said; "i will go." the church was crowded to suffocation with the élite of new orleans. the preacher's text was, "shall we have fellowship with the stool of iniquity which frameth mischief as a law?" ... the sermon was over at last and then followed a prayer ... forever blessed be the fathers of the episcopal church for giving us a fixed liturgy! when we met at dinner mrs. f. exclaimed, "now, g., you heard him prove from the bible that slavery is right and that therefore secession is. were you not convinced?" i said, "i was so busy thinking how completely it proved too that brigham young is right about polygamy that it quite weakened the force of the argument for me." this raised a laugh, and covered my retreat. _jan. , _.--the solemn boom of cannon today announced that the convention have passed the ordinance of secession. we must take a reef in our patriotism and narrow it down to state limits. mine still sticks out all around the borders of the state. it will be bad if new orleans should secede from louisiana and set up for herself. then indeed i would be "cabined, cribbed, confined." the faces in the house are jubilant to-day. why is it so easy for them and not for me to "ring out the old, ring in the new"? i am out of place. _jan. , monday_.--sunday has now got to be a day of special excitement. the gentlemen save all the sensational papers to regale us with at the late sunday breakfast. rob opened the battle yesterday morning by saying to me in his most aggressive manner, "g., i believe these are your sentiments"; and then he read aloud an article from the "journal des debats" expressing in rather contemptuous terms the fact that france will follow the policy of non-intervention. when i answered: "well, what do you expect? this is not their quarrel," he raved at me, ending by a declaration that he would willingly pay my passage to foreign parts if i would like to go. "rob," said his father, "keep cool; don't let that threat excite you. cotton is king. just wait till they feel the pinch a little; their tone will change." i went to trinity church. some union people who are not episcopalians go there now because the pastor has not so much chance to rail at the lord when things are not going to suit: but yesterday was a marked sunday. the usual prayer for the president and congress was changed to the "governor and people of this commonwealth and their representatives in convention assembled." the city was very lively and noisy this evening with rockets and lights in honor of secession. mrs. f., in common with the neighbors, illuminated. we walked out to see the houses of others gleaming amid the dark shrubbery like a fairy scene. the perfect stillness added to the effect, while the moon rose slowly with calm splendor. we hastened home to dress for a soirée, but on the stairs edith said, "g., first come and help me dress phoebe and chloe [the negro servants]. there is a ball to-night in aristocratic colored society. this is chloe's first introduction to new orleans circles, and henry judson, phoebe's husband, gave five dollars for a ticket for her." chloe is a recent purchase from georgia. we superintended their very stylish toilets, and edith said, "g., run into your room, please, and write a pass for henry. put mr. d.'s name to it." "why, henry is free," i said.--"that makes no difference; all colored people must have a pass if out late. they choose a master for protection and always carry his pass. henry chose mr. d., but he's lost the pass he had." when the pass was ready, a carriage dashed up to the back-gate and the party drove off in fine style. at the soirée we had secession talk sandwiched everywhere; between the supper, and the music, and the dance; but midnight has come, and silence, and a few too brief hours of oblivion. ii. the volunteers.--fort sumter. _feb. , _.--the toil of the week has ended. nearly a month has passed since i wrote here. events have crowded upon one another. a lowering sky closes in upon the gloomy evening, and a moaning wind is sobbing in every key. they seem in keeping with the national sorrow, and in lieu of other sympathy i am glad to have that of nature to-night. on the th the cannon boomed in honor of jefferson davis's election, and day before yesterday washington's birthday was made the occasion of another grand display and illumination, in honor of the birth of a new nation and the breaking of that union which he labored to cement. we drove to the racecourse to see the review of troops. a flag was presented to the washington artillery by ladies. senator judah benjamin made an impassioned speech. the banner was orange satin on one side, crimson silk on the other, the pelican and brood embroidered in pale green and gold. silver crossed cannon surmounted it, orange-colored fringe surrounded it, and crimson tassels drooped from it. it was a brilliant, unreal scene; with military bands clashing triumphant music, elegant vehicles, high-stepping horses, and lovely women richly appareled. wedding cards have been pouring in till the contagion has reached us; edith will be married next thursday. the wedding dress is being fashioned, and the bridesmaids and groomsmen have arrived. edith has requested me to be special mistress of ceremonies on thursday evening, and i have told this terrible little rebel, who talks nothing but blood and thunder, yet faints at the sight of a worm, that if i fill that office no one shall mention war or politics during the whole evening, on pain of expulsion. the clock points to ten. i must lay the pen aside. _march , ._--the excitement in this house has risen to fever heat during the past week. the four gentlemen have each a different plan for saving the country, and now that the bridal bouquets have faded, the three ladies have again turned to public affairs; lincoln's inauguration and the story of the disguise in which he traveled to washington is a never-ending source of gossip. the family board being the common forum, each gentleman as he appears first unloads his pockets of papers from all the southern states, and then his overflowing heart to his eager female listeners, who in turn relate, inquire, sympathize, or cheer. if i dare express a doubt that the path to victory will be a flowery one, eyes flash, cheeks burn, and tongues clatter, till all are checked up suddenly by a warning rap for "order, order!" from the amiable lady presiding. thus we swallow politics with every meal. we take a mouthful and read a telegram, one eye on table, the other on the paper. one must be made of cool stuff to keep calm and collected. i say but little. there is one great comfort; this war fever has banished small talk. the black servants move about quietly, never seeming to notice that this is all about them. "how can you speak so plainly before them?" i say. "why, what matter? they know that we shall keep the whip-handle." _april , ._--more than a month has passed since the last date here. this afternoon i was seated on the floor covered with loveliest flowers, arranging a floral offering for the fair, when the gentlemen arrived (and with papers bearing the news of the fall of fort sumter, which, at her request, i read to mrs. f.). _april ._--the last few days have glided away in a halo of beauty. i can't remember such a lovely spring ever before. but nobody has time or will to enjoy it. war, war! is the one idea. the children play only with toy cannons and soldiers; the oldest inhabitant goes by every day with his rifle to practice; the public squares are full of companies drilling, and are now the fashionable resorts. we have been told that it is best for women to learn how to shoot too, so as to protect themselves when the men have all gone to battle. every evening after dinner we adjourn to the back lot and fire at a target with pistols. yesterday i dined at uncle ralph's. some members of the bar were present and were jubilant about their brand-new confederacy. it would soon be the grandest government ever known. uncle ralph said solemnly, "no, gentlemen; the day we seceded the star of our glory set." the words sunk into my mind like a knell, and made me wonder at the mind that could recognize that and yet adhere to the doctrine of secession. in the evening i attended a farewell gathering at a friend's whose brothers are to leave this week for richmond. there was music. no minor chord was permitted. iii. tribulation. _april , ._--yesterday i went with cousin e. to have her picture taken. the picture-galleries are doing a thriving business. many companies are ordered off to take possession of fort pickens (florida), and all seem to be leaving sweethearts behind them. the crowd was in high spirits; they don't dream that any destinies will be spoiled. when i got home edith was reading from the daily paper of the dismissal of miss g. from her place as teacher for expressing abolition sentiments, and that she would be ordered to leave the city. soon a lady came with a paper setting forth that she has established a "company"--we are nothing if not military--for making lint and getting stores of linen to supply the hospitals. my name went down. if it hadn't, my spirit would have been wounded as with sharp spears before night. next came a little girl with a subscription paper to get a flag for a certain company. the little girls, especially the pretty ones, are kept busy trotting around with subscription lists. a gentleman leaving for richmond called to bid me good-bye. we had a serious talk on the chances of his coming home maimed. he handed me a rose and went off gaily, while a vision came before me of the crowd of cripples that will be hobbling around when the war is over. it stayed with me all the afternoon while i shook hands with one after another in their shining gray and gold uniforms. latest of all came little guy, mr. f.'s youngest clerk, the pet of the firm as well as of his home, a mere boy of sixteen. such senseless sacrifices seem a sin. he chattered brightly, but lingered about, saying good-bye. he got through it bravely until edith's husband incautiously said, "you didn't kiss your little sweetheart," as he always called ellie, who had been allowed to sit up. he turned suddenly, broke into agonizing sobs and ran down the steps. i went right up to my room. suddenly the midnight stillness was broken by the sound of trumpets and flutes. it was a serenade, by her lover, to the young lady across the street. she leaves to-morrow for her home in boston, he joins the confederate army in virginia. among the callers yesterday she came and astonished us all by the change in her looks. she is the only person i have yet seen who seems to realize the horror that is coming. was this pallid, stern-faced creature, the gentle, glowing nellie whom we had welcomed and admired when she came early last fall with her parents to enjoy a southern winter? _may , _.--i am tired and ashamed of myself. last week i attended a meeting of the lint society to hand in the small contribution of linen i had been able to gather. we scraped lint till it was dark. a paper was shown, entitled the "volunteer's friend," started by the girls of the high school, and i was asked to help the girls with it. i positively declined. to-day i was pressed into service to make red flannel cartridge-bags for ten-inch columbiads. i basted while mrs. s. sewed, and i felt ashamed to think that i had not the moral courage to say, "i don't approve of your war and won't help you, particularly in the murderous part of it." _may , ._--this has been a scenic sabbath. various companies about to depart for virginia occupied the prominent churches to have their flags consecrated. the streets were resonant with the clangor of drums and trumpets. e. and myself went to christ church because the washington artillery were to be there. _june ._--to-day has been appointed a fast day. i spent the morning writing a letter on which i put my first confederate postage-stamp. it is of a brown color and has a large in the center. to-morrow must be devoted to all my foreign correspondents before the expected blockade cuts us off. _june ._--i attended a fine luncheon yesterday at one of the public schools. a lady remarked to a school official that the cost of provisions in the confederacy was getting very high, butter, especially, being scarce and costly. "never fear, my dear madame," he replied. "texas alone can furnish butter enough to supply the whole confederacy; we'll soon be getting it from there." it's just as well to have this sublime confidence. _july , _.--the quiet of midsummer reigns, but ripples of excitement break around us as the papers tell of skirmishes and attacks here and there in virginia. "rich mountain" and "carrick's ford" were the last. "you see," said mrs. d. at breakfast to-day, "my prophecy is coming true that virginia will be the seat of war." "indeed," i burst out, forgetting my resolution not to argue, "you may think yourselves lucky if this war turns out to have any seat in particular." so far, no one especially connected with me has gone to fight. how glad i am for his mother's sake that rob's lameness will keep him at home. mr. f., mr. s., and uncle ralph are beyond the age for active service, and edith says mr. d. can't go now. she is very enthusiastic about other people's husbands being enrolled, and regrets that her alex is not strong enough to defend his country and his rights. _july _.--what a day! i feel like one who has been out in a high wind, and cannot get my breath. the news-boys are still shouting with their extras, "battle of bull's run! list of the killed! battle of manassas! list of the wounded!" tender-hearted mrs. f. was sobbing so she could not serve the tea; but nobody cared for tea. "o g.!" she said, "three thousand of our own, dear southern boys are lying out there." "my dear fannie," spoke mr. f., "they are heroes now. they died in a glorious cause, and it is not in vain. this will end it. the sacrifice had to be made, but those killed have gained immortal names." then rob rushed in with a new extra, reading of the spoils captured, and grief was forgotten. words cannot paint the excitement. rob capered about and cheered; edith danced around ringing the dinner bell and shouting, "victory!" mrs. f. waved a small confederate flag, while she wiped her eyes, and mr. d. hastened to the piano and in his most brilliant style struck up "dixie," followed by "my maryland" and the "bonnie blue flag." "do not look so gloomy, g.," whispered mr. s. "you should be happy to-night; for, as mr. f. says, now we shall have peace." "and is that the way you think of the men of your own blood and race?" i replied. but an utter scorn choked me, and i walked out of the room. what proof is there in this dark hour that they are not right? only the emphatic answer of my own soul. to-morrow i will pack my trunk and accept the invitation to visit at uncle ralph's country-house. _sept. , ._ (_home again from "the pines."_)--when i opened the door of mrs. f.'s room on my return, the rattle of two sewing-machines and a blaze of color met me. "ah! g., you are just in time to help us; these are coats for jeff thompson's men. all the cloth in the city is exhausted; these flannel-lined oilcloth table-covers are all we could obtain to make overcoats for thompson's poor boys. they will be very warm and serviceable." "serviceable, yes! the federal army will fly when they see those coats! i only wish i could be with the regiment when these are shared around." yet i helped make them. seriously, i wonder if any soldiers will ever wear these remarkable coats. the most bewildering combination of brilliant, intense reds, greens, yellows, and blues in big flowers meandering over as vivid grounds; and as no table-cover was large enough to make a coat, the sleeves of each were of a different color and pattern. however, the coats were duly finished. then we set to work on gray pantaloons, and i have just carried a bundle to an ardent young lady who wishes to assist. a slight gloom is settling down, and the inmates here are not quite so cheerfully confident as in july. iv. a beleaguered city. _oct. , ._--when i came to breakfast this morning rob was capering over another victory--ball's bluff. he would read me, "we pitched the yankees over the bluff," and ask me in the next breath to go to the theater this evening. i turned on the poor fellow: "don't tell me about your victories. you vowed by all your idols that the blockade would be raised by october , and i notice the ships are still serenely anchored below the city." "g., you are just as pertinacious yourself in championing your opinions. what sustains you when nobody agrees with you?" i would not answer. _oct. , _.--when i dropped in at uncle ralph's last evening to welcome them back, the whole family were busy at a great center-table copying sequestration acts for the confederate government. the property of all northerners and unionists is to be sequestrated, and uncle ralph can hardly get the work done fast enough. my aunt apologized for the rooms looking chilly; she feared to put the carpets down, as the city might be taken and burned by the federals. "we are living as much packed up as possible. a signal has been agreed upon, and the instant the army approaches we shall be off to the country again." great preparations are being made for defense. at several other places where i called the women were almost hysterical. they seemed to look forward to being blown up with shot and shell, finished with cold steel, or whisked off to some northern prison. when i got home edith and mr. d. had just returned also. "alex," said edith, "i was up at your orange-lots to-day and the sour oranges are dropping to the ground, while they cannot get lemons for our sick soldiers." "that's my kind, considerate wife," replied mr. d. "why didn't i think of that before? jim shall fill some barrels to-morrow and take them to the hospitals as a present from you." _nov. _.--surely this year will ever be memorable to me for its perfection of natural beauty. never was sunshine such pure gold, or moonlight such transparent silver. the beautiful custom prevalent here of decking the graves with flowers on all saint's day was well fulfilled, so profuse and rich were the blossoms. on all-hallow eve mrs. s. and myself visited a large cemetery. the chrysanthemums lay like great masses of snow and flame and gold in every garden we passed, and were piled on every costly tomb and lowly grave. the battle of manassas robed many of our women in mourning, and some of these, who had no graves to deck, were weeping silently as they walked through the scented avenues. a few days ago mrs. e. arrived here. she is a widow, of natchez, a friend of mrs. f.'s, and is traveling home with the dead body of her eldest son, killed at manassas. she stopped two days waiting for a boat, and begged me to share her room and read her to sleep, saying she couldn't be alone since he was killed; she feared her mind would give way. so i read all the comforting chapters to be found till she dropped into forgetfulness, but the recollection of those weeping mothers in the cemetery banished sleep for me. _nov. , ._--the lingering summer is passing into those misty autumn days i love so well, when there is gold and fire above and around us. but the glory of the natural and the gloom of the moral world agree not well together. this morning mrs. f. came to my room in dire distress. "you see," she said, "cold weather is coming on fast, and our poor fellows are lying out at night with nothing to cover them. there is a wail for blankets, but there is not a blanket in town. i have gathered up all the spare bed-clothing, and now want every available rug or table-cover in the house. can't i have yours, g.? we must make these small sacrifices of comfort and elegance, you know, to secure independence and freedom." "very well," i said, denuding the table. "this may do for a drummer boy." _dec. , ._--the foul weather cleared off bright and cool in time for christmas. there is a midwinter lull in the movement of troops. in the evening we went to the grand bazaar in the st. louis hotel, got up to clothe the soldiers. this bazaar has furnished the gayest, most fashionable war-work yet, and has kept social circles in a flutter of pleasant, heroic excitement all through december. everything beautiful or rare garnered in the homes of the rich was given for exhibition, and in some cases for raffle and sale. there were many fine paintings, statues, bronzes, engravings, gems, laces--in fact, heirlooms, and bric-à-brac of all sorts. there were many lovely creole girls present, in exquisite toilets, passing to and fro through the decorated rooms, listening to the band clash out the anvil chorus. this morning i joined the b.'s and their party in a visit to the new fortifications below the city. it all looks formidable enough, but of course i am no judge of military defenses. we passed over the battle-ground where jackson fought the english, and thinking of how he dealt with treason, one could almost fancy his unquiet ghost stalking about. _jan. , _.--i am glad enough to bid ' goodbye. most miserable year of my life! what ages of thought and experience have i not lived in it. last sunday i walked home from church with a young lady teacher in the public schools. the teachers have been paid recently in "shin-plasters." i don't understand the horrid name, but nobody seems to have any confidence in the scrip. in pure benevolence i advised my friend to get her money changed into coin, as in case the federals took the city she would be in a bad fix, being in rather a lonely position. she turned upon me in a rage. "you are a black-hearted traitor," she almost screamed at me in the street, this well-bred girl! "my money is just as good as coin you'll see! go to yankee land. it will suit you better with your sordid views and want of faith, than the generous south." "well," i replied, "when i think of going, i'll come to you for a letter of introduction to your grandfather in yankee land." i said good-morning and turned down another street in a sort of a maze, trying to put myself in her place and see what there was sordid in my advice. luckily i met mrs. b. to turn the current of thought. she was very merry. the city authorities have been searching houses for fire-arms. it is a good way to get more guns, and the homes of those men suspected of being unionists were searched first. of course they went to dr. b.'s. he met them with his own delightful courtesy. "wish to search for arms? certainly, gentlemen." he conducted them through all the house with smiling readiness, and after what seemed a very thorough search bowed them politely out. his gun was all the time safely reposing between the canvas folds of a cot-bed which leaned folded up together against the wall, in the very room where they had ransacked the closets. queerly, the rebel families have been the ones most anxious to conceal all weapons. they have dug pits quietly at night in the back yards, and carefully wrapping the weapons, buried them out of sight. every man seems to think he will have some private fighting to do to protect his family. v. married. _friday, jan. , . (on steamboat w., mississippi river.)_--with a changed name i open you once more, my journal. it was a sad time to wed, when one knew not how long the expected conscription would spare the bridegroom. the women-folk knew how to sympathize with a girl expected to prepare for her wedding in three days, in a blockaded city, and about to go far from any base of supplies. they all rallied round me with tokens of love and consideration, and sewed, shopped, mended, and packed, as if sewing soldier clothes. they decked the whole house and the church with flowers. music breathed, wine sparkled, friends came and went. it seemed a dream, and comes up now and again out of the afternoon sunshine where i sit on deck. the steamboat slowly plows its way through lumps of floating ice,--a novel sight to me,--and i look forward wondering whether the new people i shall meet will be as fierce about the war as those in new orleans. that past is to be all forgiven and forgotten; i understood thus the kindly acts that sought to brighten the threshold of a new life. _feb. , . (village of x.)_--we reached arkansas landing at nightfall. mr. y., the planter who owns the landing, took us right up to his residence. he ushered me into a large room where a couple of candles gave a dim light, and close to them, and sewing as if on a race with time, sat mrs. y. and a little negro girl, who was so black and sat so stiff and straight she looked like an ebony image. this was a large plantation; the y.'s knew h. very well, and were very kind and cordial in their welcome and congratulations. mrs. y. apologized for continuing her work; the war had pushed them this year in getting the negroes clothed, and she had to sew by dim candles, as they could obtain no more oil. she asked if there were any new fashions in new orleans. next morning we drove over to our home in this village. it is the county-seat, and was, till now, a good place for the practice of h.'s profession. it lies on the edge of a lovely lake. the adjacent planters count their slaves by the hundreds. some of them live with a good deal of magnificence, using service of plate, having smoking-rooms for the gentlemen built off the house, and entertaining with great hospitality. the baptists, episcopalians, and methodists hold services on alternate sundays in the court-house. all the planters and many others, near the lake shore, keep a boat at their landing, and a raft for crossing vehicles and horses. it seemed very piquant at first, this taking our boat to go visiting, and on moonlight nights it was charming. the woods around are lovelier than those in louisiana, though one misses the moaning of the pines. there is fine fishing and hunting, but these cotton estates are not so pleasant to visit as sugar plantations. but nothing else has been so delightful as, one morning, my first sight of snow and a wonderful, new, white world. _feb. , _.--the people here have hardly felt the war yet. there are but two classes. the planters and the professional men form one; the very poor villagers the other. there is no middle class. ducks and partridges, squirrels and fish, are to be had. h. has bought me a nice pony, and cantering along the shore of the lake in the sunset is a panacea for mental worry. vi. how it was in arkansas _march , _.--the serpent has entered our eden. the rancor and excitement of new orleans have invaded this place. if an incautious word betrays any want of sympathy with popular plans, one is "traitorous," "ungrateful," "crazy." if one remains silent, and controlled, then one is "phlegmatic," "cool-blooded," "unpatriotic." cool-blooded! heavens! if they only knew. it is very painful to see lovable and intelligent women rave till the blood mounts to face and brain. the immediate cause of this access of war fever has been the battle of pea ridge. they scout the idea that price and van dorn have been completely worsted. those who brought the news were speedily told what they ought to say. "no, it is only a serious check; they must have more men sent forward at once. this country must do its duty." so the women say another company _must_ be raised. we were guests at a dinner-party yesterday. mrs. a. was very talkative. "now, ladies, you must all join in with a vim and help equip another company." "mrs. l.," she said, turning to me, "are you not going to send your husband? now use a young bride's influence and persuade him; he would be elected one of the officers." "mrs. a.," i replied, longing to spring up and throttle her, "the bible says, 'when a man hath married a new wife, he shall not go to war for one year, but remain at home and cheer up his wife.'" ... "well, h.," i questioned, as we walked home after crossing the lake, "can you stand the pressure, or shall you be forced into volunteering?" "indeed," he replied, "i will not be bullied into enlisting by women, or by men. i will sooner take my chance of conscription and feel honest about it. you know my attachments, my interests are here; these are my people. i could never fight against them; but my judgment disapproves their course, and the result will inevitably be against us." this morning the only irishman left in the village presented himself to h. he has been our woodsawyer, gardener, and factotum, but having joined the new company, his time recently has been taken up with drilling. h. and mr. r. feel that an extensive vegetable garden must be prepared while he is here to assist or we shall be short of food, and they sent for him yesterday. "so, mike, you are really going to be a soldier?" "yes, sor; but faith, mr. l., i don't see the use of me going to shtop a bullet when sure an' i'm willin' for it to go where it plazes." _march , ._--there has been unusual gayety in this little village the past few days. the ladies from the surrounding plantations went to work to get up a festival to equip the new company. as annie and myself are both brides recently from the city, requisition was made upon us for engravings, costumes, music, garlands, and so forth. annie's heart was in the work; not so with me. nevertheless, my pretty things were captured, and shone with just as good a grace last evening as if willingly lent. the ball was a merry one. one of the songs sung was "nellie gray," in which the most distressing feature of slavery is bewailed so pitifully. to sing this at a festival for raising money to clothe soldiers fighting to perpetuate that very thing was strange. _march , ._--a man professing to act by general hindman's orders is going through the country impressing horses and mules. the overseer of a certain estate came to inquire of h. if he had not a legal right to protect the property from seizure. mr. l. said yes, unless the agent could show some better credentials than his bare word. this answer soon spread about, and the overseer returned to report that it excited great indignation, especially among the company of new volunteers. h. was pronounced a traitor, and they declared that no one so untrue to the confederacy should live there. when h. related the circumstance at dinner, his partner, mr. r., became very angry, being ignorant of h.'s real opinions. he jumped up in a rage and marched away to the village thoroughfare. there he met a batch of the volunteers, and said, "we know what you have said of us, and i have come to tell you that you are liars, and you know where to find us." of course i expected a difficulty; but the evening passed, and we retired undisturbed. not long afterward a series of indescribable sounds broke the stillness of the night, and the tramp of feet was heard outside the house. mr. r. called out, "it's a serenade, h. get up and bring out all the wine you have." annie and i peeped through the parlor window, and lo! it was the company of volunteers and a diabolical band composed of bones and broken-winded brass instruments. they piped and clattered and whined for some time, and then swarmed in, while we ladies retreated and listened to the clink of glasses. _march , _.--h., mr. r., and mike have been very busy the last few days getting the acre of kitchen-garden plowed and planted. the stay-law has stopped all legal business, and they have welcomed this work. but to-day a thunderbolt fell in our household. mr. r. came in and announced that he has agreed to join the company of volunteers. annie's confederate principles would not permit her to make much resistance, and she has been sewing and mending as fast as possible to get his clothes ready, stopping now and then to wipe her eyes. poor annie! she and max have been married only a few months longer than we have; but a noble sense of duty animates and sustains her. vii. the fight for food and clothing. _april , _.--the last ten days have brought changes in the house. max r. left with the company to be mustered in, leaving with us his weeping annie. hardly were her spirits somewhat composed when her brother arrived from natchez to take her home. this morning he, annie, and reeney, the black handmaiden, posted off. out of seven of us only h., myself, and aunt judy are left. the absence of reeney will not be the one least noted. she was as precious an imp as any topsy ever was. her tricks were endless and her innocence of them amazing. when sent out to bring in eggs she would take them from nests where hens were hatching, and embryo chickens would be served up at breakfast, while reeney stood by grinning to see them opened; but when accused she was imperturbable. "laws, mis' l., i nebber done bin nigh dem hens. mis' annie, you can go count dem dere eggs." that when counted they were found minus the number she had brought had no effect on her stolid denial. h. has plenty to do finishing the garden all by himself, but the time rather drags for me. _april , _.--this morning i was sewing up a rent in h.'s garden-coat, when aunt judy rushed in. "laws! mis' l., here's mr. max and mis' annie done come back!" a buggy was coming up with max, annie, and reeney. "well, is the war over?" i asked. "oh, i got sick!" replied our returned soldier, getting slowly out of the buggy. he was very thin and pale, and explained that he took a severe cold almost at once, had a mild attack of pneumonia, and the surgeon got him his discharge as unfit for service. he succeeded in reaching annie, and a few days of good care made him strong enough to travel back home. "i suppose, h., you've heard that island no. is gone?" yes, we heard that much, but max had the particulars, and an exciting talk followed. at night h. said to me, "g., new orleans will be the next to go, you'll see, and i want to get there first; this stagnation here will kill me." _april , _.--this evening has been very lovely, but full of a sad disappointment. h. invited me to drive. as we turned homeward he said: "well, my arrangements are completed. you can begin to pack your trunks to-morrow, and i shall have a talk with max." mr. r. and annie were sitting on the gallery as i ran up the steps. "heard the news?" they cried. "no! what news?" "new orleans is taken! all the boats have been run up the river to save them. no more mails." how little they knew what plans of ours this dashed away. but our disappointment is truly an infinitesimal drop in the great waves of triumph and despair surging to-night in thousands of hearts. _april _.--the last two weeks have glided quietly away without incident except the arrival of new neighbors--dr. y., his wife, two children, and servants. that a professional man prospering in vicksburg should come now to settle in this retired place looks queer. max said: "h., that man has come here to hide from the conscript officers. he has brought no end of provisions, and is here for the war. he has chosen well, for this county is so cleaned of men it won't pay to send the conscript officers here." our stores are diminishing and cannot be replenished from without; ingenuity and labor must evoke them. we have a fine garden in growth, plenty of chickens, and hives of bees to furnish honey in lieu of sugar. a good deal of salt meat has been stored in the smoke-house, and, with fish in the lake, we expect to keep the wolf from the door. the season for game is about over, but an occasional squirrel or duck comes to the larder, though the question of ammunition has to be considered. what we have may be all we can have, if the war last five years longer; and they say they are prepared to hold out till the crack of doom. food, however, is not the only want. i never realized before the varied needs of civilization. every day something is "out." last week but two bars of soap remained, so we began to save bones and ashes. annie said: "now, if we only had some china-berry trees here we shouldn't need any other grease. they are making splendid soap at vicksburg with china-balls. they just put the berries into the lye and it eats them right up and makes a fine soap." i did long for some china-berries to make this experiment. h. had laid in what seemed a good supply of kerosene, but it is nearly gone, and we are down to two candles kept for an emergency. annie brought a receipt from natchez for making candles of rosin and wax, and with great forethought brought also the wick and rosin. so yesterday we tried making candles. "we had no molds, but annie said the latest style in natchez was to make a waxen rope by dipping, then wrap it round a corn-cob. but h. cut smooth blocks of wood about four inches square, into which he set a polished cylinder about four inches high. the waxen ropes were coiled round the cylinder like a serpent, with the head raised about two inches; as the light burned down to the cylinder, more of the rope was unwound. to-day the vinegar was found to be all gone and we have started to make some. for tyros we succeed pretty well." viii. drowned out and starved out. _may , _.--a great misfortune has come upon us all. for several days every one has been uneasy about the unusual rise of the mississippi and about a rumor that the federal forces had cut levees above to swamp the country. there is a slight levee back of the village, and h. went yesterday to examine it. it looked strong and we hoped for the best. about dawn this morning a strange gurgle woke me. it had a pleasing, lulling effect. i could not fully rouse at first, but curiosity conquered at last, and i called h. "listen to that running water; what is it?" he sprung up, listened a second, and shouted: "max, get up! the water is on us!" they both rushed off to the lake for the skiff. the levee had not broken. the water was running clean over it and through the garden fence so rapidly that by the time i dressed and got outside max was paddling the pirogue they had brought in among the pea-vines, gathering all the ripe peas left above the water. we had enjoyed one mess and he vowed we should have another. h. was busy nailing a raft together while he had a dry place to stand on. annie and i, with reeney, had to secure the chickens, and the back piazza was given up to them. by the time a hasty breakfast was eaten the water was in the kitchen. the stove and everything there had to be put up in the dining-room. aunt judy and reeney had likewise to move into the house, their floor also being covered with water. the raft had to be floated to the store-house and a platform built, on which everything was elevated. at evening we looked round and counted the cost. the garden was utterly gone. last evening we had walked round the strawberry beds that fringed the whole acre and tasted a few just ripe. the hives were swamped. many of the chickens were drowned. sancho had been sent to high ground where he could get grass. in the village every green thing was swept away. yet we were better off than many others; for this house, being raised, we have escaped the water indoors. it just laves the edge of the galleries. _may , ._--during the past week we have lived somewhat like venetians, with a boat at front steps and a raft at the back. sunday h. and i took skiff to church. the clergyman, who is also tutor at a planter's across the lake, preached to the few who had arrived in skiffs. we shall not try it again, it is so troublesome getting in and out at the court-house steps. the imprisonment is hard to endure. it threatened to make me really ill, so every evening h. lays a thick wrap in the pirogue, i sit on it and we row off to the ridge of dry land running along the lake-shore and branching off to a strip of woods also out of water. here we disembark and march up and down till dusk. a great deal of the wood got wet and has to be laid out to dry on the galleries, with clothing, and everything that must be dried. one's own trials are intensified by the worse suffering around that we can do nothing to relieve. max has a puppy named after general price. the gentlemen had both gone up town yesterday in the skiff when annie and i heard little price's despairing cries from under the house, and we got on the raft to find and save him. we wore light morning dresses and slippers, for shoes are becoming precious. annie donned a shaker and i a broad hat. we got the raft pushed out to the center of the grounds opposite the house and could see price clinging to a post; the next move must be to navigate the raft up to the side of the house and reach for price. it sounds easy; but poke around with our poles as wildly or as scientifically as we might, the raft would not budge. the noonday sun was blazing right overhead and the muddy water running all over slippered feet and dainty dresses. how long we staid praying for rescue, yet wincing already at the laugh that would come with it, i shall never know. it seemed like a day before the welcome boat and the "ha, ha!" of h. and max were heard. the confinement tells severely on all the animal life about us. half the chickens are dead and the other half sick. the days drag slowly. we have to depend mainly on books to relieve the tedium, for we have no piano; none of us like cards; we are very poor chess-players, and the chess-set is incomplete. when we gather round the one lamp--we dare not light any more--each one exchanges the gems of thought or mirthful ideas he finds. frequently the gnats and the mosquitoes are so bad we cannot read at all. this evening, till a strong breeze blew them away, they were intolerable. aunt judy goes about in a dignified silence, too full for words, only asking two or three times, "w'at i dun tole you fum de fust?" the food is a trial. this evening the snaky candles lighted the glass and silver on the supper-table with a pale gleam and disclosed a frugal supper indeed--tea without milk (for all the cows are gone), honey, and bread. a faint ray twinkled on the water swishing against the house and stretching away into the dark woods. it looked like civilization and barbarism met together. just as we sat down to it, some one passing in a boat shouted that confederates and federals were fighting at vicksburg. _monday, june , _.--on last friday morning, just three weeks from the day the water rose, signs of its falling began. yesterday the ground appeared, and a hard rain coming down at the same time washed off much of the unwholesome débris. to-day is fine, and we went out without a boat for a long walk. _june _.--since the water ran off, we have, of course, been attacked by swamp fever. h. succumbed first, then annie, max next, and then i. luckily, the new dr. y. had brought quinine with him, and we took heroic doses. such fever never burned in my veins before or sapped strength so rapidly, though probably the want of good food was a factor. the two or three other professional men have left. dr. y. alone remains. the roads now being dry enough, h. and max started on horseback, in different directions, to make an exhaustive search for supplies. h. got back this evening with no supplies. _june , ._--max got back to-day. he started right off again to cross the lake and interview the planters on that side, for they had not suffered from overflow. _june ._--max got back this morning. h. and he were in the parlor talking and examining maps together till dinner-time. when that was over they laid the matter before us. to buy provisions had proved impossible. the planters across the lake had decided to issue rations of corn-meal and peas to the villagers whose men had all gone to war, but they utterly refused to sell anything. "they said to me," said max, "' we will not see your family starve, mr. k.; but with such numbers of slaves and the village poor to feed, we can spare nothing for sale.'" "well, of course," said h., "we do not purpose to stay here and live on charity rations. we must leave the place at all hazards. we have studied out every route and made inquiries everywhere we went. we shall have to go down the mississippi in an open boat as far as fetler's landing (on the eastern bank). there we can cross by land and put the boat into steele's bayou, pass thence to the yazoo river, from there to chickasaw bayou, into mcnutt's lake, and land near my uncle's in warren county." _june , ._--as soon as our intended departure was announced, we were besieged by requests for all sorts of things wanted in every family--pins, matches, gunpowder, and ink. one of the last cases h. and max had before the stay-law stopped legal business was the settlement of an estate that included a country store. the heirs had paid in chattels of the store. these had remained packed in the office. the main contents of the cases were hardware; but we found treasure indeed--a keg of powder, a case of matches, a paper of pins, a bottle of ink. red ink is now made out of poke-berries. pins are made by capping thorns with sealing-wax, or using them as nature made them. these were articles money could not get for us. we would give our friends a few matches to save for the hour of tribulation. the paper of pins we divided evenly, and filled a bank-box each with the matches. h. filled a tight tin case apiece with powder for max and himself and sold the rest, as we could not carry any more on such a trip. those who did not hear of this in time offered fabulous prices afterwards for a single pound. but money has not its old attractions. our preparations were delayed by aunt judy falling sick of swamp fever. _friday, june ._--as soon as the cook was up again, we resumed preparations. we put all the clothing in order and had it nicely done up with the last of the soap and starch. "i wonder," said annie, "when i shall ever have nicely starched clothes after these? they had no starch in natchez or vicksburg when i was there." we are now furbishing up dresses suitable for such rough summer travel. while we sat at work yesterday the quiet of the clear, calm noon was broken by a low, continuous roar like distant thunder. to-day we are told it was probably cannon at vicksburg. this is a great distance, i think, to have heard it--over a hundred miles. h. and max have bought a large yawl and are busy on the lake bank repairing it and fitting it with lockers. aunt judy's master has been notified when to send for her; a home for the cat jeff has been engaged; price is dead, and sancho sold. nearly all the furniture is disposed of, except things valued from association, which will be packed in h.'s office and left with some one likely to stay through the war. it is hardest to leave the books. _tuesday, july , ._--we start to-morrow. packing the trunks was a problem. annie and i are allowed one large trunk apiece, the gentlemen a smaller one each, and we a light carpet-sack apiece for toilet articles. i arrived with six trunks and leave with one! we went over everything carefully twice, rejecting, trying to shake off the bonds of custom and get down to primitive needs. at last we made a judicious selection. everything old or worn was left; everything merely ornamental, except good lace, which was light. gossamer evening dresses were all left. i calculated on taking two or three books that would bear the most reading if we were again shut up where none could be had, and so, of course, took shakspere first. here i was interrupted to go and pay a farewell visit, and when we returned max had packed and nailed the cases of books to be left. chance thus limited my choice to those that happened to be in my room--"paradise lost," the "arabian nights," a volume of macaulay's history that i was reading, and my prayer-book. to-day the provisions for the trip were cooked: the last of the flour was made into large loaves of bread; a ham and several dozen eggs were boiled; the few chickens that have survived the overflow were fried; the last of the coffee was parched and ground; and the modicum of the tea was well corked up. our friends across the lake added a jar of butter and two of preserves. h. rode off to x. after dinner to conclude some business there, and i sat down before a table to tie bundles of things to be left. the sunset glowed and faded and the quiet evening came on calm and starry. i sat by the window till evening deepened into night, and as the moon rose i still looked a reluctant farewell to the lovely lake and the grand woods, till the sound of h.'s horse at the gate broke the spell. ix. homeless and shelterless _thursday, july , ._ (---- plantation._)--yesterday about o'clock we walked to the lake and embarked. provisions and utensils were packed in the lockers, and a large trunk was stowed at each end. the blankets and cushions were placed against one of them, and annie and i sat on them turkish fashion. near the center the two smaller trunks made a place for reeney. max and h. were to take turns at the rudder and oars. the last word was a fervent god-speed from mr. e., who is left in charge of all our affairs. we believe him to be a union man, but have never spoken of it to him. we were gloomy enough crossing the lake, for it was evident the heavily laden boat would be difficult to manage. last night we staid at this plantation, and from the window of my room i see the men unloading the boat to place it on the cart, which a team of oxen will haul to the river. these hospitable people are kindness itself, till you mention the war. _saturday, july , . (under a cotton-shed on the bank of the mississippi river.)_--thursday was a lovely day, and the sight of the broad river exhilarating. the negroes launched and reloaded the boat, and when we had paid them and spoken good-bye to them we felt we were really off. every one had said that if we kept in the current the boat would almost go of itself, but in fact the current seemed to throw it about, and hard pulling was necessary. the heat of the sun was very severe, and it proved impossible to use an umbrella or any kind of shade, as it made steering more difficult. snags and floating timbers were very troublesome. twice we hurried up to the bank out of the way of passing gunboats, but they took no notice of us. when we got thirsty, it was found that max had set the jug of water in the shade of a tree and left it there. we must dip up the river water or go without. when it got too dark to travel safely we disembarked. reeney gathered wood, made a fire and some tea, and we had a good supper. we then divided, h. and i remaining to watch the boat, max and annie on shore. she hung up a mosquito-bar to the trees and went to bed comfortably. in the boat the mosquitoes were horrible, but i fell asleep and slept till voices on the bank woke me. annie was wandering disconsolate round her bed, and when i asked the trouble, said, "oh, i can't sleep there! i found a toad and a lizard in the bed." when dropping off again, h. woke me to say he was very sick; he thought it was from drinking the river water. with difficulty i got a trunk opened to find some medicine. while doing so a gunboat loomed up vast and gloomy, and we gave each other a good fright. our voices doubtless reached her, for instantly every one of her lights disappeared and she ran for a few minutes along the opposite bank. we momently expected a shell as a feeler. at dawn next morning we made coffee and a hasty breakfast, fixed up as well as we could in our sylvan dressing-rooms, and pushed on, for it is settled that traveling between eleven and two will have to be given up unless we want to be roasted alive. h. grew worse. he suffered terribly, and the rest of us as much to see him pulling in such a state of exhaustion. max would not trust either of us to steer. about eleven we reached the landing of a plantation. max walked up to the house and returned with the owner, an old gentleman living alone with his slaves. the housekeeper, a young colored girl, could not be surpassed in her graceful efforts to make us comfortable and anticipate every want. i was so anxious about h. that i remember nothing except that the cold drinking-water taken from a cistern beneath the building, into which only the winter rains were allowed to fall, was like an elixir. they offered luscious peaches that, with such water, were nectar and ambrosia to our parched lips. at night the housekeeper said she was sorry they had no mosquito-bars ready and hoped the mosquitoes would not be thick, but they came out in legions. i knew that on sleep that night depended recovery or illness for h. and all possibility of proceeding next day. so i sat up fanning away mosquitoes that he might sleep, toppling over now and then on the pillows till roused by his stirring. i contrived to keep this up till, as the chill before dawn came, they abated and i got a short sleep. then, with the aid of cold water, a fresh toilet, and a good breakfast, i braced up for another day's baking in the boat. [if i had been well and strong as usual the discomforts of such a journey would not have seemed so much to me; but i was still weak from the effects of the fever, and annoyed by a worrying toothache which there had been no dentist to rid me of in our village.[ ]] having paid and dismissed the boat's watchman, we started and traveled till eleven to-day, when we stopped at this cotton-shed. when our dais was spread and lunch laid out in the cool breeze, it seemed a blessed spot. a good many negroes came offering chickens and milk in exchange for tobacco, which we had not. we bought some milk with money. a united states transport just now steamed by and the men on the guards cheered and waved to us. we all replied but annie. even max was surprised into an answering cheer, and i waved my handkerchief with a very full heart as the dear old flag we have not seen for so long floated by; but annie turned her back. _sunday, july , . (under a tree on the east bank of the mississippi.)_--late on saturday evening we reached a plantation whose owner invited us to spend the night at his house. what a delightful thing is courtesy! the first tone of our host's welcome indicated the true gentleman. we never leave the oars with the watchman; max takes those, annie and i each take a band-box, h. takes my carpet-sack, and reeney brings up the rear with annie's. it is a funny procession. mr. b.'s family were absent, and as we sat on the gallery talking it needed only a few minutes to show this was a "union man." his home was elegant and tasteful, but even here there was neither tea nor coffee. about eleven we stopped here in this shady place. while eating lunch the negroes again came imploring for tobacco. soon an invitation came from the house for us to come and rest. we gratefully accepted, but found the idea of rest for warm, tired travelers was for us to sit in the parlor on stiff chairs while the whole family trooped in, cool and clean in fresh toilets, to stare and question. we soon returned to the trees; however, they kindly offered corn-meal pound-cake and beer, which were excellent. if we reach fetler's landing to-night, the mississippi-river part of the journey is concluded. eight gunboats and one transport have passed us. getting out of their way has been troublesome. our gentlemen's hands are badly blistered. _tuesday, july , ._--sunday night about ten we reached the place where, according to our map, steele's bayou comes nearest to the mississippi, and where the landing should be, but when we climbed the steep bank there was no sign, of habitation. max walked off into the woods on a search, and was gone so long we feared he had lost his way. he could find no road. h. suggested shouting and both began. at last a distant halloo replied, and by cries the answerer was guided to us. a negro said "who are you? what do you want?" "travelers seeking shelter for the night." he came forward and said that was the right place, his master kept the landing, and he would watch the boat for five dollars. he showed the road, and said his master's house was one mile off and another house two miles. we mistook and went to the one two miles off. there a legion of dogs rushed at us, and several great, tall, black fellows surrounded us till the master was roused. he put his head through the window and said,--"i'll let nobody in. the yankees have been here and took twenty-five of my negroes to work on their fortifications, and i've no beds nor anything for anybody." at o'clock we reached mr. fetler's, who was pleasant, and said we should have the best he had. the bed into whose grateful softness i sank was piled with mattresses to within two or three feet of the ceiling, and, with no step-ladder, getting in and out was a problem. this morning we noticed the high-water mark, four feet above the lower floor. mrs. fetler said they had lived up-stairs several weeks. footnotes: [ ] restored omission. see page . x. frights and perils in steele's bayou. _wednesday, july , . (under a tree on the bank of steele's bayou.)_--early this morning our boat was taken out of the mississippi and put on mr. fetler's ox-cart. after breakfast we followed on foot. the walk in the woods was so delightful that all were disappointed when a silvery gleam through the trees showed the bayou sweeping along, full to the banks, with dense forest trees almost meeting over it. the boat was launched, calked, and reloaded, and we were off again. towards noon the sound of distant cannon began to echo around, probably from vicksburg again. about the same time we began to encounter rafts. to get around them required us to push through brush so thick that we had to lie down in the boat. the banks were steep and the land on each side a bog. about o'clock we reached this clear space with dry shelving banks and disembarked to eat lunch. to our surprise a neatly dressed woman came tripping down the declivity bringing a basket. she said she lived above and had seen our boat. her husband was in the army, and we were the first white people she had talked to for a long while. she offered some corn-meal pound-cake and beer, and as she climbed back told us to "look out for the rapids." h. is putting the boat in order for our start and says she is waving good-bye from the bluff above. _thursday, july , . (on a raft in steele's bayou.)_--yesterday we went on nicely awhile and at afternoon came to a strange region of rafts, extending about three miles, on which persons were living. many saluted us, saying they had run away from vicksburg at the first attempt of the fleet to shell it. on one of these rafts, about twelve feet square,[ ] bagging had been hung up to form three sides of a tent. a bed was in one corner, and on a low chair, with her provisions in jars and boxes grouped round her, sat an old woman feeding a lot of chickens. they were strutting about oblivious to the inconveniences of war, and she looked serenely at ease. having moonlight, we had intended to travel till late. but about ten o'clock, the boat beginning to go with great speed, h., who was steering; called to max: "don't row so fast; we may run against something." "i'm hardly pulling at all." "then we're in what she called the rapids!" the stream seemed indeed to slope downward, and in a minute a dark line was visible ahead. max tried to turn, but could not, and in a second more we dashed against this immense raft, only saved from breaking up by the men's quickness. we got out upon it and ate supper. then, as the boat was leaking and the current swinging it against the raft, h. and max thought it safer to watch all night, but told us to go to sleep. it was a strange spot to sleep in--a raft in the middle of a boiling stream, with a wilderness stretching on either side. the moon made ghostly shadows and showed h., sitting still as a ghost, in the stern of the boat, while mingled with the gurgle of the water round the raft beneath was the boom of cannon in the air, solemnly breaking the silence of night. it drizzled now and then, and the mosquitoes swarmed over us. my fan and umbrella had been knocked overboard, so i had no weapon against them. fatigue, however, overcomes everything, and i contrived to sleep. h. roused us at dawn. reeney found light-wood enough on the raft to make a good fire for coffee, which never tasted better. then all hands assisted in unloading; a rope was fastened to the boat, max got in, h. held the rope on the raft, and, by much pulling and pushing, it was forced through a narrow passage to the farther side. here it had to be calked, and while that was being done we improvised a dressing-room in the shadow of our big trunks. (during the trip i had to keep the time, therefore properly to secure belt and watch was always an anxious part of my toilet.) the boat is now repacked, and while annie and reeney are washing cups i have scribbled, wishing much that mine were the hand of an artist. _friday morning, july , . (house of col. k., on yazoo river.)_--after leaving the raft yesterday all went well till noon, when we came to a narrow place where an immense tree lay clear across the stream. it seemed the insurmountable obstacle at last. we sat despairing what to do, when a man appeared beside us in a pirogue. so sudden, so silent was his arrival that we were thrilled with surprise. he said if we had a hatchet he could help us. his fairy bark floated in among the branches like a bubble, and he soon chopped a path for us, and was delighted to get some matches in return. he said the cannon we heard yesterday were in an engagement with the ram _arkansas_, which ran out of the yazoo that morning. we did not stop for dinner to-day, but ate a hasty lunch in the boat, after which nothing but a small piece of bread was left. about two we reached the forks, one of which ran to the yazoo, the other to the old river. max said the right fork was our road; h. said the left, that there was an error in max's map; but max steered into the right fork. after pulling about three miles he admitted his mistake and turned back; but i shall never forget old river. it was the vision of a drowned world, an illimitable waste of dead waters, stretching into a great, silent, desolate forest. a horror chilled me and i begged them to row fast out of that terrible place. just as we turned into the right way, down came the rain so hard and fast we had to stop on the bank. it defied trees or umbrellas and nearly took away the breath. the boat began to fill, and all five of us had to bail as fast as possible for the half-hour the sheet of water was pouring down. as it abated a cold breeze sprung up that, striking our wet clothes, chilled us to the bone. all were shivering and blue--no, i was green. before leaving mr. fetler's wednesday morning i had donned a dark-green calico. i wiped my face with a handkerchief out of my pocket, and face and hands were all dyed a deep green. when annie turned round and looked at me she screamed and i realized how i looked; but she was not much better, for of all dejected things wet feathers are the worst, and the plumes in her hat were painful. about five we reached colonel k.'s house, right where steele's bayou empties into the yazoo. we had both to be fairly dragged out of the boat, so cramped and weighted were we by wet skirts. the family were absent, and the house was headquarters for a squad of confederate cavalry, which was also absent. the old colored housekeeper received us kindly and lighted fires in our rooms to dry the clothing. my trunk had got cracked on top, and all the clothing to be got at was wet. h. had dropped his in the river while lifting it out, and his clothes were wet. a spoonful of brandy apiece was left in the little flask, and i felt that mine saved me from being ill. warm blankets and the brandy revived us, and by supper-time we got into some dry clothes. just then the squad of cavalry returned; they were only a dozen, but they made much, uproar, being in great excitement. some of them were known to max and h., who learned from them that a gunboat was coming to shell them out of this house. then ensued a clatter such as twelve men surely never made before--rattling about the halls and galleries in heavy boots and spurs, feeding horses, calling for supper, clanking swords, buckling and unbuckling belts and pistols. at last supper was dispatched, and they mounted and were gone like the wind. we had a quiet supper and good night's rest in spite of the expected shells, and did not wake till ten to-day to realize we were not killed. about eleven breakfast was furnished. now we are waiting till the rest of our things are dried to start on our last day of travel by water. _sunday, july , _.--a little way down the yazoo on friday we ran into mcnutt's lake, thence into chickasaw bayou, and at dark landed at mrs. c.'s farm, the nearest neighbors of h.'s uncle. the house was full of confederate sick, friends from vicksburg, and while we ate supper all present poured out the story of the shelling and all that was to be done at vicksburg. then our stuff was taken from the boat, and we finally abandoned the stanch little craft that had carried us for over one hundred and twenty-five miles in a trip occupying nine days. the luggage in a wagon, and ourselves packed in a buggy, were driven for four or five miles, over the roughest road i ever traveled, to the farm of mr. b., h.'s uncle, where we arrived at midnight and hastened to hide in bed the utter exhaustion of mind and body. yesterday we were too tired to think, or to do anything but to eat peaches. footnotes: [ ] more likely twelve yards.--g.w.c. xi. wild times in mississippi. this morning there was a most painful scene. annie's father came into vicksburg, ten miles from here, and learned of our arrival from mrs. c.'s messenger. he sent out a carriage to bring annie and max to town that they might go home with him, and with it came a letter for me from friends on the jackson railroad, written many weeks before. they had heard that our village home was under water, and invited us to visit them. the letter had been sent to annie's people to forward, and thus had reached us. this decided h., as the place was near new orleans, to go there and wait the chance of getting into that city. max, when he heard this from h., lost all self-control and cried like a baby. he stalked about the garden in the most tragic manner, exclaiming: "oh! my soul's brother from youth up is a traitor! a traitor to his country!" then h. got angry and said, "max, don't be a fool!" "who has done this?" bawled max. "you felt with the south at first; who has changed you?" "of course i feel _for_ the south now, and nobody has changed me but the logic of events, though the twenty-negro law has intensified my opinions. i can't see why i, who have no slaves, must go to fight for them, while every man who has twenty may stay at home." i, also, tried to reason with max and pour oil on his wound. "max, what interest has a man like you, without slaves, in a war for slavery? even if you had them, they would not be your best property. that lies in your country and its resources. nearly all the world has given up slavery; why can't the south do the same and end the struggle? it has shown you what the south needs, and if all went to work with united hands the south would soon be the greatest country on earth. you have no right to call h. a traitor; it is we who are the true patriots and lovers of the south." this had to come, but it has upset us both. h. is deeply attached to max, and i can't bear to see a cloud between them. max, with annie and reeney, drove off an hour ago, annie so glad at the prospect of again seeing her mother that nothing could cloud her day. and so the close companionship of six months, and of dangers, trials, and pleasures shared together, is over. _oak ridge, july , , saturday._--it was not till wednesday that h. could get into vicksburg, ten miles distant, for a passport, without which we could not go on the cars. we started thursday morning. i had to ride seven miles on a hard-trotting horse to the nearest station. the day was burning at white heat. when the station was reached my hair was down, my hat on my neck, and my feelings were indescribable. on the train one seemed to be right in the stream of war, among officers, soldiers, sick men and cripples, adieus, tears, laughter, constant chatter, and, strangest of all, sentinels posted at the locked car-doors demanding passports. there was no train south from jackson that day, so we put up at the bowman house. the excitement was indescribable. all the world appeared to be traveling through jackson. people were besieging the two hotels, offering enormous prices for the privilege of sleeping anywhere under a roof. there were many refugees from new orleans, among them some acquaintances of mine. the peculiar style of [women's] dress necessitated by the exigencies of war gave the crowd a very striking appearance. in single suits i saw sleeves of one color, the waist of another, the skirt of another; scarlet jackets and gray skirts; black waists and blue skirts; black skirts and gray waists; the trimming chiefly gold braid and buttons, to give a military air. the gray and gold uniforms of the officers, glittering between, made up a carnival of color. every moment we saw strange meetings and partings of people from all over the south. conditions of time, space, locality, and estate were all loosened; everybody seemed floating he knew not whither, but determined to be jolly, and keep up an excitement. at supper we had tough steak, heavy, dirty-looking bread, confederate coffee. the coffee was made of either parched rye or cornmeal, or of sweet potatoes cut in small cubes and roasted. this was the favorite. when flavored with "coffee essence," sweetened with sorghum, and tinctured with chalky milk, it made a curious beverage, which, after tasting, i preferred not to drink. every one else was drinking it, and an acquaintance said, "oh, you'll get bravely over that. i used to be a jewess about pork, but now we just kill a hog and eat it, and kill another and do the same. it's all we have." friday morning we took the down train for the station near my friend's house. at every station we had to go through the examination of passes, as if in a foreign country. the conscript camp was at brookhaven, and every man had been ordered to report there or to be treated as a deserter. at every station i shivered mentally, expecting h. to be dragged off. brookhaven was also the station for dinner. i choked mine down, feeling the sword hanging over me by a single hair. at sunset we reached our station. the landlady was pouring tea when we took our seats and i expected a treat, but when i tasted it it was sassafras tea, the very odor of which sickens me. there was a general surprise when i asked to exchange it for a glass of water; every one was drinking it as if it were nectar. this morning we drove out here. my friend's little nest is calm in contrast to the tumult not far off. yet the trials of war are here too. having no matches, they keep fire, carefully covering it at night, for mr. g. has no powder, and cannot flash the gun into combustibles as some do. one day they had to go with the children to the village, and the servant let the fire go out. when they returned at nightfall, wet and hungry, there was neither fire nor food. mr. g. had to saddle the tired mule and ride three miles for a pan of coals, and blow them, all the way back, to keep them alight. crockery has gradually been broken and tin-cups rusted out, and a visitor told me they had made tumblers out of clear glass bottles by cutting them smooth with a heated wire, and that they had nothing else to drink from. _aug. , _.--we cannot get to new orleans. a special passport must be shown, and we are told that to apply for it would render h. very likely to be conscripted. i begged him not to try; and as we hear that active hostilities have ceased at vicksburg, he left me this morning to return to his uncle's and see what the prospects are there. i shall be in misery about conscription till he returns. _sunday, sept. _., (vicksburg, washington hotel)--h. did not return for three weeks. an epidemic disease broke out in his uncle's family and two children died. he staid to assist them in their trouble. tuesday evening he returned for me and we reached vicksburg yesterday. it was my first sight of the "gibraltar of the south." looking at it from a slight elevation suggests the idea that the fragments left from world-building had tumbled into a confused mass of hills, hollows, hillocks, banks, ditches, and ravines, and that the houses had rained down afterwards. over all there was dust impossible to conceive. the bombardment has done little injury. people have returned and resumed business. a gentleman asked h. if he knew of a nice girl for sale. i asked if he did not think it impolitic to buy slaves now. "oh, not young ones. old ones might run off when the enemy's lines approach ours, but with young ones there is no danger." we had not been many hours in town before a position was offered to h. which seemed providential. the chief of a certain department was in ill-health and wanted a deputy. it secures him from conscription, requires no oath, and pays a good salary. a mountain seemed lifted off my heart. _thursday, sept. , . (thanksgiving day.)_--we staid three days at the washington hotel; then a friend of h.'s called and told him to come to his house till he could find a home. boarding-houses have all been broken up, and the army has occupied the few houses that were for rent. to-day h. secured a vacant room for two weeks in the only boarding-house. _oak haven, oct. _.--to get a house in v. proved impossible, so we agreed to part for a time till h. could find one. a friend recommended this quiet farm, six miles from ---- (a station on the jackson railroad). on last saturday h. came with me as far as jackson and put me on the other train for the station. on my way hither a lady, whom i judged to be a confederate "blockade runner," told me of the tricks resorted to to get things out of new orleans, including this: a very large doll was emptied of its bran, filled with quinine, and elaborately dressed. when the owner's trunk was opened, she declared with tears that the doll was for a poor crippled girl, and it was passed. this farm of mr. w.'s[ ] is kept with about forty negroes. mr. w., nearly sixty, is the only white man on it. he seems to have been wiser in the beginning than most others, and curtailed his cotton to make room for rye, rice, and corn. there is a large vegetable garden and orchard; he has bought plenty of stock for beef and mutton, and laid in a large supply of sugar. he must also have plenty of ammunition, for a man is kept hunting and supplies the table with delicious wild turkeys and other game. there is abundance of milk and butter, hives for honey, and no end of pigs. chickens seem to be kept like game in parks, for i never see any, but the hunter shoots them, and eggs are plentiful. we have chicken for breakfast, dinner, and supper, fried, stewed, broiled, and in soup, and there is a family of ten. luckily i never tire of it. they make starch out of corn-meal by washing the meal repeatedly, pouring off the water and drying the sediment. truly the uses of corn in the confederacy are varied. it makes coffee, beer, whisky, starch, cake, bread. the only privations here are the lack of coffee, tea, salt, matches, and good candles. mr. w. is now having the dirt-floor of his smoke-house dug up and boiling from it the salt that has dripped into it for years. to-day mrs. w. made tea out of dried blackberry leaves, but no one liked it. the beds, made out of equal parts of cotton and corn-shucks, are the most elastic i ever slept in. the servants are dressed in gray homespun. hester, the chambermaid, has a gray gown so pretty that i covet one like it. mrs. w. is now arranging dyes for the thread to be woven into dresses for herself and the girls. sometimes her hands are a curiosity. the school at the nearest town is broken up and mrs. w. says the children are growing up heathens. mr. w. has offered me a liberal price to give the children lessons in english and french, and i have accepted transiently. _oct. , _.--it is a month to-day since i came here. i only wish h. could share these benefits--the nourishing food, the pure aromatic air, the sound sleep away from the fevered life of vicksburg. he sends me all the papers he can get hold of, and we both watch carefully the movements reported, lest an army should get between us. the days are full of useful work, and in the lovely afternoons i take long walks with a big dog for company. the girls do not care for walking. in the evening mr. w. begs me to read aloud all the war news. he is fond of the "memphis appeal," which has moved from town to town so much that they call it the "moving appeal." i sit in a low chair by the fire, as we have no other light to read by. sometimes traveling soldiers stop here, but that is rare. _oct. _.--mr. w. said last night the farmers felt uneasy about the "emancipation proclamation" to take effect in december. the slaves have found it out, though it had been carefully kept from them. "do yours know it?" i asked. "oh, yes. finding it to be known elsewhere, i told it to mine with fair warning what to expect if they tried to run away. the hounds are not far off." the need of clothing for their armies is worrying them too. i never saw mrs. w. so excited as on last evening. she said the provost-marshal at the next town had ordered the women to knit so many pairs of socks. "just let him try to enforce it and they'll cow-hide him. he'll get none from me. i'll take care of my own friends without an order from him." "well," said mr. w., "if the south is defeated and the slaves set free, the southern people will all become atheists, for the bible justifies slavery and says it shall be perpetual." "you mean, if the lord does not agree with you, you'll repudiate him." "well, we'll feel it's no use to believe in anything." at night the large sitting-room makes a striking picture. mr. w., spare, erect, gray-headed, patriarchal, sits in his big chair by the odorous fire of pine logs and knots roaring up the vast fireplace. his driver brings to him the report of the day's picking and a basket of snowy cotton for the spinning. the hunter brings in the game. i sit on the other side to read. the great spinning wheels stand at the other end of the room, and mrs. w. and her black satellites, the heads of the elderly women in bright bandanas, are hard at work. slender and auburn-haired, she steps back and forth out of shadow into shine following the thread with graceful movements. some card the cotton, some reel it into hanks. over all the firelight glances, now touching the golden curls of little john toddling about, now the brown heads of the girls stooping over their books, now the shadowy figure of little jule, the girl whose duty it is to supply the fire with rich pine to keep up the vivid light. if they would only let the child sit down! but that is not allowed, and she gets sleepy and stumbles and knocks her head against the wall and then straightens up again. when that happens often it drives me off. sometimes while i read the bright room fades and a vision rises of figures clad in gray and blue lying pale and stiff on the blood-sprinkled ground. _nov. , _.--yesterday a letter was handed me from h. grant's army was moving, he wrote, steadily down the mississippi central and might cut the road at jackson. he has a house and will meet me in jackson to-morrow. when bessie j. and i went in to dinner to-day, a stranger was sitting by mr. w.; a dark, heavy-looking man who said but little. i excused myself to finish packing. presently bessie rushed upstairs flushed and angry. "i shall give mr. w. a piece of my mind. he must have taken leave of his senses!" "what is the matter, bessie?" "why, g., don't you know whom you've been sitting at table with?" "that stranger, you mean; i suppose mr. w. forgot to introduce him." "forgot! he knew better than to introduce him! that man is a nigger-chaser. he's got his bloodhounds here now." "did you see the dogs?" "no, i asked hester if he had them, and she said, 'yes.' think of mr. w. bringing him to table with us. if my brothers knew it there would be a row." "where are your brothers? at college still?" "no, in the army; pa told them they'd have to come and fight to save their property. his men cost him twelve to fifteen hundred dollars apiece and are too valuable to lose." "well, i wouldn't worry about this man, he may be useful some day to save that kind of property." "of course, you can take it easily, you're going away; but if mr. w. thinks i'm going to sit at table with that wretch he's vastly mistaken." _nov. , _. (_vicksburg_.)--a fair morning for my journey back to vicksburg. the autumn woods were shining through a veil of silvery mist and the spicy breezes blew cool and keen from the heart of the pines, a friend sat beside me, a husband's welcome awaited me. general pemberton, recently appointed to the command at vicksburg, was on the train; also the gentleman who in new orleans had told us we should have all the butter we wanted from texas. on the cars, as elsewhere, the question of food alternated with news of the war. when we ran into the jackson station h. was on the platform, and i gladly learned that we could go right on. a runaway negro, an old man, ashy colored from fright and exhaustion, with his hands chained, was being dragged along by a common-looking man. just as we started out of jackson the conductor led in a young woman sobbing in a heart-broken manner. her grief seemed so overpowering, and she was so young and helpless, that every one was interested. her husband went into the army in the opening of the war, just after their marriage, and she had never heard from him since. after months of weary searching she learned he had been heard of at jackson, and came full of hope, but found no clue. the sudden breaking down of her hope was terrible. the conductor placed her in care of a gentleman going her way and left her sobbing. at the next station the conductor came to ask her about her baggage. she raised her head to try and answer. "don't cry so, you'll find him yet." she gave a start, jumped from her seat with arms flung out and eyes staring. "there he is now!" she cried. her husband stood before her. the gentleman beside her yielded his seat, and as hand grasped hand a hysterical gurgle gave place to a look like heaven's peace. the low murmur of their talk began, and when i looked round at the next station they had bought pies and were eating them together like happy children. midway between jackson and vicksburg we reached the station near where annie's parents were staying. i looked out, and there stood annie with a little sister on each side of her, brightly smiling at us. max had written to h., but we had not seen them since our parting. there was only time for a word and the train flashed away. footnotes: [ ] on this plantation, and in this domestic circle, i myself afterward sojourned, and from them enlisted in the confederate army. the initials are fictitious, but the description is perfect.--g.w.c. xii. vicksburg. we reached vicksburg that night and went to h.'s room. next morning the cook he had engaged arrived, and we moved into this house. martha's ignorance keeps me busy, and h. is kept close at his office. _january th, _.--i have had little to record recently, for we have lived to ourselves, not visiting or visited. every one h. knows is absent, and i know no one. h. tells me of the added triumph since the repulse of sherman in december, and the one paper published here shouts victory as much as its gradually diminishing size will allow. paper is a serious want. there is a great demand for envelopes in the office where h. is. he found and bought a lot of thick and smooth colored paper, cut a tin pattern, and we have whiled away some long evenings making envelopes. i have put away a package of the best to look at when we are old. the books i brought from arkansas have proved a treasure, but we can get no more. i went to the only book-store open; there were none but mrs. stowe's "sunny memories of foreign lands." the clerk said i could have that cheap, because he couldn't sell her books, so i am reading it now. the monotony has only been broken by letters from friends here and there in the confederacy. one of these letters tells of a federal raid and says, "but the worst thing was, they would take every tooth-brush in the house, because we can't buy any more; and one cavalry man put my sister's new bonnet on his horse, and said 'get up, jack,' and her bonnet was gone." _feb. th, _.--a long gap in my journal, because h. has been ill unto death with typhoid fever. i nearly broke down from loss of sleep, there being no one to relieve me. it was terrible to be alone at night with a patient in delirium, and no one within call. to wake martha was simply impossible. i got the best doctor here, but when convalescence began the question of food was a trial. i got with great difficulty two chickens. the doctor made the drug-store sell two of their six bottles of port; he said his patient's life depended on it. an egg is a rare and precious thing. meanwhile the federal fleet has been gathering, has anchored at the bend, and shells are thrown in at intervals. _march th_.--the slow shelling of vicksburg goes on all the time, and we have grown indifferent. it does not at present interrupt or interfere with daily avocations, but i suspect they are only getting the range of different points; and when they have them all complete, showers of shot will rain on us all at once. non-combatants have been ordered to leave or prepare accordingly. those who are to stay are having caves built. cave-digging has become a regular business; prices range from twenty to fifty dollars, according to size of cave. two diggers worked at ours a week and charged thirty dollars. it is well made in the hill that slopes just in the rear of the house, and well propped with thick posts, as they all are. it has a shelf, also, for holding a light or water. when we went in this evening and sat down, the earthy, suffocating feeling, as of a living tomb, was dreadful to me. i fear i shall risk death outside rather then melt in that dark furnace. the hills are so honeycombed with caves that the streets look like avenues in a cemetery. the hill called the sky-parlor has become quite a fashionable resort for the few upper-circle families left here. some officers are quartered there, and there is a band and a field-glass. last evening we also climbed the hill to watch the shelling, but found the view not so good as on a quiet hill nearer home. soon a lady began to talk to one of the officers: "it is such folly for them to waste their ammunition like that. how can they ever take a town that has such advantages for defense and protection as this? we'll just burrow into these hills and let them batter away as hard as they please." "you are right, madam; and besides, when our women are so willing to brave death and endure discomfort, how can we ever be conquered?" soon she looked over with significant glances to where we stood, and began to talk at h. "the only drawback," she said, "are the contemptible men who are staying at home in comfort when they ought to be in the army if they had a spark of honor." i cannot repeat all, but it was the usual tirade. it is strange i have met no one yet who seems to comprehend an honest difference of opinion, and stranger yet that the ordinary rules of good breeding are now so entirely ignored. as the spring comes on one has the craving for fresh, green food that a monotonous diet produces. there was a bed of radishes and onions in the garden, that were a real blessing. an onion salad, dressed only with salt, vinegar, and pepper, seemed a dish fit for a king, but last night the soldiers quartered near made a raid on the garden and took them all. _april d, _.--we have had to move, and have thus lost our cave. the owner of the house suddenly returned and notified us that he intended to bring his family back; didn't think there'd be any siege. the cost of the cave could go for the rent. that means he has got tired of the confederacy and means to stay here and thus get out of it. this house was the only one to be had. it was built by ex-senator g., and is so large our tiny household is lost in it. we only use the lower floor. the bell is often rung by persons who take it for a hotel and come beseeching food at any price. to-day one came who would not be denied. "we do not keep a hotel, but would willingly feed hungry soldiers if we had the food." "i have been traveling all night and am starving; will pay any price for just bread." i went to the dining-room and found some biscuits, and set out two, with a large piece of corn-bread, a small piece of bacon, some nice sirup, and a pitcher of water. i locked the door of the safe and left him to enjoy his lunch. after he left i found he had broken open the safe and taken the remaining biscuits. _april th, _.--what shall we eat? what shall we drink? and wherewithal shall we be clothed? we have no prophet of the lord at whose prayer the meal and oil will not waste. as to wardrobe, i have learned to darn like an artist. making shoes is now another accomplishment. mine were in tatters. h. came across a moth-eaten pair that he bought me, giving ten dollars, i think, and they fell into rags when i tried to wear them; but the soles were good, and that has helped me to shoes. a pair of old coat-sleeves--nothing is thrown away now--was in my trunk. i cut an exact pattern from my old shoes, laid it on the sleeves, and cut out thus good uppers and sewed them carefully; then soaked the soles and sewed the cloth to them. i am so proud of these home-made shoes that i think i'll put them in a glass case when the war is over, as an heirloom. h. says he has come to have an abiding faith that everything he needs to wear will come out of that trunk while the war lasts. it is like a fairy-casket. i have but a dozen pins remaining, i gave so many away. every time these are used they are straightened and kept from rust. all these curious labors are performed while the shells are leisurely screaming through the air; but as long as we are out of range we don't worry. for many nights we have had but little sleep because the federal gun-boats have been running past the batteries. the uproar when this is happening is phenomenal. the first night the thundering artillery burst the bars of sleep, we thought it an attack by the river. to get into garments and rush upstairs was the work of a moment. from the upper gallery we have a fine view of the river, and soon a red glare lit up the scene and showed a small boat towing two large barges, gliding by. the confederates had set fire to a house near the bank. another night, eight boats ran by, throwing a shower of shot, and two burning houses made the river clear as day. one of the batteries has a remarkable gun they call "whistling dick," because of the screeching, whistling sound it gives, and certainly it does sound like a tortured thing. added to all this is the indescribable confederate yell, which is a soul-harrowing sound to hear. i have gained respect for the mechanism of the human ear, which stands it all without injury. the streets are seldom quiet at night; even the dragging about of cannon makes a din in these echoing gullies. the other night we were on the gallery till the last of the eight boats got by. next day a friend said to h., "it was a wonder you didn't have your heads taken off last night. i passed and saw them stretched over the gallery, and grape-shot were whizzing up the street just on a level with you." the double roar of batteries and boats was so great, we never noticed the whizzing. yesterday the _cincinnati_ attempted to go by in daylight, but was disabled and sunk. it was a pitiful sight; we could not see the finale, though we saw her rendered helpless. xiii. preparations for the siege. _vicksburg, may st, ._--ever since we were deprived of our cave, i had been dreading that h. would suggest sending me to the country, where his relatives live. as he could not leave his position and go also without being conscripted, and as i felt certain an army would get between us, it was no part of my plan to be obedient. a shell from one of the practicing mortars brought the point to an issue yesterday and settled it. sitting at work as usual, listening to the distant sound of bursting shells, apparently aimed at the court-house, there suddenly came a nearer explosion; the house shook, and a tearing sound was followed by terrified screams from the kitchen. i rushed thither, but met in the hall the cook's little girl america, bleeding from a wound in the forehead, and fairly dancing with fright and pain, while she uttered fearful yells. i stopped to examine the wound, and her mother bounded in, her black face ashy from terror. "oh! miss g., my child is killed and the kitchen tore up." seeing america was too lively to have been killed, i consoled martha and hastened to the kitchen. evidently a shell had exploded just outside, sending three or four pieces through. when order was restored i endeavored to impress on martha's mind the uselessness of such excitement. looking round at the close of the lecture, there stood a group of confederate soldiers laughing heartily at my sermon and the promising audience i had. they chimed in with a parting chorus: "yes, it's no use hollerin', old lady." "oh! h.," i exclaimed, as he entered soon after, "america is wounded." "that is no news; she has been wounded by traitors long ago." "oh, this is real, living, little, black america. i am not talking in symbols. here are the pieces of shell, the first bolt of the coming siege." "now you see," he replied, "that this house will be but paper to mortar-shells. you must go into the country." the argument was long, but when a woman is obstinate and eloquent, she generally conquers. i came off victorious, and we finished preparations for the siege to-day. hiring a man to assist, we descended to the wine-cellar, where the accumulated bottles told of festive hours long since departed. to empty this cellar was the work of many hours. then in the safest corner a platform was laid for our bed, and in another portion one arranged for martha. the dungeon, as i call it, is lighted only by a trap-door, and is very damp. the next question was of supplies. i had nothing left but a sack of rice-flour, and no manner of cooking i had heard or invented contrived to make it eatable. a column of recipes for making delicious preparations of it had been going the rounds of confederate papers. i tried them all; they resulted only in brick-bats, or sticky paste. h. sallied out on a hunt for provisions, and when he returned the disproportionate quantity of the different articles provoked a smile. there was a _hogshead_ of sugar, a barrel of sirup, ten pounds of bacon and pease, four pounds of wheat-flour, and a small sack of corn-meal, a little vinegar, and actually some spice! the wheat-flour he purchased for ten dollars as a special favor from the sole remaining barrel for sale. we decided that must be kept for sickness. the sack of meal, he said, was a case of corruption, though a special providence to us. there is no more for sale at any price, but, said he, "a soldier who was hauling some of the government sacks to the hospital offered me this for five dollars, if i could keep a secret. when the meal is exhausted, perhaps we can keep alive on sugar. here are some wax candles; hoard them like gold." he handed me a parcel containing about two pounds of candles, and left me to arrange my treasures. it would be hard for me to picture the memories those candles called up. the long years melted away, and i "trod again my childhood's track and felt its very gladness." in those childish days, whenever came dreams of household splendor or festal rooms or gay illuminations, the lights in my vision were always wax candles burning with a soft radiance that enchanted every scene.... and, lo! here on this spring day of ' , with war raging through the land, i was in a fine house, and had my wax candles sure enough, but, alas! they were neither cerulean blue nor rose-tinted, but dirty brown; and when i lighted one, it spluttered and wasted like any vulgar, tallow thing, and lighted only a desolate scene in the vast handsome room. they were not so good as the waxen rope we had made in arkansas. so, with a long sigh for the dreams of youth, i return to the stern present in this besieged town, my only consolation to remember the old axiom, "a city besieged is a city taken,"--so if we live through it we shall be out of the confederacy. h. is very tired of having to carry a pass around in his pocket and go every now and then to have it renewed. we have been so very free in america, these restrictions are irksome. _may th, _.--this morning the door-bell rang a startling peal. martha being busy; i answered it. an orderly in gray stood with an official envelope in his hand. "who lives here?" "mr. l." very imperiously--"which mr. l.?" "mr. h.l." "is he here?" "no." "where can he be found?" "at the office of deputy----." "i'm not going there. this is an order from general pemberton for you to move out of this house in two hours. he has selected it for headquarters. he will furnish you with wagons.". "will he furnish another house also?" "of course not." "has the owner been consulted?" "he has not; that is of no consequence; it has been taken. take this order." "i shall not take it, and i shall not move, as there is no place to move to but the street." "then i'll take it to mr. l." "very well, do so." as soon as mr. impertine walked off i locked, bolted, and barred every door and window. in ten minutes h. came home. "hold the fort till i've seen the owner and the general," he said, as i locked him out. then dr. b.'s remark in new orleans about the effect of dr. c.'s fine presence on the confederate officials there came to my mind. they are influenced in that way, i thought; i look rather shabby now, i will dress. i made an elaborate toilet, put on the best and most becoming dress i had, the richest lace, the handsomest ornaments, taking care that all should be appropriate to a morning visit; dressed my hair in the stateliest braids, and took a seat in the parlor ready for the fray. h. came to the window and said: "landlord says, 'keep them out. wouldn't let them have his house at any price.' he is just riding off to the country and can't help us now. now i'm going to see major c, who sent the order." next came an officer, banged at the door till tired, and walked away. then the orderly came again and beat the door--same result. next, four officers with bundles and lunch-baskets, followed by a wagon-load of furniture. they went round the house, tried every door, peeped in the windows, pounded and rapped, while i watched them through the blind-slats. presently the fattest one, a real falstaffian man, came back to the front door and rung a thundering peal. i saw the chance for fun and for putting on their own grandiloquent style. stealing on tiptoe to the door, i turned the key and bolt noiselessly, and suddenly threw wide back the door, and appeared behind it. he had been leaning on it, and nearly pitched forward with an "oh! what's this?" then seeing me as he straightened up, "ah, madam!" almost stuttering from surprise and anger, "are you aware i had the right to break down this door if you hadn't opened it?" "that would make no difference to me. i'm not the owner. you or the landlord would pay the bill for the repairs." "why didn't you open the door?" "have i not done so as soon as you rung? a lady does not open the door to men who beat on it. gentlemen usually ring; i thought it might be stragglers pounding." "well," growing much blander, "we are going to send you some wagons to move; you must get ready." "with pleasure, if you have selected a house for me. this is too large; it does not suit me." "no, i didn't find a house for you." "you surely don't expect _me_ to run about in the dust and shelling to look for it, and mr. l. is too busy." "well, madam, then we must share the house. we will take the lower floor." "i prefer to keep the lower floor myself; you surely don't expect _me_ to go up and down stairs when you are so light and more able to do it." he walked through the hall, trying the doors. "what room is that?"--"the parlor." "and this?"--"my bedroom." "and this?"--"the dining-room." "well, madam, we'll find you a house and then come and take this." "thank you, colonel. i shall be ready when you find the house. good morning, sir." i heard him say as he ran down the steps, "we must go back, captain; you see i didn't know they were this kind of people." of course the orderly had lied in the beginning to scare me, for general pemberton is too far away from vicksburg to send such an order. he is looking about for general grant. we are told he has gone out to meet johnston; and together they expect to annihilate grant's army and free vicksburg forever. there is now a general hospital opposite this house and a small-pox hospital next door. war, famine, pestilence, and fire surround us. every day the band plays in front of the small-pox hospital. i wonder if it is to keep up their spirits? one would suppose quiet would be more cheering. _may th, _.--hardly was our scanty breakfast over this morning when a hurried ring drew us both to the door. mr. j., one of h.'s assistants, stood there in high excitement. "well, mr. l., they are upon us; the yankees will be here by this evening." "what do you mean?" "that pemberton has been whipped at baker's creek and big black, and his army are running back here as fast as they can come and the yanks after them, in such numbers nothing can stop them. hasn't pemberton acted like a fool?" "he may not be the only one to blame," replied h. "they're coming along the big b. road, and my folks went down there to be safe, you know; now they're right in it. i hear you can't see the armies for the dust; never was anything else known like it. but i must go and try to bring my folks back here." what struck us both was the absence of that concern to be expected, and a sort of relief or suppressed pleasure. after twelve some worn-out-looking men sat down under the window. "what is the news?" i inquired. "retreat, retreat!" they said, in broken english--they were louisiana acadians. about o'clock the rush began. i shall never forget that woful sight of a beaten, demoralized army that came rushing back,--humanity in the last throes of endurance. wan, hollow-eyed, ragged, footsore, bloody, the men limped along unarmed, but followed by siege-guns, ambulances, gun-carriages, and wagons in aimless confusion. at twilight two or three bands on the court-house hill and other points began playing dixie, bonnie blue flag, and so on, and drums began to beat all about; i suppose they were rallying the scattered army. xiv. the siege itself. _may th, _.--since that day the regular siege has continued. we are utterly cut off from the world, surrounded by a circle of fire. the fiery shower of shells goes on day and night. h.'s occupation, of course, is gone, his office closed. every man has to carry a pass in his pocket. people do nothing but eat what they can get, sleep when they can, and dodge the shells. there are three intervals when the shelling stops, either for the guns to cool or for the gunners' meals, i suppose,--about eight in the morning, the same in the evening, and at noon. in that time we have both to prepare and eat ours. clothing cannot be washed or anything else done. on the th and d, when the assaults were made on the lines, i watched the soldiers cooking on the green opposite. the half-spent balls coming all the way from those lines were flying so thick that they were obliged to dodge at every turn. at all the caves i could see from my high perch, people were sitting, eating their poor suppers at the cave doors, ready to plunge in again. as the first shell again flew they dived, and not a human being was visible. the sharp crackle of the musketry-firing was a strong contrast to the scream of the bombs. i think all the dogs and cats must be killed or starved, we don't see any more pitiful animals prowling around.... the cellar is so damp and musty the bedding has to be carried out and laid in the sun every day, with the forecast that it may be demolished at any moment. the confinement is dreadful. to sit and listen as if waiting for death in a horrible manner would drive me insane. i don't know what others do, but we read when i am not scribbling in this. h. borrowed somewhere a lot of dickens's novels, and we reread them by the dim light in the cellar. when the shelling abates h. goes to walk about a little or get the "daily citizen," which is still issuing a tiny sheet at twenty-five and fifty cents a copy. it is, of course, but a rehash of speculations which amuses half an hour. to-day we heard while out that expert swimmers are crossing the mississippi on logs at night to bring and carry news to johnston. i am so tired of corn-bread, which i never liked, that i eat it with tears in my eyes. we are lucky to get a quart of milk daily from a family near who have a cow they hourly expect to be killed. i send five dollars to market each morning, and it buys a small piece of mule-meat. rice and milk is my main food; i can't eat the mule-meat. we boil the rice and eat it cold with milk for supper. martha runs the gauntlet to buy the meat and milk once a day in a perfect terror. the shells seem to have many different names; i hear the soldiers say, "that's a mortar-shell. there goes a parrott. that's a rifle-shell." they are all equally terrible. a pair of chimney-swallows have built in the parlor chimney. the concussion of the house often sends down parts of their nest, which they patiently pick up and reascend with. _friday, june th, . (in the cellar.)_--wednesday evening h. said he must take a little walk, and went while the shelling had stopped. he never leaves me alone long, and when an hour had passed without his return i grew anxious; and when two hours, and the shelling had grown terrific, i momentarily expected to see his mangled body. all sorts of horrors fill the mind now, and i am so desolate here; not a friend. when he came he said that passing a cave where there were no others near, he heard groans, and found a shell had struck above and caused the cave to fall in on the man within. he could not extricate him alone, and had to get help and dig him out. he was badly hurt, but not mortally. i felt fairly sick from the suspense. yesterday morning a note was brought h. from a bachelor uncle out in the trenches, saying he had been taken ill with fever, and could we receive him if he came? h. sent to tell him to come, and i arranged one of the parlors as a dressing-room for him, and laid a pallet that he could move back and forth to the cellar. he did not arrive, however. it is our custom in the evening to sit in the front room a little while in the dark, with matches and candles held ready in hand, and watch the shells, whose course at night is shown by the fuse. h. was at the window and suddenly sprang up, crying, "run!"--"where?"--"_back_!" i started through the back room, h. after me. i was just within the door when the crash came that threw me to the floor. it was the most appalling sensation i'd ever known. worse than an earthquake, which i've also experienced. shaken and deafened i picked myself up; h. had struck a light to find me. i lighted mine, and the smoke guided us to the parlor i had fixed for uncle j. the candles were useless in the dense smoke, and it was many minutes before we could see. then we found the entire side of the room torn out. the soldiers who had rushed in said, "this is an eighty-pound parrott." it had entered through the front and burst on the pallet-bed, which was in tatters; the toilet service and everything else in the room was smashed. the soldiers assisted h. to board up the break with planks to keep out prowlers, and we went to bed in the cellar as usual. this morning the yard is partially plowed by two shells that fell there in the night. i think this house, so large and prominent from the river, is perhaps mistaken for headquarters and specially shelled. as we descend at night to the lower regions, i think of the evening hymn that grandmother taught me when a child: "lord, keep us safe this night, secure from all our fears; may angels guard us while we sleep, till morning light appears." _june th, . (in the cellar.)_--i feel especially grateful that amid these horrors we have been spared that of suffering for water. the weather has been dry a long time, and we hear of others dipping up the water from ditches and mud-holes. this place has two large underground cisterns of good cool water, and every night in my subterranean dressing-room a tub of cold water is the nerve-calmer that sends me to sleep in spite of the roar. one cistern i had to give up to the soldiers, who swarm about like hungry animals seeking something to devour. poor fellows! my heart bleeds for them. they have nothing but spoiled, greasy bacon, and bread made of musty pea-flour, and but little of that. the sick ones can't bolt it. they come into the kitchen when martha puts the pan of corn-bread in the stove, and beg for the bowl she has mixed it in. they shake up the scrapings with water, put in their bacon, and boil the mixture into a kind of soup, which is easier to swallow than pea-bread. when i happen in they look so ashamed of their poor clothes. i know we saved the lives of two by giving a few meals. to-day one crawled upon the gallery to lie in the breeze. he looked as if shells had lost their terrors for his dumb and famished misery. i've taught martha to make first-rate corn-meal gruel, because i can eat meal easier that way than in hoe-cake, and i prepared him a saucerful, put milk and sugar and nutmeg--i've actually got a nutmeg. when he ate it the tears ran from his eyes. "oh, madam, there was never anything so good! i shall get better." _june th, _.--the churches are a great resort for those who have no caves. people fancy they are not shelled so much, and they are substantial and the pews good to sleep in. we had to leave this house last night, they were shelling our quarter so heavily. the night before, martha forsook the cellar for a church. we went to h.'s office, which was comparatively quiet last night. h. carried the bank box; i the case of matches; martha the blankets and pillows, keeping an eye on the shells. we slept on piles of old newspapers. in the streets the roar seems so much more confusing, i feel sure i shall run right into the way of a shell. they seem to have five different sounds from the second of throwing them to the hollow echo wandering among the hills, which sounds the most blood-curdling of all. [illustration: printed on wall paper in the siege of vicksburg.] _june th, _.--shell burst just over the roof this morning. pieces tore through both floors down into the dining-room. the entire ceiling of that room fell in a mass. we had just left it. every piece of crockery on the table was smashed. the "daily citizen" to-day is a foot and a half long and six inches wide. it has a long letter from a federal officer, p. p. hill, who was on the gun-boat _cincinnati_, that was sunk may th. says it was found in his floating trunk. the editorial says, "the utmost confidence is felt that we can maintain our position until succor comes from outside. the undaunted johnston is at hand." _june th_.--to-day the "citizen" is printed on wall paper; therefore has grown a little in size. it says, "but a few days more and johnston will be here"; also that "kirby smith has driven banks from port hudson," and that "the enemy are throwing incendiary shells in." _june th_.--the gentleman who took our cave came yesterday to invite us to come to it, because, he said, "it's going to be very bad to-day." i don't know why he thought so. we went, and found his own and another family in it; sat outside and watched the shells till we concluded the cellar was as good a place as that hill-side. i fear the want of good food is breaking down h. i know from my own feelings of weakness, but mine is not an american constitution and has a recuperative power that his has not. _june st, _.--i had gone upstairs to-day during the interregnum to enjoy a rest on my bed and read the reliable items in the "citizen," when a shell burst right outside the window in front of me. pieces flew in, striking all round me, tearing down masses of plaster that came tumbling over me. when h. rushed in i was crawling out of the plaster, digging it out of my eyes and hair. when he picked up beside my pillow a piece as large as a saucer, i realized my narrow escape. the window-frame began to smoke, and we saw the house was on fire. h. ran for a hatchet and i for water, and we put it out. another (shell) came crashing near, and i snatched up my comb and brush and ran down here. it has taken all the afternoon to get the plaster out of my hair, for my hands were rather shaky. _june th_.--a horrible day. the most horrible yet to me, because i've lost my nerve. we were all in the cellar, when a shell came tearing through the roof, burst upstairs, and tore up that room, the pieces coming through both floors down into the cellar. one of them tore open the leg of h.'s pantaloons. this was tangible proof the cellar was no place of protection from them. on the heels of this came mr. j., to tell us that young mrs. p. had had her thighbone crushed. when martha went for the milk she came back horror-stricken to tell us the black girl there had her arm taken off by a shell. for the first time i quailed. i do not think people who are physically brave deserve much credit for it; it is a matter of nerves. in this way i am constitutionally brave, and seldom think of danger till it is over; and death has not the terrors for me it has for some others. every night i had lain down expecting death, and every morning rose to the same prospect, without being unnerved. it was for h. i trembled. but now i first seemed to realize that something worse than death might come; i might be crippled, and not killed. life, without all one's powers and limbs, was a thought that broke down my courage. i said to h., "you must get me out of this horrible place; i cannot stay; i know i shall be crippled." now the regret comes that i lost control, for h. is worried, and has lost his composure, because my coolness has broken down. _july st, ._--some months ago, thinking it might be useful, i obtained from the consul of my birthplace, by sending to another town, a passport for foreign parts. h. said if we went out to the lines we might be permitted to get through on that. so we packed the trunk, got a carriage, and on the th drove out there. general v. offered us seats in his tent. the rifle-bullets were whizzing so _zip, zip_ from the sharp-shooters on the federal lines that involuntarily i moved on my chair. he said, "don't be alarmed; you are out of range. they are firing at our mules yonder." his horse, tied by the tent door, was quivering all over, the most intense exhibition of fear i'd ever seen in an animal. general v. sent out a flag of truce to the federal headquarters, and while we waited wrote on a piece of silk paper a few words. then he said, "my wife is in tennessee. if you get through the lines, give her this. they will search you, so i will put it in this toothpick." he crammed the silk paper into a quill toothpick, and handed it to h. it was completely concealed. the flag-of-truce officer came back flushed and angry. "general grant says that no human being shall pass out of vicksburg; but the lady may feel sure danger will soon be over. vicksburg will surrender on the th." "is that so, general?" inquired h. "are arrangements for surrender made?" "we know nothing of the kind. vicksburg will not surrender." "those were general grant's exact words, sir," said the flag-officer. "of course it is nothing but their brag." we went back sadly enough, but to-day h. says he will cross the river to general porter's lines and try there; i shall not be disappointed. _july d, ._--h. was going to headquarters for the requisite pass, and he saw general pemberton crawling out of a cave, for the shelling has been as hot as ever. he got the pass, but did not act with his usual caution, for the boat he secured was a miserable, leaky one--a mere trough. leaving martha in charge, we went to the river, had our trunks put in the boat, and embarked; but the boat became utterly unmanageable, and began to fill with water rapidly. h. saw that we could not cross it and turned to come back; yet in spite of that the pickets at the battery fired on us. h. raised the white flag he had, yet they fired again, and i gave a cry of horror that none of these dreadful things had wrung from me. i thought h. was struck. when we landed h. showed the pass, and said that the officer had told him the battery would be notified we were to cross. the officer apologized and said they were not notified. he furnished a cart to get us home, and to-day we are down in the cellar again, shells flying as thick as ever. provisions are so nearly gone, except the hogshead of sugar, that a few more days will bring us to starvation indeed. martha says rats are hanging dressed in the market for sale with mule meat,--there is nothing else. the officer at the battery told me he had eaten one yesterday. we have tried to leave this tophet and failed, and if the siege continues i must summon that higher kind of courage--moral bravery--to subdue my fears of possible mutilation. xv. gibraltar falls. _july th, _.--it is evening. all is still. silence and night are once more united. i can sit at the table in the parlor and write. two candles are lighted. i would like a dozen. we have had wheat supper and wheat bread once more. h. is leaning back in the rocking-chair; he says: "g., it seems to me i can hear the silence, and feel it too. it wraps me like a soft garment; how else can i express this peace?" but i must write the history of the last twenty-four hours. about five yesterday afternoon, mr. j., h.'s assistant, who, having no wife to keep him in, dodges about at every change and brings us the news, came to h. and said: "mr. l., you must both come to our cave to-night. i hear that to-night the shelling is to surpass anything yet. an assault will be made in front and rear. you know we have a double cave; there is room for you in mine, and mother and sister will make a place for mrs. l. come right up; the ball will open about seven." we got ready, shut up the house, told martha to go to the church again if she preferred it to the cellar, and walked up to mr. j.'s. when supper was eaten, all secure, and the ladies in their cave night toilet, it was just six, and we crossed the street to the cave opposite. as i crossed a mighty shell flew screaming over my head. it was the last thrown into vicksburg. we lay on our pallets waiting for the expected roar, but no sound came except the chatter from the neighboring caves, and at last we dropped asleep. i woke at dawn stiff. a draught from the funnel-shaped opening had been blowing on me all night. every one was expressing surprise at the quiet. we started for home and met the editor of the "daily citizen." h. said: "this is strangely quiet, mr. l." "ah, sir," shaking his head gloomily, "i'm afraid the last shell has been thrown into vicksburg." "why do you fear so?" "it is surrender. at six last evening a man went down to the river and blew a truce signal; the shelling stopped at once." when i entered the kitchen a soldier was there waiting for the bowl of scrapings. (they took turns for it.) "good-morning, madam," he said; "we won't bother you much longer. we can't thank you enough for letting us come, for getting this soup boiled has helped some of us to keep alive, but now all this is over." "is it true about the surrender?" "yes; we have had no official notice, but they are paroling out at the lines now, and the men in vicksburg will never forgive pemberton. an old granny! a child would have known better than to shut men up in this cursed trap to starve to death like useless vermin." his eyes flashed with an insane fire as he spoke. "haven't i seen my friends carted out three or four in a box, that had died of starvation! nothing else, madam! starved to death because we had a fool for a general." "don't you think you're rather hard on pemberton? he thought it his duty to wait for johnston." "some people may excuse him, ma'am, but we'll curse him to our dying day. anyhow, you'll see the blue-coats directly." breakfast dispatched, we went on the upper gallery. the street was deserted, save by a few people carrying home bedding from their caves. among these was a group taking home a little creature, born in a cave a few days previous, and its wan-looking mother. about o'clock a man in blue came sauntering along, looking about curiously. then two followed him, then another. "h., do you think these can be the federal soldiers?" "why, yes; here come more up the street." soon a group appeared on the court-house hill, and the flag began slowly to rise to the top of the staff. as the breeze caught it, and it sprang out like a live thing exultant, h. drew a long breath of contentment. "now i feel once more at home in my own country." in an hour more a grand rush of people set in toward the river,--foremost among them the gentleman who took our cave; all were flying as if for life. "what can this mean, h.? are the populace turning out to greet the despised conquerors?" "oh," said h., springing up, "look! it is the boats coming around the bend." truly, it was a fine spectacle to see that fleet of transports sweep around the curve and anchor in the teeth of the batteries so lately vomiting fire. presently mr. j. passed and called: "aren't you coming, mr. l.? there's provisions on those boats: coffee and flour. 'first come, first served,' you know." "yes, i'll be there pretty soon," replied h. but now the new-comers began to swarm into our yard, asking h. if he had coin to sell for greenbacks. he had some, and a little bartering went on with the new greenbacks. h. went out to get provisions. when he returned a confederate officer came with him. h. went to the box of confederate money and took out four hundred dollars, and the officer took off his watch, a plain gold one, and laid it on the table, saying, "we have not been paid, and i must get home to my family." h. added a five-dollar greenback to the pile, and wished him a happy meeting. the townsfolk continued to dash through the streets with their arms full, canned goods predominating. towards five mr. j. passed again. "keep on the lookout," he said; "the army of occupation is coming along," and in a few minutes the head of the column appeared. what a contrast to the suffering creatures we had seen so long were these stalwart, well-fed men, so splendidly set up and accoutered! sleek horses, polished arms, bright plumes,--this was the pride and panoply of war. civilization, discipline, and order seemed to enter with the measured tramp of those marching columns; and the heart turned with throbs of added pity to the worn men in gray, who were being blindly dashed against this embodiment of modern power. and now this "silence that is golden" indeed is over all, and my limbs are unhurt, and i suppose if i were catholic, in my fervent gratitude, i would hie me with a rich offering to the shrine of "our lady of mercy." _july th, _.--i did not enjoy quiet long. first came martha, who announced her intention of going to search for her sons, as she was free now. i was hardly able to stand since the severe cold taken in the cave that night, but she would not wait a day. a colored woman came in wanting a place, and said she had asked her mistress for wages and her mistress had turned her out. i was in no condition to stand upon ceremony then, and engaged her at once, but hear to-day that i am thoroughly pulled to pieces in vicksburg circles; there is no more salvation for me. next came two federal officers and wanted rooms and board. to have some protection was a necessity; both armies were still in town, and for the past three days every confederate soldier i see has a cracker in his hand. there is hardly any water in town, no prospect of rain, and the soldiers have emptied one cistern in the yard already and begun on the other. the colonel put a guard at the gate to limit the water given. next came the owner of the house and said we must move; he wanted the house, but it was so big he'd just bring his family in; we could stay till we got one. they brought boarders with them too, and children. men are at work all over the house shoveling up the plaster before repairing. upstairs they are pouring it by bucketfuls through the windows. colonel d. brought work for h. to help with from headquarters. making out the paroles and copying them has taken so long they wanted help. i am surprised and mortified to find that two-thirds of all the men who have signed made their mark; they cannot write. i never thought there was so much ignorance in the south. one of the men at headquarters took a fancy to h. and presented him with a portfolio, that he said he had captured when the confederates evacuated their headquarters at jackson. it contained mostly family letters written in french, and a few official papers. among them was the following note, which i will copy here, and file away the original as a curiosity when the war is over. [illustration: handwriting] headquarters dept. of tenn. tupelo, aug , . capt.: the major-general commanding directs me to say that he submits it altogether to your own discretion whether you make the attempt to capture general grant or not. while the exploit would be very brilliant if successful, you must remember that failure might be disastrous to you and your men. the general commends your activity and energy and expects you to continue to show these qualities. i am, very respectfully, yr. obt. svt. _thomas l. snead, a.a.g._ capt. geo. l. baxter, commanding beaureguard scouts. i would like to know if he tried it and came to grief or abandoned the project. as letters can now get through to new orleans, i wrote there. _july th, _.--moved yesterday into a house i call "fair rosamond's bower" because it would take a clue of thread to go through it without getting lost. one room has five doors opening into the house, and no windows. the stairs are like ladders, and the colonel's contraband valet won't risk his neck taking down water, but pours it through the windows on people's heads. we shan't stay in it. men are at work closing up the caves; they had become hiding-places for trash. vicksburg is now like one vast hospital--every one is getting sick or is sick. my cook was taken to-day with bilious fever, and nothing but will keeps me up. _july d, _.--we moved again two days ago. _aug. _.--sitting in my easy chair to-day, looking out upon a grassy slope of the hill in the rear of this house, i have looked over this journal as if in a dream; for since the last date sickness and sorrow have been with me. i feel as if an angry wave had passed over me bearing away strength and treasure. for on one day there came to me from new orleans the news of mrs. b.'s death, a friend whom no tie of blood could have made nearer. the next day my beautiful boy ended his brief life of ten days and died in my arms. my own illness caused him to perish; the fatal cold in the cave was the last straw that broke down strength. the colonel's sweet wife has come, and i do not lack now for womanly companionship. she says that with such a pre-natal experience perhaps death was the best for him. i try to think so, and to be glad that h. has not been ill, though i see the effects. this book is exhausted, and i wonder whether there will be more adventures by flood and field to cause me to begin another. the snow-image and other twice-told tales old news by nathaniel hawthorne there is a volume of what were once newspapers each on a small half-sheet, yellow and time-stained, of a coarse fabric, and imprinted with a rude old type. their aspect conveys a singular impression of antiquity, in a species of literature which we are accustomed to consider as connected only with the present moment. ephemeral as they were intended and supposed to be, they have long outlived the printer and his whole subscription-list, and have proved more durable, as to their physical existence, than most of the timber, bricks, and stone of the town where they were issued. these are but the least of their triumphs. the government, the interests, the opinions, in short, all the moral circumstances that were contemporary with their publication, have passed away, and left no better record of what they were than may be found in these frail leaves. happy are the editors of newspapers! their productions excel all others in immediate popularity, and are certain to acquire another sort of value with the lapse of time. they scatter their leaves to the wind, as the sibyl did, and posterity collects them, to be treasured up among the best materials of its wisdom. with hasty pens they write for immortality. it is pleasant to take one of these little dingy half-sheets between the thumb and finger, and picture forth the personage who, above ninety years ago, held it, wet from the press, and steaming, before the fire. many of the numbers bear the name of an old colonial dignitary. there he sits, a major, a member of the council, and a weighty merchant, in his high-backed arm-chair, wearing a solemn wig and grave attire, such as befits his imposing gravity of mien, and displaying but little finery, except a huge pair of silver shoe-buckles, curiously carved. observe the awful reverence of his visage, as he reads his majesty's most gracious speech; and the deliberate wisdom with which he ponders over some paragraph of provincial politics, and the keener intelligence with which he glances at the ship-news and commercial advertisements. observe, and smile! he may have been a wise man in his day; but, to us, the wisdom of the politician appears like folly, because we can compare its prognostics with actual results; and the old merchant seems to have busied himself about vanities, because we know that the expected ships have been lost at sea, or mouldered at the wharves; that his imported broadcloths were long ago worn to tatters, and his cargoes of wine quaffed to the lees; and that the most precious leaves of his ledger have become waste-paper. yet, his avocations were not so vain as our philosophic moralizing. in this world we are the things of a moment, and are made to pursue momentary things, with here and there a thought that stretches mistily towards eternity, and perhaps may endure as long. all philosophy that would abstract mankind from the present is no more than words. the first pages of most of these old papers are as soporific as a bed of poppies. here we have an erudite clergyman, or perhaps a cambridge professor, occupying several successive weeks with a criticism on tate and brady, as compared with the new england version of the psalms. of course, the preference is given to the native article. here are doctors disagreeing about the treatment of a putrid fever then prevalent, and blackguarding each other with a characteristic virulence that renders the controversy not altogether unreadable. here are president wigglesworth and the rev. dr. colman, endeavoring to raise a fund for the support of missionaries among the indians of massachusetts bay. easy would be the duties of such a mission now! here--for there is nothing new under the sun--are frequent complaints of the disordered state of the currency, and the project of a bank with a capital of five hundred thousand pounds, secured on lands. here are literary essays, from the gentleman's magazine; and squibs against the pretender, from the london newspapers. and here, occasionally, are specimens of new england honor, laboriously light and lamentably mirthful, as if some very sober person, in his zeal to be merry, were dancing a jig to the tune of a funeral-psalm. all this is wearisome, and we must turn the leaf. there is a good deal of amusement, and some profit, in the perusal of those little items which characterize the manners and circumstances of the country. new england was then in a state incomparably more picturesque than at present, or than it has been within the memory of man; there being, as yet, only a narrow strip of civilization along the edge of a vast forest, peopled with enough of its original race to contrast the savage life with the old customs of another world. the white population, also, was diversified by the influx of all sorts of expatriated vagabonds, and by the continual importation of bond-servants from ireland and elsewhere, so that there was a wild and unsettled multitude, forming a strong minority to the sober descendants of the puritans. then, there were the slaves, contributing their dark shade to the picture of society. the consequence of all this was a great variety and singularity of action and incident, many instances of which might be selected from these columns, where they are told with a simplicity and quaintness of style that bring the striking points into very strong relief. it is natural to suppose, too, that these circumstances affected the body of the people, and made their course of life generally less regular than that of their descendants. there is no evidence that the moral standard was higher then than now; or, indeed, that morality was so well defined as it has since become. there seem to have been quite as many frauds and robberies, in proportion to the number of honest deeds; there were murders, in hot-blood and in malice; and bloody quarrels over liquor. some of our fathers also appear to have been yoked to unfaithful wives, if we may trust the frequent notices of elopements from bed and board. the pillory, the whipping-post, the prison, and the gallows, each had their use in those old times; and, in short, as often as our imagination lives in the past, we find it a ruder and rougher age than our own, with hardly any perceptible advantages, and much that gave life a gloomier tinge. in vain we endeavor to throw a sunny and joyous air over our picture of this period; nothing passes before our fancy but a crowd of sad-visaged people, moving duskily through a dull gray atmosphere. it is certain that winter rushed upon them with fiercer storms than now, blocking up the narrow forest-paths, and overwhelming the roads along the sea-coast with mountain snow drifts; so that weeks elapsed before the newspaper could announce how many travellers had perished, or what wrecks had strewn the shore. the cold was more piercing then, and lingered further into the spring, making the chimney-corner a comfortable seat till long past may-day. by the number of such accidents on record, we might suppose that the thunder-stone, as they termed it, fell oftener and deadlier on steeples, dwellings, and unsheltered wretches. in fine, our fathers bore the brunt of more raging and pitiless elements than we. there were forebodings, also, of a more fearful tempest than those of the elements. at two or three dates, we have stories of drums, trumpets, and all sorts of martial music, passing athwart the midnight sky, accompanied with the--roar of cannon and rattle of musketry, prophetic echoes of the sounds that were soon to shake the land. besides these airy prognostics, there were rumors of french fleets on the coast, and of the march of french and indians through the wilderness, along the borders of the settlements. the country was saddened, moreover, with grievous sicknesses. the small-pox raged in many of the towns, and seems, though so familiar a scourge, to have been regarded with as much affright as that which drove the throng from wall street and broadway at the approach of a new pestilence. there were autumnal fevers too, and a contagious and destructive throat-distemper,--diseases unwritten in medical hooks. the dark superstition of former days had not yet been so far dispelled as not to heighten the gloom of the present times. there is an advertisement, indeed, by a committee of the legislature, calling for information as to the circumstances of sufferers in the "late calamity of ," with a view to reparation for their losses and misfortunes. but the tenderness with which, after above forty years, it was thought expedient to allude to the witchcraft delusion, indicates a good deal of lingering error, as well as the advance of more enlightened opinions. the rigid hand of puritanism might yet be felt upon the reins of government, while some of the ordinances intimate a disorderly spirit on the part of the people. the suffolk justices, after a preamble that great disturbances have been committed by persons entering town and leaving it in coaches, chaises, calashes, and other wheel-carriages, on the evening before the sabbath, give notice that a watch will hereafter be set at the "fortification-gate," to prevent these outrages. it is amusing to see boston assuming the aspect of a walled city, guarded, probably, by a detachment of church-members, with a deacon at their head. governor belcher makes proclamation against certain "loose and dissolute people" who have been wont to stop passengers in the streets, on the fifth of november, "otherwise called pope's day," and levy contributions for the building of bonfires. in this instance, the populace are more puritanic than the magistrate. the elaborate solemnities of funerals were in accordance with the sombre character of the times. in cases of ordinary death, the printer seldom fails to notice that the corpse was "very decently interred." but when some mightier mortal has yielded to his fate, the decease of the "worshipful" such-a-one is announced, with all his titles of deacon, justice, councillor, and colonel; then follows an heraldic sketch of his honorable ancestors, and lastly an account of the black pomp of his funeral, and the liberal expenditure of scarfs, gloves, and mourning rings. the burial train glides slowly before us, as we have seen it represented in the woodcuts of that day, the coffin, and the bearers, and the lamentable friends, trailing their long black garments, while grim death, a most misshapen skeleton, with all kinds of doleful emblems, stalks hideously in front. there was a coach maker at this period, one john lucas, who scents to have gained the chief of his living by letting out a sable coach to funerals. it would not be fair, however, to leave quite so dismal an impression on the reader's mind; nor should it be forgotten that happiness may walk soberly in dark attire, as well as dance lightsomely in a gala-dress. and this reminds us that there is an incidental notice of the "dancing-school near the orange-tree," whence we may infer that the salutatory art was occasionally practised, though perhaps chastened into a characteristic gravity of movement. this pastime was probably confined to the aristocratic circle, of which the royal governor was the centre. but we are scandalized at the attempt of jonathan furness to introduce a more reprehensible amusement: he challenges the whole country to match his black gelding in a race for a hundred pounds, to be decided on metonomy common or chelsea beach. nothing as to the manners of the times can be inferred from this freak of an individual. there were no daily and continual opportunities of being merry; but sometimes the people rejoiced, in their own peculiar fashion, oftener with a calm, religious smile than with a broad laugh, as when they feasted, like one great family, at thanksgiving time, or indulged a livelier mirth throughout the pleasant days of election-week. this latter was the true holiday season of new england. military musters were too seriously important in that warlike time to be classed among amusements; but they stirred up and enlivened the public mind, and were occasions of solemn festival to the governor and great men of the province, at the expense of the field-offices. the revolution blotted a feast-day out of our calendar; for the anniversary of the king's birth appears to have been celebrated with most imposing pomp, by salutes from castle william, a military parade, a grand dinner at the town-house, and a brilliant illumination in the evening. there was nothing forced nor feigned in these testimonials of loyalty to george the second. so long as they dreaded the re-establishment of a popish dynasty, the people were fervent for the house of hanover: and, besides, the immediate magistracy of the country was a barrier between the monarch and the occasional discontents of the colonies; the waves of faction sometimes reached the governor's chair, but never swelled against the throne. thus, until oppression was felt to proceed from the king's own hand, new england rejoiced with her whole heart on his majesty's birthday. but the slaves, we suspect, were the merriest part of the population, since it was their gift to be merry in the worst of circumstances; and they endured, comparatively, few hardships, under the domestic sway of our fathers. there seems to have been a great trade in these human commodities. no advertisements are more frequent than those of "a negro fellow, fit for almost any household work"; "a negro woman, honest, healthy, and capable"; "a negro wench of many desirable qualities"; "a negro man, very fit for a taylor." we know not in what this natural fitness for a tailor consisted, unless it were some peculiarity of conformation that enabled him to sit cross-legged. when the slaves of a family were inconveniently prolific,--it being not quite orthodox to drown the superfluous offspring, like a litter of kittens,--notice was promulgated of "a negro child to be given away." sometimes the slaves assumed the property of their own persons, and made their escape; among many such instances, the governor raises a hue-and-cry after his negro juba. but, without venturing a word in extenuation of the general system, we confess our opinion that caesar, pompey, scipio, and all such great roman namesakes, would have been better advised had they stayed at home, foddering the cattle, cleaning dishes,--in fine, performing their moderate share of the labors of life, without being harassed by its cares. the sable inmates of the mansion were not excluded from the domestic affections: in families of middling rank, they had their places at the board; and when the circle closed round the evening hearth, its blaze glowed on their dark shining faces, intermixed familiarly with their master's children. it must have contributed to reconcile them to their lot, that they saw white men and women imported from europe as they had been from africa, and sold, though only for a term of years, yet as actual slaves to the highest bidder. slave labor being but a small part of the industry of the country, it did not change the character of the people; the latter, on the contrary, modified and softened the institution, making it a patriarchal, and almost a beautiful, peculiarity of the times. ah! we had forgotten the good old merchant, over whose shoulder we were peeping, while he read the newspaper. let us now suppose him putting on his three-cornered gold-laced hat, grasping his cane, with a head inlaid of ebony and mother-of-pearl, and setting forth, through the crooked streets of boston, on various errands, suggested by the advertisements of the day. thus he communes with himself: i must be mindful, says he, to call at captain scut's, in creek lane, and examine his rich velvet, whether it be fit for my apparel on election-day,--that i may wear a stately aspect in presence of the governor and my brethren of the council. i will look in, also, at the shop of michael cario, the jeweller: he has silver buckles of a new fashion; and mine have lasted me some half-score years. my fair daughter miriam shall have an apron of gold brocade, and a velvet mask,--though it would be a pity the wench should hide her comely visage; and also a french cap, from robert jenkins's, on the north side of the town-house. he hath beads, too, and ear-rings, and necklaces, of all sorts; these are but vanities, nevertheless, they would please the silly maiden well. my dame desireth another female in the kitchen; wherefore, i must inspect the lot of irish lasses, for sale by samuel waldo, aboard the schooner endeavor; as also the likely negro wench, at captain bulfinch's. it were not amiss that i took my daughter miriam to see the royal waxwork, near the town-dock, that she may learn to honor our most gracious king and queen, and their royal progeny, even in their waxen images; not that i would approve of image-worship. the camel, too, that strange beast from africa, with two great humps, to be seen near the common; methinks i would fain go thither, and see how the old patriarchs were wont to ride. i will tarry awhile in queen street, at the bookstore of my good friends kneeland & green, and purchase dr. colman's new sermon, and the volume of discourses by mr. henry flynt; and look over the controversy on baptism, between the rev. peter clarke and an unknown adversary; and see whether this george whitefield be as great in print as he is famed to be in the pulpit. by that time, the auction will have commenced at the royal exchange, in king street. moreover, i must look to the disposal of my last cargo of west india rum and muscovado sugar; and also the lot of choice cheshire cheese, lest it grow mouldy. it were well that i ordered a cask of good english beer, at the lower end of milk street. then am i to speak with certain dealers about the lot of stout old vidonia, rich canary, and oporto-wines, which i have now lying in the cellar of the old south meeting-house. but, a pipe or two of the rich canary shall be reserved, that it may grow mellow in mine own wine-cellar, and gladden my heart when it begins to droop with old age. provident old gentleman! but, was he mindful of his sepulchre? did he bethink him to call at the workshop of timothy sheaffe, in cold lane, and select such a gravestone as would best please him? there wrought the man whose handiwork, or that of his fellow-craftsmen, was ultimately in demand by all the busy multitude who have left a record of their earthly toil in these old time-stained papers. and now, as we turn over the volume, we seem to be wandering among the mossy stones of a burial-ground. ii. the old french war. at a period about twenty years subsequent to that of our former sketch, we again attempt a delineation of some of the characteristics of life and manners in new england. our text-book, as before, is a file of antique newspapers. the volume which serves us for a writing-desk is a folio of larger dimensions than the one before described; and the papers are generally printed on a whole sheet, sometimes with a supplemental leaf of news and advertisements. they have a venerable appearance, being overspread with a duskiness of more than seventy years, and discolored, here and there, with the deeper stains of some liquid, as if the contents of a wineglass had long since been splashed upon the page. still, the old book conveys an impression that, when the separate numbers were flying about town, in the first day or two of their respective existences, they might have been fit reading for very stylish people. such newspapers could have been issued nowhere but in a metropolis the centre, not only of public and private affairs, but of fashion and gayety. without any discredit to the colonial press, these might have been, and probably were, spread out on the tables of the british coffee-house, in king street, for the perusal of the throng of officers who then drank their wine at that celebrated establishment. to interest these military gentlemen, there were bulletins of the war between prussia and austria; between england and france, on the old battle-plains of flanders; and between the same antagonists, in the newer fields of the east indies,--and in our own trackless woods, where white men never trod until they came to fight there. or, the travelled american, the petit-maitre of the colonies,--the ape of london foppery, as the newspaper was the semblance of the london journals,--he, with his gray powdered periwig, his embroidered coat, lace ruffles, and glossy silk stockings, golden-clocked,--his buckles of glittering paste, at knee-band and shoe-strap,--his scented handkerchief, and chapeau beneath his arm, even such a dainty figure need not have disdained to glance at these old yellow pages, while they were the mirror of passing times. for his amusement, there were essays of wit and humor, the light literature of the day, which, for breadth and license, might have proceeded from the pen of fielding or smollet; while, in other columns, he would delight his imagination with the enumerated items of all sorts of finery, and with the rival advertisements of half a dozen peruke-makers. in short, newer manners and customs had almost entirely superseded those of the puritans, even in their own city of refuge. it was natural that, with the lapse of time and increase of wealth and population, the peculiarities of the early settlers should have waxed fainter and fainter through the generations of their descendants, who also had been alloyed by a continual accession of emigrants from many countries and of all characters. it tended to assimilate the colonial manners to those of the mother-country, that the commercial intercourse was great, and that the merchants often went thither in their own ships. indeed, almost every man of adequate fortune felt a yearning desire, and even judged it a filial duty, at least once in his life, to visit the home of his ancestors. they still called it their own home, as if new england were to them, what many of the old puritans had considered it, not a permanent abiding-place, but merely a lodge in the wilderness, until the trouble of the times should be passed. the example of the royal governors must have had much influence on the manners of the colonists; for these rulers assumed a degree of state and splendor which had never been practised by their predecessors, who differed in nothing from republican chief-magistrates, under the old charter. the officers of the crown, the public characters in the interest of the administration, and the gentlemen of wealth and good descent, generally noted for their loyalty, would constitute a dignified circle, with the governor in the centre, bearing a very passable resemblance to a court. their ideas, their habits, their bode of courtesy, and their dress would have all the fresh glitter of fashions immediately derived from the fountain-head, in england. to prevent their modes of life from becoming the standard with all who had the ability to imitate them, there was no longer an undue severity of religion, nor as yet any disaffection to british supremacy, nor democratic prejudices against pomp. thus, while the colonies were attaining that strength which was soon to render them an independent republic, it might have been supposed that the wealthier classes were growing into an aristocracy, and ripening for hereditary rank, while the poor were to be stationary in their abasement, and the country, perhaps, to be a sister monarchy with england. such, doubtless, were the plausible conjectures deduced from the superficial phenomena of our connection with a monarchical government, until the prospective nobility were levelled with the mob, by the mere gathering of winds that preceded the storm of the revolution. the portents of that storm were not yet visible in the air. a true picture of society, therefore, would have the rich effect produced by distinctions of rank that seemed permanent, and by appropriate habits of splendor on the part of the gentry. the people at large had been somewhat changed in character, since the period of our last sketch, by their great exploit, the conquest of louisburg. after that event, the new-englanders never settled into precisely the same quiet race which all the world had imagined them to be. they had done a deed of history, and were anxious to add new ones to the record. they had proved themselves powerful enough to influence the result of a war, and were thenceforth called upon, and willingly consented, to join their strength against the enemies of england; on those fields, at least, where victory would redound to their peculiar advantage. and now, in the heat of the old french war, they might well be termed a martial people. every man was a soldier, or the father or brother of a soldier; and the whole land literally echoed with the roll of the drum, either beating up for recruits among the towns and villages, or striking the march towards the frontiers. besides the provincial troops, there were twenty-three british regiments in the northern colonies. the country has never known a period of such excitement and warlike life; except during the revolution,--perhaps scarcely then; for that was a lingering war, and this a stirring and eventful one. one would think that no very wonderful talent was requisite for an historical novel, when the rough and hurried paragraphs of these newspapers can recall the past so magically. we seem to be waiting in the street for the arrival of the post-rider--who is seldom more than twelve hours beyond his time--with letters, by way of albany, from the various departments of the army. or, we may fancy ourselves in the circle of listeners, all with necks stretched out towards an old gentleman in the centre, who deliberately puts on his spectacles, unfolds the wet newspaper, and gives us the details of the broken and contradictory reports, which have been flying from mouth to mouth, ever since the courier alighted at secretary oliver's office. sometimes we have an account of the indian skirmishes near lake george, and how a ranging party of provincials were so closely pursued, that they threw away their arms, and eke their shoes, stockings, and breeches, barely reaching the camp in their shirts, which also were terribly tattered by the bushes. then, there is a journal of the siege of fort niagara, so minute that it almost numbers the cannon-shot and bombs, and describes the effect of the latter missiles on the french commandant's stone mansion, within the fortress. in the letters of the provincial officers, it is amusing to observe how some of them endeavor to catch the careless and jovial turn of old campaigners. one gentleman tells us that he holds a brimming glass in his hand, intending to drink the health of his correspondent, unless a cannon ball should dash the liquor from his lips; in the midst of his letter he hears the bells of the french churches ringing, in quebec, and recollects that it is sunday; whereupon, like a good protestant, he resolves to disturb the catholic worship by a few thirty-two pound shot. while this wicked man of war was thus making a jest of religion, his pious mother had probably put up a note, that very sabbath-day, desiring the "prayers of the congregation for a son gone a soldiering." we trust, however, that there were some stout old worthies who were not ashamed to do as their fathers did, but went to prayer, with their soldiers, before leading them to battle; and doubtless fought none the worse for that. if we had enlisted in the old french war, it should have been under such a captain; for we love to see a man keep the characteristics of his country. [the contemptuous jealousy of the british army, from the general downwards, was very galling to the provincial troops. in one of the newspapers, there is an admirable letter of a new england man, copied from the london chronicle, defending the provincials with an ability worthy of franklin, and somewhat in his style. the letter is remarkable, also, because it takes up the cause of the whole range of colonies, as if the writer looked upon them all as constituting one country, and that his own. colonial patriotism had not hitherto been so broad a sentiment.] these letters, and other intelligence from the army, are pleasant and lively reading, and stir up the mind like the music of a drum and fife. it is less agreeable to meet with accounts of women slain and scalped, and infants dashed against trees, by the indians on the frontiers. it is a striking circumstance, that innumerable bears, driven from the woods, by the uproar of contending armies in their accustomed haunts, broke into the settlements, and committed great ravages among children, as well as sheep and swine. some of them prowled where bears had never been for a century, penetrating within a mile or two of boston; a fact that gives a strong and gloomy impression of something very terrific going on in the forest, since these savage beasts fled townward to avoid it. but it is impossible to moralize about such trifles, when every newspaper contains tales of military enterprise, and often a huzza for victory; as, for instance, the taking of ticonderoga, long a place of awe to the provincials, and one of the bloodiest spots in the present war. nor is it unpleasant, among whole pages of exultation, to find a note of sorrow for the fall of some brave officer; it comes wailing in, like a funeral strain amidst a peal of triumph, itself triumphant too. such was the lamentation over wolfe. somewhere, in this volume of newspapers, though we cannot now lay our finger upon the passage, we recollect a report that general wolfe was slain, not by the enemy, but by a shot from his own soldiers. in the advertising columns, also, we are continually reminded that the country was in a state of war. governor pownall makes proclamation for the enlisting of soldiers, and directs the militia colonels to attend to the discipline of their regiments, and the selectmen of every town to replenish their stocks of ammunition. the magazine, by the way, was generally kept in the upper loft of the village meeting-house. the provincial captains are drumming up for soldiers, in every newspaper. sir jeffrey amherst advertises for batteaux-men, to be employed on the lakes; and gives notice to the officers of seven british regiments, dispersed on the recruiting service, to rendezvous in boston. captain hallowell, of the province ship-of-war king george, invites able-bodied seamen to serve his majesty, for fifteen pounds, old tenor, per month. by the rewards offered, there would appear to have been frequent desertions from the new england forces: we applaud their wisdom, if not their valor or integrity. cannon of all calibres, gunpowder and balls, firelocks, pistols, swords, and hangers, were common articles of merchandise. daniel jones, at the sign of the hat and helmet, offers to supply officers with scarlet broadcloth, gold-lace for hats and waistcoats, cockades, and other military foppery, allowing credit until the payrolls shall be made up. this advertisement gives us quite a gorgeous idea of a provincial captain in full dress. at the commencement of the campaign of , the british general informs the farmers of new england that a regular market will be established at lake george, whither they are invited to bring provisions and refreshments of all sorts, for the use of the army. hence, we may form a singular picture of petty traffic, far away from any permanent settlements, among the hills which border that romantic lake, with the solemn woods overshadowing the scene. carcasses of bullocks and fat porkers are placed upright against the huge trunks of the trees; fowls hang from the lower branches, bobbing against the heads of those beneath; butter-firkins, great cheeses, and brown loaves of household bread, baked in distant ovens, are collected under temporary shelters or pine-boughs, with gingerbread, and pumpkin-pies, perhaps, and other toothsome dainties. barrels of cider and spruce-beer are running freely into the wooden canteens of the soldiers. imagine such a scene, beneath the dark forest canopy, with here and there a few struggling sunbeams, to dissipate the gloom. see the shrewd yeomen, haggling with their scarlet-coated customers, abating somewhat in their prices, but still dealing at monstrous profit; and then complete the picture with circumstances that bespeak war and danger. a cannon shall be seen to belch its smoke from among the trees, against some distant canoes on the lake; the traffickers shall pause, and seem to hearken, at intervals, as if they heard the rattle of musketry or the shout of indians; a scouting-party shall be driven in, with two or three faint and bloody men among them. and, in spite of these disturbances, business goes on briskly in the market of the wilderness. it must not be supposed that the martial character of the times interrupted all pursuits except those connected with war. on the contrary, there appears to have been a general vigor and vivacity diffused into the whole round of colonial life. during the winter of , it was computed that about a thousand sled-loads of country produce were daily brought into boston market. it was a symptom of an irregular and unquiet course of affairs, that innumerable lotteries were projected, ostensibly for the purpose of public improvements, such as roads and bridges. many females seized the opportunity to engage in business: as, among others, alice quick, who dealt in crockery and hosiery, next door to deacon beautineau's; mary jackson, who sold butter, at the brazen-head, in cornhill; abigail hiller, who taught ornamental work, near the orange-tree, where also were to be seen the king and queen, in wax-work; sarah morehead, an instructor in glass-painting, drawing, and japanning; mary salmon, who shod horses, at the south end; harriet pain, at the buck and glove, and mrs. henrietta maria caine, at the golden fan, both fashionable milliners; anna adams, who advertises quebec and garrick bonnets, prussian cloaks, and scarlet cardinals, opposite the old brick meeting-house; besides a lady at the head of a wine and spirit establishment. little did these good dames expect to reappear before the public, so long after they had made their last courtesies behind the counter. our great-grandmothers were a stirring sisterhood, and seem not to have been utterly despised by the gentlemen at the british coffee-house; at least, some gracious bachelor, there resident, gives public notice of his willingness to take a wife, provided she be not above twenty-three, and possess brown hair, regular features, a brisk eye, and a fortune. now, this was great condescension towards the ladies of massachusetts bay, in a threadbare lieutenant of foot. polite literature was beginning to make its appearance. few native works were advertised, it is true, except sermons and treatises of controversial divinity; nor were the english authors of the day much known on this side of the atlantic. but catalogues were frequently offered at auction or private sale, comprising the standard english books, history, essays, and poetry, of queen anne's age, and the preceding century. we see nothing in the nature of a novel, unless it be "_the two mothers_, price four coppers." there was an american poet, however, of whom mr. kettell has preserved no specimen,--the author of "war, an heroic poem"; he publishes by subscription, and threatens to prosecute his patrons for not taking their books. we have discovered a periodical, also, and one that has a peculiar claim to be recorded here, since it bore the title of "_the new england magazine_," a forgotten predecessor, for which we should have a filial respect, and take its excellence on trust. the fine arts, too, were budding into existence. at the "old glass and picture shop," in cornhill, various maps, plates, and views are advertised, and among them a "prospect of boston," a copperplate engraving of quebec, and the effigies of all the new england ministers ever done in mezzotinto. all these must have been very salable articles. other ornamental wares were to be found at the same shop; such as violins, flutes, hautboys, musical books, english and dutch toys, and london babies. about this period, mr. dipper gives notice of a concert of vocal and instrumental music. there had already been an attempt at theatrical exhibitions. there are tokens, in every newspaper, of a style of luxury and magnificence which we do not usually associate with our ideas of the times. when the property of a deceased person was to be sold, we find, among the household furniture, silk beds and hangings, damask table-cloths, turkey carpets, pictures, pier-glasses, massive plate, and all things proper for a noble mansion. wine was more generally drunk than now, though by no means to the neglect of ardent spirits. for the apparel of both sexes, the mercers and milliners imported good store of fine broadcloths, especially scarlet, crimson, and sky-blue, silks, satins, lawns, and velvets, gold brocade, and gold and silver lace, and silver tassels, and silver spangles, until cornhill shone and sparkled with their merchandise. the gaudiest dress permissible by modern taste fades into a quaker-like sobriety, compared with the deep, rich, glowing splendor of our ancestors. such figures were almost too fine to go about town on foot; accordingly, carriages were so numerous as to require a tax; and it is recorded that, when governor bernard came to the province, he was met between dedham and boston by a multitude of gentlemen in their coaches and chariots. take my arm, gentle reader, and come with me into some street, perhaps trodden by your daily footsteps, but which now has such an aspect of half-familiar strangeness, that you suspect yourself to be walking abroad in a dream. true, there are some brick edifices which you remember from childhood, and which your father and grandfather remembered as well; but you are perplexed by the absence of many that were here only an hour or two since; and still more amazing is the presence of whole rows of wooden and plastered houses, projecting over the sidewalks, and bearing iron figures on their fronts, which prove them to have stood on the same sites above a century. where have your eyes been that you never saw them before? along the ghostly street,--for, at length, you conclude that all is unsubstantial, though it be so good a mockery of an antique town,--along the ghostly street, there are ghostly people too. every gentleman has his three-cornered hat, either on his head or under his arm; and all wear wigs in infinite variety,--the tie, the brigadier, the spencer, the albemarle, the major, the ramillies, the grave full-bottom, or the giddy feather-top. look at the elaborate lace-ruffles, and the square-skirted coats of gorgeous hues, bedizened with silver and gold! make way for the phantom-ladies, whose hoops require such breadth of passage, as they pace majestically along, in silken gowns, blue, green, or yellow, brilliantly embroidered, and with small satin hats surmounting their powdered hair. make way; for the whole spectral show will vanish, if your earthly garments brush against their robes. now that the scene is brightest, and the whole street glitters with imaginary sunshine,--now hark to the bells of the old south and the old north, ringing out with a sudden and merry peal, while the cannon of castle william thunder below the town, and those of the diana frigate repeat the sound, and the charlestown batteries reply with a nearer roar! you see the crowd toss up their hats in visionary joy. you hear of illuminations and fire-works, and of bonfires, built oil scaffolds, raised several stories above the ground, that are to blaze all night in king street and on beacon hill. and here come the trumpets and kettle-drums, and the tramping hoofs of the boston troop of horseguards, escorting the governor to king's chapel, where he is to return solemn thanks for the surrender of quebec. march on, thou shadowy troop! and vanish, ghostly crowd! and change again, old street! for those stirring times are gone. opportunely for the conclusion of our sketch, a fire broke out, on the twentieth of march, , at the brazen-head, in cornhill, and consumed nearly four hundred buildings. similar disasters have always been epochs in the chronology of boston. that of had hitherto been termed the great fire, but now resigned its baleful dignity to one which has ever since retained it. did we desire to move the reader's sympathies on this subject, we would not be grandiloquent about the sea of billowy flame, the glowing and crumbling streets, the broad, black firmament of smoke, and the blast or wind that sprang up with the conflagration and roared behind it. it would be more effective to mark out a single family at the moment when the flames caught upon an angle of their dwelling: then would ensue the removal of the bedridden grandmother, the cradle with the sleeping infant, and, most dismal of all, the dying man just at the extremity of a lingering disease. do but imagine the confused agony of one thus awfully disturbed in his last hour; his fearful glance behind at the consuming fire raging after him, from house to house, as its devoted victim; and, finally, the almost eagerness with which he would seize some calmer interval to die! the great fire must have realized many such a scene. doubtless posterity has acquired a better city by the calamity of that generation. none will be inclined to lament it at this late day, except the lover of antiquity, who would have been glad to walk among those streets of venerable houses, fancying the old inhabitants still there, that he might commune with their shadows, and paint a more vivid picture of their times. iii. the old tory. again we take a leap of about twenty years, and alight in the midst of the revolution. indeed, having just closed a volume of colonial newspapers, which represented the period when monarchical and aristocratic sentiments were at the highest,--and now opening another volume printed in the same metropolis, after such sentiments had long been deemed a sin and shame,--we feel as if the leap were more than figurative. our late course of reading has tinctured us, for the moment, with antique prejudices; and we shrink from the strangely contrasted times into which we emerge, like one of those immutable old tories, who acknowledge no oppression in the stamp act. it may be the most effective method of going through the present file of papers, to follow out this idea, and transform ourself, perchance, from a modern tory into such a sturdy king-man as once wore that pliable nickname. well, then, here we sit, an old, gray, withered, sour-visaged, threadbare sort of gentleman, erect enough, here in our solitude, but marked out by a depressed and distrustful mien abroad, as one conscious of a stigma upon his forehead, though for no crime. we were already in the decline of life when the first tremors of the earthquake that has convulsed the continent were felt. our mind had grown too rigid to change any of its opinions, when the voice of the people demanded that all should be changed. we are an episcopalian, and sat under the high-church doctrines of dr. caner; we have been a captain of the provincial forces, and love our king the better for the blood that we shed in his cause on the plains of abraham. among all the refugees, there is not one more loyal to the backbone than we. still we lingered behind when the british army evacuated boston, sweeping in its train most of those with whom we held communion; the old, loyal gentlemen, the aristocracy of the colonies, the hereditary englishman, imbued with more than native zeal and admiration for the glorious island and its monarch, because the far-intervening ocean threw a dim reverence around them. when our brethren departed, we could not tear our aged roots out of the soil. we have remained, therefore, enduring to be outwardly a freeman, but idolizing king george in secrecy and silence,--one true old heart amongst a host of enemies. we watch, with a weary hope, for the moment when all this turmoil shall subside, and the impious novelty that has distracted our latter years, like a wild dream, give place to the blessed quietude of royal sway, with the king's name in every ordinance, his prayer in the church, his health at the board, and his love in the people's heart. meantime, our old age finds little honor. hustled have we been, till driven from town-meetings; dirty water has been cast upon our ruffles by a whig chambermaid; john hancock's coachman seizes every opportunity to bespatter us with mud; daily are we hooted by the unbreeched rebel brats; and narrowly, once, did our gray hairs escape the ignominy of tar and feathers. alas! only that we cannot bear to die till the next royal governor comes over, we would fain be in our quiet grave. such an old man among new things are we who now hold at arm's-length the rebel newspaper of the day. the very figure-head, for the thousandth time, elicits it groan of spiteful lamentation. where are the united heart and crown, the loyal emblem, that used to hallow the sheet on which it was impressed, in our younger days? in its stead we find a continental officer, with the declaration of independence in one hand, a drawn sword in the other, and above his head a scroll, bearing the motto, "we appeal to heaven." then say we, with a prospective triumph, let heaven judge, in its own good time! the material of the sheet attracts our scorn. it is a fair specimen of rebel manufacture, thick and coarse, like wrapping-paper, all overspread with little knobs; and of such a deep, dingy blue color, that we wipe our spectacles thrice before we can distinguish a letter of the wretched print. thus, in all points, the newspaper is a type of the times, far more fit for the rough hands of a democratic mob, than for our own delicate, though bony fingers. nay we will not handle it without our gloves! glancing down the page, our eyes are greeted everywhere by the offer of lands at auction, for sale or to be leased, not by the rightful owners, but a rebel committee; notices of the town constable, that he is authorized to receive the taxes on such all estate, in default of which, that also is to be knocked down to the highest bidder; and notifications of complaints filed by the attorney-general against certain traitorous absentees, and of confiscations that are to ensue. and who are these traitors? our own best friends; names as old, once as honored, as any in the land where they are no longer to have a patrimony, nor to be remembered as good men who have passed away. we are ashamed of not relinquishing our little property, too; but comfort ourselves because we still keep our principles, without gratifying the rebels with our plunder. plunder, indeed, they are seizing everywhere,--by the strong hand at sea, as well as by legal forms oil shore. here are prize-vessels for sale; no french nor spanish merchantmen, whose wealth is the birthright of british subjects, but hulls of british oak, from liverpool, bristol, and the thames, laden with the king's own stores, for his army in new york. and what a fleet of privateers--pirates, say we--are fitting out for new ravages, with rebellion in their very names! the free yankee, the general greene, the saratoga, the lafayette, and the grand monarch! yes, the grand monarch; so is a french king styled, by the sons of englishmen. and here we have an ordinance from the court of versailles, with the bourbon's own signature affixed, as if new england were already a french province. everything is french,--french soldiers, french sailors, french surgeons, and french diseases too, i trow; besides french dancing-masters and french milliners, to debauch our daughters with french fashions! everything in america is french, except the canadas, the loyal canadas, which we helped to wrest, from france. and to that old french province the englishman of the colonies must go to find his country! o, the misery of seeing the whole system of things changed in my old days, when i would be loath to change even a pair of buckles! the british coffee-house, where oft we sat, brimful of wine and loyalty, with the gallant gentlemen of amherst's army, when we wore a redcoat too,--the british coffee-house, forsooth, must now be styled the american, with a golden eagle instead of the royal arms above the door. even the street it stands in is no longer king street! nothing is the king's, except this heavy heart in my old bosom. wherever i glance my eyes, they meet something that pricks them like a needle. this soap-maker, for instance, this hobert hewes, has conspired against my peace, by notifying that his shop is situated near liberty stump. but when will their misnamed liberty have its true emblem in that stump, hewn down by british steel? where shall we buy our next year's almanac? not this of weatherwise's, certainly; for it contains a likeness of george washington, the upright rebel, whom we most hate, though reverentially, as a fallen angel, with his heavenly brightness undiminished, evincing pure fame in an unhallowed cause. and here is a new book for my evening's recreation,--a history of the war till the close of the year , with the heads of thirteen distinguished officers, engraved on copperplate. a plague upon their heads! we desire not to see them till they grin at us from the balcony before the town-house, fixed on spikes, as the heads of traitors. how bloody-minded the villains make a peaceable old man! what next? an oration, on the horrid massacre of . when that blood was shed,--the first that the british soldier ever drew from the bosoms of our countrymen,--we turned sick at heart, and do so still, as often as they make it reek anew from among the stones in king street. the pool that we saw that night has swelled into a lake,--english blood and american,--no! all british, all blood of my brethren. and here come down tears. shame on me, since half of them are shed for rebels! who are not rebels now! even the women are thrusting their white hands into the war, and come out in this very paper with proposals to form a society--the lady of george washington at their head--for clothing the continental troops. they will strip off their stiff petticoats to cover the ragged rascals, and then enlist in the ranks themselves. what have we here? burgoyne's proclamation turned into hudibrastic rhyme! and here, some verses against the king, in which the scribbler leaves a blank for the name of george, as if his doggerel might yet exalt him to the pillory. such, after years of rebellion, is the heart's unconquerable reverence for the lord's anointed! in the next column, we have scripture parodied in a squib against his sacred majesty. what would our puritan great-grandsires have said to that? they never laughed at god's word, though they cut off a king's head. yes; it was for us to prove how disloyalty goes hand in hand with irreligion, and all other vices come trooping in the train. nowadays men commit robbery and sacrilege for the mere luxury of wickedness, as this advertisement testifies. three hundred pounds reward for the detection of the villains who stole and destroyed the cushions and pulpit drapery of the brattle street and old south churches. was it a crime? i can scarcely think our temples hallowed, since the king ceased to be prayed for. but it is not temples only that they rob. here a man offers a thousand dollars--a thousand dollars, in continental rags!--for the recovery of his stolen cloak, and other articles of clothing. horse-thieves are innumerable. now is the day when every beggar gets on horseback. and is not the whole land like a beggar on horseback riding post to the davil? ha! here is a murder, too. a woman slain at midnight, by all unknown ruffian, and found cold, stiff, and bloody, in her violated bed! let the hue-and-cry follow hard after the man in the uniform of blue and buff who last went by that way. my life on it, he is the blood-stained ravisher! these deserters whom we see proclaimed in every column,--proof that the banditti are as false to their stars and stripes as to the holy red cross,--they bring the crimes of a rebel camp into a soil well suited to them; the bosom of a people, without the heart that kept them virtuous,--their king! here flaunting down a whole column, with official seal and signature, here comes a proclamation. by whose authority? ah! the united states,--these thirteen little anarchies, assembled in that one grand anarchy, their congress. and what the import? a general fast. by heaven! for once the traitorous blockheads have legislated wisely! yea; let a misguided people kneel down in sackcloth and ashes, from end to end, from border to border, of their wasted country. well may they fast where there is no food, and cry aloud for whatever remnant of god's mercy their sins may not have exhausted. we too will fast, even at a rebel summons. pray others as they will, there shall be at least an old man kneeling for the righteous cause. lord, put down the rebels! god save the king! peace to the good old tory! one of our objects has been to exemplify, without softening a single prejudice proper to the character which we assumed, that the americans who clung to the losing side in the revolution were men greatly to be pitied and often worthy of our sympathy. it would be difficult to say whose lot was most lamentable, that of the active tories, who gave up their patrimonies for a pittance from the british pension-roll, and their native land for a cold reception in their miscalled home, or the passive ones who remained behind to endure the coldness of former friends, and the public opprobrium, as despised citizens, under a government which they abhorred. in justice to the old gentleman who has favored us with his discontented musings, we must remark that the state of the country, so far as can be gathered from these papers, was of dismal augury for the tendencies of democratic rule. it was pardonable in the conservative of that day to mistake the temporary evils of a change for permanent diseases of the system which that change was to establish. a revolution, or anything that interrupts social order, may afford opportunities for the individual display of eminent virtues; but its effects are pernicious to general morality. most people are so constituted that they can be virtuous only in a certain routine; and an irregular course of public affairs demoralizes them. one great source of disorder was the multitude of disbanded troops, who were continually returning home, after terms of service just long enough to give them a distaste to peaceable occupations; neither citizens nor soldiers, they were very liable to become ruffians. almost all our impressions in regard to this period are unpleasant, whether referring to the state of civil society, or to the character of the contest, which, especially where native americans were opposed to each other, was waged with the deadly hatred of fraternal enemies. it is the beauty of war, for men to commit mutual havoc with undisturbed good-humor. the present volume of newspapers contains fewer characteristic traits than any which we have looked over. except for the peculiarities attendant on the passing struggle, manners seem to have taken a modern cast. whatever antique fashions lingered into the war of the revolution, or beyond it, they were not so strongly marked as to leave their traces in the public journals. moreover, the old newspapers had an indescribable picturesqueness, not to be found in the later ones. whether it be something in the literary execution, or the ancient print and paper, and the idea that those same musty pages have been handled by people once alive and bustling amid the scenes there recorded, yet now in their graves beyond the memory of man; so it is, that in those elder volumes we seem to find the life of a past age preserved between the leaves, like a dry specimen of foliage. it is so difficult to discover what touches are really picturesque, that we doubt whether our attempts have produced any similar effect. the snow-image and other twice-told tales old ticonderoga a picture of the past by nathaniel hawthorne the greatest attraction, in this vicinity, is the famous old fortress of ticonderoga, the remains of which are visible from the piazza of the tavern, on a swell of land that shuts in the prospect of the lake. those celebrated heights, mount defiance and mount independence, familiar to all americans in history, stand too prominent not to be recognized, though neither of them precisely corresponds to the images excited by their names. in truth, the whole scene, except the interior of the fortress, disappointed me. mount defiance, which one pictures as a steep, lofty, and rugged hill, of most formidable aspect, frowning down with the grim visage of a precipice on old ticonderoga, is merely a long and wooded ridge; and bore, at some former period, the gentle name of sugar hill. the brow is certainly difficult to climb, and high enough to look into every corner of the fortress. st. clair's most probable reason, however, for neglecting to occupy it, was the deficiency of troops to man the works already constructed, rather than the supposed inaccessibility of mount defiance. it is singular that the french never fortified this height, standing, as it does, in the quarter whence they must have looked for the advance of a british army. in my first view of the ruins, i was favored with the scientific guidance of a young lieutenant of engineers, recently from west point, where he had gained credit for great military genius. i saw nothing but confusion in what chiefly interested him; straight lines and zigzags, defence within defence, wall opposed to wall, and ditch intersecting ditch; oblong squares of masonry below the surface of the earth, and huge mounds, or turf-covered hills of stone, above it. on one of these artificial hillocks, a pine-tree has rooted itself, and grown tall and strong, since the banner-staff was levelled. but where my unmilitary glance could trace no regularity, the young lieutenant was perfectly at home. he fathomed the meaning of every ditch, and formed an entire plan of the fortress from its half-obliterated lines. his description of ticonderoga would be as accurate as a geometrical theorem, and as barren of the poetry that has clustered round its decay. i viewed ticonderoga as a place of ancient strength, in ruins for half a century: where the flags of three nations had successively waved, and none waved now; where armies had struggled, so long ago that the bones of the slain were mouldered; where peace had found a heritage in the forsaken haunts of war. now the young west-pointer, with his lectures on ravelins, counterscarps, angles, and covered ways, made it an affair of brick and mortar and hewn stone, arranged on certain regular principles, having a good deal to do with mathematics, but nothing at all with poetry. i should have been glad of a hoary veteran to totter by my side, and tell me, perhaps, of the french garrisons and their indian allies,--of abercrombie, lord howe, and amherst,--of ethan allen's triumph and st. clair's surrender. the old soldier and the old fortress would be emblems of each other. his reminiscences, though vivid as the image of ticonderoga in the lake, would harmonize with the gray influence of the scene. a survivor of the long-disbanded garrisons, though but a private soldier, might have mustered his dead chiefs and comrades,--some from westminster abbey, and english churchyards, and battle-fields in europe,--others from their graves here in america,--others, not a few, who lie sleeping round the fortress; he might have mustered them all, and bid them march through the ruined gateway, turning their old historic faces on me, as they passed. next to such a companion, the best is one's own fancy. at another visit i was alone, and, after rambling all over the ramparts, sat down to rest myself in one of the roofless barracks. these are old french structures, and appear to have occupied three sides of a large area, now overgrown with grass, nettles, and thistles. the one in which i sat was long and narrow, as all the rest had been, with peaked gables. the exterior walls were nearly entire, constructed of gray, flat, unpicked stones, the aged strength of which promised long to resist the elements, if no other violence should precipitate their fall.--the roof, floors, partitions, and the rest of the wood-work had probably been burnt, except some bars of stanch old oak, which were blackened with fire, but still remained imbedded into the window-sills and over the doors. there were a few particles of plastering near the chimney, scratched with rude figures, perhaps by a soldier's hand. a most luxuriant crop of weeds had sprung up within the edifice, and hid the scattered fragments of the wall. grass and weeds grew in the windows, and in all the crevices of the stone, climbing, step by step, till a tuft of yellow flowers was waving on the highest peak of the gable. some spicy herb diffused a pleasant odor through the ruin. a verdant heap of vegetation had covered the hearth of the second floor, clustering on the very spot where the huge logs had mouldered to glowing coals, and flourished beneath the broad flue, which had so often puffed the smoke over a circle of french or english soldiers. i felt that there was no other token of decay so impressive as that bed of weeds in the place of the backlog. here i sat, with those roofless walls about me, the clear sky over my head, and the afternoon sunshine falling gently bright through the window-frames and doorway. i heard the tinkling of a cow-bell, the twittering of birds, and the pleasant hum of insects. once a gay butterfly, with four gold-speckled wings, came and fluttered about my head, then flew up and lighted on the highest tuft of yellow flowers, and at last took wing across the lake. next a bee buzzed through the sunshine, and found much sweetness among the weeds. after watching him till he went off to his distant hive, i closed my eyes on ticonderoga in ruins, and cast a dream-like glance over pictures of the past, and scenes of which this spot had been the theatre. at first, my fancy saw only the stern hills, lonely lakes, and venerable woods. not a tree, since their seeds were first scattered over the infant soil, had felt the axe, but had grown up and flourished through its long generation, had fallen beneath the weight of years, been buried in green moss, and nourished the roots of others as gigantic. hark! a light paddle dips into the lake, a birch canoe glides round the point, and an indian chief has passed, painted and feather-crested, armed with a bow of hickory, a stone tomahawk, and flint-headed arrows. but the ripple had hardly vanished from the water, when a white flag caught the breeze, over a castle in the wilderness, with frowning ramparts and a hundred cannon. there stood a french chevalier, commandant of the fortress, paying court to a copper-colored lady, the princess of the land, and winning her wild love by the arts which had been successful with parisian dames. a war-party of french and indians were issuing from the gate to lay waste some village of new england. near the fortress there was a group of dancers. the merry soldiers footing it with the swart savage maids; deeper in the wood, some red men were growing frantic around a keg of the fire-water; and elsewhere a jesuit preached the faith of high cathedrals beneath a canopy of forest boughs, and distributed crucifixes to be worn beside english scalps. i tried to make a series of pictures from the old french war, when fleets were on the lake and armies in the woods, and especially of abercrombie's disastrous repulse, where thousands of lives were utterly thrown away; but, being at a loss how to order the battle, i chose an evening scene in the barracks, after the fortress had surrendered to sir jeffrey amherst. what an immense fire blazes on that hearth, gleaming on swords, bayonets, and musket-barrels, and blending with the hue of the scarlet coats till the whole barrack-room is quivering with ruddy light! one soldier has thrown himself down to rest, after a deer-hunt, or perhaps a long run through the woods with indians on his trail. two stand up to wrestle, and are on the point of coming to blows. a fifer plays a shrill accompaniment to a drummer's song,--a strain of light love and bloody war, with a chorus thundered forth by twenty voices. meantime, a veteran in the corner is prosing about dettingen and fontenoy, and relates camp-traditions of marlborough's battles, till his pipe, having been roguishly charged with gunpowder, makes a terrible explosion under his nose. and now they all vanish in a puff of smoke from the chimney. i merely glanced at the ensuing twenty years, which glided peacefully over the frontier fortress, till ethan allen's shout was heard, summoning it to surrender "in the name of the great jehovah and of the continental congress." strange allies! thought the british captain. next came the hurried muster of the soldiers of liberty, when the cannon of burgoyne, pointing down upon their stronghold from the brow of mount defiance, announced a new conqueror of ticonderoga. no virgin fortress, this! forth rushed the motley throng from the barracks, one man wearing the blue and buff of the union, another the red coat of britain, a third a dragoon's jacket, and a fourth a cotton frock; here was a pair of leather breeches, and striped trousers there; a grenadier's cap on one head, and a broad-brimmed hat, with a tall feather, on the next; this fellow shouldering a king's arm, that might throw a bullet to crown point, and his comrade a long fowling-piece, admirable to shoot ducks on the lake. in the midst of the bustle, when the fortress was all alive with its last warlike scene, the ringing of a bell on the lake made me suddenly unclose my eyes, and behold only the gray and weed-grown ruins. they were as peaceful in the sun as a warrior's grave. hastening to the rampart, i perceived that the signal had been given by the steamboat franklin, which landed a passenger from whitehall at the tavern, and resumed its progress northward, to reach canada the next morning. a sloop was pursuing the same track; a little skiff had just crossed the ferry; while a scow, laden with lumber, spread its huge square sail, and went up the lake. the whole country was a cultivated farm. within musket-shot of the ramparts lay the neat villa of mr. pell, who, since the revolution, has become proprietor of a spot for which france, england, and america have so often struggled. how forcibly the lapse of time and change of circumstances came home to my apprehension! banner would never wave again, nor cannon roar, nor blood be shed, nor trumpet stir up a soldier's heart, in this old fort of ticonderoga. tall trees have grown upon its ramparts, since the last garrison marched out, to return no more, or only at some dreamer's summons, gliding from the twilight past to vanish among realities. twice told tales the village uncle an imaginary retrospect by nathaniel hawthorne come! another log upon the hearth. true, our little parlor is comfortable, especially here, where the old man sits in his old arm-chair; but on thanksgiving night the blaze should dance high up the chimney, and send a shower of sparks into the outer darkness. toss on an armful of those dry oak chips, the last relics of the mermaid's knee-timbers, the bones of your namesake, susan. higher yet, and clearer be the blaze, till our cottage windows glow the ruddiest in the village, and the light of our household mirth flash far across the bay to nahant. and now, come, susan, come, my children, draw your chairs round me, all of you. there is a dimness over your figures! you sit quivering indistinctly with each motion of the blaze, which eddies about you like a flood, so that you all have the look of visions, or people that dwell only in the fire light, and will vanish from existence, as completely as your own shadows, when the flame shall sink among the embers. hark! let me listen for the swell of the surf; it should be audible a mile inland, on a night like this. yes; there i catch the sound, but only an uncertain murmur, as if a good way down over the beach; though, by the almanac, it is high tide at eight o'clock, and the billows must now be dashing within thirty yards of our door. ah! the old man's ears are failing him; and so is his eyesight, and perhaps his mind; else you would not all be so shadowy, in the blaze of his thanksgiving fire. how strangely the past is peeping over the shoulders of the present! to judge by my recollections, it is but a few moments since i sat in another room; yonder model of a vessel was not there, nor the old chest of drawers, nor susan's profile and mine, in that gilt frame; nothing, in short, except this same fire, which glimmered on books, papers, and a picture, and half discovered my solitary figure in a looking-glass. but it was paler than my rugged old self, and younger, too, by almost half a century. speak to me, susan; speak, my beloved ones; for the scene is glimmering on my sight again, and as it brightens you fade away. o, i should be loath to lose my treasure of past happiness, and become once more what i was then; a hermit in the depths of my own mind; sometimes yawning over drowsy volumes, and anon a scribbler of wearier trash than what i read; a man who had wandered out of the real world and got into its shadow, where his troubles, joys, and vicissitudes were of such slight stuff, that he hardly knew whether he lived, or only dreamed of living. thank heaven, i am an old man now, and have done with all such vanities! still this dimness of mine eyes! come nearer, susan, and stand before the fullest blaze of the hearth. now i behold you illuminated from head to foot, in your clean cap and decent gown, with the dear lock of gray hair across your forehead, and a quiet smile about your mouth, while the eyes alone are concealed, by the red gleam of the fire upon your spectacles. there, you made me tremble again! when the flame quivered, my sweet susan, you quivered with it, and grew indistinct, as if melting into the warm light, that my last glimpse of you might be as visionary as the first was, full many a year since. do you remember it? you stood on the little bridge, over the brook, that runs across king's beach into the sea. it was twilight; the waves rolling in, the wind sweeping by, the crimson clouds fading in the west, and the silver moon brightening above the hill; and on the bridge were you, fluttering in the breeze like a sea-bird that might skim away at your pleasure. you seemed a daughter of the viewless wind, a creature of the ocean foam and the crimson light, whose merry life was spent in dancing on the crests of the billows, that threw up their spray to support your footsteps. as i drew nearer, i fancied you akin to the race of mermaids, and thought how pleasant it would be to dwell with you among the quiet coves, in the shadow of the cliffs, and to roam along secluded beaches of the purest sand, and when our northern shores grew bleak, to haunt the islands, green and lonely, far amid summer seas. and yet it gladdened me, after all this nonsense, to find you nothing but a pretty young girl, sadly perplexed with the rude behavior of the wind about your petticoats. thus i did with susan as with most other things in my earlier days, dipping her image into my mind and coloring it of a thousand fantastic hues, before i could see her as she really was. now, susan, for a sober picture of our village! it was a small collection of dwellings that seemed to have been cast up by the sea, with the rock-weed and marine plants that it vomits after a storm, or to have come ashore among the pipe-staves and other lumber, which had been washed from the deck of an eastern schooner. there was just space for the narrow and sandy street between the beach in front, and a precipitous hill that lifted its rocky forehead in the rear, among a waste of juniper-bushes and the wild growth of a broken pasture. the village was picturesque, in the variety of its edifices, though all were rude. here stood a little old hovel, built, perhaps, of drift-wood, there a row of boat-houses, and beyond them a two-story dwelling, of dark and weather-beaten aspect, the whole intermixed with one or two snug cottages, painted white, a sufficiency of pigsties, and a shoemaker's shop. two grocery-stores stand opposite each other, in the centre of the village. these were the places of resort, at their idle hours, of a hardy throng of fishermen, in red baize shirts, oilcloth trousers, and boots of brown leather covering the whole leg; true seven-league boots, but fitter to wade the ocean than walk the earth. the wearers seemed amphibious, as if they did but creep out of salt water to sun themselves; nor would it have been wonderful to see their lower limbs covered with clusters of little shellfish, such as cling to rocks and old ship-timber over which the tide ebbs and flows. when their fleet of boats was weather-bound, the butchers raised their price, and the spit was busier than the frying-pan; for this was a place of fish, and known as such, to all the country round about; the very air was fishy, being perfumed with dead sculpins, hardheads, and dogfish, strewn plentifully on the beach. you see, children, the village is but little changed, since your mother and i were young. how like a dream it was, when i bent over a pool of water, one pleasant morning, and saw that the ocean had dashed its spray over me and made me a fisherman! there were the tarpauling, the baize shirt, the oil-cloth trousers and seven-league boots, and there my own features, but so reddened with sunburn and sea-breezes, that methought i had another face, and on other shoulders too. the sea-gulls and the loons, and i, had now all one trade; we skimmed the crested waves and sought our prey beneath them, the man with as keen enjoyment as the birds. always, when the east grew purple, i launched my dory, my little flat-bottomed skiff, and rowed cross-handed to point ledge, the middle ledge, or, perhaps, beyond egg rock; often, too, did i anchor off dread ledge, a spot of peril to ships unpiloted; and sometimes spread an adventurous sail and tracked across the bay to south shore, casting my lines in sight of scituate. ere nightfall, i hauled my skiff high and dry on the beach, laden with red rock-cod, or the white-bellied ones of deep water; haddock, bearing the black marks of st. peter's fingers near the gills; the longbearded hake, whose liver holds oil enough for a midnight lamp; and now and then a mighty halibut, with a back broad as my boat. in the autumn, i trolled and caught those lovely fish, the mackerel. when the wind was high,--when the whale-boats, anchored off the point, nodded their slender masts at each other, and the dories pitched and tossed in the surf,--when nahant beach was thundering three miles off, and the spray broke a hundred feet in air, round the distant base of egg rock,--when the brimful and boisterous sea threatened to tumble over the street of our village,--then i made a holiday on shore. many such a day did i sit snugly in mr. bartlett's store, attentive to the yarns of uncle parker; uncle to the whole village, by right of seniority, but of southern blood, with no kindred in new england. his figure is before me now, enthroned upon a mackerel-barrel; a lean old man, of great height, but bent with years, and twisted into an uncouth shape by seven broken limbs; furrowed also, and weather-worn, as if every gale, for the better part of a century, had caught him somewhere on the sea. he looked like a harbinger of tempest, a shipmate of the flying dutchman. after innumerable voyages aboard men-of-war and merchant-men, fishing-schooners and chebacco-boats, the old salt had become master of a handcart, which he daily trundled about the vicinity, and sometimes blew his fish-horn through the streets of salem. one of uncle parker's eyes had been blown out with gunpowder, and the other did but glimmer in its socket. turning it upward as he spoke, it was his delight to tell of cruises against the french, and battles with his own shipmates, when he and an antagonist used to be seated astride of a sailor's chest, each fastened down by a spike-nail through his trousers, and there to fight it out. sometimes he expatiated on the delicious flavor of the liagden, a greasy and goose-like fowl, which the sailors catch with hook and line on the grand banks. he dwelt with rapture on an interminable winter at the isle of sables, where he had gladdened himself, amid polar snows, with the rum and sugar saved from the wreck of a west india schooner. and wrathfully did he shake his fist, as he related how a party of cape cod men had robbed him and his companions of their lawful spoil, and sailed away with every keg of old jamaica, leaving him not a drop to drown his sorrow. villains they were, and of that wicked brotherhood who are said to tie lanterns to horses' tails, to mislead the mariner along the dangerous shores of the cape. even now i seem to see the group of fishermen, with that old salt in the midst. one fellow sits on the counter, a second bestrides an oil-barrel, a third lolls at his length on a parcel of new cod-lines, and another has planted the tarry seat of his trousers on a heap of salt, which will shortly be sprinkled over a lot of fish. they are a likely set of men. some have voyaged to the east indies or the pacific, and most of them have sailed in marblehead schooners to newfoundland; a few have been no farther than the middle banks, and one or two have always fished along the shore; but, as uncle parker used to say, they have all been christened in salt water, and know more than men ever learn in the bushes. a curious figure, by way of contrast, is a fish-dealer from farup country, listening with eyes wide open to narratives that might startle sindbad the sailor. be it well with you, my brethren! ye are all gone, some to your graves ashore, and others to the depths of ocean; but my faith is strong that ye are happy; for whenever i behold your forms, whether in dream or vision, each departed friend is puffing his long-nine, and a mug of the right blackstrap goes round from lip to lip. but where was the mermaid in those delightful times? at a certain window near the centre of the village appeared a pretty display of gingerbread men and horses, picture-books and ballads, small fish-hooks, pins, needles, sugar-plums, and brass thimbles, articles on which the young fishermen used to expend their money from pure gallantry. what a picture was susan behind the counter! a slender maiden, though the child of rugged parents, she had the slimmest of all waists, brown hair curling on her neck, and a complexion rather pale, except when the sea-breeze flushed it. a few freckles became beauty-spots beneath her eyelids. how was it, susan, that you talked and acted so carelessly, yet always for the best, doing whatever was right in your own eyes, and never once doing wrong in mine, nor shocked a taste that had been morbidly sensitive till now? and whence had you that happiest gift, of brightening every topic with an unsought gayety, quiet but irresistible, so that even loomy spirits felt your sunshine, and did not shrink from it? nature wrought the charm. she made you a frank, simple, kind-hearted, sensible, and mirthful girl. obeying nature, you did free things without indelicacy, displayed a maiden's thoughts to every eye, and proved yourself as innocent as naked eve. it was beautiful to observe, how her simple and happy nature mingled itself with mine. she kindled a domestic fire within my heart, and took up her dwelling there, even in that chill and lonesome cavern hung round with glittering icicles of fancy. she gave me warmth of feeling, while the influence of my mind made her contemplative. i taught her to love the moonlight hour, when the expanse of the encircled bay was smooth as a great mirror and slept in a transparent shadow; while beyond nahant, the wind rippled the dim ocean into a dreamy brightness, which grew faint afar off, without becoming gloomier. i held her hand and pointed to the long surf wave, as it rolled calmly on the beach, in an unbroken line of silver; we were silent together, till its deep and peaceful murmur had swept by us. when the sabbath sun shone down into the recesses of the cliffs, i led the mermaid thither, and told her that those huge, gray, shattered rocks, and her native sea, that raged forever like a storm against them, and her own slender beauty, in so stern a scene, were all combined into a strain of poetry. but on the sabbath eve, when her mother had gone early to bed, and her gentle sister had smiled and left us, as we sat alone by the quiet hearth, with household things around, it was her turn to make me feel that here was a deeper poetry, and that this was the dearest hour of all. thus went on our wooing, till i had shot wild-fowl enough to feather our bridal bed, and the daughter of the sea was mine. i built a cottage for susan and myself, and made a gateway in the form of a gothic arch, by setting up a whale's jaw-bones. we bought a heifer with her first calf, and had a little garden on the hillside, to supply us with potatoes and green sauce for our fish. our parlor small and neat, was ornamented with our two profiles in one gilt frame, and with shells and pretty pebbles on the mantel-piece, selected from the sea's treasury of such things, on nahant beach. on the desk, beneath the looking-glass, lay the bible, which i had begun to read aloud at the book of genesis, and the singing-book that susan used for her evening psalm. except the almanac, we had no other literature. all that i heard of books, was when an indian history, or tale of shipwreck, was sold by a peddler or wandering subscription-man, to some one in the village, and read through its owner's nose to a slumberous auditory. like my brother fishermen, i grew into the belief that all human erudition was collected in our pedagogue, whose green spectacles and solemn phiz, as he passed to his little schoolhouse, amid a waste of sand, might have gained him a diploma from any college in new england. in truth i dreaded him. when our children were old enough to claim his care, you remember, susan, how i frowned, though you were pleased, at this learned man's encomiums on their proficiency. i feared to trust them even with the alphabet; it was the key to a fatal treasure. but i loved to lead them by their little hands along the beach, and point to nature in the vast and the minute, the sky, the sea, the green earth, the pebbles, and the shells. then did i discourse of the mighty works and coextensive goodness of the deity, with the simple wisdom of a man whose mind had profited by lonely days upon the deep, and his heart by the strong and pure affections of his evening home. sometimes my voice lost itself in a tremulous depth; for i felt his eye upon me as i spoke. once, while my wife and all of us were gazing at ourselves, in the mirror left by the tide in a hollow of the sand, i pointed to the pictured heaven below, and bade her observe how religion was strewn everywhere in our path; since even a casual pool of water recalled the idea of that home whither we were travelling, to rest forever with our children. suddenly, your image, susan, and all the little faces made up of yours and mine, seemed to fade away and vanish around me, leaving a pale visage like my own of former days within the frame of a large looking-glass. strange illusion! my life glided on, the past appearing to mingle with the present and absorb the future, till the whole lies before me at a glance. my manhood has long been waning with a stanch decay; my earlier contemporaries, after lives of unbroken health, are all at rest, without having known the weariness of later age; and now, with a wrinkled forehead and thin white hair as badges of my dignity, i have become the patriarch, the uncle of the village. i love that name; it widens the circle of my sympathies; it joins all the youthful to my household, in the kindred of affection. like uncle parker, whose rheumatic bones were dashed against egg rock, full forty years ago, i am a spinner of long yarns. seated on the gunwale of a dory, or on the sunny side of a boat-house, where the warmth is grateful to my limbs, or by my own hearth, when a friend or two are there, i overflow with talk, and yet am never tedious. with a broken voice i give utterance to much wisdom. such, heaven be praised! is the vigor of my faculties, that many a forgotten usage, and traditions ancient in my youth, and early adventures of myself or others, hitherto effaced by things more recent, acquire new distinctness in my memory. i remember the happy days when the haddock were more numerous on all the fishing-grounds than sculpins in the surf; when the deepwater cod swain close in shore, and the dogfish, with his poisonous horn, had not learned to take the hook. i can number every equinoctial storm, in which the sea has overwhelmed the street, flooded the cellars of the village, and hissed upon our kitchen hearth. i give the history of the great whale that was landed on whale beach, and whose jaws, being now my gateway, will last for ages after my coffin shall have passed beneath them. thence it is an easy digression to the halibut, scarcely smaller than the whale, which ran out six cod-lines, and hauled my dory to the mouth of boston harbor, before i could touch him with the gaff. if melancholy accidents be the theme of conversation, i tell how a friend of mine was taken out of his boat by an enormous shark; and the sad, true tale of a young man on the eve of marriage, who had been nine days missing, when his drowned body floated into the very pathway, on marblehead neck, that had often led him to the dwelling of his bride; as if the dripping corpse would have come where the mourner was. with such awful fidelity did that lover return to fulfil his vows! another favorite story is of a crazy maiden, who conversed with angels and had the gift of prophecy, and whom all the village loved and pitied, though she went from door to door accusing us of sin, exhorting to repentance, and foretelling our destruction by flood or earthquake. if the young men boast their knowledge of the ledges and sunken rocks, i speak of pilots, who knew the wind by its scent and the wave by its taste, and could have steered blindfold to any port between boston and mount desert, guided only by the rote of the shore; the peculiar sound of the surf on each island, beach, and line of rocks, along the coast. thus do i talk, and all my auditors grow wise, while they deem it pastime. i recollect no happier portion of my life, than this, my calm old age. it is like the sunny and sheltered slope of a valley, where, late in the autumn, the grass is greener than in august, and intermixed with golden dandelions, that have not been seen till now, since the first warmth of the year. but with me, the verdure and the flowers are not frostbitten in the midst of winter. a playfulness has revisited my mind; a sympathy with the young and gay; an unpainful interest in the business of others; a light and wandering curiosity; arising, perhaps, from the sense that my toil on earth is ended, and the brief hour till bedtime may be spent in play. still, i have fancied that there is a depth of feeling and reflection, under this superficial levity, peculiar to one who has lived long, and is soon to die. show me anything that would make an infant smile, and you shall behold a gleam of mirth over the hoary ruin of my visage. i can spend a pleasant hour in the sun, watching the sports of the village children, on the edge of the surf; now they chase the retreating wave far down over the wet sand; now it steals softly up to kiss their naked feet; now it comes onward with threatening front, and roars after the laughing crew, as they scamper beyond its reach. why should not an old man be merry too, when the great sea is at play with those little children? i delight, also, to follow in the wake of a pleasure-party of young men and girls, strolling along the beach after an early supper at the point. here, with hand kerchiefs at nose, they bend over a heap of eel-grass, entangled in which is a dead skate, so oddly accoutred with two legs and a long tail, that they mistake him for a drowned animal. a few steps farther, the ladies scream, and the gentlemen make ready to protect them against a young shark of the dogfish kind, rolling with a life-like motion in the tide that has thrown him up. next, they are smit with wonder at the black shells of a wagon-load of live lobsters, packed in rock-weed for the country market. and when they reach the fleet of dories, just hauled ashore after the day's fishing, how do i laugh in my sleeve, and sometimes roar outright, at the simplicity of these young folks and the sly humor of the fishermen! in winter, when our village is thrown into a bustle by the arrival of perhaps a score of country dealers, bargaining for frozen fish, to be transported hundreds of miles, and eaten fresh in vermont or canada, i am a pleased but idle spectator in the throng. for i launch my boat no more. when the shore was solitary, i have found a pleasure that seemed even to exalt my mind, in observing the sports or contentions of two gulls, as they wheeled and hovered about each other, with hoarse screams, one moment flapping on the foam of the wave, and then soaring aloft, till their white bosoms melted into the upper sunshine. in the calm of the summer sunset, i drag my aged limbs, with a little ostentation of activity, because i am so old, up to the rocky brow of the hill. there i see the white sails of many a vessel, outward bound or homeward from afar, and the black trail of a vapor behind the eastern steamboat; there, too, is the sun, going down, but not in gloom, and there the illimitable ocean mingling with the sky, to remind me of eternity. but sweetest of all is the hour of cheerful musing and pleasant talk, that comes between the dusk and the lighted candle, by my glowing fireside. and never, even on the first thanksgiving night, when susan and i sat alone with our hopes, nor the second, when a stranger had been sent to gladden us, and be the visible image of our affection, did i feel such joy as now. all that belong to me are here; death has taken none, nor disease kept them away, nor strife divided them from their parents or each other; with neither poverty nor riches to disturb them, nor the misery of desires beyond their lot, they have kept new england's festival round the patriarch's board. for i am a patriarch! here i sit among my descendants, in my old arm-chair and immemorial corner, while the firelight throws an appropriate glory round my venerable frame. susan! my children! something whispers me, that this happiest hour must be the final one, and that nothing remains but to bless you all, and depart with a treasure of recollected joys to heaven. will you meet me there? alas! your figures grow indistinct, fading into pictures on the air, and now to fainter outlines, while the fire is glimmering on the walls of a familiar room, and shows the book that i flung down, and the sheet that i left half written, some fifty years ago. i lift my eyes to the looking-glass, and perceive myself alone, unless those be the mermaid's features, retiring into the depths of the mirror, with a tender and melancholy smile. all! one feels a chillness, not bodily, but about the heart, and, moreover, a foolish dread of looking behind him, after these pastimes. i can imagine precisely how a magician would sit down in gloom and terror, after dismissing the shadows that had personated dead or distant people, and stripping his cavern of the unreal splendor which had changed it to a palace. and now for a moral to my revery. shall it be, that, since fancy can create so bright a dream of happiness, it were better to dream on from youth to age, than to awake and strive doubtfully for something real! o, the slight tissue of a dream can no more preserve us from the stern reality of misfortune, than a robe of cobweb could repel the wintry blast. be this the moral, then. in chaste and warm affections, humble wishes, and honest toil for some useful end, there is health for the mind, and quiet for the heart, the prospect of a happy life, and the fairest hope of heaven. twice told tales footprints on the sea-shore by nathaniel hawthorne it must be a spirit much unlike my own, which can keep itself in health and vigor without sometimes stealing from the sultry sunshine of the world, to plunge into the cool bath of solitude. at intervals, and not infrequent ones, the forest and the ocean summon me--one with the roar of its waves, the other with the murmur of its boughs--forth from the haunts of men. but i must wander many a mile, ere i could stand beneath the shadow of even one primeval tree, much less be lost among the multitude of hoary trunks, and hidden from earth and sky by the mystery of darksome foliage. nothing is within my daily reach more like a forest than the acre or two of woodland near some suburban farm-house. when, therefore, the yearning for seclusion becomes a necessity within me, i am drawn to the sea-shore, which extends its line of rude rocks and seldom-trodden sands, for leagues around our bay. setting forth at my last ramble, on a september morning, i bound myself with a hermit's vow, to interchange no thoughts with man or woman, to share no social pleasure, but to derive all that day's enjoyment from shore, and sea, and sky,--from my soul's communion with these, and from fantasies, and recollections, or anticipated realities. surely here is enough to feed a human spirit for a single day. farewell, then, busy world! till your evening lights shall shine along the street,--till they gleam upon my sea-flushed face, as i tread homeward,--free me from your ties, and let me be a peaceful outlaw. highways and cross-paths are hastily traversed, and, clambering down a crag, i find myself at the extremity of a long beach. how gladly does the spirit leap forth, and suddenly enlarge its sense of being to the full extent of the broad, blue, sunny deep! a greeting and a homage to the sea! i descend over its margin, and dip my hand into the wave that meets me, and bathe my brow. that far-resounding roar is ocean's voice of welcome. his salt breath brings a blessing along with it. now let us pace together--the reader's fancy arm in arm with mine--this noble beach, which extends a mile or more from that craggy promontory to yonder rampart of broken rocks. in front, the sea; in the rear, a precipitous bank, the grassy verge of which is breaking away, year after year, and flings down its tufts of verdure upon the barrenness below. the beach itself is a broad space of sand, brown and sparkling, with hardly any pebbles intermixed. near the water's edge there is a wet margin, which glistens brightly in the sunshine, and reflects objects like a mirror; and as we tread along the glistening border, a dry spot flashes around each footstep, but grows moist again, as we lift our feet. in some spots, the sand receives a complete impression of the sole, square toe and all; elsewhere it is of such marble firmness, that we must stamp heavily to leave a print even of the iron-shod heel. along the whole of this extensive beach gambols the surf wave: now it makes a feint of dashing onward in a fury, yet dies away with a meek murmur, and does but kiss the strand; now, after many such abortive efforts, it rears itself up in an unbroken line, heightening as it advances, without a speck of foam on its green crest. with how fierce a roar it flings itself forward, and rushes far up the beach! as i threw my eyes along the edge of the surf, i remember that i was startled, as robinson crusoe might have been, by the sense that human life was within the magic circle of my solitude. afar off in the remote distance of the beach, appearing like sea-nymphs, or some airier things, such as might tread upon the feathery spray, was a group of girls. hardly had i beheld them, when they passed into the shadow of the rocks and vanished. to comfort myself--for truly i would fain have gazed a while longer--i made acquaintance with a flock of beach birds. these little citizens of the sea and air preceded me by about a stone's-throw along the strand, seeking, i suppose, for food upon its margin. yet, with a philosophy which mankind would do well to imitate, they drew a continual pleasure from their toil for a subsistence. the sea was each little bird's great playmate. they chased it downward as it swept back, and again ran up swiftly before the impending wave, which sometimes overtook them and bore them off their feet. but they floated as lightly as one of their own feathers on the breaking crest. in their airy flutterings, they seemed to rest on the evanescent spray. their images--long-legged little figures, with gray backs and snowy bosoms--were seen as distinctly as the realities in the mirror of the glistening strand. as i advanced, they flew a score or two of yards, and, again alighting, recommenced their dalliance with the surf wave; and thus they bore me company along the beach, the types of pleasant fantasies, till, at its extremity, they took wing over the ocean, and were gone. after forming a friendship with these small surf-spirits, it is really worth a sigh, to find no memorial of them, save their multitudinous little tracks in the sand. when we have paced the length of the beach, it is pleasant, and not unprofitable, to retrace our steps, and recall the whole mood and occupation of the mind during the former passage. our tracks, being all discernible, will guide us with an observing consciousness through every unconscious wandering of thought and fancy. here we followed the surf in its reflux, to pick up a shell which the sea seemed loath to relinquish. here we found a sea-weed, with an immense brown leaf, and trailed it behind us by its long snake-like stalk. here we seized a live horseshoe by the tail, and counted the many claws of the queer monster. here we dug into the sand for pebbles, and skipped them upon the surface of the water. here we wet our feet while examining a jelly-fish, which the waves, having just tossed it up, now sought to snatch away again. here we trod along the brink of a fresh-water brooklet, which flows across the beach, becoming shallower and more shallow, till at last it sinks into the sand, and perishes in the effort to bear its little tribute to the main. here some vagary appears to have bewildered us; for our tracks go round and round, and are confusedly intermingled, as if we had found a labyrinth upon the level beach. and here, amid our idle pastime, we sat down upon almost the only stone that breaks the surface of the sand, and were lost in an unlooked-for and overpowering conception of the majesty and awfulness of the great deep. thus, by tracking our footprints in the sand, we track our own nature in its wayward course, and steal a glance upon it, when it never dreams of being so observed. such glances always make us wiser. this extensive beach affords room for another pleasant pastime. with your staff you may write verses--love-verses, if they please you best--and consecrate them with a woman's name. here, too, may be inscribed thoughts, feelings, desires, warm out-gushings from the heart's secret places, which you would not pour upon the sand without the certainty that, almost ere the sky has looked upon them, the sea will wash them out. stir not hence till the record be effaced. now--for there is room enough on your canvas--draw huge faces,--huge as that of the sphinx on egyptian sands,--and fit them with bodies of corresponding immensity, and legs which might stride half-way to yonder island. child's play becomes magnificent on so grand a scale. but, after all, the most fascinating employment is simply to write your name in the sand. draw the letters gigantic, so that two strides may barely measure them, and three for the long strokes! cut deep, that the record may be permanent! statesmen, and warriors, and poets have spent their strength in no better cause than this. is it accomplished? return, then, in an hour or two, and seek for this mighty record of a name. the sea will have swept over it, even as time rolls its effacing waves over the names of statesmen, and warriors, and poets. hark, the surf wave laughs at you! passing from the beach, i begin to clamber over the crags, making my difficult way among the ruins of a rampart, shattered and broken by the assaults of a fierce enemy. the rocks rise in every variety of attitude; some of them have their feet in the foam, and are shagged half-way upward with sea-weed; some have been hollowed almost into caverns by the unwearied toil of the sea, which can afford to spend centuries in wearing away a rock, or even polishing a pebble. one huge rock ascends in monumental shape, with a face like a giant's tombstone, on which the veins resemble inscriptions, but in an unknown tongue. we will fancy them the forgotten characters of an antediluvian race; or else that nature's own hand has here recorded a mystery, which, could i read her language, would make mankind the wiser and the happier. how many a thing has troubled me with that same idea! pass on, and leave it unexplained. here is a narrow avenue, which might seem to have been hewn through the very heart of an enormous crag, affording passage for the rising sea to thunder back and forth, filling it with tumultuous foam, and then leaving its floor of black pebbles bare and glistening. in this chasm there was once an intersecting vein of softer stone, which the waves have gnawed away piecemeal, while the granite walls remain entire on either side. how sharply, and with what harsh clamor, does the sea rake hack the pebbles, as it momentarily withdraws into its own depths! at intervals, the floor of the chasm is left nearly dry; but anon, at the outlet, two or three great waves are seen struggling to get in at once; two hit the walls athwart, while one rushes straight through, and all three thunder, as if with rage and triumph. they heap the chasm with a snow-drift of foam and spray. while watching this scene, i can never rid myself of the idea that a monster, endowed with life and fierce energy, is striving to burst his way through the narrow pass. and what a contrast, to look through the stormy chasm, and catch a glimpse of the calm bright sea beyond! many interesting discoveries may be made among these broken cliffs. once, for example, i found a dead seal, which a recent tempest had tossed into the nook of the rocks, where his shaggy carcass lay rolled in a heap of eel-grass, as if the sea-monster sought to hide himself from my eye. another time, a shark seemed on the point of leaping from the surf to swallow me; nor did i wholly without dread approach near enough to ascertain that the man-eater had already met his own death from some fisherman in the bay. in the same ramble, i encountered a bird,--a large gray bird,--but whether a loon, or a wild goose, or the identical albatross of the ancient mariner, was beyond my ornithology to decide. it reposed so naturally on a bed of dry sea-weed, with its head beside its wing, that i almost fancied it alive, and trod softly lest it should suddenly spread its wings skyward. but the sea-bird would soar among the clouds no more, nor ride upon its native waves; so i drew near, and pulled out one of its mottled tail-feathers for a remembrance. another day, i discovered an immense bone, wedged into a chasm of the rocks; it was at least ten feet long, curved like a cimeter, bejewelled with barnacles and small shell-fish, and partly covered with a growth of sea-weed. some leviathan of former ages had used this ponderous mass as a jawbone. curiosities of a minuter order may be observed in a deep reservoir, which is replenished with water at every tide, but becomes a lake among the crags, save when the sea is at its height. at the bottom of this rocky basin grow marine plants, some of which tower high beneath the water, and cast a shadow in the sunshine. small fishes dart to and fro, and hide themselves among the sea-weed; there is also a solitary crab, who appears to lead the life of a hermit, communing with none of the other denizens of the place; and likewise several five-fingers,--for i know no other name than that which children give them. if your imagination be at all accustomed to such freaks, you may look down into the depths of this pool, and fancy it the mysterious depth of ocean. but where are the hulks and scattered timbers of sunken ships? where the treasures that old ocean hoards?--where the corroded cannon?--where the corpses and skeletons of seamen, who went down in storm and battle? on the day of my last ramble (it was a september day, yet as warm as summer), what should i behold as i approached the above-described basin but three girls sitting on its margin, and--yes, it is veritably so--laving their snowy feet in the sunny water! these, these are the warm realities of those three visionary shapes that flitted from me on the beach. hark! their merry voices, as they toss up the water with their feet! they have not seen me. i must shrink behind this rock, and steal away again. in honest truth, vowed to solitude as i am, there is something in this encounter that makes the heart flutter with a strangely pleasant sensation. i know these girls to be realities of flesh and blood, yet, glancing at them so briefly, they mingle like kindred creatures with the ideal beings of my mind. it is pleasant, likewise, to gaze down from some high crag, and watch a group of children, gathering pebbles and pearly shells, and playing with the surf, as with old ocean's hoary beard. nor does it infringe upon my seclusion, to see yonder boat at anchor off the shore, swinging dreamily to and fro, and rising and sinking with the alternate swell; while the crew--four gentlemen, in round-about jackets--are busy with their fishing-lines. but, with an inward antipathy and a headlong flight, do i eschew the presence of any meditative stroller like myself, known by his pilgrim staff, his sauntering step, his shy demeanor, his observant yet abstracted eye. from such a man, as if another self had scared me, i scramble hastily over the rocks, and take refuge in a nook which many a secret hour has given me a right to call my own. i would do battle for it even with the churl that should produce the title-deeds. have not my musings melted into its rocky walls and sandy floor, and made them a portion of myself? it is a recess in the line of cliffs, walled round by a rough, high precipice, which almost encircles and shuts in a little space of sand. in front, the sea appears as between the pillars of a portal. in the rear, the precipice is broken and intermixed with earth, which gives nourishment not only to-clinging and twining shrubs, but to trees, that gripe the rock with their naked roots, and seem to struggle hard for footing and for soil enough to live upon. these are fir-trees; but oaks hang their heavy branches from above, and throw down acorns on the beach, and shed their withering foliage upon the waves. at this autumnal season, the precipice is decked with variegated splendor; trailing wreaths of scarlet flaunt from the summit downward; tufts of yellow-flowering shrubs, and rose-bushes, with their reddened leaves and glossy seed-berries, sprout from each crevice; at every glance, i detect some new light or shade of beauty, all contrasting with the stern, gray rock. a rill of water trickles down the cliff and fills a little cistern near the base. i drain it at a draught, and find it fresh and pure. this recess shall be my dining-hall. and what the feast? a few biscuits, made savory by soaking them in seawater, a tuft of samphire gathered from the beach, and an apple for the dessert. by this time, the little rill has filled its reservoir again; and, as i quaff it, i thank god morn heartily than for a civic banquet, that he gives me the healthful appetite to make a feast of bread and water. dinner being over, i throw myself at length upon the sand, and, basking in the sunshine, let my mind disport itself at will. the walls of this my hermitage have no tongue to tell my follies, though i sometimes fancy that they have ears to hear them, and a soul to sympathize. there is a magic in this spot. dreams haunt its precincts, and flit around me in broad sunlight, nor require that sleep shall blindfold me to real objects, ere these be visible. here can i frame a story of two lovers, and make their shadows live before me, and be mirrored in the tranquil water, as they tread along the sand, leaving no footprints. here, should i will it, i can summon up a single shade, and be myself her lover. yes, dreamer,--but your lonely heart will be the colder for such fancies. sometimes, too, the past comes back, and finds me here, and in her train come faces which were gladsome, when i knew them, yet seem not gladsome now. would that my hiding-place were lonelier, so that the past might not find me! get ye all gone, old friends, and let me listen to the murmur of the sea,--a melancholy voice, but less sad than yours. of what mysteries is it telling? of sunken ships, and whereabouts they lie? of islands afar and undiscovered, whose tawny children are unconscious of other islands and of continents, and deem the stars of heaven their nearest neighbors? nothing of all this. what then? has it talked for so many ages, and meant nothing all the while--no; for those ages find utterance in the sea's unchanging voice, and warn the listener to withdraw his interest from mortal vicissitudes, and let the infinite idea of eternity pervade his soul. this is wisdom; and, therefore, will i spend the next half-hour in shaping little boats of drift-wood, and launching them on voyages across the cove, with the feather of a sea-gull for a sail. if the voice of ages tell me true, this is as wise an occupation as to build ships of five hundred tons, and launch them forth upon the main, bound to "far cathay." yet, how would the merchant sneer at me! and, after all, can such philosophy be true? methinks i could find a thousand arguments against it. well, then, let yonder shaggy rock, mid-deep in the surf,--see! he is somewhat wrathful,--he rages and roars and foams,--let that tall rock be my antagonist, and let me exercise my oratory like him of athens, who bandied words with an angry sea and got the victory. my maiden speech is a triumphant one; for the gentleman in sea-weed has nothing to offer in reply, save an immitigable roaring. his voice, indeed, will be heard a long while after mine is hushed. once more i shout, and the cliffs reverberate the sound. o, what joy for a shy man to feel himself so solitary, that he may lift his voice to its highest pitch without hazard of a listener! but, hush!--be silent, my good friend!--whence comes that stifled laughter? it was musical,--but how should there be such music in my solitude? looking upwards, i catch a glimpse of three faces, peeping from the summit of the cliff, like angels between me and their native sky. ah, fair girls, you may make yourselves merry at my eloquence,--but it was my turn to smile when i saw your white feet in the pool! let us keep each other's secrets. the sunshine has now passed from my hermitage, except a gleam upon the sand just where it meets the sea. a crowd of gloomy fantasies will come and haunt me, if i tarry longer here, in the darkening twilight of these gray rocks. this is a dismal place in some moods of the mind. climb we, therefore, the precipice, and pause a moment on the brink, gazing down into that hollow chamber by the deep where we have been, what few can be, sufficient to our own pastime,-yes, say the word outright!--self-sufficient to our own happiness. how lonesome looks the recess now, and dreary, too,--like all other spots where happiness has been! there lies my shadow in the departing sunshine with its head upon the sea. i will pelt it with pebbles. a hit! a hit! i clap my hands in triumph, and see! my shadow clapping its unreal hands, and claiming the triumph for itself. what a simpleton must i have been all day,--since my own shadow makes a mock of my fooleries! homeward! homeward! it is time to hasten home. it is time; it is time; for as the sun sinks over the western wave, the sea grows melancholy, and the surf has a saddened tone. the distant sails appear astray, and not of earth, in their remoteness amid the desolate waste. my spirit wanders forth afar, but finds no resting-place, and comes shivering back. it is time that i were hence. but grudge me not the day that has been spent in seclusion, which yet was not solitude, since the great sea has been my companion, and the little sea-birds my friends, and the wind has told me his secrets, and airy shapes have flitted around me in my hermitage. such companionship works an effect upon a man's character, as if he had been admitted to the society of creatures that are not mortal. and when, at noontide, i tread the crowded streets, the influence of this day will still be felt; so that i shall walk among men kindly and as a brother, with affection and sympathy, but yet shall not melt into the indistinguishable mass of humankind. i shall think my own thoughts, and feel my own emotions, and possess my individuality unviolated. but it is good, at the eve of such a day, to feel and know that there are men and women in the world. that feeling and that knowledge are mine, at this moment; for, on the shore, far below me, the fishing-party have landed from their skiff, and are cooking their scaly prey by a fire of drift-wood, kindled in the angle of two rude rocks. the three visionary girls are likewise there. in the deepening twilight, while the surf is dashed near their hearth, the ruddy gleam of the fire throws a strange air of comfort over the wild cove, bestrewn as it is with pebbles and sea-weed, and exposed to the "melancholy main." moreover, as the smoke climbs up the precipice, it brings with it a savory smell from a pan of fried fish, and a black kettle of chowder, and reminds me that my dinner was nothing but bread and water, and a tuft of samphire, and an apple. methinks the party night find room for another guest, at that flat rock which serves them for a table; and if spoons be scarce, i could pick up a clamshell on the beach. they see me now; and--the blessing of a hungry man upon him!--one of them sends up a hospitable shout,--halloo, sir solitary! come down and sup with us! the ladies wave their handkerchiefs. can i decline? no; and be it owned, after all my solitary joys, that this is the sweetest moment of a day by the sea-shore. twice told tales edward fane's rosebud by nathaniel hawthorne there is hardly a more difficult exercise of fancy, than, while gazing at a figure of melancholy age, to re-create its youth, and, without entirely obliterating the identity of form and features, to restore those graces which time has snatched away. some old people, especially women, so age-worn and woeful are they, seem never to have been young and gay. it is easier to conceive that such gloomy phantoms were sent into the world as withered and decrepit as we behold them now, with sympathies only for pain and grief, to watch at death-beds, and weep at funerals. even the sable garments of their widowhood appear essential to their existence; all their attributes combine to render them darksome shadows, creeping strangely amid the sunshine of human life. yet it is no unprofitable task, to take one of these doleful creatures, and set fancy resolutely at work to brighten the dim eye, and darken the silvery locks, and paint the ashen cheek with rose-color, and repair the shrunken and crazy form, till a dewy maiden shall be seen in the old matron's elbow-chair. the miracle being wrought, then let the years roll back again, each sadder than the last, and the whole weight of age and sorrow settle down upon the youthful figure. wrinkles and furrows, the handwriting of time, may thus be deciphered, and found to contain deep lessons of thought and feeling. such profit might be derived, by a skilful observer, from my much-respected friend, the widow toothaker, a nurse of great repute, who has breathed the atmosphere of sick-chambers and dying breaths these forty years. see! she sits cowering over her lonesome hearth, with her gown and upper petticoat drawn upward, gathering thriftily into her person the whole warmth of the fire, which, now at nightfall, begins to dissipate the autumnal chill of her chamber. the blaze quivers capriciously in front, alternately glimmering into the deepest chasms of her wrinkled visage, and then permitting a ghostly dimness to mar the outlines of her venerable figure. and nurse toothaker holds a teaspoon in her right hand, with which to stir up the contents of a tumbler in her left, whence steams a vapory fragrance, abhorred of temperance societies. now she sips,--now stirs,--now sips again. her sad old heart has need to be revived by the rich infusion of geneva, which is mixed half and half with hot water, in the tumbler. all day long she has been sitting by a death-pillow, and quitted it for her home, only when the spirit of her patient left the clay and went homeward too. but now are her melancholy meditations cheered, and her torpid blood warmed, and her shoulders lightened of at least twenty ponderous years, by a draught from the true fountain of youth, in a case-bottle. it is strange that men should deem that fount a fable when its liquor fills more bottles than the congress-water! sip it again, good nurse, and see whether a second draught will not take off another score of years, and perhaps ten more, and show us, in your high-backed chair, the blooming damsel who plighted troths with edward fane. get you gone, age and widowhood! come back, unwedded youth! but, alas! the charm will not work. in spite of fancy's most potent spell, i can see only an old dame cowering over the fire, a picture of decay and desolation, while the november blast roars at her in the chimney, and fitful showers rush suddenly against the window. yet there was a time when rose grafton--such was the pretty maiden name of nurse toothaker--possessed beauty that would have gladdened this dim and dismal chamber as with sunshine. it won for her the heart of edward fane, who has since made so great a figure in the world, and is now a grand old gentleman, with powdered hair, and as gouty as a lord. these early lovers thought to have walked hand in hand through life. they had wept together for edward's little sister mary, whom rose tended in her sickness, partly because she was the sweetest child that ever lived or died, but more for love of him. she was but three years old. being such an infant, death could not embody his terrors in her little corpse; nor did rose fear to touch the dead child's brow, though chill, as she curled the silken hair around it, nor to take her tiny hand, and clasp a flower within its fingers. afterward, when she looked through the pane of glass in the coffin-lid, and beheld mary's face, it seemed not so much like death, or life, as like a waxwork, wrought into the perfect image of a child asleep, and dreaming of its mother's smile. rose thought her too fair a thing to be hidden in the grave, and wondered that an angel did not snatch up little mary's coffin, and bear the slumbering babe to heaven, and bid her wake immortal. but when the sods were laid on little mary, the heart of rose was troubled. she shuddered at the fantasy, that, in grasping the child's cold fingers, her virgin hand had exchanged a first greeting with mortality, and could never lose the earthly taint. how many a greeting since! but as yet, she was a fair young girl, with the dewdrops of fresh feeling in her bosom; and instead of rose, which seemed too mature a name for her half-opened beauty, her lover called her rosebud. the rosebud was destined never to bloom for edward fane. his mother was a rich and haughty dame, with all the aristocratic prejudices of colonial times. she scorned rose grafton's humble parentage, and caused her son to break his faith, though, had she let him choose, he would have prized his rosebud above the richest diamond. the lovers parted, and have seldom met again. both may have visited the same mansions, but not at the same time; for one was bidden to the festal hall, and the other to the sick-chamber; he was the guest of pleasure and prosperity, and she of anguish. rose, after their separation, was long secluded within the dwelling of mr. toothaker, whom she married with the revengeful hope of breaking her false lover's heart. she went to her bridegroom's arms with bitterer tears, they say, than young girls ought to shed at the threshold of the bridal chamber. yet, though her husband's head was getting gray, and his heart had been chilled with an autumnal frost, rose soon began to love him, and wondered at her own conjugal affection. he was all she had to love; there were no children. in a year or two, poor mr. toothaker was visited with a wearisome infirmity which settled in his joints, and made him weaker than a child. he crept forth about his business, and came home at dinner-time and eventide, not with the manly tread that gladdens a wife's heart, but slowly, feebly, jotting down each dull footstep with a melancholy dub of his staff. we must pardon his pretty wife, if she sometimes blushed to own him. her visitors, when they heard him coming, looked for the appearance of some old, old man; but he dragged his nerveless limbs into the parlor,--and there was mr. toothaker! the disease increasing, he never went into the sunshine, save with a staff in his right hand and his left on his wife's shoulder, bearing heavily downward, like a dead man's hand. thus, a slender woman, still looking maiden-like, she supported his tall, broad-chested frame along the pathway of their little garden, and plucked the roses for her gray-haired husband, and spoke soothingly, as to an infant. his mind was palsied with his body; its utmost energy was peevishness. in a few months more, she helped him up the staircase, with a pause at every step, and a longer one upon the landingplace, and a heavy glance behind, as he crossed the threshold of his chamber. he knew, poor man, that the precincts of those four walls would thenceforth be his world,--his world, his home, his tomb,--at once a dwelling and a burial-place, till he were borne to a darker and a narrower one. but rose was with him in the tomb. he leaned upon her, in his daily passage from the bed to the chair by the fireside, and back again from the weary chair to the joyless bed,--his bed and hers,--their marriage-bed; till even this short journey ceased, and his head lay all day upon the pillow, and hers all night beside it. how long poor mr. toothaker was kept in misery! death seemed to draw near the door, and often to lift the latch, and sometimes to thrust his ugly skull into the chamber, nodding to rose, and pointing at her husband, but still delayed to enter. "this bedridden wretch cannot escape me!" quoth death. "i will go forth, and run a race with the swift, and fight a battle with the strong, and come back for toothaker at my leisure!" o, when the deliverer came so near in the dull anguish of her worn-out sympathies, did she never long to cry, "death, come in!" but, no! we have no right to ascribe such a wish to our friend rose. she never failed in a wife's duty to her poor sick husband. she murmured not, though a glimpse of the sunny sky was as strange to her as him, nor answered peevishly, though his complaining accents roused her from her sweetest dream, only to share his wretchedness. he knew her faith, yet nourished a cankered jealousy; and when the slow disease had chilled all his heart, save one lukewarm spot, which death's frozen fingers were searching for, his last words were, "what would my rose have done for her first love, if she has been so true and kind to a sick old man like me!" and then his poor soul crept away, and left the body lifeless, though hardly more so than for years before, and rose a widow, though in truth it was the wedding-night that widowed her. she felt glad, it must be owned, when mr. toothaker was buried, because his corpse had retained such a likeness to the man half alive, that she hearkened for the sad murmur of his voice, bidding her shift his pillow. but all through the next winter, though the grave had held him many a month, she fancied him calling from that cold bed, "rose! rose! come put a blanket on my feet." so now the rosebud was the widow toothaker. her troubles had come early, and, tedious as they seemed, had passed before all her bloom was fled. she was still fair enough to captivate a bachelor, or, with a widow's cheerful gravity, she might have won a widower, stealing into his heart in the very guise of his dead wife. but the widow toothaker had no such projects. by her watchings and continual cares, her heart had become knit to her first husband with a constancy which changed its very nature, and made her love him for his infirmities, and infirmity for his sake. when the palsied old man was gone, even her early lover could not have supplied his place. she had dwelt in a sick-chamber, and been the companion of a half-dead wretch, till she could scarcely breathe in a free air, and felt ill at ease with the healthy and the happy. she missed the fragrance of the doctor's stuff. she walked the chamber with a noiseless footfall. if visitors came in, she spoke in soft and soothing accents, and was startled and shocked by their loud voices. often in the lonesome evening, she looked timorously from the fireside to the bed, with almost a hope of recognizing a ghastly face upon the pillow. then went her thoughts sadly to her husband's grave. if one impatient throb bad wronged him in his lifetime,--if she had secretly repined, because her buoyant youth was imprisoned with his torpid age,--if ever, while slumbering beside him, a treacherous dream had admitted another into her heart,--yet the sick man had been preparing a revenge, which the dead now claimed. on his painful pillow, he had cast a spell around her; his groans and misery had proved more captivating charms than gayety and youthful grace; in his semblance, disease itself had won the rosebud for a bride; nor could his death dissolve the nuptials. by that indissoluble bond she had gained a home in every sick-chamber, and nowhere else; there were her brethren and sisters; thither her husband summoned her, with that voice which had seemed to issue from the grave of toothaker. at length she recognized her destiny. we have beheld her as the maid, the wife, the widow; now we see her in a separate and insulated character; she was, in all her attributes, nurse toothaker. and nurse toothaker alone, with her own shrivelled lips, could make known her experience in that capacity. what a history might she record of the great sicknesses, in which she has gone hand in hand with the exterminating angel! she remembers when the small-pox hoisted a red banner on almost every house along the street. she has witnessed when the typhus fever swept off a whole household, young and old, all but a lonely mother, who vainly shrieked to follow her last loved one. where would be death's triumph, if none lived to weep? she can speak of strange maladies that have broken out, as if spontaneously, but were found to have been imported from foreign lands, with rich silks and other merchandise, the costliest portion of the cargo. and once, she recollects, the people died of what was considered a new pestilence, till the doctors traced it to the ancient grave of a young girl, who thus caused many deaths a hundred years after her own burial. strange that such black mischief should lurk in a maiden's grave! she loves to tell how strong men fight with fiery fevers, utterly refusing to give up their breath; and how consumptive virgins fade out of the world, scarcely reluctant, as if their lovers were wooing them to a far country. tell us, thou fearful woman! tell us the death-secrets! fain would i search out the meaning of words, faintly gasped with intermingled sobs, and broken sentences, half audibly spoken between earth and the judgment-seat! an awful woman! she is the patron saint of young physicians, and the bosom friend of old ones. in the mansions where she enters, the inmates provide themselves black garments; the coffin-maker follows her; and the bell tolls as she comes away from the threshold. death himself has met her at so many a bedside, that he puts forth his bony hand to greet nurse toothaker. she is an awful woman! and, o, is it conceivable, that this handmaid of human infirmity and affliction--so darkly stained, so thoroughly imbued with all that is saddest in the doom of mortals--can ever again be bright and gladsome, even though bathed in the sunshine of eternity? by her long communion with woe, has she not forfeited her inheritance of immortal joy? does any germ of bliss survive within her? hark! an eager knocking at nurse toothaker's door. she starts from her drowsy revery, sets aside the empty tumbler and teaspoon, and lights a lamp at the dim embers of the fire. rap, rap, rap! again; and she hurries a-down the staircase, wondering which of her friends can be at death's door now, since there is such an earnest messenger at nurse toothaker's. again the peal resounds, just as her hand is on the lock. "be quick, nurse toothaker!" cries a man on the doorstep; "old general fane is taken with the gout in his stomach, and has sent for you to watch by his death-bed. make haste, for there is no time to lose!" "fane! edward fane! and has he sent for me at last? i am ready! i will get on my cloak and begone. so," adds the sable-gowned, ashen-visaged, funereal old figure, "edward fane remembers his rosebud!" our question is answered. there is a germ of bliss within her. her long-hoarded constancy--her memory of the bliss that was--remaining amid the gloom of her after life, like a sweet-smelling flower in a coffin, is a symbol that all maybe renewed. in some happier clime, the rosebud may revive again with all the dewdrops in its bosom. twice told tales night sketches beneath an umbrella by nathaniel hawthorne pleasant is a rainy winter's day, within doors! the best study for such a day, or the best amusement,--call it which you will,--is a book of travels, describing scenes the most unlike that sombre one, which is mistily presented through the windows. i have experienced, that fancy is then most successful in imparting distinct shapes and vivid colors to the objects which the author has spread upon his page, and that his words become magic spells to summon up a thousand varied pictures. strange landscapes glimmer through the familiar walls of the room, and outlandish figures thrust themselves almost within the sacred precincts of the hearth. small as my chamber is, it has space enough to contain the ocean-like circumference of an arabian desert, its parched sands tracked by the long line of a caravan, with the camels patiently journeying through the heavy sunshine. though my ceiling be not lofty, yet i can pile up the mountains of central asia beneath it, till their summits shine far above the clouds of the middle atmosphere. and, with my humble means, a wealth that is not taxable, i can transport hither the magnificent merchandise of an oriental bazaar, and call a crowd of purchasers from distant countries, to pay a fair profit for the precious articles which are displayed on all sides. true it is, however, that amid the bustle of traffic, or whatever else may seem to be going on around me, the rain-drops will occasionally be heard to patter against my window-panes, which look forth upon one of the quietest streets in a new england town. after a time, too, the visions vanish, and will not appear again at my bidding. then, it being nightfall, a gloomy sense of unreality depresses my spirits, and impels me to venture out, before the clock shall strike bedtime, to satisfy myself that the world is not entirely made up of such shadowy materials, as have busied me throughout the day. a dreamer may dwell so long among fantasies, that the things without him will seem as unreal as those within. when eve has fairly set in, therefore, i sally forth, tightly buttoning my shaggy overcoat, and hoisting my umbrella, the silken dome of which immediately resounds with the heavy drumming of the invisible rain-drops. pausing on the lowest doorstep, i contrast the warmth and cheerfulness of my deserted fireside with the drear obscurity and chill discomfort into which i am about to plunge. now come fearful auguries, innumerable as the drops of rain. did not my manhood cry shame upon me, i should turn back within doors, resume my elbow-chair, my slippers, and my book, pass such an evening of sluggish enjoyment as the day has been, and go to bed inglorious. the same shivering reluctance, no doubt, has quelled, for a moment, the adventurous spirit of many a traveller, when his feet, which were destined to measure the earth around, were leaving their last tracks in the home-paths. in my own case, poor human nature may be allowed a few misgivings. i look upward, and discern no sky, not even an unfathomable void, but only a black, impenetrable nothingness, as though heaven and all its lights were blotted from the system of the universe. it is as if nature were dead, and the world had put on black, and the clouds were weeping for her. with their tears upon my cheek, i turn my eyes earthward, but find little consolation here below. a lamp is burning dimly at the distant corner, and throws just enough of light along the street, to show, and exaggerate by so faintly showing, the perils and difficulties which beset my path. yonder dingily white remnant of a huge snow-bank,--which will yet cumber the sidewalk till the latter days of march,--over or through that wintry waste must i stride onward. beyond, lies a certain slough of despond, a concoction of mud and liquid filth, ankle-deep, leg-deep, neck-deep,--in a word, of unknown bottom, on which the lamplight does not even glimmer, but which i have occasionally watched, in the gradual growth of its horrors, from morn till nightfall. should i flounder into its depths, farewell to upper earth! and hark! how roughly resounds the roaring of a stream, the turbulent career of which is partially reddened by the gleam of the lamp, but elsewhere brawls noisily through the densest gloom. o, should i be swept away in fording that impetuous and unclean torrent, the coroner will have a job with an unfortunate gentleman, who would fain end his troubles anywhere but in a mud-puddle! pshaw! i will linger not another instant at arm's length from these dim terrors, which grow more obscurely formidable, the longer i delay to grapple with them. now for the onset! and to! with little damage, save a dash of rain in the fact and breast, a splash of mud high up the pantaloons, and the left boot full of ice-cold water, behold me at the corner of the street. the lamp throws down a circle of red light around me; and twinkling onward from corner to corner, i discern other beacons marshalling my way to a brighter scene. but this is alone some and dreary spot. the tall edifices bid gloomy defiance to the storm, with their blinds all closed, even as a man winks when he faces a spattering gust. how loudly tinkles the collected rain down the tin spouts! the puffs of wind are boisterous, and seem to assail me from various quarters at once. i have often observed that this corner is a haunt and loitering-place for those winds which have no work to do upon the deep, dashing ships against our iron-bound shores; nor in the forest, tearing up the sylvan giants with half a rood of soil at their vast roots. here they amuse themselves with lesser freaks of mischief. see, at this moment, how they assail yonder poor woman, who is passing just within the verge of the lamplight! one blast struggles for her umbrella, and turns it wrong side outward; another whisks the cape of her cloak across her eyes; while a third takes most unwarrantable liberties with the lower part of her attire. happily, the good dame is no gossamer, but a figure of rotundity and fleshly substance; else would these aerial tormentors whirl her aloft, like a witch upon a broomstick, and set her down, doubtless, in the filthiest kennel hereabout. from hence i tread upon firm pavements into the centre of the town. here there is almost as brilliant an illumination as when some great victory has been won, either on the battle-field or at the polls. two rows of shops, with windows down nearly to the ground, cast a glow from side to side, while the black night hangs overhead like a canopy, and thus keeps the splendor from diffusing itself away. the wet sidewalks gleam with a broad sheet of red light. the rain-drops glitter, as if the sky were pouring down rubies. the spouts gush with fire. methinks the scene is an emblem of the deceptive glare, which mortals throw around their footsteps in the moral world, thus bedazzling themselves, till they forget the impenetrable obscurity that hems them in, and that can be dispelled only by radiance from above. and after all, it is a cheerless scene, and cheerless are the wanderers in it. here comes one who has so long been familiar with tempestuous weather that he takes the bluster of the storm for a friendly greeting, as if it should say, "how fare ye, brother?" he is a retired sea-captain, wrapped in some nameless garment of the pea-jacket order, and is now laying his course towards the marine insurance office, there to spin yarns of gale and shipwreck, with a crew of old seadogs like himself. the blast will put in its word among their hoarse voices, and be understood by all of them. next i meet an unhappy slipshod gentleman, with a cloak flung hastily over his shoulders, running a race with boisterous winds, and striving to glide between the drops of rain. some domestic emergency or other has blown this miserable man from his warm fireside in quest of a doctor! see that little vagabond,--how carelessly he has taken his stand right underneath a spout, while staring at some object of curiosity in a shop-window! surely the rain is his native element; he must have fallen with it from the clouds, as frogs are supposed to do. here is a picture, and a pretty one. a young man and a girl, both enveloped in cloaks, and huddled beneath the scanty protection of a cotton umbrella. she wears rubber overshoes; but he is in his dancing-pumps; and they are on their way, no doubt, to sonic cotillon-party, or subscription-ball at a dollar a head, refreshments included. thus they struggle against the gloomy tempest, lured onward by a vision of festal splendor. but, ah! a most lamentable disaster. bewildered by the red, blue, and yellow meteors, in an apothecary's window, they have stepped upon a slippery remnant of ice, and are precipitated into a confluence of swollen floods, at the corner of two streets. luckless lovers! were it my nature to be other than a looker-on in life, i would attempt your rescue. since that may not be, i vow, should you be drowned, to weave such a pathetic story of your fate, as shall call forth tears enough to drown you both anew. do ye touch bottom, my young friends? yes; they emerge like a water-nymph and a river deity, and paddle hand in hand out of the depths of the dark pool. they hurry homeward, dripping, disconsolate, abashed, but with love too warm to be chilled by the cold water. they have stood a test which proves too strong for many. faithful, though over head and ears in trouble! onward i go, deriving a sympathetic joy or sorrow from the varied aspect of mortal affairs, even as my figure catches a gleam from the lighted windows, or is blackened by an interval of darkness. not that mine is altogether a chameleon spirit, with no hue of its own. now i pass into a more retired street, where the dwellings of wealth and poverty are intermingled, presenting a range of strongly contrasted pictures. here, too, may be found the golden mean. through yonder casement i discern a family circle,--the grandmother, the parents, and the children,--all flickering, shadow-like, in the glow of a wood-fire. bluster, fierce blast, and beat, thou wintry rain, against the window-panes! ye cannot damp the enjoyment of that fireside. surely my fate is hard, that i should be wandering homeless here, taking to my bosom night, and storm, and solitude, instead of wife and children. peace, murmurer! doubt not that darker guests are sitting round the hearth, though the warm blaze hides all but blissful images. well; here is still a brighter scene. a stately mansion, illuminated for a ball, with cut-glass chandeliers and alabaster lamps in every room, and sunny landscapes hanging round the walls. see! a coach has stopped, whence emerges a slender beauty, who, canopied by two umbrellas, glides within the portal, and vanishes amid lightsome thrills of music. will she ever feel the night-wind and the rain? perhaps,--perhaps! and will death and sorrow ever enter that proud mansion? as surely as the dancers will be gay within its halls to-night. such thoughts sadden, yet satisfy my heart; for they teach me that the poor man, in his mean, weather-beaten hovel, without a fire to cheer him, may call the rich his brother, brethren by sorrow, who must be an inmate of both their households,--brethren by death, who will lead them, both to other homes. onward, still onward, i plunge into the night. now have i reached the utmost limits of the town, where the last lamp struggles feebly with the darkness, like the farthest star that stands sentinel on the borders of uncreated space. it is strange what sensations of sublimity may spring from a very humble source. such are suggested by this hollow roar of a subterranean cataract, where the mighty stream of a kennel precipitates itself beneath an iron grate, and is seen no more on earth. listen awhile to its voice of mystery; and fancy will magnify it, till you start and smile at the illusion. and now another sound,--the rumbling of wheels,--as the mail-coach, outward bound, rolls heavily off the pavements, and splashes through the mud and water of the road. all night long, the poor passengers will be tossed to and fro between drowsy watch and troubled sleep, and will dream of their own quiet beds, and awake to find themselves still jolting onward. happier my lot, who will straightway hie me to my familiar room, and toast myself comfortably before the fire, musing, and fitfully dozing, and fancying a strangeness in such sights as all may see. but first let me gaze at this solitary figure, who comes hitherward with a tin lantern, which throws the circular pattern of its punched holes on the ground about him. he passes fearlessly into the unknown gloom, whither i will not follow him. this figure shall supply me with a moral, wherewith, for lack of a more appropriate one, i may wind up my sketch. he fears not to tread the dreary path before him, because his lantern, which was kindled at the fireside of his home, will light him back to that same fireside again. and thus we, night-wanderers through a stormy and dismal world, if we bear the lamp of faith, enkindled at a celestial fire, it will surely lead us home to that heaven whence its radiance was borrowed. twice told tales snow-flakes by nathaniel hawthorne there is snow in yonder cold gray sky of the morning!-and, through the partially frosted window-panes, i love to watch the gradual beginning of the storm. a few feathery flakes are scattered widely through the air, and hover downward with uncertain flight, now almost alighting on the earth, now whirled again aloft into remote regions of the atmosphere. these are not the big flakes, heavy with moisture, which melt as they touch the ground, and are portentous of a soaking rain. it is to be, in good earnest, a wintry storm. the two or three people, visible on the side-walks, have an aspect of endurance, a blue-nosed, frosty fortitude, which is evidently assumed in anticipation of a comfortless and blustering day. by nightfall, or at least before the sun sheds another glimmering smile upon us, the street and our little garden will be heaped with mountain snow-drifts. the soil, already frozen for weeks past, is prepared to sustain whatever burden may be laid upon it; and, to a northern eye, the landscape will lose its melancholy bleakness and acquire a beauty of its own, when mother earth, like her children, shall have put on the fleecy garb of her winter's wear. the cloud-spirits are slowly weaving her white mantle. as yet, indeed, there is barely a rime like hoarfrost over the brown surface of the street; the withered green of the grass-plat is still discernible; and the slated roofs of the houses do but begin to look gray, instead of black. all the snow that has yet fallen within the circumference of my view, were it heaped up together, would hardly equal the hillock of a grave. thus gradually, by silent and stealthy influences, are great changes wrought. these little snow-particles, which the storm-spirit flings by handfuls through the air, will bury the great earth under their accumulated mass, nor permit her to behold her sister sky again for dreary months. we, likewise, shall lose sight of our mother's familiar visage, and must content ourselves with looking heavenward the oftener. now, leaving the storm to do his appointed office, let us sit down, pen in hand, by our fireside. gloomy as it may seem, there is an influence productive of cheerfulness, and favorable to imaginative thought, in the atmosphere of a snowy day. the native of a southern clime may woo the muse beneath the heavy shade of summer foliage, reclining on banks of turf, while the sound of singing birds and warbling rivulets chimes in with the music of his soul. in our brief summer, i do not think, but only exist in the vague enjoyment of a dream. my hour of inspiration--if that hour ever comes--is when the green log hisses upon the hearth, and the bright flame, brighter for the gloom of the chamber, rustles high up the chimney, and the coals drop tinkling down among the growing heaps of ashes. when the casement rattles in the gust, and the snow-flakes or the sleety raindrops pelt hard against the window-panes, then i spread out my sheet of paper, with the certainty that thoughts and fancies will gleam forth upon it, like stars at twilight, or like violets in may,--perhaps to fade as soon. however transitory their glow, they at least shine amid the darksome shadow which the clouds of the outward sky fling through the room. blessed, therefore, and reverently welcomed by me, her true-born son, be new england's winter, which makes us, one and all, the nurslings of the storm, and sings a familiar lullaby even in the wildest shriek of the december blast. now look we forth again, and see how much of his task the storm-spirit has done. slow and sure! he has the day, perchance the week, before him, and may take his own time to accomplish nature's burial in snow. a smooth mantle is scarcely yet thrown over the withered grass-plat, and the dry stalks of annuals still thrust themselves through the white surface in all parts of the garden. the leafless rose-bushes stand shivering in a shallow snow-drift, looking, poor things! as disconsolate as if they possessed a human consciousness of the dreary scene. this is a sad time for the shrubs that do not perish with the summer; they neither live nor die; what they retain of life seems but the chilling sense of death. very sad are the flower shrubs in midwinter! the roofs of the houses are now all white, save where the eddying wind has kept them bare at the bleak corners. to discern the real intensity of the storm, we must fix upon some distant object,--as yonder spire,-and observe how the riotous gust fights with the descending snow throughout the intervening space. sometimes the entire prospect is obscured; then, again, we have a distinct, but transient glimpse of the tall steeple, like a giant's ghost; and now the dense wreaths sweep between, as if demons were flinging snowdrifts at each other, in mid-air. look next into the street, where we have seen an amusing parallel to the combat of those fancied demons in the upper regions. it is a snow-battle of school-boys. what a pretty satire on war and military glory might be written, in the form of a child's story, by describing the snowball-fights of two rival schools, the alternate defeats and victories of each, and the final triumph of one party, or perhaps of neither! what pitched battles, worthy to be chanted in homeric strains! what storming of fortresses, built all of massive snowblocks! what feats of individual prowess, and embodied onsets of martial enthusiasm! and when some well-contested and decisive victory had put a period to the war, both armies should unite to build a lofty monument of snow upon the battle-field, and crown it with the victor's statue, hewn of the same frozen marble. in a few days or weeks thereafter, the passer-by would observe a shapeless mound upon the level common; and, unmindful of the famous victory, would ask, "how came it there? who reared it? and what means it?" the shattered pedestal of many a battle monument has provoked these questions, when none could answer. turn we again to the fireside, and sit musing there, lending our ears to the wind, till perhaps it shall seem like an articulate voice, and dictate wild and airy matter for the pen. would it might inspire me to sketch out the personification of a new england winter! and that idea, if i can seize the snow-wreathed figures that flit before my fancy, shall be the theme of the next page. how does winter herald his approach? by the shrieking blast of latter autumn, which is nature's cry of lamentation, as the destroyer rushes among the shivering groves where she has lingered, and scatters the sear leaves upon the tempest. when that cry is heard, the people wrap themselves in cloaks, and shake their heads disconsolately, saying, "winter is at hand!" then the axe of the woodcutter echoes sharp and diligently in the forest; then the coal-merchants rejoice, because each shriek of nature in her agony adds something to the price of coal per ton; then the peat-smoke spreads its aromatic fragrance through the atmosphere. a few days more; and at eventide, the children look out of the window, and dimly perceive the flaunting of a snowy mantle in the air. it is stern winter's vesture. they crowd around the hearth, and cling to their mother's gown, or press between their father's knees, affrighted by the hollow roaring voice, that bellows a-down the wide flue of the chimney. it is the voice of winter; and when parents and children bear it, they shudder and exclaim, "winter is come! cold winter has begun his reign already!" now, throughout new england, each hearth becomes an altar, sending up the smoke of a continued sacrifice to the immitigable deity who tyrannizes over forest, country side, and town. wrapped in his white mantle, his staff a huge icicle, his beard and hair a wind-tossed snow-drift, he travels over the land, in the midst of the northern blast; and woe to the homeless wanderer whom he finds upon his path! there he lies stark and stiff, a human shape of ice, on the spot where winter overtook him. on strides the tyrant over the rushing rivers and broad lakes, which turn to rock beneath his footsteps. his dreary empire is established; all around stretches the desolation of the pole. yet not ungrateful be his new england children,--for winter is our sire, though a stern and rough one,--not ungrateful even for the severities, which have nourished our unyielding strength of character. and let us thank him, too, for the sleigh-rides, cheered by the music of merry bells; for the crackling and rustling hearth, when the ruddy firelight gleams on hardy manhood and the blooming cheek of woman; for all the home enjoyments, and the kindred virtues, which flourish in a frozen soil. not that we grieve, when, after some seven months of storm and bitter frost, spring, in the guise of a flower-crowned virgin, is seen driving away the hoary despot, pelting him with violets by the handful, and strewing green grass on the path behind him. often, ere he will give up his empire, old winter rushes fiercely back, and hurls a snow-drift at the shrinking form of spring; yet, step by step, he is compelled to retreat northward, and spends the summer months within the arctic circle. such fantasies, intermixed among graver toils of mind, have made the winter's day pass pleasantly. meanwhile, the storm has raged without abatement, and now, as the brief afternoon declines, is tossing denser volumes to and fro about the atmosphere. on the window-sill, there is a layer of snow, reaching half-way up the lowest pane of glass. the garden is one unbroken bed. along the street are two or three spots of uncovered earth, where the gust has whirled away the snow, heaping it elsewhere to the fence-tops, or piling huge banks against the doors of houses. a solitary passenger is seen, now striding mid-leg deep across a drift, now scudding over the bare ground, while his cloak is swollen with the wind. and now the jingling of bells, a sluggish sound, responsive to the horse's toilsome progress through the unbroken drifts, announces the passage of a sleigh, with a boy clinging behind, and ducking his head to escape detection by the driver. next comes a sledge, laden with wood for some unthrifty housekeeper, whom winter has surprised at a cold hearth. but what dismal equipage now struggles along the uneven street? a sable hearse, bestrewn with snow, is bearing a dead man through the storm to his frozen bed. o, how dreary is a burial in winter, when the bosom of mother earth has no warmth for her poor child! evening--the early eve of december--begins to spread its deepening veil over the comfortless scene; the firelight gradually brightens, and throws my flickering shadow upon the walls and ceiling of the chamber; but still the storm rages and rattles, against the windows. alas! i shiver, and think it time to be disconsolate. but, taking a farewell glance at dead nature in her shroud, i perceive a flock of snow-birds, skimming lightsomely through the tempest, and flitting from drift to drift, as sportively as swallows in the delightful prime of summer. whence come they? where do they build their nests, and seek their food? why, having airy wings, do they not follow summer around the earth, instead of making themselves the playmates of the storm, and fluttering on the dreary verge of the winter's eve? i know not whence they come, nor why; yet my spirit has been cheered by that wandering flock of snow-birds. twice told tales fancy's show-box a morality by nathaniel hawthorne what is guilt? a stain upon the soul. and it is a point of vast interest, whether the soul may contract such stains, in all their depth and flagrancy, from deeds which may have been plotted and resolved upon, but which, physically, have never had existence. must the fleshly hand and visible frame of man set its seal to the evil designs of the soul, in order to give them their entire validity against the sinner? or, while none but crimes perpetrated are cognizable before an earthly tribunal, will guilty thoughts,--of which guilty deeds are no more than shadows,--will these draw down the full weight of a condemning sentence, in the supreme court of eternity? in the solitude of a midnight chamber, or in a desert, afar from men, or in a church, while the body is kneeling, the soul may pollute itself even with those crimes, which we are accustomed to deem altogether carnal. if this be true, it is a fearful truth. let us illustrate the subject by an imaginary example. a venerable gentleman, one mr. smith, who had long been regarded as a pattern of moral excellence, was warming his aged blood with a glass or two of generous wine. his children being gone forth about their worldly business, and his grandchildren at school, he sat alone, in a deep, luxurious arm-chair, with his feet beneath a richly carved mahogany table. some old people have a dread of solitude, and when better company may not be had, rejoice even to hear the quiet breathing of a babe, asleep upon the carpet. but mr. smith, whose silver hair was the bright symbol of a life unstained, except by such spots as are inseparable from human nature, he had no need of a babe to protect him by its purity, nor of a grown person to stand between him and his own soul. nevertheless, either manhood must converse with age, or womanhood must soothe him with gentle cares, or infancy must sport around his chair, or his thoughts will stray into the misty region of the past, and the old man be chill and sad. wine will not always cheer him. such might have been the case with mr. smith, when, through the brilliant medium of his glass of old madeira, he beheld three figures entering the room. these were fancy, who had assumed the garb and aspect of an itinerant showman, with a box of pictures on her back; and memory, in the likeness of a clerk, with a pen behind her ear, an inkhorn at her buttonhole, and a huge manuscript volume beneath her arm; and lastly, behind the other two, a person shrouded in a dusky mantle, which concealed both face and form. but mr. smith had a shrewd idea that it was conscience. how kind of fancy, memory, and conscience to visit the old gentleman, just as he was beginning to imagine that the wine had neither so bright a sparkle nor so excellent a flavor as when himself and the liquor were less aged! through the dim length of the apartment, where crimson curtains muffled the glare of sunshine, and created a rich obscurity, the three guests drew near the silver-haired old mail. memory, with a finger between the leaves of her huge volume, placed herself at his right hand. conscience, with her face still hidden in the dusky mantle, took her station on the left, so as to be next his heart; while fancy set down her picture-box upon the table, with the magnifying-glass convenient to his eye. we can sketch merely the outlines of two or three out of the many pictures which, at the pulling of a string, successively peopled the box with the semblances of living scenes. one was a moonlight picture; in the background, a lowly dwelling; and in front, partly shadowed by a tree, yet besprinkled with flakes of radiance, two youthful figures, male and female. the young man stood with folded arms, a haughty smile upon his lip, and a gleam of triumph in his eye, as he glanced downward at the kneeling girl. she was almost prostrate at his feet, evidently sinking under a weight of shame and anguish, which hardly allowed her to lift her clasped hands in supplication. her eyes she could not lift. but neither her agony, nor the lovely features on which it was depicted, nor the slender grace of the form which it convulsed, appeared to soften the obduracy of the young man. he was the personification of triumphant scorn. now, strange to say, as old mr. smith peeped through the magnifying-glass, which made the objects start out from the canvas with magical deception, he began to recognize the farm-house, the tree, and both the figures of the picture. the young man, in times long past, had often met his gaze within the looking-glass; the girl was the very image of his first love,--his cottage love,--his martha burroughs! mr. smith was scandalized. "o, vile and slanderous picture!" he exclaims. "when have i triumphed over ruined innocence? was not martha wedded, in her teens, to david tomkius, who won her girlish love, and long enjoyed her affection as a wife? and ever since his death, she has lived a reputable widow!" meantime, memory was turning over the leaves of her volume, rustling them to and fro with uncertain fingers, until, among the earlier pages, she found one which had reference to this picture. she reads it, close to the old gentleman's ear; it is a record merely of sinful thought, which never was embodied in an act; but, while memory is reading, conscience unveils her face, and strikes a dagger to the heart of mr. smith. though not a death-blow, the torture was extreme. the exhibition proceeded. one after another, fancy displayed her pictures, all of which appeared to have been painted by some malicious artist, on purpose to vex mr. smith. not a shadow of proof could have been adduced, in any earthly court, that he was guilty of the slightest of those sins which were thus made to stare him in the face. in one scene, there was a table set out, with several bottles, and glasses half filled with wine, which threw back the dull ray of an expiring lamp. there had been mirth and revelry, until the hand of the clock stood just at midnight, when murder stepped between the boon companions. a young man had fallen on the floor, and lay stone dead, with a ghastly wound crushed into his temple, while over him, with a delirium of mingled rage and horror in his countenance, stood the youthful likeness of mr. smith. the murdered youth wore the features of edward spencer! "what does this rascal of a painter mean?" cries mr. smith, provoked beyond all patience. "edward spencer was my earliest and dearest friend, true to me as i to him, through more than half a century. neither i, nor any other, ever murdered him. was he not alive within five years, and did he not, in token of our long friendship, bequeath me his gold-headed cane and a mourning ring?" again had memory been turning over her volume, and fixed at length upon so confused a page, that she surely must have scribbled it when she was tipsy. the purport was, however, that, while mr. smith and edward spencer were heating their young blood with wine, a quarrel had flashed up between them, and mr. smith, in deadly wrath, had flung a bottle at spencer's head. true, it missed its aim, and merely smashed a looking-glass; and the next morning, when the incident was imperfectly remembered, they had shaken hands with a hearty laugh. yet, again, while memory was reading, conscience unveiled her face, struck a dagger to the heart of mr. smith, and quelled his remonstrance with her iron frown. the pain was quite excruciating. some of the pictures had been painted with so doubtful a touch, and in colors so faint and pale, that the subjects could barely be conjectured. a dull, semitransparent mist had been thrown over the surface of the canvas, into which the figures seemed to vanish, while the eye sought most earnestly to fix them. but, in every scene, however dubiously portrayed, mr. smith was invariably haunted by his own lineaments, at various ages, as in a dusty mirror. after poring several minutes over one of these blurred and almost indistinguishable pictures, he began to see that the painter had intended to represent him, now in the decline of life, as stripping the clothes from the backs of three half-starved children. "really, this puzzles me!" quoth mr. smith, with the irony of conscious rectitude. "asking pardon of the painter, i pronounce him a fool, as well as a scandalous knave. a man of my standing in the world, to be robbing little children of their clothes! ridiculous!" but while he spoke, memory had searched her fatal volume, and found a page, which, with her sad, calm voice, she poured into his ear. it was not altogether inapplicable to the misty scene. it told how mr. smith had been grievously tempted, by many devilish sophistries, on the ground of a legal quibble, to commence a lawsuit against three orphan children, joint heirs to a considerable estate. fortunately, before he was quite decided, his claims had turned out nearly as devoid of law as justice. as memory ceased to read, conscience again thrust aside her mantle, and would have struck her victim with the envenomed dagger, only that he struggled, and clasped his hands before his heart. even then, however, he sustained an ugly gash. why should we follow fancy through the whole series of those awful pictures? painted by an artist of wondrous power, and terrible acquaintance with the secret soul, they embodied the ghosts of all the never perpetrated sins that had glided through the lifetime of mr. smith. and could such beings of cloudy fantasy, so near akin to nothingness, give valid evidence against him, at the day of judgment? be that the case or not, there is reason to believe that one truly penitential tear would have washed away each hateful picture, and left the canvas white as snow. but mr. smith, at a prick of conscience too keen to be endured, bellowed aloud, with impatient agony, and suddenly discovered that his three guests were gone. there he sat alone, a silver-haired and highly venerated old man, in the rich gloom of the crimson-curtained room, with no box of pictures on the table, but only a decanter of most excellent madeira. yet his heart still seemed to fester with the venom of the dagger. nevertheless, the unfortunate old gentleman might have argued the matter with conscience, and alleged many reasons wherefore she should not smite him so pitilessly. were we to take up his cause, it should be somewhat in the following fashion: a scheme of guilt, till it be put in execution, greatly resembles a train of incidents in a projected tale. the latter, in order to produce a sense of reality in the reader's mind, must be conceived with such proportionate strength by the author as to seem, in the glow of fancy, more like truth, past, present, or to come, than purely fiction. the prospective sinner, on the other hand, weaves his plot of crime, but seldom or never feels a perfect certainty that it will be executed. there is a dreaminess diffused about his thoughts; in a dream, as it were, he strikes the death-blow into his victim's heart, and starts to find an indelible blood-stain on his hand. thus a novel-writer, or a dramatist, in creating a villain of romance, and fitting him with evil deeds, and the villain of actual life, in projecting crimes that will be perpetrated, may almost meet each other, half-way between reality and fancy. it is not until the crime is accomplished, that guilt clinches its gripe upon the guilty heart, and claims it for its own. then, and not before, sin is actually felt and acknowledged, and, if unaccompanied by repentance, grows a thousand-fold more virulent by its self-consciousness. be it considered, also, that men often overestimate their capacity for evil. at a distance, while its attendant circumstances do not press upon their notice, and its results are dimly seen, they can bear to contemplate it. they may take the steps which lead to crime, impelled by the same sort of mental action as in working out a mathematical problem, yet be powerless with compunction, at the final moment. they knew not what deed it was that they deemed themselves resolved to do. in truth, there is no such thing in man's nature as a settled and full resolve, either for good or evil, except at the very moment of execution. let us hope, therefore, that all the dreadful consequences of sin will not be incurred, unless the act have set its seal upon the thought. yet, with the slight fancy-work which we have framed, some sad and awful truths are interwoven. man must not disclaim his brotherhood, even with the guiltiest, since, though his hand be clean, his heart has surely been polluted by the flitting phantoms of iniquity. he must feel, that, when he shall knock at the gate of heaven, no semblance of an unspotted life can entitle him to entrance there. penitence must kneel, and mercy come from the footstool of the throne, or that golden gate will never open! twice told tales the haunted mind by nathaniel hawthorne what a singular moment is the first one, when you have hardly begun to recollect yourself after starting from midnight slumber! by unclosing your eyes so suddenly, you seem to have surprised the personages of your dream in full convocation round your bed, and catch one broad glance at them before they can flit into obscurity. or, to vary the metaphor, you find yourself, for a single instant, wide awake in that realm of illusions, whither sleep has been the passport, and behold its ghostly inhabitants and wondrous scenery, with a perception of their strangeness, such as you never attain while the dream is undisturbed. the distant sound of a church-clock is borne faintly on the wind. you question with yourself, half seriously, whether it has stolen to your waking ear from some gray tower, that stood within the precincts of your dream. while yet in suspense, another clock flings its heavy clang over the slumbering town, with so full and distinct a sound, and such a long murmur in the neighboring air, that you are certain it must proceed from the steeple at the nearest corner. you count the strokes--one--two, and there they cease, with a booming sound, like the gathering of a third stroke within the bell. if you could choose an hour of wakefulness out of the whole night, it would be this. since your sober bedtime, at eleven, you have had rest enough to take off the pressure of yesterday's fatigue; while before you, till the sun comes from "far cathay" to brighten your window, there is almost the space of a summer night; one hour to be spent in thought, with the mind's eye half shut, and two in pleasant dreams, and two in that strangest of enjoyments, the forgetfulness alike of joy and woe. the moment of rising belongs to another period of time, and appears so distant, that the plunge out of a warm bed into the frosty air cannot yet be anticipated with dismay. yesterday has already vanished among the shadows of the past; to-morrow has not yet emerged from the future. you have found an intermediate space, where the business of life does not intrude; where the passing moment lingers, and becomes truly the present; a spot where father time, when he thinks nobody is watching him, sits down by the wayside to take breath. o that he would fall asleep, and let mortals live on without growing older! hitherto you have lain perfectly still, because the slightest motion would dissipate the fragments of your slumber. now, being irrevocably awake, you peep through the half-drawn window-curtain, and observe that the glass is ornamented with fanciful devices in frostwork, and that each pane presents something like a frozen dream. there will be time enough to trace out the analogy, while waiting the summons to breakfast. seen through the clear portion of the glass, where the silvery mountain-peaks of the frost scenery do not ascend, the most conspicuous object is the steeple, the white spire of which directs you to the wintry lustre of the firmament. you may almost distinguish the figures on the clock that has just told the hour. such a frosty sky, and the snow-covered roofs, and the long vista of the frozen street, all white, and the distant water hardened into rock, might make you shiver, even under four blankets and a woollen comforter. yet look at that one glorious star! its beams are distinguishable from all the rest, and actually cast the shadow of the casement on the bed, with a radiance of deeper hue than moonlight, though not so accurate an outline. you sink down and muffle your head in the clothes, shivering all the while, but less from bodily chill than the bare idea of a polar atmosphere. it is too cold even for the thoughts to venture abroad. you speculate on the luxury of wearing out a whole existence in bed, like an oyster in its shell, content with the sluggish ecstasy of inaction, and drowsily conscious of nothing but delicious warmth, such as you now feel again. ah! that idea has brought a hideous one in its train. you think how the dead are lying in their cold shrouds and narrow coffins, through the drear winter of the grave, and cannot persuade your fancy that they neither shrink nor shiver, when the snow is drifting over their little hillocks, and the bitter blast howls against the door of the tomb. that gloomy thought will collect a gloomy multitude, and throw its complexion over your wakeful hour. in the depths of every heart there is a tomb and a dungeon, though the lights, the music, and revelry above may cause us to forget their existence, and the buried ones, or prisoners whom they hide. but sometimes, and oftenest at midnight, these dark receptacles are flung wide open. in an hour like this, when the mind has a passive sensibility, but no active strength; when the imagination is a mirror, imparting vividness to all ideas, without the power of selecting or controlling them; then pray that your griefs may slumber, and the brotherhood of remorse not break their chain. it is too late! a funeral train comes gliding by your bed, in which passion and feeling assume bodily shape, and things of the mind become dire spectres to the eye. there is your earliest sorrow, a pale young mourner, wearing a sister's likeness to first love, sadly beautiful, with a hallowed sweetness in her melancholy features, and grace in the flow of her sable robe. next appears a shade of ruined loveliness, with dust among her golden hair, and her bright garments all faded and defaced, stealing from your glance with drooping head, as fearful of reproach; she was your fondest hope, but a delusive one; so call her disappointment now. a sterner form succeeds, with a brow of wrinkles, a look and gesture of iron authority; there is no name for him unless it be fatality, an emblem of the evil influence that rules your fortunes; a demon to whom you subjected yourself by some error at the outset of life, and were bound his slave forever, by once obeying him. see! those fiendish lineaments graven on the darkness, the writhed lip of scorn, the mockery of that living eye, the pointed finger, touching the sore place in your heart! do you remember any act of enormous folly, at which you would blush, even in the remotest cavern of the earth? then recognize your shame. pass, wretched band! well for the wakeful one, if, riotously miserable, a fiercer tribe do not surround him, the devils of a guilty heart, that holds its hell within itself. what if remorse should assume the features of an injured friend? what if the fiend should come in woman's garments, with a pale beauty amid sin and desolation, and lie down by your side? what if he should stand at your bed's foot, in the likeness of a corpse, with a bloody stain upon the shroud? sufficient without such guilt is this nightmare of the soul; this heavy, heavy sinking of the spirits; this wintry gloom about the heart; this indistinct horror of the mind, blending itself with the darkness of the chamber. by a desperate effort, you start upright, breaking from a sort of conscious sleep, and gazing wildly round the bed, as if the fiends were anywhere but in your haunted mind. at the same moment, the slumbering embers on the hearth send forth a gleam which palely illuminates the whole outer room, and flickers through the door of the bedchamber, but cannot quite dispel its obscurity. your eye searches for whatever may remind you of the living world. with eager minuteness, you take note of the table near the fireplace, the book with an ivory knife between its leaves, the unfolded letter, the hat, and the fallen glove. soon the flame vanishes, and with it the whole scene is gone, though its image remains an instant in your mind's eye, when darkness has swallowed the reality. throughout the chamber, there is the same obscurity as before, but not the same gloom within your breast. as your head falls back upon the pillow, you think--in a whisper be it spoken--how pleasant in these night solitudes would be the rise and fall of a softer breathing than your own, the slight pressure of a tenderer bosom, the quiet throb of a purer heart, imparting its peacefulness to your troubled one, as if the fond sleeper were involving you in her dream. her influence is over you, though she have no existence but in that momentary image. you sink down in a flowery spot, on the borders of sleep and wakefulness, while your thoughts rise before you in pictures, all disconnected, yet all assimilated by a pervading gladsomeness and beauty. the wheeling of gorgeous squadrons, that glitter in the sun, is succeeded by the merriment of children round the door of a school-house, beneath the glimmering shadow of old trees, at the corner of a rustic lane. you stand in the sunny rain of a summer shower, and wander among the sunny trees of an autumnal wood, and look upward at the brightest of all rainbows, overarching the unbroken sheet of snow, on the american side of niagara. your mind struggles pleasantly between the dancing radiance round the hearth of a young man and his recent bride, and the twittering flight of birds in spring, about their new-made nest. you feel the merry bounding of a ship before the breeze; and watch the tuneful feet of rosy girls, as they twine their last and merriest dance in a splendid ballroom; and find yourself in the brilliant circle of a crowded theatre, as the curtain falls over a light and airy scene. with an involuntary start, you seize hold on consciousness, and prove yourself but half awake, by running a doubtful parallel between human life and the hour which has now elapsed. in both you emerge from mystery, pass through a vicissitude that you can but imperfectly control, and are borne onward to another mystery. now comes the peal of the distant clock, with fainter and fainter strokes as you plunge further into the wilderness of sleep. it is the knell of a temporary death. your spirit has departed, and strays like a free citizen, among the people of a shadowy world, beholding strange sights, yet without wonder or dismay. so calm, perhaps, will be the final change; so undisturbed, as if among familiar things, the entrance of the soul to its eternal home! twice told tales little annie's ramble by nathaniel hawthorne ding-dong! ding-dong! ding-dong! the town crier has rung his bell, at a distant corner, and little annie stands on her father's doorsteps, trying to hear what the man with the loud voice is talking about. let me listen too. o, he is telling the people that an elephant, and a lion, and a royal tiger, and a horse with horns, and other strange beasts from foreign countries, have come to town, and will receive all visitors who choose to wait upon them! perhaps little annie would like to go. yes; and i can see that the pretty child is weary of this wide and pleasant street, with the green trees flinging their shade across the quiet sunshine, and the pavements and the sidewalks all as clean as if the housemaid had just swept them with her broom. she feels that impulse to go strolling away--that longing after the mystery of the great world--which many children feel, and which i felt in my childhood. little annie shall take a ramble with me. see! i do but hold out my hand, and, like some bright bird in the sunny air, with her blue silk frock fluttering upwards from her white pantalets, she comes bounding on tiptoe across the street. smooth back your brown curls, annie; and let me tie on your bonnet, and we will set forth! what a strange couple to go on their rambles together! one walks in black attire, with a measured step, and a heavy brow, and his thoughtful eyes bent down, while the gay little girl trips lightly along, as if she were forced to keep hold of my hand, lest her feet should dance away from the earth. yet there is sympathy between us. if i pride myself on anything, it is because i have a smile that children love; and, on the other hand, there are few grown ladies that could entice me from the side of little annie; for i delight to let my mind go hand in hand with the mind of a sinless child. so, come, annie; but if i moralize as we go, do not listen to me; only look about you, and be merry! now we turn the corner. here are hacks with two horses, and stage-coaches with four, thundering to meet each other, and trucks and carts moving at a slower pace, being heavily laden with barrels from the wharves, and here are rattling gigs, which perhaps will be smashed to pieces before our eyes. hitherward, also, comes a man trundling a wheelbarrow along the pavement. is not little annie afraid of such a tumult? no; she does not even shrink closer to my side, but passes on with fearless confidence, a happy child amidst a great throng of grown people, who pay the same reverence to her infancy that they would to extreme old age. nobody jostles her; all turn aside to make way for little annie; and, what is most singular, she appears conscious of her claim to such respect. now her eyes brighten with pleasure! a street-musician has seated himself on the steps of yonder church, and pours forth his strains to the busy town, a melody that has gone astray among the tramp of footsteps, the buzz of voices, and the war of passing wheels. who heeds the poor organ-grinder? none but myself and little annie, whose feet begin to move in unison with the lively tune, as if she were loath that music should be wasted without a dance. but where would annie find a partner? some have the gout in their toes, or the rheumatism in their joints; some are stiff with age; some feeble with disease; some are so lean that their bones would rattle, and others of such ponderous size that their agility would crack the flagstones; but many, many have leaden feet, because their hearts are far heavier than lead. it is a sad thought that i have chanced upon. what a company of dancers should we be! for i, too, am a gentleman of sober footsteps, and therefore, little annie, let us walk sedately on. it is a question with me, whether this giddy child, or my sage self, have most pleasure in looking at the shop-windows. we love the silks of sunny hue, that glow within the darkened premises of the spruce drygoods' men; we are pleasantly dazzled by the burnished silver, and the chased gold, the rings of wedlock and the costly love-ornaments, glistening at the window of the jeweller; but annie, more than i, seeks for a glimpse of her passing figure in the dusty looking-glasses at the hardware stores. all that is bright and gay attracts us both. here is a shop to which the recollections of my boyhood, as well as present partialities, give a peculiar magic. how delightful to let the fancy revel on the dainties of a confectioner; those pies, with such white and flaky paste, their contents being a mystery, whether rich mince, with whole plums intermixed, or piquant apple, delicately rose-flavored; those cakes, heart-shaped or round, piled in a lofty pyramid; those sweet little circlets, sweetly named kisses; those dark, majestic masses, fit to be bridal-loaves at the wedding of an heiress, mountains in size, their summits deeply snow-covered with sugar! then the mighty treasures of sugar-plums, white and crimson and yellow, in large glass vases; and candy of all varieties; and those little cockles, or whatever they are called, much prized by children for their sweetness, and more for the mottoes which they enclose, by love-sick maids and bachelors! o, my mouth waters, little annie, and so doth yours; but we will not be tempted, except to an imaginary feast; so let us hasten onward, devouring the vision of a plum-cake. here are pleasures, as some people would say, of a more exalted kind, in the window of a bookseller. is annie a literary lady? yes; she is deeply read in peter parley's tomes, and has an increasing love for fairy-tales, though seldom met with nowadays, and she will subscribe, next year, to the juvenile miscellany. but, truth to tell, she is apt to turn away from the printed page, and keep gazing at the pretty pictures, such as the gay-colored ones which make this shopwindow the continual loitering-place of children. what would annie think, if, in the book which i mean to send her, on new year's day, she should find her sweet little self, bound up in silk or morocco with gilt edges, there to remain till she become a woman grown with children of her own to read about their mother's childhood! that would be very queer. little annie is weary of pictures, and pulls me onward by the hand, till suddenly we pause at the most wondrous shop in all the town. o, my stars! is this a toy-shop, or is it fairy-land? for here are gilded chariots, in which the king and queen of the fairies might ride side by side, while their courtiers, on these small horses, should gallop in triumphal procession before and behind the royal pair. here, too, are dishes of china-ware, fit to be the dining set of those same princely personages, when they make a regal banquet in the stateliest ball of their palace, full five feet high, and behold their nobles feasting adown the long perspective of the table. betwixt the king and queen should sit my little annie, the prettiest fairy of them all. here stands a turbaned turk, threatening us with his sabre, like an ugly heathen as he is. and next a chinese mandarin, who nods his head at annie and myself. here we may review a whole army of horse and foot, in red and blue uniforms, with drums, fifes, trumpets, and all kinds of noiseless music; they have halted on the shelf of this window, after their weary march from liliput. but what cares annie for soldiers? no conquering queen is she, neither a semiramis nor a catharine, her whole heart is set upon that doll, who gazes at us with such a fashionable stare. this is the little girl's true plaything. though made of wood, a doll is a visionary and ethereal personage, endowed by childish fancy with a peculiar life; the mimic lady is a heroine of romance, an actor and a sufferer in a thousand shadowy scenes, the chief inhabitant of that wild world with which children ape the real one. little annie does not understand what i am saying, but looks wishfully at the proud lady in the window. we will invite her home with us as we return. meantime, good by, dame doll! a toy yourself, you look forth from your window upon many ladies that are also toys, though they walk and speak, and upon a crowd in pursuit of toys, though they wear grave visages. o, with your never-closing eyes, had you but an intellect to moralize on all that flits before them, what a wise doll would you be! come, little annie, we shall find toys enough, go where we may. now we elbow our way among the throng again. it is curious, in the most crowded part of a town, to meet with living creatures that had their birthplace in some far solitude, but have acquired a second nature in the wilderness of men. look up, annie, at that canary-bird, hanging out of the window in his cage. poor little fellow! his golden feathers are all tarnished in this smoky sunshine; he would have glistened twice as brightly among the summer islands; but still he has become a citizen in all his tastes and habits, and would not sing half so well without the uproar that drowns his music. what a pity that he does not know how miserable he is! there is a parrot, too, calling out, "pretty poll! pretty poll!" as we pass by. foolish bird, to be talking about her prettiness to strangers, especially as she is not a pretty poll, though gaudily dressed in green and yellow. if she had said, "pretty annie," there would have been some sense in it. see that gray squirrel at the door of the fruit-shop, whirling round and round so merrily within his wire wheel! being condemned to the treadmill, he makes it an amusement. admirable philosophy! here comes a big, rough dog, a countryman's dog in search of his master; smelling at everybody's heels, and touching little annie's hand with his cold nose, but hurrying away, though she would fain have patted him. success to your search, fidelity! and there sits a great yellow cat upon a window-sill, a very corpulent and comfortable cat, gazing at this transitory world, with owl's eyes, and making pithy comments, doubtless, or what appear such, to the silly beast. o sage puss, make room for me beside you, and we will be a pair of philosophers! here we see something to remind us of the town crier, and his ding-dong bell! look! look at that great cloth spread out in the air, pictured all over with wild beasts, as if they had met together to choose a king, according to their custom in the days of aesop. but they are choosing neither a king nor a president; else we should hear a most horrible snarling! they have come from the deep woods, and the wild mountains, and the desert sands, and the polar snows, only to do homage to my little annie. as we enter among them, the great elephant makes us a bow, in the best style of elephantine courtesy, bending lowly down his mountain bulk, with trunk abased, and leg thrust out behind. annie returns the salute, much to the gratification of the elephant, who is certainly the best-bred monster in the caravan. the lion and the lioness are busy with two beef-bones. the royal tiger, the beautiful, the untamable, keeps pacing his narrow cage with a haughty step, unmindful of the spectators, or recalling the fierce deeds of his former life, when he was wont to leap forth upon such inferior animals, from the jungles of bengal. here we see the very same wolf,--do not go near him, annie!--the self-same wolf that devoured little red riding hood and her grandmother. in the next cage, a hyena from egypt, who has doubtless howled around the pyramids, and a black bear from our own forests are fellow-prisoners, and most excellent friends. are there any two living creatures who have so few sympathies that they cannot possibly be friends? here sits a great white bear, whom common observers would call a very stupid beast, though i perceive him to be only absorbed in contemplation; he is thinking of his voyages on an iceberg, and of his comfortable home in the vicinity of the north pole, and of the little cubs whom he left rolling in the eternal snows. in fact, he is a bear of sentiment. but, o, those unsentimental monkeys the ugly, grinning, aping, chattering, ill-natured, mischievous, and queer little brutes. annie does not love the monkeys. their ugliness shocks her pure, instinctive delicacy of taste, and makes her mind unquiet, because it bears a wild and dark resemblance to humanity. but here is a little pony, just big enough for annie to ride, and round and round he gallops in a circle, keeping time with his trampling hoofs to a band of music. and here,--with a laced coat and a cocked hat, and a riding whip in his hand,--here comes a little gentleman, small enough to be king of the fairies, and ugly enough to be king of the gnomes, and takes a flying leap into the saddle. merrily, merrily plays the music, and merrily gallops the pony, and merrily rides the little old gentleman. come, annie, into the street again; perchance we may see monkeys on horseback there! mercy on us, what a noisy world we quiet people live in! did annie ever read the cries of london city? with what lusty lungs doth yonder man proclaim that his wheelbarrow is full of lobsters! here comes another mounted on a cart, and blowing a hoarse and dreadful blast from a tin horn, as much as to say, "fresh fish!" and hark! a voice on high, like that of a muezzin from the summit of a mosque, announcing that some chimney-sweeper has emerged from smoke and soot, and darksome caverns, into the upper air. what cares the world for that? but, well-a-day, we hear a shrill voice of affliction, the scream of a little child, rising louder with every repetition of that smart, sharp, slapping sound, produced by an open hand on tender flesh. annie sympathizes, though without experience of such direful woe. lo! the town crier again, with some new secret for the public ear. will he tell us of an auction, or of a lost pocketbook, or a show of beautiful wax figures, or of some monstrous beast more horrible than any in the caravan? i guess the latter. see how he uplifts the bell in his right hand, and shakes it slowly at first, then with a hurried motion, till the clapper seems to strike both sides at once, and the sounds are scattered forth in quick succession, far and near. ding-dong! ding-dong! ding-dong! now he raises his clear, loud voice, above all the din of the town; it drowns the buzzing talk of many tongues, and draws each man's mind from his own business; it rolls up and down the echoing street and ascends to the hushed chamber of the sick, and penetrates downward to the cellar kitchen, where the hot cook turns from the fire to listen. who, of all that address the public ear, whether in church, or court-house, or hall of state, has such an attentive audience as the town crier? what saith the people's orator? "strayed from her home, a little girl, of five years old, in a blue silk frock and white pantalets, with brown curling hair and hazel eyes. whoever will bring her back to her afflicted mother--" stop, stop, town crier! the lost is found. o, my pretty annie, we forgot to tell your mother of our ramble, and she is in despair, and has sent the town crier to bellow up and down the streets, afrighting old and young, for the loss of a little girl who has not once let go my hand! well, let us hasten homeward; and as we go, forget not to thank heaven, my annie, that, after wandering a little way into the world, you may return at the first summons, with an untainted and unwearied heart, and be a happy child again. but i have gone too far astray for the town crier to call me back. sweet has been the charm of childhood on my spirit, throughout my ramble with little annie! say not that it has been a waste of precious moments, an idle matter, a babble of childish talk, and a revery of childish imaginations, about topics unworthy of a grown man's notice. has it been merely this? not so; not so. they are not truly wise who would affirm it. as the pure breath of children revives the life of aged men, so is our moral nature revived by their free and simple thoughts, their native feeling, their airy mirth, for little cause or none, their grief, soon roused and soon allayed. their influence on us is at least reciprocal with ours on them. when our infancy is almost forgotten, and our boyhood long departed, though it seems but as yesterday; when life settles darkly down upon us, and we doubt whether to call ourselves young any more, then it is good to steal away from the society of bearded men, and even of gentler woman, and spend an hour or two with children. after drinking from those fountains of still fresh existence, we shall return into the crowd, as i do now, to struggle onward and do our part in life, perhaps as fervently as ever, but, for a time, with a kinder and purer heart, and a spirit more lightly wise. all this by thy sweet magic, dear little annie! twice told tales the vision of the fountain by nathaniel hawthorne at fifteen, i became a resident in a country village, more than a hundred miles from home. the morning after my arrival--a september morning, but warm and bright as any in july--i rambled into a wood of oaks, with a few walnut-trees intermixed, forming the closest shade above my head. the ground was rocky, uneven, overgrown with bushes and clumps of young saplings, and traversed only by cattle-paths. the track, which i chanced to follow, led me to a crystal spring, with a border of grass, as freshly green as on may morning, and overshadowed by the limb of a great oak. one solitary sunbeam found its way down, and played like a goldfish in the water. from my childhood, i have loved to gaze into a spring. the water filled a circular basin, small but deep, and set round with stones, some of which were covered with slimy moss, the others naked, and of variegated hue, reddish, white, and brown. the bottom was covered with coarse sand, which sparkled in the lonely sunbeam, and seemed to illuminate the spring with an unborrowed light. in one spot, the gush of the water violently agitated the sand, but without obscuring the fountain, or breaking the glassiness of its surface. it appeared as if some living creature were about to emerge--the naiad of the spring, perhaps--in the shape of a beautiful young woman, with a gown of filmy water-moss, a belt of rainbow-drops, and a cold, pure, passionless countenance. how would the beholder shiver, pleasantly, yet fearfully, to see her sitting on one of the stones, paddling her white feet in the ripples, and throwing up water, to sparkle in the sun! wherever she laid her hands on grass and flowers, they would immediately be moist, as with morning dew. then would she set about her labors, like a careful housewife, to clear the fountain of withered leaves, and bits of slimy wood, and old acorns from the oaks above, and grains of corn left by cattle in drinking, till the bright sand, in the bright water, were like a treasury of diamonds. but, should the intruder approach too near, he would find only the drops of a summer shower glistening about the spot where he had seen her. reclining on the border of grass, where the dewy goddess should have been, i bent forward, and a pair of eyes met mine within the watery mirror. they were the reflection of my own. i looked again, and lo! another face, deeper in the fountain than my own image, more distinct in all the features, yet faint as thought. the vision had the aspect of a fair young girl, with locks of paly gold. a mirthful expression laughed in the eyes and dimpled over the whole shadowy countenance, till it seemed just what a fountain would be, if, while dancing merrily into the sunshine, it should assume the shape of woman. through the dim rosiness of the cheeks, i could see the brown leaves, the slimy twigs, the acorns, and the sparkling sand. the solitary sunbeam was diffused among the golden hair, which melted into its faint brightness, and became a glory round that head so beautiful! my description can give no idea how suddenly the fountain was thus tenanted, and how soon it was left desolate. i breathed; and there was the face! i held my breath; and it was gone! had it passed away, or faded into nothing? i doubted whether it had ever been. my sweet readers, what a dreamy and delicious hour did i spend, where that vision found and left me! for a long time i sat perfectly still, waiting till it should reappear, and fearful that the slightest motion, or even the flutter of my breath, might frighten it away. thus have i often started from a pleasant dream, and then kept quiet, in hopes to wile it back. deep were my musings, as to the race and attributes of that ethereal being. had i created her? was she the daughter of my fancy, akin to those strange shapes which peep under the lids of children's eyes? and did her beauty gladden me, for that one moment, and then die? or was she a water-nymph within the fountain, or fairy, or woodland goddess peeping over my shoulder, or the ghost of some forsaken maid, who had drowned herself for love? or, in good truth, had a lovely girl, with a warm heart, and lips that would bear pressure, stolen softly behind me, and thrown her image into the spring? i watched and waited, but no vision came again. i departed, but with a spell upon me, which drew me back, that same afternoon, to the haunted spring. there was the water gushing, the sand sparkling, and the sunbeam glimmering. there the vision was not, but only a great frog, the hermit of that solitude, who immediately withdrew his speckled snout and made himself invisible, all except a pair of long legs, beneath a stone. methought he had a devilish look! i could have slain him! thus did the vision leave me; and many a doleful day succeeded to the parting moment. by the spring, and in the wood, and on the hill, and through the village; at dewy sunrise, burning noon, and at that magic hour of sunset, when she had vanished from my sight, i sought her, but in vain. weeks came and went, months rolled away, and she appeared not in them. i imparted my mystery to none, but wandered to and fro, or sat in solitude, like one that had caught a glimpse of heaven, and could take no more joy on earth. i withdrew into an inner world, where my thoughts lived and breathed, and the vision in the midst of them. without intending it, i became at once the author and hero of a romance, conjuring up rivals, imagining events, the actions of others and my own, and experiencing every change of passion, till jealousy and despair had their end in bliss. o, had i the burning fancy of my early youth, with manhood's colder gift, the power of expression, your hearts, sweet ladies, should flutter at my tale! in the middle of january, i was summoned home. the day before my departure, visiting the spots which had been hallowed by the vision, i found that the spring had a frozen bosom, and nothing but the snow and a glare of winter sunshine, on the hill of the rainbow. "let me hope," thought i, "or my heart will be as icy as the fountain, and the whole world as desolate as this snowy hill." most of the day was spent in preparing for the journey, which was to commence at four o'clock the next morning. about an hour after supper, when all was in readiness, i descended from my chamber to the sitting-room, to take leave of the old clergyman and his family, with whom i had been an inmate. a gust of wind blew out my lamp as i passed through the entry. according to their invariable custom, so pleasant a one when the fire blazes cheerfully, the family were sitting in the parlor, with no other light than what came from the hearth. as the good clergyman's scanty stipend compelled him to use all sorts of economy, the foundation of his fires was always a large heap of tan, or ground bark, which would smoulder away, from morning till night, with a dull warmth and no flame. this evening the heap of tan was newly put on, and surmounted with three sticks of red-oak, full of moisture, and a few pieces of dry pine, that had not yet kindled. there was no light, except the little that came sullenly from two half-burned brands, without even glimmering on the andirons. but i knew the position of the old minister's arm-chair, and also where his wife sat, with her knitting-work, and how to avoid his two daughters, one a stout country lass, and the other a consumptive girl. groping through the gloom, i found my own place next to that of the son, a learned collegian, who had come home to keep school in the village during the winter vacation. i noticed that there was less room than usual, to-night, between the collegian's chair and mine. as people are always taciturn in the dark, not a word was said for some time after my entrance. nothing broke the stillness but the regular click of the matron's knitting-needles. at times, the fire threw out a brief and dusky gleam, which twinkled on the old man's glasses, and hovered doubtfully round our circle, but was far too faint to portray the individuals who composed it. were we not like ghosts? dreamy as the scene was, might it not be a type of the mode in which departed people, who had known and loved each other here, would hold communion in eternity? we were aware of each other's presence, not by sight, nor sound, nor touch, but by an inward consciousness. would it not be so among the dead? the silence was interrupted by the consumptive daughter, addressing a remark to some one in the circle, whom she called rachel. her tremulous and decayed accents were answered by a single word, but in a voice that made me start, and bend towards the spot whence it had proceeded. had i ever heard that sweet, low tone? if not, why did it rouse up so many old recollections, or mockeries of such, the shadows of things familiar, yet unknown, and fill my mind with confused images of her features who had spoken, though buried in the gloom of the parlor? whom had my heart recognized, that it throbbed so? i listened, to catch her gentle breathing, and strove, by the intensity of my gaze, to picture forth a shape where none was visible. suddenly, the dry pine caught; the fire blazed up with a ruddy glow; and where the darkness had been, there was she,--the vision of the fountain! a spirit of radiance only, she had vanished with the rainbow, and appeared again in the firelight, perhaps to flicker with the blaze, and be gone. yet, her cheek was rosy and life-like, and her features, in the bright warmth of the room, were even sweeter and tenderer than my recollection of them. she knew me! the mirthful expression that had laughed in her eyes and dimpled over her countenance, when i beheld her faint beauty in the fountain, was laughing and dimpling there now. one moment our glance mingled,--the next, down rolled the heap of tan upon the kindled wood,--and darkness snatched away that daughter of the light, and gave her back to me no more! fair ladies, there is nothing more to tell. must the simple mystery be revealed, then, that rachel was the daughter of the village squire, and had left home for a boarding-school, the morning after i arrived, and returned the day before my departure? if i transformed her to an angel, it is what every youthful lover does for his mistress. therein consists the essence of my story. but slight the change, sweet maids, to make angels of yourselves! twice told tales the toll-gatherer's day a sketch of transitory life by nathaniel hawthorne methinks, for a person whose instinct bids him rather to pore over the current of life, than to plunge into its tumultuous waves, no undesirable retreat were a toll-house beside some thronged thoroughfare of the land. in youth, perhaps, it is good for the observer to run about the earth, to leave the track of his footsteps far and wide,--to mingle himself with the action of numberless vicissitudes,--and, finally, in some calm solitude, to feed a musing spirit on all that lie has seen and felt. but there are natures too indolent, or too sensitive, to endure the dust, the sunshine, or the rain, the turmoil of moral and physical elements, to which all the wayfarers of the world expose themselves. for such a mail, how pleasant a miracle, could life be made to roll its variegated length by the threshold of his own hermitage, and the great globe, as it were, perform its revolutions and shift its thousand scenes before his eyes without whirling him onward in its course. if any mortal be favored with a lot analogous to this, it is the toll-gatherer. so, at least, have i often fancied, while lounging on a bench at the door of a small square edifice, which stands between shore and shore in the midst of a long bridge. beneath the timbers ebbs and flows an arm of the sea; while above, like the life-blood through a great artery, the travel of the north and east is continually throbbing. sitting on the aforesaid bench, i amuse myself with a conception, illustrated by numerous pencil-sketches in the air, of the toll-gatherer's day. in the morning--dim, gray, dewy summer's morn the distant roll of ponderous wheels begins to mingle with my old friend's slumbers, creaking more and more harshly through the midst of his dream, and gradually replacing it with realities. hardly conscious of the change from sleep to wakefulness, he finds himself partly clad and throwing wide the toll-gates for the passage of a fragrant load of hay. the timbers groan beneath the slow-revolving wheels; one sturdy yeoman stalks beside the oxen, and, peering from the summit of the hay, by the glimmer of the half-extinguished lantern over the toll-house, is seen the drowsy visage of his comrade, who has enjoyed a nap some ten miles long. the toll is paid,--creak, creak, again go the wheels, and the huge haymow vanishes into the morning mist. as yet, nature is but half awake, and familiar objects appear visionary. but yonder, dashing from the shore with a rattling thunder of the wheels and a confused clatter of hoofs, comes the never-tiring mail, which has hurried onward at the same headlong, restless rate, all through the quiet night. the bridge resounds in one continued peal as the coach rolls on without a pause, merely affording the toll-gatherer a glimpse at the sleepy passengers, who now bestir their torpid limbs, and snuff a cordial in the briny air. the morn breathes upon them and blushes, and they forget how wearily the darkness toiled away. and behold now the fervid day, in his bright chariot, glittering aslant over the waves, nor scorning to throw a tribute of his golden beams on the toll-gatherer's little hermitage. the old man looks eastward, and (for he is a moralizer) frames a simile of the stage coach and the sun. while the world is rousing itself, we may glance slightly at the scene of our sketch. it sits above the bosom of the broad flood, a spot not of earth, but in the midst of waters, which rush with a murmuring sound among the massive beams beneath. over the door is a weather-beaten board, inscribed with the rates of toll, in letters so nearly effaced that the gilding of the sunshine can hardly make them legible. beneath the window is a wooden bench, on which a long succession of weary wayfarers have reposed themselves. peeping within doors, we perceive the whitewashed walls bedecked with sundry lithographic prints and advertisements of various import, and the immense showbill of a wandering caravan. and there sits our good old toll-gatherer, glorified by the early sunbeams. he is a man, as his aspect may announce, of quiet soul, and thoughtful, shrewd, yet simple mind, who, of the wisdom which the passing world scatters along the wayside, has gathered a reasonable store. now the sun smiles upon the landscape, and earth smiles back again upon the sky. frequent, now, are the travellers. the toll-gatherer's practised ear can distinguish the weight of every vehicle, the number of its wheels, and how many horses beat the resounding timbers with their iron tramp. here, in a substantial family chaise, setting forth betimes to take advantage of the dewy road, come a gentleman and his wife, with their rosy-cheeked little girl sitting gladsomely between them. the bottom of the chaise is heaped with multifarious bandboxes and carpet-bags, and beneath the axle swings a leathern trunk dusty with yesterday's journey. next appears a four-wheeled carryall, peopled with a round half-dozen of pretty girls, all drawn by a single horse, and driven by a single gentleman. luckless wight, doomed, through a whole summer day, to be the butt of mirth and mischief among the frolicsome maidens! bolt upright in a sulky rides a thin, sour-visaged man, who, as he pays his toll, hands the toll-gatherer a printed card to stick upon the wall. the vinegar-faced traveller proves to be a manufacturer of pickles. now paces slowly from timber to timber a horseman clad in black, with a meditative brow, as of one who, whithersoever his steed might bear him, would still journey through a mist of brooding thought. he is a country preacher, going to labor at a protracted meeting. the next object passing townward is a butcher's cart, canopied with its arch of snow-white cotton. behind comes a "sauceman," driving a wagon full of new potatoes, green ears of corn, beets, carrots, turnips, and summer-squashes; and next, two wrinkled, withered, witch-looking old gossips, in an antediluvian chaise, drawn by a horse of former generations, and going to peddle out a lot of huckleberries. see there, a man trundling a wheelbarrow-load of lobsters. and now a milk-cart rattles briskly onward, covered with green canvas, and conveying the contributions of a whole herd of cows, in large tin canisters. but let all these pay their toll and pass. here comes a spectacle that causes the old toll-gatherer to smile benignantly, as if the travellers brought sunshine with them and lavished its gladsome influence all along the road. it is a harouche of the newest style, the varnished panels of which reflect the whole moving panorama of the landscape, and show a picture, likewise, of our friend, with his visage broadened, so that his meditative smile is transformed to grotesque merriment. within, sits a youth, fresh as the summer morn, and beside him a young lady in white, with white gloves upon her slender bands, and a white veil flowing down over her face. but methinks her blushing cheek burns through the snowy veil. another white-robed virgin sits in front. and who are these, on whom, and on all that appertains to them, the dust of earth seems never to have settled? two lovers, whom the priest has blessed, this blessed morn, and sent them forth, with one of the bridemaids, on the matrimonial tour. take my blessing too, ye happy ones! may the sky not frown upon you, nor clouds bedew you with their chill and sullen rain! may the hot sun kindle no fever in your hearts! may your whole life's pilgrimage be as blissful as this first day's journey, and its close be gladdened with even brighter anticipations than those which hallow your bridal night! they pass; and ere the reflection of their joy has faded from his face, another spectacle throws a melancholy shadow over the spirit of the observing man. in a close carriage sits a fragile figure, muffled carefully, and shrinking even from the mild breath of summer. she leans against a manly form, and his arm infolds her, as if to guard his treasure from some enemy. let but a few weeks pass, and when he shall strive to embrace that loved one, he will press only desolation to his heart! and now has morning gathered up her dewy pearls, and fled away. the sun rolls blazing through the sky, and cannot find a cloud to cool his face with. the horses toil sluggishly along the bridge, and heave their glistening sides in short quick pantings, when the reins are tightened at the toll-house. glisten, too, the faces of the travellers. their garments are thickly bestrewn with dust; their whiskers and hair look hoary; their throats are choked with the dusty atmosphere which they have left behind them. no air is stirring on the road. nature dares draw no breath, lest she should inhale a stifling cloud of dust. "a hot, and dusty day!" cry the poor pilgrims, as they wipe their begrimed foreheads, and woo the doubtful breeze which the river bears along with it. "awful hot! dreadful dusty!" answers the sympathetic toll-gatherer. they start again, to pass through the fiery furnace, while he re-enters his cool hermitage, and besprinkles it with a pail of briny water from the stream beneath. he thinks within himself, that the sun is not so fierce here as elsewhere, and that the gentle air does not forget him in these sultry days. yes, old friend; and a quiet heart will make a dog-day temperate. he hears a weary footstep, and perceives a traveller with pack and staff, who sits down upon the hospitable bench, and removes the hat from his wet brow. the toll-gatherer administers a cup of cold water, and discovering his guest to be a man of homely sense, he engages him in profitable talk, uttering the maxims of a philosophy which he has found in his own soul, but knows not how it came there. and as the wayfarer makes ready to resume his journey, he tells him a sovereign remedy for blistered feet. now comes the noontide hour,--of all the hours nearest akin to midnight; for each has its own calmness and repose. soon, however, the world begins to turn again upon its axis, and it seems the busiest epoch of the day; when an accident impedes the march of sublunary things. the draw being lifted to permit the passage of a schooner, laden with wood from the eastern forests, she sticks immovably, right athwart the bridge! meanwhile, on both sides of the chasm, a throng of impatient travellers fret and fume. here are two sailors in a gig, with the top thrown back, both puffing cigars, and swearing all sorts of forecastle oaths; there, in a smart chaise, a dashingly dressed gentleman and lady, he from a tailor's shop-board; and she from a milliner's hack room,--the aristocrats of a summer afternoon. and what are the haughtiest of us, but the ephemeral aristocrats of a summer's day? here is a tin-peddler, whose glittering ware bedazzles all beholders, like a travelling meteor, or opposition sun; and on the other side a seller of spruce-beer, which brisk liquor is confined in several dozen of stone bottles. here comes a party of ladies on horseback, in green riding-habits, and gentlemen attendant; and there a flock of sheep for the market, pattering over the bridge with a multitudinous clatter of their little hoofs. here a frenchman, with a hand-organ on his shoulder; and there an itinerant swiss jeweller. on this side, heralded by a blast of clarions and bugles, appears a train of wagons, conveying all the wild beasts of a caravan; and on that, a company of summer soldiers, marching from village to village on a festival campaign, attended by the "brass band." now look at the scene, and it presents an emblem of the mysterious confusion, the apparently insolvable riddle, in which individuals, or the great world itself, seem often to be involved. what miracle shall set all things right again? but see! the schooner has thrust her bulky carcass through the chasm; the draw descends; horse and foot pass onward, and leave the bridge vacant from end to end. "and thus," muses the toll-gatherer, "have i found it with all stoppages, even though the universe seemed to be at a stand." the sage old man! far westward now, the reddening sun throws a broad sheet of splendor across the flood, and to the eyes of distant boatmen gleams brightly among the timbers of the bridge. strollers come from the town to quaff the freshening breeze. one or two let down long lines, and haul up flapping flounders? or cunners, or small cod, or perhaps an eel. others, and fair girls among them, with the flush of the hot day still on their cheeks, bend over the railing and watch the heaps of sea-weed floating upward with the flowing tide. the horses now tramp heavily along the bridge, and wistfully bethink them of their stables. rest, rest, thou weary world! for tomorrow's round of toil and pleasure will be as wearisome as to-day's has been; yet both shall bear thee onward a day's march of eternity. now the old toll-gatherer looks seaward, and discerns the lighthouse kindling on a far island, and the stars, too, kindling in the sky, as if but a little way beyond; and mingling reveries of heaven with remembrances of earth, the whole procession of mortal travellers, all the dusty pilgrimage which he has witnessed, seems like a flitting show of phantoms for his thoughtful soul to muse upon. twice told tales sights from a steeple by nathaniel hawthorne o! i have climbed high, and my reward is small. here i stand, with wearied knees, earth, indeed, at a dizzy depth below, but heaven far, far beyond me still. o that i could soar up into the very zenith, where man never breathed, nor eagle ever flew, and where the ethereal azure melts away from the eye, and appears only a deepened shade of nothingness! and yet i shiver at that cold and solitary thought. what clouds are gathering in the golden west, with direful intent against the brightness and the warmth of this dimmer afternoon! they are ponderous air-ships, black as death, and freighted with the tempest; and at intervals their thunder, the signal-guns of that unearthly squadron, rolls distant along the deep of heaven. these nearer heaps of fleecy vapor--methinks i could roll and toss upon them the whole day long!--seem scattered here and there, for the repose of tired pilgrims through the sky. perhaps--for who can tell?--beautiful spirits are disporting themselves there, and will bless my mortal eye with the brief appearance of their curly locks of golden light, and laughing faces, fair and faint as the people of a rosy dream. or, where the floating mass so imperfectly obstructs the color of the firmament, a slender foot and fairy limb, resting too heavily upon the frail support, may be thrust through, and suddenly withdrawn, while longing fancy follows them in vain. yonder again is an airy archipelago, where the sunbeams love to linger in their journeyings through space. every one of those little clouds has been dipped and steeped in radiance, which the slightest pressure might disengage in silvery profusion, like water wrung from a sea-maid's hair. bright they are as a young man's visions, and, like them, would be realized in chillness, obscurity, and tears. i will look on them no more. in three parts of the visible circle, whose centre is this spire, i discern cultivated fields, villages, white country-seats, the waving lines of rivulets, little placid lakes, and here and there a rising ground, that would fain be termed a hill. on the fourth side is the sea, stretching away towards a viewless boundary, blue and calm, except where the passing anger of a shadow flits across its surface, and is gone. hitherward, a broad inlet penetrates far into the land; on the verge of the harbor, formed by its extremity, is a town; and over it am i, a watchman, all-heeding and unheeded. o that the multitude of chimneys could speak, like those of madrid, and betray, in smoky whispers, the secrets of all who, since their first foundation, have assembled at the hearths within! o that the limping devil of le sage would perch beside me here, extend his wand over this contiguity of roofs, uncover every chamber, and make me familiar with their inhabitants! the most desirable mode of existence might be that of a spiritualized paul pry hovering invisible round man and woman, witnessing their deeds, searching into their hearts, borrowing brightness from their felicity, and shade from their sorrow, and retaining no emotion peculiar to himself. but none of these things are possible; and if i would know interior of brick walls, or the mystery of human bosoms, i can but guess. yonder is a fair street, extending north and south. the stately mansions are placed each on its carpet of verdant grass, and a long flight of steps descends from every door to the pavement. ornamental trees--the broad-leafed horse-chestnut, the elm so lofty and bending, the graceful but infrequent willow, and others whereof i know not the names--grow thrivingly among brick and stone. the oblique rays of the sun are intercepted by these green citizens, and by the houses, so that one side of the street is a shaded and pleasant walk. on its whole extent there is now but a single passenger, advancing from the upper end; and be, unless distance and the medium of a pocket spyglass do him more than justice, is a fine young man of twenty. he saunters slowly forward, slapping his left hand with his folded gloves, bending his eyes upon the pavement, and sometimes raising them to throw a glance before him. certainly, he has a pensive air. is he in doubt, or in debt? is he, if the question be allowable, in love? does he strive to be melancholy and gentlemanlike? or, is he merely overcome by the heat? but i bid him farewell, for the present. the door of one of the houses--an aristocratic edifice, with curtains of purple and gold waving from the windows--is now opened, and down the steps come two ladies, swinging their parasols, and lightly arrayed for a summer ramble. both are young, both are pretty; but methinks the left-hand lass is the fairer of the twain; and, though she be so serious at this moment, i could swear that there is a treasure of gentle fun within her. they stand talking a little while upon the steps, and finally proceed up the street. meantime, as their faces are now turned from me, i may look elsewhere. upon that wharf, and down the corresponding street, is a busy contrast to the quiet scene which i have just noticed. business evidently has its centre there, and many a man is wasting the summer afternoon in labor and anxiety, in losing riches, or in gaining them, when he would be wiser to flee away to some pleasant country village, or shaded lake in the forest, or wild and cool seabeach. i see vessels unlading at the wharf, and precious merchandise strewn upon the ground, abundantly as at the bottom of the sea, that market whence no goods return, and where there is no captain nor supercargo to render an account of sales. here, the clerks are diligent with their paper and pencils, and sailors ply the block and tackle that hang over the hold, accompanying their toil with cries, long drawn and roughly melodious, till the bales and puncheons ascend to upper air. at a little distance, a group of gentlemen are assembled round the door of a warehouse. grave seniors be they, and i would wager--if it were safe, in these times, to be responsible for any one--that the least eminent among them might vie with old vicentio, that incomparable trafficker of pisa. i can even select the wealthiest of the company. it is the elderly personage, in somewhat rusty black, with powdered hair, the superfluous whiteness of which is visible upon the cape of his coat. his twenty ships are wafted on some of their many courses by every breeze that blows, and his name--i will venture to say, though i know it not--is a familiar sound among the far-separated merchants of europe and the indies. but i bestow too much of my attention in this quarter. on looking again to the long and shady walk, i perceive that the two fair girls have encountered the young man. after a sort of shyness in the recognition, he turns back with them. moreover, he has sanctioned my taste in regard to his companions by placing himself on the inner side of the pavement, nearest the venus to whom i--enacting on a steeple-top, the part of paris on the top of ida--adjudged the golden apple. in two streets, converging at right angles towards my watchtower, i distinguish three different processions. one is a proud array of voluntary soldiers, in bright uniform, resembling, from the height whence i look down, the painted veterans that garrison the windows of a toyshop. and yet, it stirs my heart; their regular advance, their nodding plumes, the sunflash on their bayonets and musket-barrels, the roll of their drums ascending past me, and the fife ever and anon piercing through,--these things have wakened a warlike fire, peaceful though i be. close to their rear marches a battalion of schoolboys, ranged in crooked and irregular platoons, shouldering sticks, thumping a harsh and unripe clatter from an instrument of tin, and ridiculously aping the intricate manoeuvres of the foremost band. nevertheless, as slight differences are scarcely perceptible from a church-spire, one might be tempted to ask, "which are the boys?" or, rather, "which the men?" but, leaving these, let us turn to the third procession, which, though sadder in outward show, may excite identical reflections in the thoughtful mind. it is a funeral. a hearse, drawn by a black and bony steed, and covered by a dusty pall; two or three coaches rumbling over the stones, their drivers half asleep; a dozen couple of careless mourners in their every-day attire; such was not the fashion of our fathers, when they carried a friend to his grave. there is now no doleful clang of the bell to proclaim sorrow to the town. was the king of terrors more awful in those days than in our own, that wisdom and philosophy have been able to produce this change? not so. here is a proof that he retains his proper majesty. the military men, and the military boys, are wheeling round the corner, and meet the funeral full in the face. immediately the drum is silent, all but the tap that regulates each simultaneous footfall. the soldiers yield the path to the dusty hearse and unpretending train, and the children quit their ranks, and cluster on the sidewalks, with timorous and instinctive curiosity. the mourners enter the churchyard at the base of the steeple, and pause by an open grave among the burial-stones; the lightning glimmers on them as they lower down the coffin, and the thunder rattles heavily while they throw the earth upon its lid. verily, the shower is near, and i tremble for the young man and the girls, who have now disappeared from the long and shady street. how various are the situations of the people covered by the roofs beneath me, and how diversified are the events at this moment befalling them; the new-born, the aged, the dying, the strong in life, and the recent dead are in the chambers of these many mansions. the full of hope, the happy, the miserable, and the desperate dwell together within the circle of my glance. in some of the houses over which my eyes roam so coldly, guilt is entering into hearts that are still tenanted by a debased and trodden virtue,--guilt is on the very edge of commission, and the impending deed might be averted; guilt is done, and the criminal wonders if it be irrevocable. there are broad thoughts struggling in my mind, and, were i able to give them distinctness, they would make their way in eloquence. lo! the raindrops are descending. the clouds, within a little time, have gathered over all the sky, hanging heavily, as if about to drop in one unbroken mass upon the earth. at intervals, the lightning flashes from their brooding hearts, quivers, disappears, and then comes the thunder, travelling slowly after its twin-born flame. a strong wind has sprung up, howls through the darkened streets, and raises the dust in dense bodies, to rebel against the approaching storm. the disbanded soldiers fly, the funeral has already vanished like its dead, and all people hurry homeward,--all that have a home; while a few lounge by the corners, or trudge on desperately, at their leisure. in a narrow lane, which communicates with the shady street, i discern the rich old merchant, putting himself to the top of his speed, lest the rain should convert his hair-powder to a paste. unhappy gentleman! by the slow vehemence, and painful moderation wherewith he journeys, it is but too evident that podagra has left its thrilling tenderness in his great toe. but yonder, at a far more rapid pace, come three other of my acquaintance, the two pretty girls and the young man, unseasonably interrupted in their walk. their footsteps are supported by the risen dust,--the wind lends them its velocity,--they fly like three sea-birds driven landward by the tempestuous breeze. the ladies would not thus rival atalanta if they but knew that any one were at leisure to observe them. ah! as they hasten onward, laughing in the angry face of nature, a sudden catastrophe has chanced. at the corner where the narrow lane enters into the street, they come plump against the old merchant, whose tortoise motion has just brought him to that point. he likes not the sweet encounter; the darkness of the whole air gathers speedily upon his visage, and there is a pause on both sides. finally, he thrusts aside the youth with little courtesy, seizes an arm of each of the two girls, and plods onward, like a magician with a prize of captive fairies. all this is easy to be understood. how disconsolate the poor lover stands! regardless of the rain that threatens an exceeding damage to his well-fashioned habiliments, till he catches a backward glance of mirth from a bright eye, and turns away with whatever comfort it conveys. the old man and his daughters are safely housed, and now the storm lets loose its fury. in every dwelling i perceive the faces of the chambermaids as they shut down the windows, excluding the impetuous shower, and shrinking away from the quick fiery glare. the large drops descend with force upon the slated roofs, and rise again in smoke. there is a rush and roar, as of a river through the air, and muddy streams bubble majestically along the pavement, whirl their dusky foam into the kennel, and disappear beneath iron grates. thus did arethusa sink. i love not my station here aloft, in the midst of the tumult which i am powerless to direct or quell, with the blue lightning wrinkling on my brow, and the thunder muttering its first awful syllables in my ear. i will descend. yet let me give another glance to the sea, where the foam breaks out in long white lines upon a broad expanse of blackness, or boils up in far distant points, like snowy mountain-tops in the eddies of a flood; and let me look once more at the green plain, and little hills of the country, over which the giant of the storm is striding in robes of mist, and at the town, whose obscured and desolate streets might beseem a city of the dead; and turning a single moment to the sky, now gloomy as an author's prospects, i prepare to resume my station on lower earth. but stay! a little speck of azure has widened in the western heavens; the sunbeams find a passage, and go rejoicing through the tempest; and on yonder darkest cloud, born, like hallowed hopes, of the glory of another world, and the trouble and tears of this, brightens forth the rainbow! proofreading team. twice-told tales. by nathaniel hawthorne. philadelphia: david mckay, publisher, south ninth street. . contents. page the gray champion sunday at home the wedding-knell the minister's black veil the maypole of merry mount the gentle boy mr. higginbotham's catastrophe little annie's ramble wakefield a rill from the town pump the great carbuncle the prophetic pictures david swan sights from a steeple the hollow of the three hills the toll-gatherer's day the vision of the fountain fancy's show-box dr. heidegger's experiment legends of the province house: i.--howe's masquerade ii.--edward randolph's portrait iii.--lady eleanore's mantle iv.--old esther dudley the haunted mind the village uncle the ambitious guest the sister-years snowflakes the seven vagabonds the white old maid peter goldthwaite's treasure chippings with a chisel the shaker bridal night-sketches endicott and the red cross the lily's quest footprints on the seashore edward fane's rosebud the threefold destiny twice-told tales. the gray champion. there was once a time when new england groaned under the actual pressure of heavier wrongs than those threatened ones which brought on the revolution. james ii., the bigoted successor of charles the voluptuous, had annulled the charters of all the colonies and sent a harsh and unprincipled soldier to take away our liberties and endanger our religion. the administration of sir edmund andros lacked scarcely a single characteristic of tyranny--a governor and council holding office from the king and wholly independent of the country; laws made and taxes levied without concurrence of the people, immediate or by their representatives; the rights of private citizens violated and the titles of all landed property declared void; the voice of complaint stifled by restrictions on the press; and finally, disaffection overawed by the first band of mercenary troops that ever marched on our free soil. for two years our ancestors were kept in sullen submission by that filial love which had invariably secured their allegiance to the mother-country, whether its head chanced to be a parliament, protector or popish monarch. till these evil times, however, such allegiance had been merely nominal, and the colonists had ruled themselves, enjoying far more freedom than is even yet the privilege of the native subjects of great britain. at length a rumor reached our shores that the prince of orange had ventured on an enterprise the success of which would be the triumph of civil and religious rights and the salvation of new england. it was but a doubtful whisper; it might be false or the attempt might fail, and in either case the man that stirred against king james would lose his head. still, the intelligence produced a marked effect. the people smiled mysteriously in the streets and threw bold glances at their oppressors, while far and wide there was a subdued and silent agitation, as if the slightest signal would rouse the whole land from its sluggish despondency. aware of their danger, the rulers resolved to avert it by an imposing display of strength, and perhaps to confirm their despotism by yet harsher measures. one afternoon in april, , sir edmund andros and his favorite councillors, being warm with wine, assembled the red-coats of the governor's guard and made their appearance in the streets of boston. the sun was near setting when the march commenced. the roll of the drum at that unquiet crisis seemed to go through the streets less as the martial music of the soldiers than as a muster-call to the inhabitants themselves. a multitude by various avenues assembled in king street, which was destined to be the scene, nearly a century afterward, of another encounter between the troops of britain and a people struggling against her tyranny. though more than sixty years had elapsed since the pilgrims came, this crowd of their descendants still showed the strong and sombre features of their character perhaps more strikingly in such a stern emergency than on happier occasions. there was the sober garb, the general severity of mien, the gloomy but undismayed expression, the scriptural forms of speech and the confidence in heaven's blessing on a righteous cause which would have marked a band of the original puritans when threatened by some peril of the wilderness. indeed, it was not yet time for the old spirit to be extinct, since there were men in the street that day who had worshipped there beneath the trees before a house was reared to the god for whom they had become exiles. old soldiers of the parliament were here, too, smiling grimly at the thought that their aged arms might strike another blow against the house of stuart. here, also, were the veterans of king philip's war, who had burned villages and slaughtered young and old with pious fierceness while the godly souls throughout the land were helping them with prayer. several ministers were scattered among the crowd, which, unlike all other mobs, regarded them with such reverence as if there were sanctity in their very garments. these holy men exerted their influence to quiet the people, but not to disperse them. meantime, the purpose of the governor in disturbing the peace of the town at a period when the slightest commotion might throw the country into a ferment was almost the universal subject of inquiry, and variously explained. "satan will strike his master-stroke presently," cried some, "because he knoweth that his time is short. all our godly pastors are to be dragged to prison. we shall see them at a smithfield fire in king street." hereupon the people of each parish gathered closer round their minister, who looked calmly upward and assumed a more apostolic dignity, as well befitted a candidate for the highest honor of his profession--a crown of martyrdom. it was actually fancied at that period that new england might have a john rogers of her own to take the place of that worthy in the _primer_. "the pope of rome has given orders for a new st. bartholomew," cried others. "we are to be massacred, man and male-child." neither was this rumor wholly discredited; although the wiser class believed the governor's object somewhat less atrocious. his predecessor under the old charter, bradstreet, a venerable companion of the first settlers, was known to be in town. there were grounds for conjecturing that sir edmund andros intended at once to strike terror by a parade of military force and to confound the opposite faction by possessing himself of their chief. "stand firm for the old charter-governor!" shouted the crowd, seizing upon the idea--"the good old governor bradstreet!" while this cry was at the loudest the people were surprised by the well-known figure of governor bradstreet himself, a patriarch of nearly ninety, who appeared on the elevated steps of a door and with characteristic mildness besought them to submit to the constituted authorities. "my children," concluded this venerable person, "do nothing rashly. cry not aloud, but pray for the welfare of new england and expect patiently what the lord will do in this matter." the event was soon to be decided. all this time the roll of the drum had been approaching through cornhill, louder and deeper, till with reverberations from house to house and the regular tramp of martial footsteps it burst into the street. a double rank of soldiers made their appearance, occupying the whole breadth of the passage, with shouldered matchlocks and matches burning, so as to present a row of fires in the dusk. their steady march was like the progress of a machine that would roll irresistibly over everything in its way. next, moving slowly, with a confused clatter of hoofs on the pavement, rode a party of mounted gentlemen, the central figure being sir edmund andros, elderly, but erect and soldier-like. those around him were his favorite councillors and the bitterest foes of new england. at his right hand rode edward randolph, our arch-enemy, that "blasted wretch," as cotton mather calls him, who achieved the downfall of our ancient government and was followed with a sensible curse-through life and to his grave. on the other side was bullivant, scattering jests and mockery as he rode along. dudley came behind with a downcast look, dreading, as well he might, to meet the indignant gaze of the people, who beheld him, their only countryman by birth, among the oppressors of his native land. the captain of a frigate in the harbor and two or three civil officers under the crown were also there. but the figure which most attracted the public eye and stirred up the deepest feeling was the episcopal clergyman of king's chapel riding haughtily among the magistrates in his priestly vestments, the fitting representative of prelacy and persecution, the union of church and state, and all those abominations which had driven the puritans to the wilderness. another guard of soldiers, in double rank, brought up the rear. the whole scene was a picture of the condition of new england, and its moral, the deformity of any government that does not grow out of the nature of things and the character of the people--on one side the religious multitude with their sad visages and dark attire, and on the other the group of despotic rulers with the high churchman in the midst and here and there a crucifix at their bosoms, all magnificently clad, flushed with wine, proud of unjust authority and scoffing at the universal groan. and the mercenary soldiers, waiting but the word to deluge the street with blood, showed the only means by which obedience could be secured. "o lord of hosts," cried a voice among the crowd, "provide a champion for thy people!" this ejaculation was loudly uttered, and served as a herald's cry to introduce a remarkable personage. the crowd had rolled back, and were now huddled together nearly at the extremity of the street, while the soldiers had advanced no more than a third of its length. the intervening space was empty--a paved solitude between lofty edifices which threw almost a twilight shadow over it. suddenly there was seen the figure of an ancient man who seemed to have emerged from among the people and was walking by himself along the centre of the street to confront the armed band. he wore the old puritan dress--a dark cloak and a steeple-crowned hat in the fashion of at least fifty years before, with a heavy sword upon his thigh, but a staff in his hand to assist the tremulous gait of age. when at some distance from the multitude, the old man turned slowly round, displaying a face of antique majesty rendered doubly venerable by the hoary beard that descended on his breast. he made a gesture at once of encouragement and warning, then turned again and resumed his way. "who is this gray patriarch?" asked the young men of their sires. "who is this venerable brother?" asked the old men among themselves. but none could make reply. the fathers of the people, those of fourscore years and upward, were disturbed, deeming it strange that they should forget one of such evident authority whom they must have known in their early days, the associate of winthrop and all the old councillors, giving laws and making prayers and leading them against the savage. the elderly men ought to have remembered him, too, with locks as gray in their youth as their own were now. and the young! how could he have passed so utterly from their memories--that hoary sire, the relic of long-departed times, whose awful benediction had surely been bestowed on their uncovered heads in childhood? "whence did he come? what is his purpose? who can this old man be?" whispered the wondering crowd. meanwhile, the venerable stranger, staff in hand, was pursuing his solitary walk along the centre of the street. as he drew near the advancing soldiers, and as the roll of their drum came full upon his ear, the old man raised himself to a loftier mien, while the decrepitude of age seemed to fall from his shoulders, leaving him in gray but unbroken dignity. now he marched onward with a warrior's step, keeping time to the military music. thus the aged form advanced on one side and the whole parade of soldiers and magistrates on the other, till, when scarcely twenty yards remained between, the old man grasped his staff by the middle and held it before him like a leader's truncheon. "stand!" cried he. the eye, the face and attitude of command, the solemn yet warlike peal of that voice--fit either to rule a host in the battle-field or be raised to god in prayer--were irresistible. at the old man's word and outstretched arm the roll of the drum was hushed at once and the advancing line stood still. a tremulous enthusiasm seized upon the multitude. that stately form, combining the leader and the saint, so gray, so dimly seen, in such an ancient garb, could only belong to some old champion of the righteous cause whom the oppressor's drum had summoned from his grave. they raised a shout of awe and exultation, and looked for the deliverance of new england. the governor and the gentlemen of his party, perceiving themselves brought to an unexpected stand, rode hastily forward, as if they would have pressed their snorting and affrighted horses right against the hoary apparition. he, however, blenched not a step, but, glancing his severe eye round the group, which half encompassed him, at last bent it sternly on sir edmund andros. one would have thought that the dark old man was chief ruler there, and that the governor and council with soldiers at their back, representing the whole power and authority of the crown, had no alternative but obedience. "what does this old fellow here?" cried edward randolph, fiercely.--"on, sir edmund! bid the soldiers forward, and give the dotard the same choice that you give all his countrymen--to stand aside or be trampled on." "nay, nay! let us show respect to the good grandsire," said bullivant, laughing. "see you not he is some old round-headed dignitary who hath lain asleep these thirty years and knows nothing of the change of times? doubtless he thinks to put us down with a proclamation in old noll's name." "are you mad, old man?" demanded sir edmund andros, in loud and harsh tones. "how dare you stay the march of king james's governor?" "i have stayed the march of a king himself ere now," replied the gray figure, with stern composure. "i am here, sir governor, because the cry of an oppressed people hath disturbed me in my secret place, and, beseeching this favor earnestly of the lord, it was vouchsafed me to appear once again on earth in the good old cause of his saints. and what speak ye of james? there is no longer a popish tyrant on the throne of england, and by to-morrow noon his name shall be a by-word in this very street, where ye would make it a word of terror. back, thou that wast a governor, back! with this night thy power is ended. to-morrow, the prison! back, lest i foretell the scaffold!" the people had been drawing nearer and nearer and drinking in the words of their champion, who spoke in accents long disused, like one unaccustomed to converse except with the dead of many years ago. but his voice stirred their souls. they confronted the soldiers, not wholly without arms and ready to convert the very stones of the street into deadly weapons. sir edmund andros looked at the old man; then he cast his hard and cruel eye over the multitude and beheld them burning with that lurid wrath so difficult to kindle or to quench, and again he fixed his gaze on the aged form which stood obscurely in an open space where neither friend nor foe had thrust himself. what were his thoughts he uttered no word which might discover, but, whether the oppressor were overawed by the gray champion's look or perceived his peril in the threatening attitude of the people, it is certain that he gave back and ordered his soldiers to commence a slow and guarded retreat. before another sunset the governor and all that rode so proudly with him were prisoners, and long ere it was known that james had abdicated king william was proclaimed throughout new england. but where was the gray champion? some reported that when the troops had gone from king street and the people were thronging tumultuously in their rear, bradstreet, the aged governor, was seen to embrace a form more aged than his own. others soberly affirmed that while they marvelled at the venerable grandeur of his aspect the old man had faded from their eyes, melting slowly into the hues of twilight, till where he stood there was an empty space. but all agreed that the hoary shape was gone. the men of that generation watched for his reappearance in sunshine and in twilight, but never saw him more, nor knew when his funeral passed nor where his gravestone was. and who was the gray champion? perhaps his name might be found in the records of that stern court of justice which passed a sentence too mighty for the age, but glorious in all after-times for its humbling lesson to the monarch and its high example to the subject. i have heard that whenever the descendants of the puritans are to show the spirit of their sires the old man appears again. when eighty years had passed, he walked once more in king street. five years later, in the twilight of an april morning, he stood on the green beside the meeting-house at lexington where now the obelisk of granite with a slab of slate inlaid commemorates the first-fallen of the revolution. and when our fathers were toiling at the breastwork on bunker's hill, all through that night the old warrior walked his rounds. long, long may it be ere he comes again! his hour is one of darkness and adversity and peril. but should domestic tyranny oppress us or the invader's step pollute our soil, still may the gray champion come! for he is the type of new england's hereditary spirit, and his shadowy march on the eve of danger must ever be the pledge that new england's sons will vindicate their ancestry. sunday at home. every sabbath morning in the summer-time i thrust back the curtain to watch the sunrise stealing down a steeple which stands opposite my chamber window. first the weathercock begins to flash; then a fainter lustre gives the spire an airy aspect; next it encroaches on the tower and causes the index of the dial to glisten like gold as it points to the gilded figure of the hour. now the loftiest window gleams, and now the lower. the carved framework of the portal is marked strongly out. at length the morning glory in its descent from heaven comes down the stone steps one by one, and there stands the steeple glowing with fresh radiance, while the shades of twilight still hide themselves among the nooks of the adjacent buildings. methinks though the same sun brightens it every fair morning, yet the steeple has a peculiar robe of brightness for the sabbath. by dwelling near a church a person soon contracts an attachment for the edifice. we naturally personify it, and conceive its massy walls and its dim emptiness to be instinct with a calm and meditative and somewhat melancholy spirit. but the steeple stands foremost in our thoughts, as well as locally. it impresses us as a giant with a mind comprehensive and discriminating enough to care for the great and small concerns of all the town. hourly, while it speaks a moral to the few that think, it reminds thousands of busy individuals of their separate and most secret affairs. it is the steeple, too, that flings abroad the hurried and irregular accents of general alarm; neither have gladness and festivity found a better utterance than by its tongue; and when the dead are slowly passing to their home, the steeple has a melancholy voice to bid them welcome. yet, in spite of this connection with human interests, what a moral loneliness on week-days broods round about its stately height! it has no kindred with the houses above which it towers; it looks down into the narrow thoroughfare--the lonelier because the crowd are elbowing their passage at its base. a glance at the body of the church deepens this impression. within, by the light of distant windows, amid refracted shadows we discern the vacant pews and empty galleries, the silent organ, the voiceless pulpit and the clock which tells to solitude how time is passing. time--where man lives not--what is it but eternity? and in the church, we might suppose, are garnered up throughout the week all thoughts and feelings that have reference to eternity, until the holy day comes round again to let them forth. might not, then, its more appropriate site be in the outskirts of the town, with space for old trees to wave around it and throw their solemn shadows over a quiet green? we will say more of this hereafter. but on the sabbath i watch the earliest sunshine and fancy that a holier brightness marks the day when there shall be no buzz of voices on the exchange nor traffic in the shops, nor crowd nor business anywhere but at church. many have fancied so. for my own part, whether i see it scattered down among tangled woods, or beaming broad across the fields, or hemmed in between brick buildings, or tracing out the figure of the casement on my chamber floor, still i recognize the sabbath sunshine. and ever let me recognize it! some illusions--and this among them--are the shadows of great truths. doubts may flit around me or seem to close their evil wings and settle down, but so long as i imagine that the earth is hallowed and the light of heaven retains its sanctity on the sabbath--while that blessed sunshine lives within me--never can my soul have lost the instinct of its faith. if it have gone astray, it will return again. i love to spend such pleasant sabbaths from morning till night behind the curtain of my open window. are they spent amiss? every spot so near the church as to be visited by the circling shadow of the steeple should be deemed consecrated ground to-day. with stronger truth be it said that a devout heart may consecrate a den of thieves, as an evil one may convert a temple to the same. my heart, perhaps, has no such holy, nor, i would fain trust, such impious, potency. it must suffice that, though my form be absent, my inner man goes constantly to church, while many whose bodily presence fills the accustomed seats have left their souls at home. but i am there even before my friend the sexton. at length he comes--a man of kindly but sombre aspect, in dark gray clothes, and hair of the same mixture. he comes and applies his key to the wide portal. now my thoughts may go in among the dusty pews or ascend the pulpit without sacrilege, but soon come forth again to enjoy the music of the bell. how glad, yet solemn too! all the steeples in town are talking together aloft in the sunny air and rejoicing among themselves while their spires point heavenward. meantime, here are the children assembling to the sabbath-school, which is kept somewhere within the church. often, while looking at the arched portal, i have been gladdened by the sight of a score of these little girls and boys in pink, blue, yellow and crimson frocks bursting suddenly forth into the sunshine like a swarm of gay butterflies that had been shut up in the solemn gloom. or i might compare them to cherubs haunting that holy place. about a quarter of an hour before the second ringing of the bell individuals of the congregation begin to appear. the earliest is invariably an old woman in black whose bent frame and rounded shoulders are evidently laden with some heavy affliction which she is eager to rest upon the altar. would that the sabbath came twice as often, for the sake of that sorrowful old soul! there is an elderly man, also, who arrives in good season and leans against the corner of the tower, just within the line of its shadow, looking downward with a darksome brow. i sometimes fancy that the old woman is the happier of the two. after these, others drop in singly and by twos and threes, either disappearing through the doorway or taking their stand in its vicinity. at last, and always with an unexpected sensation, the bell turns in the steeple overhead and throws out an irregular clangor, jarring the tower to its foundation. as if there were magic in the sound, the sidewalks of the street, both up and down along, are immediately thronged with two long lines of people, all converging hitherward and streaming into the church. perhaps the far-off roar of a coach draws nearer--a deeper thunder by its contrast with the surrounding stillness--until it sets down the wealthy worshippers at the portal among their humblest brethren. beyond that entrance--in theory, at least--there are no distinctions of earthly rank; nor, indeed, by the goodly apparel which is flaunting in the sun would there seem to be such on the hither side. those pretty girls! why will they disturb my pious meditations? of all days in the week, they should strive to look least fascinating on the sabbath, instead of heightening their mortal loveliness, as if to rival the blessed angels and keep our thoughts from heaven. were i the minister himself, i must needs look. one girl is white muslin from the waist upward and black silk downward to her slippers; a second blushes from top-knot to shoe-tie, one universal scarlet; another shines of a pervading yellow, as if she had made a garment of the sunshine. the greater part, however, have adopted a milder cheerfulness of hue. their veils, especially when the wind raises them, give a lightness to the general effect and make them appear like airy phantoms as they flit up the steps and vanish into the sombre doorway. nearly all--though it is very strange that i should know it--wear white stockings, white as snow, and neat slippers laced crosswise with black ribbon pretty high above the ankles. a white stocking is infinitely more effective than a black one. here comes the clergyman, slow and solemn, in severe simplicity, needing no black silk gown to denote his office. his aspect claims my reverence, but cannot win my love. were i to picture saint peter keeping fast the gate of heaven and frowning, more stern than pitiful, on the wretched applicants, that face should be my study. by middle age, or sooner, the creed has generally wrought upon the heart or been attempered by it. as the minister passes into the church the bell holds its iron tongue and all the low murmur of the congregation dies away. the gray sexton looks up and down the street and then at my window-curtain, where through the small peephole i half fancy that he has caught my eye. now every loiterer has gone in and the street lies asleep in the quiet sun, while a feeling of loneliness comes over me, and brings also an uneasy sense of neglected privileges and duties. oh, i ought to have gone to church! the bustle of the rising congregation reaches my ears. they are standing up to pray. could i bring my heart into unison with those who are praying in yonder church and lift it heavenward with a fervor of supplication, but no distinct request, would not that be the safest kind of prayer?--"lord, look down upon me in mercy!" with that sentiment gushing from my soul, might i not leave all the rest to him? hark! the hymn! this, at least, is a portion of the service which i can enjoy better than if i sat within the walls, where the full choir and the massive melody of the organ would fall with a weight upon me. at this distance it thrills through my frame and plays upon my heart-strings with a pleasure both of the sense and spirit. heaven be praised! i know nothing of music as a science, and the most elaborate harmonies, if they please me, please as simply as a nurse's lullaby. the strain has ceased, but prolongs itself in my mind with fanciful echoes till i start from my reverie and find that the sermon has commenced. it is my misfortune seldom to fructify in a regular way by any but printed sermons. the first strong idea which the preacher utters gives birth to a train of thought and leads me onward step by step quite out of hearing of the good man's voice unless he be indeed a son of thunder. at my open window, catching now and then a sentence of the "parson's saw," i am as well situated as at the foot of the pulpit stairs. the broken and scattered fragments of this one discourse will be the texts of many sermons preached by those colleague pastors--colleagues, but often disputants--my mind and heart. the former pretends to be a scholar and perplexes me with doctrinal points; the latter takes me on the score of feeling; and both, like several other preachers, spend their strength to very little purpose. i, their sole auditor, cannot always understand them. suppose that a few hours have passed, and behold me still behind my curtain just before the close of the afternoon service. the hour-hand on the dial has passed beyond four o'clock. the declining sun is hidden behind the steeple and throws its shadow straight across the street; so that my chamber is darkened as with a cloud. around the church door all is solitude, and an impenetrable obscurity beyond the threshold. a commotion is heard. the seats are slammed down and the pew doors thrown back; a multitude of feet are trampling along the unseen aisles, and the congregation bursts suddenly through the portal. foremost scampers a rabble of boys, behind whom moves a dense and dark phalanx of grown men, and lastly a crowd of females with young children and a few scattered husbands. this instantaneous outbreak of life into loneliness is one of the pleasantest scenes of the day. some of the good people are rubbing their eyes, thereby intimating that they have been wrapped, as it were, in a sort of holy trance by the fervor of their devotion. there is a young man, a third-rate coxcomb, whose first care is always to flourish a white handkerchief and brush the seat of a tight pair of black silk pantaloons which shine as if varnished. they must have been made of the stuff called "everlasting," or perhaps of the same piece as christian's garments in the _pilgrim's progress_, for he put them on two summers ago and has not yet worn the gloss off. i have taken a great liking to those black silk pantaloons. but now, with nods and greetings among friends, each matron takes her husband's arm and paces gravely homeward, while the girls also flutter away after arranging sunset walks with their favored bachelors. the sabbath eve is the eve of love. at length the whole congregation is dispersed. no; here, with faces as glossy as black satin, come two sable ladies and a sable gentleman, and close in their rear the minister, who softens his severe visage and bestows a kind word on each. poor souls! to them the most captivating picture of bliss in heaven is "there we shall be white!" all is solitude again. but hark! a broken warbling of voices, and now, attuning its grandeur to their sweetness, a stately peal of the organ. who are the choristers? let me dream that the angels who came down from heaven this blessed morn to blend themselves with the worship of the truly good are playing and singing their farewell to the earth. on the wings of that rich melody they were borne upward. this, gentle reader, is merely a flight of poetry. a few of the singing-men and singing-women had lingered behind their fellows and raised their voices fitfully and blew a careless note upon the organ. yet it lifted my soul higher than all their former strains. they are gone--the sons and daughters of music--and the gray sexton is just closing the portal. for six days more there will be no face of man in the pews and aisles and galleries, nor a voice in the pulpit, nor music in the choir. was it worth while to rear this massive edifice to be a desert in the heart of the town and populous only for a few hours of each seventh day? oh, but the church is a symbol of religion. may its site, which was consecrated on the day when the first tree was felled, be kept holy for ever, a spot of solitude and peace amid the trouble and vanity of our week-day world! there is a moral, and a religion too, even in the silent walls. and may the steeple still point heavenward and be decked with the hallowed sunshine of the sabbath morn! the wedding-knell. there is a certain church, in the city of new york which i have always regarded with peculiar interest on account of a marriage there solemnized under very singular circumstances in my grandmother's girlhood. that venerable lady chanced to be a spectator of the scene, and ever after made it her favorite narrative. whether the edifice now standing on the same site be the identical one to which she referred i am not antiquarian enough to know, nor would it be worth while to correct myself, perhaps, of an agreeable error by reading the date of its erection on the tablet over the door. it is a stately church surrounded by an enclosure of the loveliest green, within which appear urns, pillars, obelisks, and other forms of monumental marble, the tributes of private affection or more splendid memorials of historic dust. with such a place, though the tumult of the city rolls beneath its tower, one would be willing to connect some legendary interest. the marriage might be considered as the result of an early engagement, though there had been two intermediate weddings on the lady's part and forty years of celibacy on that of the gentleman. at sixty-five mr. ellenwood was a shy but not quite a secluded man; selfish, like all men who brood over their own hearts, yet manifesting on rare occasions a vein of generous sentiment; a scholar throughout life, though always an indolent one, because his studies had no definite object either of public advantage or personal ambition; a gentleman, high-bred and fastidiously delicate, yet sometimes requiring a considerable relaxation in his behalf of the common rules of society. in truth, there were so many anomalies in his character, and, though shrinking with diseased sensibility from public notice, it had been his fatality so often to become the topic of the day by some wild eccentricity of conduct, that people searched his lineage for a hereditary taint of insanity. but there was no need of this. his caprices had their origin in a mind that lacked the support of an engrossing purpose, and in feelings that preyed upon themselves for want of other food. if he were mad, it was the consequence, and not the cause, of an aimless and abortive life. the widow was as complete a contrast to her third bridegroom in everything but age as can well be conceived. compelled to relinquish her first engagement, she had been united to a man of twice her own years, to whom she became an exemplary wife, and by whose death she was left in possession of a splendid fortune. a southern gentleman considerably younger than herself succeeded to her hand and carried her to charleston, where after many uncomfortable years she found herself again a widow. it would have been singular if any uncommon delicacy of feeling had survived through such a life as mrs. dabney's; it could not but be crushed and killed by her early disappointment, the cold duty of her first marriage, the dislocation of the heart's principles consequent on a second union, and the unkindness of her southern husband, which had inevitably driven her to connect the idea of his death with that of her comfort. to be brief, she was that wisest but unloveliest variety of woman, a philosopher, bearing troubles of the heart with equanimity, dispensing with all that should have been her happiness and making the best of what remained. sage in most matters, the widow was perhaps the more amiable for the one frailty that made her ridiculous. being childless, she could not remain beautiful by proxy in the person of a daughter; she therefore refused to grow old and ugly on any consideration; she struggled with time, and held fast her roses in spite of him, till the venerable thief appeared to have relinquished the spoil as not worth the trouble of acquiring it. the approaching marriage of this woman of the world with such an unworldly man as mr. ellenwood was announced soon after mrs. dabney's return to her native city. superficial observers, and deeper ones, seemed to concur in supposing that the lady must have borne no inactive part in arranging the affair; there were considerations of expediency which she would be far more likely to appreciate than mr. ellenwood, and there was just the specious phantom of sentiment and romance in this late union of two early lovers which sometimes makes a fool of a woman who has lost her true feelings among the accidents of life. all the wonder was how the gentleman, with his lack of worldly wisdom and agonizing consciousness of ridicule, could have been induced to take a measure at once so prudent and so laughable. but while people talked the wedding-day arrived. the ceremony was to be solemnized according to the episcopalian forms and in open church, with a degree of publicity that attracted many spectators, who occupied the front seats of the galleries and the pews near the altar and along the broad aisle. it had been arranged, or possibly it was the custom of the day, that the parties should proceed separately to church. by some accident the bridegroom was a little less punctual than the widow and her bridal attendants, with whose arrival, after this tedious but necessary preface, the action of our tale may be said to commence. the clumsy wheels of several old-fashioned coaches were heard, and the gentlemen and ladies composing the bridal-party came through the church door with the sudden and gladsome effect of a burst of sunshine. the whole group, except the principal figure, was made up of youth and gayety. as they streamed up the broad aisle, while the pews and pillars seemed to brighten on either side, their steps were as buoyant as if they mistook the church for a ball-room and were ready to dance hand in hand to the altar. so brilliant was the spectacle that few took notice of a singular phenomenon that had marked its entrance. at the moment when the bride's foot touched the threshold the bell swung heavily in the tower above her and sent forth its deepest knell. the vibrations died away, and returned with prolonged solemnity as she entered the body of the church. "good heavens! what an omen!" whispered a young lady to her lover. "on my honor," replied the gentleman, "i believe the bell has the good taste to toll of its own accord. what has she to do with weddings? if you, dearest julia, were approaching the altar, the bell would ring out its merriest peal. it has only a funeral-knell for her." the bride and most of her company had been too much occupied with the bustle of entrance to hear the first boding stroke of the bell--or, at least, to reflect on the singularity of such a welcome to the altar. they therefore continued to advance with undiminished gayety. the gorgeous dresses of the time--the crimson velvet coats, the gold-laced hats, the hoop-petticoats, the silk, satin, brocade and embroidery, the buckles, canes and swords, all displayed to the best advantage on persons suited to such finery--made the group appear more like a bright-colored picture than anything real. but by what perversity of taste had the artist represented his principal figure as so wrinkled and decayed, while yet he had decked her out in the brightest splendor of attire, as if the loveliest maiden had suddenly withered into age and become a moral to the beautiful around her? on they went, however, and had glittered along about a third of the aisle, when another stroke of the bell seemed to fill the church with a visible gloom, dimming and obscuring the bright-pageant till it shone forth again as from a mist. this time the party wavered, stopped and huddled closer together, while a slight scream was heard from some of the ladies and a confused whispering among the gentlemen. thus tossing to and fro, they might have been fancifully compared to a splendid bunch of flowers suddenly shaken by a puff of wind which threatened to scatter the leaves of an old brown, withered rose on the same stalk with two dewy buds, such being the emblem of the widow between her fair young bridemaids. but her heroism was admirable. she had started with an irrepressible shudder, as if the stroke of the bell had fallen directly on her heart; then, recovering herself, while her attendants were yet in dismay, she took the lead and paced calmly up the aisle. the bell continued to swing, strike and vibrate with the same doleful regularity as when a corpse is on its way to the tomb. "my young friends here have their nerves a little shaken," said the widow, with a smile, to the clergyman at the altar. "but so many weddings have been ushered in with the merriest peal of the bells, and yet turned out unhappily, that i shall hope for better fortune under such different auspices." "madam," answered the rector, in great perplexity, "this strange occurrence brings to my mind a marriage-sermon of the famous bishop taylor wherein he mingles so many thoughts of mortality and future woe that, to speak somewhat after his own rich style, he seems to hang the bridal-chamber in black and cut the wedding-garment out of a coffin-pall. and it has been the custom of divers nations to infuse something of sadness into their marriage ceremonies, so to keep death in mind while contracting that engagement which is life's chiefest business. thus we may draw a sad but profitable moral from this funeral-knell." but, though the clergyman might have given his moral even a keener point, he did not fail to despatch an attendant to inquire into the mystery and stop those sounds so dismally appropriate to such a marriage. a brief space elapsed, during which the silence was broken only by whispers and a few suppressed titterings among the wedding-party and the spectators, who after the first shock were disposed to draw an ill-natured merriment from the affair. the young have less charity for aged follies than the old for those of youth. the widow's glance was observed to wander for an instant toward a window of the church, as if searching for the time-worn marble that she had dedicated to her first husband; then her eyelids dropped over their faded orbs and her thoughts were drawn irresistibly to another grave. two buried men with a voice at her ear and a cry afar off were calling her to lie down beside them. perhaps, with momentary truth of feeling, she thought how much happier had been her fate if, after years of bliss, the bell were now tolling for her funeral and she were followed to the grave by the old affection of her earliest lover, long her husband. but why had she returned to him when their cold hearts shrank from each other's embrace? still the death-bell tolled so mournfully that the sunshine seemed to fade in the air. a whisper, communicated from those who stood nearest the windows, now spread through the church: a hearse with a train of several coaches was creeping along the street, conveying some dead man to the churchyard, while the bride awaited a living one at the altar. immediately after, the footsteps of the bridegroom and his friends were heard at the door. the widow looked down the aisle and clenched the arm of one of her bridemaids in her bony hand with such unconscious violence that the fair girl trembled. "you frighten me, my dear madam," cried she. "for heaven's sake, what is the matter?" "nothing, my dear--nothing," said the widow; then, whispering close to her ear, "there is a foolish fancy that i cannot get rid of. i am expecting my bridegroom to come into the church with my two first husbands for groomsmen." "look! look!" screamed the bridemaid. "what is here? the funeral!" as she spoke a dark procession paced into the church. first came an old man and woman, like chief mourners at a funeral, attired from head to foot in the deepest black, all but their pale features and hoary hair, he leaning on a staff and supporting her decrepit form with his nerveless arm. behind appeared another and another pair, as aged, as black and mournful as the first. as they drew near the widow recognized in every face some trait of former friends long forgotten, but now returning as if from their old graves to warn her to prepare a shroud, or, with purpose almost as unwelcome, to exhibit their wrinkles and infirmity and claim her as their companion by the tokens of her own decay. many a merry night had she danced with them in youth, and now in joyless age she felt that some withered partner should request her hand and all unite in a dance of death to the music of the funeral-bell. while these aged mourners were passing up the aisle it was observed that from pew to pew the spectators shuddered with irrepressible awe as some object hitherto concealed by the intervening figures came full in sight. many turned away their faces; others kept a fixed and rigid stare, and a young girl giggled hysterically and fainted with the laughter on her lips. when the spectral procession approached the altar, each couple separated and slowly diverged, till in the centre appeared a form that had been worthily ushered in with all this gloomy pomp, the death-knell and the funeral. it was the bridegroom in his shroud. no garb but that of the grave could have befitted such a death-like aspect. the eyes, indeed, had the wild gleam of a sepulchral lamp; all else was fixed in the stern calmness which old men wear in the coffin. the corpse stood motionless, but addressed the widow in accents that seemed to melt into the clang of the bell, which fell heavily on the air while he spoke. "come, my bride!" said those pale lips. "the hearse is ready; the sexton stands waiting for us at the door of the tomb. let us be married, and then to our coffins!" how shall the widow's horror be represented? it gave her the ghastliness of a dead man's bride. her youthful friends stood apart, shuddering at the mourners, the shrouded bridegroom and herself; the whole scene expressed by the strongest imagery the vain struggle of the gilded vanities of this world when opposed to age, infirmity, sorrow and death. the awestruck silence was first broken by the clergyman. "mr. ellenwood," said he, soothingly, yet with somewhat of authority, "you are not well. your mind has been agitated by the unusual circumstances in which you are placed. the ceremony must be deferred. as an old friend, let me entreat you to return home." "home--yes; but not without my bride," answered he, in the same hollow accents. "you deem this mockery--perhaps madness. had i bedizened my aged and broken frame with scarlet and embroidery, had i forced my withered lips to smile at my dead heart, that might have been mockery or madness; but now let young and old declare which of us has come hither without a wedding-garment--the bridegroom or the bride." he stepped forward at a ghostly pace and stood beside the widow, contrasting the awful simplicity of his shroud with the glare and glitter in which she had arrayed herself for this unhappy scene. none that beheld them could deny the terrible strength of the moral which his disordered intellect had contrived to draw. "cruel! cruel!" groaned the heartstricken bride. "cruel?" repeated he; then, losing his deathlike composure in a wild bitterness, "heaven judge which of us has been cruel to the other! in youth you deprived me of my happiness, my hopes, my aims; you took away all the substance of my life and made it a dream without reality enough even to grieve at--with only a pervading gloom, through which i walked wearily and cared not whither. but after forty years, when i have built my tomb and would not give up the thought of resting there--no, not for such a life as we once pictured--you call me to the altar. at your summons i am here. but other husbands have enjoyed your youth, your beauty, your warmth of heart and all that could be termed your life. what is there for me but your decay and death? and therefore i have bidden these funeral-friends, and bespoken the sexton's deepest knell, and am come in my shroud to wed you as with a burial-service, that we may join our hands at the door of the sepulchre and enter it together." it was not frenzy, it was not merely the drunkenness of strong emotion in a heart unused to it, that now wrought upon the bride. the stern lesson of the day had done its work; her worldliness was gone. she seized the bridegroom's hand. "yes!" cried she; "let us wed even at the door of the sepulchre. my life is gone in vanity and emptiness, but at its close there is one true feeling. it has made me what i was in youth: it makes me worthy of you. time is no more for both of us. let us wed for eternity." with a long and deep regard the bridegroom looked into her eyes, while a tear was gathering in his own. how strange that gush of human feeling from the frozen bosom of a corpse! he wiped away the tear, even with his shroud. "beloved of my youth," said he, "i have been wild. the despair of my whole lifetime had returned at once and maddened me. forgive and be forgiven. yes; it is evening with us now, and we have realized none of our morning dreams of happiness. but let us join our hands before the altar as lovers whom adverse circumstances have separated through life, yet who meet again as they are leaving it and find their earthly affection changed into something holy as religion. and what is time to the married of eternity?" amid the tears of many and a swell of exalted sentiment in those who felt aright was solemnized the union of two immortal souls. the train of withered mourners, the hoary bridegroom in his shroud, the pale features of the aged bride and the death-bell tolling through the whole till its deep voice overpowered the marriage-words,--all marked the funeral of earthly hopes. but as the ceremony proceeded, the organ, as if stirred by the sympathies of this impressive scene, poured forth an anthem, first mingling with the dismal knell, then rising to a loftier strain, till the soul looked down upon its woe. and when the awful rite was finished and with cold hand in cold hand the married of eternity withdrew, the organ's peal of solemn triumph drowned the wedding-knell. the minister's black veil. a parable.[ ] the sexton stood in the porch of milford meeting-house pulling lustily at the bell-rope. the old people of the village came stooping along the street. children with bright faces tripped merrily beside their parents or mimicked a graver gait in the conscious dignity of their sunday clothes. spruce bachelors looked sidelong at the pretty maidens, and fancied that the sabbath sunshine made them prettier than on week-days. when the throng had mostly streamed into the porch, the sexton began to toll the bell, keeping his eye on the reverend mr. hooper's door. the first glimpse of the clergyman's figure was the signal for the bell to cease its summons. [footnote : another clergyman in new england, mr. joseph moody, of york, maine, who died about eighty years since, made himself remarkable by the same eccentricity that is here related of the reverend mr. hooper. in his case, however, the symbol had a different import. in early life he had accidentally killed a beloved friend, and from that day till the hour of his own death he hid his face from men.] "but what has good parson hooper got upon his face?" cried the sexton, in astonishment. all within hearing immediately turned about and beheld the semblance of mr. hooper pacing slowly his meditative way toward the meeting-house. with one accord they started, expressing more wonder than if some strange minister were coming to dust the cushions of mr. hooper's pulpit. "are you sure it is our parson?" inquired goodman gray of the sexton. "of a certainty it is good mr. hooper," replied the sexton. "he was to have exchanged pulpits with parson shute of westbury, but parson shute sent to excuse himself yesterday, being to preach a funeral sermon." the cause of so much amazement may appear sufficiently slight. mr. hooper, a gentlemanly person of about thirty, though still a bachelor, was dressed with due clerical neatness, as if a careful wife had starched his band and brushed the weekly dust from his sunday's garb. there was but one thing remarkable in his appearance. swathed about his forehead and hanging down over his face, so low as to be shaken by his breath, mr. hooper had on a black veil. on a nearer view it seemed to consist of two folds of crape, which entirely concealed his features except the mouth and chin, but probably did not intercept his sight further than to give a darkened aspect to all living and inanimate things. with this gloomy shade before him good mr. hooper walked onward at a slow and quiet pace, stooping somewhat and looking on the ground, as is customary with abstracted men, yet nodding kindly to those of his parishioners who still waited on the meeting-house steps. but so wonder-struck were they that his greeting hardly met with a return. "i can't really feel as if good mr. hooper's face was behind that piece of crape," said the sexton. "i don't like it," muttered an old woman as she hobbled into the meeting-house. "he has changed himself into something awful only by hiding his face." "our parson has gone mad!" cried goodman gray, following him across the threshold. a rumor of some unaccountable phenomenon had preceded mr. hooper into the meeting-house and set all the congregation astir. few could refrain from twisting their heads toward the door; many stood upright and turned directly about; while several little boys clambered upon the seats, and came down again with a terrible racket. there was a general bustle, a rustling of the women's gowns and shuffling of the men's feet, greatly at variance with that hushed repose which should attend the entrance of the minister. but mr. hooper appeared not to notice the perturbation of his people. he entered with an almost noiseless step, bent his head mildly to the pews on each side and bowed as he passed his oldest parishioner, a white-haired great-grandsire, who occupied an arm-chair in the centre of the aisle. it was strange to observe how slowly this venerable man became conscious of something singular in the appearance of his pastor. he seemed not fully to partake of the prevailing wonder till mr. hooper had ascended the stairs and showed himself in the pulpit, face to face with his congregation except for the black veil. that mysterious emblem was never once withdrawn. it shook with his measured breath as he gave out the psalm, it threw its obscurity between him and the holy page as he read the scriptures, and while he prayed the veil lay heavily on his uplifted countenance. did he seek to hide it from the dread being whom he was addressing? such was the effect of this simple piece of crape that more than one woman of delicate nerves was forced to leave the meeting-house. yet perhaps the pale-faced congregation was almost as fearful a sight to the minister as his black veil to them. mr. hooper had the reputation of a good preacher, but not an energetic one: he strove to win his people heavenward by mild, persuasive influences rather than to drive them thither by the thunders of the word. the sermon which he now delivered was marked by the same characteristics of style and manner as the general series of his pulpit oratory, but there was something either in the sentiment of the discourse itself or in the imagination of the auditors which made it greatly the most powerful effort that they had ever heard from their pastor's lips. it was tinged rather more darkly than usual with the gentle gloom of mr. hooper's temperament. the subject had reference to secret sin and those sad mysteries which we hide from our nearest and dearest, and would fain conceal from our own consciousness, even forgetting that the omniscient can detect them. a subtle power was breathed into his words. each member of the congregation, the most innocent girl and the man of hardened breast, felt as if the preacher had crept upon them behind his awful veil and discovered their hoarded iniquity of deed or thought. many spread their clasped hands on their bosoms. there was nothing terrible in what mr. hooper said--at least, no violence; and yet with every tremor of his melancholy voice the hearers quaked. an unsought pathos came hand in hand with awe. so sensible were the audience of some unwonted attribute in their minister that they longed for a breath of wind to blow aside the veil, almost believing that a stranger's visage would be discovered, though the form, gesture and voice were those of mr. hooper. at the close of the services the people hurried out with indecorous confusion, eager to communicate their pent-up amazement, and conscious of lighter spirits the moment they lost sight of the black veil. some gathered in little circles, huddled closely together, with their mouths all whispering in the centre; some went homeward alone, wrapped in silent meditation; some talked loudly and profaned the sabbath-day with ostentatious laughter. a few shook their sagacious heads, intimating that they could penetrate the mystery, while one or two affirmed that there was no mystery at all, but only that mr. hooper's eyes were so weakened by the midnight lamp as to require a shade. after a brief interval forth came good mr. hooper also, in the rear of his flock. turning his veiled face from one group to another, he paid due reverence to the hoary heads, saluted the middle-aged with kind dignity as their friend and spiritual guide, greeted the young with mingled authority and love, and laid his hands on the little children's heads to bless them. such was always his custom on the sabbath-day. strange and bewildered looks repaid him for his courtesy. none, as on former occasions, aspired to the honor of walking by their pastor's side. old squire saunders--doubtless by an accidental lapse of memory--neglected to invite mr. hooper to his table, where the good clergyman had been wont to bless the food almost every sunday since his settlement. he returned, therefore, to the parsonage, and at the moment of closing the door was observed to look back upon the people, all of whom had their eyes fixed upon the minister. a sad smile gleamed faintly from beneath the black veil and flickered about his mouth, glimmering as he disappeared. "how strange," said a lady, "that a simple black veil, such as any woman might wear on her bonnet, should become such a terrible thing on mr. hooper's face!" "something must surely be amiss with mr. hooper's intellects," observed her husband, the physician of the village. "but the strangest part of the affair is the effect of this vagary even on a sober-minded man like myself. the black veil, though it covers only our pastor's face, throws its influence over his whole person and makes him ghost-like from head to foot. do you not feel it so?" "truly do i," replied the lady; "and i would not be alone with him for the world. i wonder he is not afraid to be alone with himself." "men sometimes are so," said her husband. the afternoon service was attended with similar circumstances. at its conclusion the bell tolled for the funeral of a young lady. the relatives and friends were assembled in the house and the more distant acquaintances stood about the door, speaking of the good qualities of the deceased, when their talk was interrupted by the appearance of mr. hooper, still covered with his black veil. it was now an appropriate emblem. the clergyman stepped into the room where the corpse was laid, and bent over the coffin to take a last farewell of his deceased parishioner. as he stooped the veil hung straight down from his forehead, so that, if her eye-lids had not been closed for ever, the dead maiden might have seen his face. could mr. hooper be fearful of her glance, that he so hastily caught back the black veil? a person who watched the interview between the dead and living scrupled not to affirm that at the instant when the clergyman's features were disclosed the corpse had slightly shuddered, rustling the shroud and muslin cap, though the countenance retained the composure of death. a superstitious old woman was the only witness of this prodigy. from the coffin mr. hooper passed into the chamber of the mourners, and thence to the head of the staircase, to make the funeral prayer. it was a tender and heart-dissolving prayer, full of sorrow, yet so imbued with celestial hopes that the music of a heavenly harp swept by the fingers of the dead seemed faintly to be heard among the saddest accents of the minister. the people trembled, though they but darkly understood him, when he prayed that they and himself, and all of mortal race, might be ready, as he trusted this young maiden had been, for the dreadful hour that should snatch the veil from their faces. the bearers went heavily forth and the mourners followed, saddening all the street, with the dead before them and mr. hooper in his black veil behind. "why do you look back?" said one in the procession to his partner. "i had a fancy," replied she, "that the minister and the maiden's spirit were walking hand in hand." "and so had i at the same moment," said the other. that night the handsomest couple in milford village were to be joined in wedlock. though reckoned a melancholy man, mr. hooper had a placid cheerfulness for such occasions which often excited a sympathetic smile where livelier merriment would have been thrown away. there was no quality of his disposition which made him more beloved than this. the company at the wedding awaited his arrival with impatience, trusting that the strange awe which had gathered over him throughout the day would now be dispelled. but such was not the result. when mr. hooper came, the first thing that their eyes rested on was the same horrible black veil which had added deeper gloom to the funeral and could portend nothing but evil to the wedding. such was its immediate effect on the guests that a cloud seemed to have rolled duskily from beneath the black crape and dimmed the light of the candles. the bridal pair stood up before the minister, but the bride's cold fingers quivered in the tremulous hand of the bridegroom, and her death-like paleness caused a whisper that the maiden who had been buried a few hours before was come from her grave to be married. if ever another wedding were so dismal, it was that famous one where they tolled the wedding-knell. after performing the ceremony mr. hooper raised a glass of wine to his lips, wishing happiness to the new-married couple in a strain of mild pleasantry that ought to have brightened the features of the guests like a cheerful gleam from the hearth. at that instant, catching a glimpse of his figure in the looking-glass, the black veil involved his own spirit in the horror with which it overwhelmed all others. his frame shuddered, his lips grew white, he spilt the untasted wine upon the carpet and rushed forth into the darkness, for the earth too had on her black veil. the next day the whole village of milford talked of little else than parson hooper's black veil. that, and the mystery concealed behind it, supplied a topic for discussion between acquaintances meeting in the street and good women gossipping at their open windows. it was the first item of news that the tavernkeeper told to his guests. the children babbled of it on their way to school. one imitative little imp covered his face with an old black handkerchief, thereby so affrighting his playmates that the panic seized himself and he wellnigh lost his wits by his own waggery. it was remarkable that, of all the busybodies and impertinent people in the parish, not one ventured to put the plain question to mr. hooper wherefore he did this thing. hitherto, whenever there appeared the slightest call for such interference, he had never lacked advisers nor shown himself averse to be guided by their judgment. if he erred at all, it was by so painful a degree of self-distrust that even the mildest censure would lead him to consider an indifferent action as a crime. yet, though so well acquainted with this amiable weakness, no individual among his parishioners chose to make the black veil a subject of friendly remonstrance. there was a feeling of dread, neither plainly confessed nor carefully concealed, which caused each to shift the responsibility upon another, till at length it was found expedient to send a deputation of the church, in order to deal with mr. hooper about the mystery before it should grow into a scandal. never did an embassy so ill discharge its duties. the minister received them with friendly courtesy, but became silent after they were seated, leaving to his visitors the whole burden of introducing their important business. the topic, it might be supposed, was obvious enough. there was the black veil swathed round mr. hooper's forehead and concealing every feature above his placid mouth, on which, at times, they could perceive the glimmering of a melancholy smile. but that piece of crape, to their imagination, seemed to hang down before his heart, the symbol of a fearful secret between him and them. were the veil but cast aside, they might speak freely of it, but not till then. thus they sat a considerable time, speechless, confused and shrinking uneasily from mr. hooper's eye, which they felt to be fixed upon them with an invisible glance. finally, the deputies returned abashed to their constituents, pronouncing the matter too weighty to be handled except by a council of the churches, if, indeed, it might not require a general synod. but there was one person in the village unappalled by the awe with which the black veil had impressed all besides herself. when the deputies returned without an explanation, or even venturing to demand one, she with the calm energy of her character determined to chase away the strange cloud that appeared to be settling round mr. hooper every moment more darkly than before. as his plighted wife it should be her privilege to know what the black veil concealed. at the minister's first visit, therefore, she entered upon the subject with a direct simplicity which made the task easier both for him and her. after he had seated himself she fixed her eyes steadfastly upon the veil, but could discern nothing of the dreadful gloom that had so overawed the multitude; it was but a double fold of crape hanging down from his forehead to his mouth and slightly stirring with his breath. "no," said she, aloud, and smiling, "there is nothing terrible in this piece of crape, except that it hides a face which i am always glad to look upon. come, good sir; let the sun shine from behind the cloud. first lay aside your black veil, then tell me why you put it on." mr. hooper's smile glimmered faintly. "there is an hour to come," said he, "when all of us shall cast aside our veils. take it not amiss, beloved friend, if i wear this piece of crape till then." "your words are a mystery too," returned the young lady. "take away the veil from them, at least." "elizabeth, i will," said he, "so far as my vow may suffer me. know, then, this veil is a type and a symbol, and i am bound to wear it ever, both in light and darkness, in solitude and before the gaze of multitudes, and as with strangers, so with my familiar friends. no mortal eye will see it withdrawn. this dismal shade must separate me from the world; even you, elizabeth, can never come behind it." "what grievous affliction hath befallen you," she earnestly inquired, "that you should thus darken your eyes for ever?" "if it be a sign of mourning," replied mr. hooper, "i, perhaps, like most other mortals, have sorrows dark enough to be typified by a black veil." "but what if the world will not believe that it is the type of an innocent sorrow?" urged elizabeth. "beloved and respected as you are, there may be whispers that you hide your face under the consciousness of secret sin. for the sake of your holy office do away this scandal." the color rose into her cheeks as she intimated the nature of the rumors that were already abroad in the village. but mr. hooper's mildness did not forsake him. he even smiled again--that same sad smile which always appeared like a faint glimmering of light proceeding from the obscurity beneath the veil. "if i hide my face for sorrow, there is cause enough," he merely replied; "and if i cover it for secret sin, what mortal might not do the same?" and with this gentle but unconquerable obstinacy did he resist all her entreaties. at length elizabeth sat silent. for a few moments she appeared lost in thought, considering, probably, what new methods might be tried to withdraw her lover from so dark a fantasy, which, if it had no other meaning, was perhaps a symptom of mental disease. though of a firmer character than his own, the tears rolled down her cheeks. but in an instant, as it were, a new feeling took the place of sorrow: her eyes were fixed insensibly on the black veil, when like a sudden twilight in the air its terrors fell around her. she arose and stood trembling before him. "and do you feel it, then, at last?" said he, mournfully. she made no reply, but covered her eyes with her hand and turned to leave the room. he rushed forward and caught her arm. "have patience with me, elizabeth!" cried he, passionately. "do not desert me though this veil must be between us here on earth. be mine, and hereafter there shall be no veil over my face, no darkness between our souls. it is but a mortal veil; it is not for eternity. oh, you know not how lonely i am, and how frightened to be alone behind my black veil! do not leave me in this miserable obscurity for ever." "lift the veil but once and look me in the face," said she. "never! it cannot be!" replied mr. hooper. "then farewell!" said elizabeth. she withdrew her arm from his grasp and slowly departed, pausing at the door to give one long, shuddering gaze that seemed almost to penetrate the mystery of the black veil. but even amid his grief mr. hooper smiled to think that only a material emblem had separated him from happiness, though the horrors which it shadowed forth must be drawn darkly between the fondest of lovers. from that time no attempts were made to remove mr. hooper's black veil or by a direct appeal to discover the secret which it was supposed to hide. by persons who claimed a superiority to popular prejudice it was reckoned merely an eccentric whim, such as often mingles with the sober actions of men otherwise rational and tinges them all with its own semblance of insanity. but with the multitude good mr. hooper was irreparably a bugbear. he could not walk the street with any peace of mind, so conscious was he that the gentle and timid would turn aside to avoid him, and that others would make it a point of hardihood to throw themselves in his way. the impertinence of the latter class compelled him to give up his customary walk at sunset to the burial-ground; for when he leaned pensively over the gate, there would always be faces behind the gravestones peeping at his black veil. a fable went the rounds that the stare of the dead people drove him thence. it grieved him to the very depth of his kind heart to observe how the children fled from his approach, breaking up their merriest sports while his melancholy figure was yet afar off. their instinctive dread caused him to feel more strongly than aught else that a preternatural horror was interwoven with the threads of the black crape. in truth, his own antipathy to the veil was known to be so great that he never willingly passed before a mirror nor stooped to drink at a still fountain lest in its peaceful bosom he should be affrighted by himself. this was what gave plausibility to the whispers that mr. hooper's conscience tortured him for some great crime too horrible to be entirely concealed or otherwise than so obscurely intimated. thus from beneath the black veil there rolled a cloud into the sunshine, an ambiguity of sin or sorrow, which enveloped the poor minister, so that love or sympathy could never reach him. it was said that ghost and fiend consorted with him there. with self-shudderings and outward terrors he walked continually in its shadow, groping darkly within his own soul or gazing through a medium that saddened the whole world. even the lawless wind, it was believed, respected his dreadful secret and never blew aside the veil. but still good mr. hooper sadly smiled at the pale visages of the worldly throng as he passed by. among all its bad influences, the black veil had the one desirable effect of making its wearer a very efficient clergyman. by the aid of his mysterious emblem--for there was no other apparent cause--he became a man of awful power over souls that were in agony for sin. his converts always regarded him with a dread peculiar to themselves, affirming, though but figuratively, that before he brought them to celestial light they had been with him behind the black veil. its gloom, indeed, enabled him to sympathize with all dark affections. dying sinners cried aloud for mr. hooper and would not yield their breath till he appeared, though ever, as he stooped to whisper consolation, they shuddered at the veiled face so near their own. such were the terrors of the black veil even when death had bared his visage. strangers came long distances to attend service at his church with the mere idle purpose of gazing at his figure because it was forbidden them to behold his face. but many were made to quake ere they departed. once, during governor belcher's administration, mr. hooper was appointed to preach the election sermon. covered with his black veil, he stood before the chief magistrate, the council and the representatives, and wrought so deep an impression that the legislative measures of that year were characterized by all the gloom and piety of our earliest ancestral sway. in this manner mr. hooper spent a long life, irreproachable in outward act, yet shrouded in dismal suspicions; kind and loving, though unloved and dimly feared; a man apart from men, shunned in their health and joy, but ever summoned to their aid in mortal anguish. as years wore on, shedding their snows above his sable veil, he acquired a name throughout the new england churches, and they called him father hooper. nearly all his parishioners who were of mature age when he was settled had been borne away by many a funeral: he had one congregation in the church and a more crowded one in the churchyard; and, having wrought so late into the evening and done his work so well, it was now good father hooper's turn to rest. several persons were visible by the shaded candlelight in the death-chamber of the old clergyman. natural connections he had none. but there was the decorously grave though unmoved physician, seeking only to mitigate the last pangs of the patient whom he could not save. there were the deacons and other eminently pious members of his church. there, also, was the reverend mr. clark of westbury, a young and zealous divine who had ridden in haste to pray by the bedside of the expiring minister. there was the nurse--no hired handmaiden of death, but one whose calm affection had endured thus long in secrecy, in solitude, amid the chill of age, and would not perish even at the dying-hour. who but elizabeth! and there lay the hoary head of good father hooper upon the death-pillow with the black veil still swathed about his brow and reaching down over his face, so that each more difficult gasp of his faint breath caused it to stir. all through life that piece of crape had hung between him and the world; it had separated him from cheerful brotherhood and woman's love and kept him in that saddest of all prisons his own heart; and still it lay upon his face, as if to deepen the gloom of his darksome chamber and shade him from the sunshine of eternity. for some time previous his mind had been confused, wavering doubtfully between the past and the present, and hovering forward, as it were, at intervals, into the indistinctness of the world to come. there had been feverish turns which tossed him from side to side and wore away what little strength he had. but in his most convulsive struggles and in the wildest vagaries of his intellect, when no other thought retained its sober influence, he still showed an awful solicitude lest the black veil should slip aside. even if his bewildered soul could have forgotten, there was a faithful woman at his pillow who with averted eyes would have covered that aged face which she had last beheld in the comeliness of manhood. at length the death-stricken old man lay quietly in the torpor of mental and bodily exhaustion, with an imperceptible pulse and breath that grew fainter and fainter except when a long, deep and irregular inspiration seemed to prelude the flight of his spirit. the minister of westbury approached the bedside. "venerable father hooper," said he, "the moment of your release is at hand. are you ready for the lifting of the veil that shuts in time from eternity?" father hooper at first replied merely by a feeble motion of his head; then--apprehensive, perhaps, that his meaning might be doubtful--he exerted himself to speak. "yea," said he, in faint accents; "my soul hath a patient weariness until that veil be lifted." "and is it fitting," resumed the reverend mr. clark, "that a man so given to prayer, of such a blameless example, holy in deed and thought, so far as mortal judgment may pronounce,--is it fitting that a father in the church should leave a shadow on his memory that may seem to blacken a life so pure? i pray you, my venerable brother, let not this thing be! suffer us to be gladdened by your triumphant aspect as you go to your reward. before the veil of eternity be lifted let me cast aside this black veil from your face;" and, thus speaking, the reverend mr. clark bent forward to reveal the mystery of so many years. but, exerting a sudden energy that made all the beholders stand aghast, father hooper snatched both his hands from beneath the bedclothes and pressed them strongly on the black veil, resolute to struggle if the minister of westbury would contend with a dying man. "never!" cried the veiled clergyman. "on earth, never!" "dark old man," exclaimed the affrighted minister, "with what horrible crime upon your soul are you now passing to the judgment?" father hooper's breath heaved: it rattled in his throat; but, with a mighty effort grasping forward with his hands, he caught hold of life and held it back till he should speak. he even raised himself in bed, and there he sat shivering with the arms of death around him, while the black veil hung down, awful at that last moment in the gathered terrors of a lifetime. and yet the faint, sad smile so often there now seemed to glimmer from its obscurity and linger on father hooper's lips. "why do you tremble at me alone?" cried he, turning his veiled face round the circle of pale spectators. "tremble also at each other. have men avoided me and women shown no pity and children screamed and fled only for my black veil? what but the mystery which it obscurely typifies has made this piece of crape so awful? when the friend shows his inmost heart to his friend, the lover to his best-beloved; when man does not vainly shrink from the eye of his creator, loathsomely treasuring up the secret of his sin,--then deem me a monster for the symbol beneath which i have lived and die. i look around me, and, lo! on every visage a black veil!" while his auditors shrank from one another in mutual affright, father hooper fell back upon his pillow, a veiled corpse with a faint smile lingering on the lips. still veiled, they laid him in his coffin, and a veiled corpse they bore him to the grave. the grass of many years has sprung up and withered on that grave, the burial-stone is moss-grown, and good mr. hooper's face is dust; but awful is still the thought that it mouldered beneath the black veil. the maypole of merry mount. there is an admirable foundation for a philosophic romance in the curious history of the early settlement of mount wollaston, or merry mount. in the slight sketch here attempted the facts recorded on the grave pages of our new england annalists have wrought themselves almost spontaneously into a sort of allegory. the masques, mummeries and festive customs described in the text are in accordance with the manners of the age. authority on these points may be found in strutt's _book of english sports and pastimes_. bright were the days at merry mount when the maypole was the banner-staff of that gay colony. they who reared it, should their banner be triumphant, were to pour sunshine over new england's rugged hills and scatter flower-seeds throughout the soil. jollity and gloom were contending for an empire. midsummer eve had come, bringing deep verdure to the forest, and roses in her lap of a more vivid hue than the tender buds of spring. but may, or her mirthful spirit, dwelt all the year round at merry mount, sporting with the summer months and revelling with autumn and basking in the glow of winter's fireside. through a world of toil and care she flitted with a dream-like smile, and came hither to find a home among the lightsome hearts of merry mount. never had the maypole been so gayly decked as at sunset on midsummer eve. this venerated emblem was a pine tree which had preserved the slender grace of youth, while it equalled the loftiest height of the old wood-monarchs. from its top streamed a silken banner colored like the rainbow. down nearly to the ground the pole was dressed with birchen boughs, and others of the liveliest green, and some with silvery leaves fastened by ribbons that fluttered in fantastic knots of twenty different colors, but no sad ones. garden-flowers and blossoms of the wilderness laughed gladly forth amid the verdure, so fresh and dewy that they must have grown by magic on that happy pine tree. where this green and flowery splendor terminated the shaft of the maypole was stained with the seven brilliant hues of the banner at its top. on the lowest green bough hung an abundant wreath of roses--some that had been gathered in the sunniest spots of the forest, and others, of still richer blush, which the colonists had reared from english seed. o people of the golden age, the chief of your husbandry was to raise flowers! but what was the wild throng that stood hand in hand about the maypole? it could not be that the fauns and nymphs, when driven from their classic groves and homes of ancient fable, had sought refuge, as all the persecuted did, in the fresh woods of the west. these were gothic monsters, though perhaps of grecian ancestry. on the shoulders of a comely youth uprose the head and branching antlers of a stag; a second, human in all other points, had the grim visage of a wolf; a third, still with the trunk and limbs of a mortal man, showed the beard and horns of a venerable he-goat. there was the likeness of a bear erect, brute in all but his hind legs, which were adorned with pink silk stockings. and here, again, almost as wondrous, stood a real bear of the dark forest, lending each of his forepaws to the grasp of a human hand and as ready for the dance as any in that circle. his inferior nature rose halfway to meet his companions as they stooped. other faces wore the similitude of man or woman, but distorted or extravagant, with red noses pendulous before their mouths, which seemed of awful depth and stretched from ear to ear in an eternal fit of laughter. here might be seen the salvage man--well known in heraldry--hairy as a baboon and girdled with green leaves. by his side--a nobler figure, but still a counterfeit--appeared an indian hunter with feathery crest and wampum-belt. many of this strange company wore foolscaps and had little bells appended to their garments, tinkling with a silvery sound responsive to the inaudible music of their gleesome spirits. some youths and maidens were of soberer garb, yet well maintained their places in the irregular throng by the expression of wild revelry upon their features. such were the colonists of merry mount as they stood in the broad smile of sunset round their venerated maypole. had a wanderer bewildered in the melancholy forest heard their mirth and stolen a half-affrighted glance, he might have fancied them the crew of comus, some already transformed to brutes, some midway between man and beast, and the others rioting in the flow of tipsy jollity that foreran the change; but a band of puritans who watched the scene, invisible themselves, compared the masques to those devils and ruined souls with whom their superstition peopled the black wilderness. within the ring of monsters appeared the two airiest forms that had ever trodden on any more solid footing than a purple-and-golden cloud. one was a youth in glistening apparel with a scarf of the rainbow pattern crosswise on his breast. his right hand held a gilded staff--the ensign of high dignity among the revellers--and his left grasped the slender fingers of a fair maiden not less gayly decorated than himself. bright roses glowed in contrast with the dark and glossy curls of each, and were scattered round their feet or had sprung up spontaneously there. behind this lightsome couple, so close to the maypole that its boughs shaded his jovial face, stood the figure of an english priest, canonically dressed, yet decked with flowers, in heathen fashion, and wearing a chaplet of the native vine leaves. by the riot of his rolling eye and the pagan decorations of his holy garb, he seemed the wildest monster there, and the very comus of the crew. "votaries of the maypole," cried the flower-decked priest, "merrily all day long have the woods echoed to your mirth. but be this your merriest hour, my hearts! lo! here stand the lord and lady of the may, whom i, a clerk of oxford and high priest of merry mount, am presently to join in holy matrimony.--up with your nimble spirits, ye morrice-dancers, green men and glee-maidens, bears and wolves and horned gentlemen! come! a chorus now rich with the old mirth of merry england and the wilder glee of this fresh forest, and then a dance, to show the youthful pair what life is made of and how airily they should go through it!--all ye that love the maypole, lend your voices to the nuptial song of the lord and lady of the may!" this wedlock was more serious than most affairs of merry mount, where jest and delusion, trick and fantasy, kept up a continual carnival. the lord and lady of the may, though their titles must be laid down at sunset, were really and truly to be partners for the dance of life, beginning the measure that same bright eve. the wreath of roses that hung from the lowest green bough of the maypole had been twined for them, and would be thrown over both their heads in symbol of their flowery union. when the priest had spoken, therefore, a riotous uproar burst from the rout of monstrous figures. "begin you the stave, reverend sir," cried they all, "and never did the woods ring to such a merry peal as we of the maypole shall send up." immediately a prelude of pipe, cittern and viol, touched with practised minstrelsy, began to play from a neighboring thicket in such a mirthful cadence that the boughs of the maypole quivered to the sound. but the may-lord--he of the gilded staff--chancing to look into his lady's eyes, was wonder-struck at the almost pensive glance that met his own. "edith, sweet lady of the may," whispered he, reproachfully, "is yon wreath of roses a garland to hang above our graves that you look so sad? oh, edith, this is our golden time. tarnish it not by any pensive shadow of the mind, for it may be that nothing of futurity will be brighter than the mere remembrance of what is now passing." "that was the very thought that saddened me. how came it in your mind too?" said edith, in a still lower tone than he; for it was high treason to be sad at merry mount. "therefore do i sigh amid this festive music. and besides, dear edgar, i struggle as with a dream, and fancy that these shapes of our jovial friends are visionary and their mirth unreal, and that we are no true lord and lady of the may. what is the mystery in my heart?" just then, as if a spell had loosened them, down came a little shower of withering rose-leaves from the maypole. alas for the young lovers! no sooner had their hearts glowed with real passion than they were sensible of something vague and unsubstantial in their former pleasures, and felt a dreary presentiment of inevitable change. from the moment that they truly loved they had subjected themselves to earth's doom of care and sorrow and troubled joy, and had no more a home at merry mount. that was edith's mystery. now leave we the priest to marry them, and the masquers to sport round the maypole till the last sunbeam be withdrawn from its summit and the shadows of the forest mingle gloomily in the dance. meanwhile, we may discover who these gay people were. two hundred years ago, and more, the old world and its inhabitants became mutually weary of each other. men voyaged by thousands to the west--some to barter glass and such like jewels for the furs of the indian hunter, some to conquer virgin empires, and one stern band to pray. but none of these motives had much weight with the colonists of merry mount. their leaders were men who had sported so long with life, that when thought and wisdom came, even these unwelcome guests were led astray by the crowd of vanities which they should have put to flight. erring thought and perverted wisdom were made to put on masques, and play the fool. the men of whom we speak, after losing the heart's fresh gayety, imagined a wild philosophy of pleasure, and came hither to act out their latest day-dream. they gathered followers from all that giddy tribe whose whole life is like the festal days of soberer men. in their train were minstrels, not unknown in london streets; wandering players, whose theatres had been the halls of noblemen; mummers, rope-dancers, and mountebanks, who would long be missed at wakes, church ales, and fairs; in a word, mirth makers of every sort, such as abounded in that age, but now began to be discountenanced by the rapid growth of puritanism. light had their footsteps been on land, and as lightly they came across the sea. many had been maddened by their previous troubles into a gay despair; others were as madly gay in the flush of youth, like the may lord and his lady; but whatever might be the quality of their mirth, old and young were gay at merry mount. the young deemed themselves happy. the elder spirits, if they knew that mirth was but the counterfeit of happiness, yet followed the false shadow wilfully, because at least her garments glittered brightest. sworn triflers of a lifetime, they would not venture among the sober truths of life not even to be truly blest. all the hereditary pastimes of old england were transplanted hither. the king of christmas was duly crowned, and the lord of misrule bore potent sway. on the eve of st. john, they felled whole acres of the forest to make bonfires, and danced by the blaze all night, crowned with garlands, and throwing flowers into the flame. at harvest time, though their crop was of the smallest, they made an image with the sheaves of indian corn, and wreathed it with autumnal garlands, and bore it home triumphantly. but what chiefly characterized the colonists of merry mount was their veneration for the maypole. it has made their true history a poet's tale. spring decked the hallowed emblem with young blossoms and fresh green boughs; summer brought roses of the deepest blush, and the perfected foliage of the forest; autumn enriched it with that red and yellow gorgeousness which converts each wildwood leaf into a painted flower; and winter silvered it with sleet, and hung it round with icicles, till it flashed in the cold sunshine, itself a frozen sunbeam. thus each alternate season did homage to the maypole, and paid it a tribute of its own richest splendor. its votaries danced round it, once, at least, in every month; sometimes they called it their religion, or their altar; but always, it was the banner staff of merry mount. unfortunately, there were men in the new world of a sterner faith than those maypole worshippers. not far from merry mount was a settlement of puritans, most dismal wretches, who said their prayers before daylight, and then wrought in the forest or the cornfield till evening made it prayer time again. their weapons were always at hand to shoot down the straggling savage. when they met in conclave, it was never to keep up the old english mirth, but to hear sermons three hours long, or to proclaim bounties on the heads of wolves and the scalps of indians. their festivals were fast days, and their chief pastime the singing of psalms. woe to the youth or maiden who did but dream of a dance! the selectman nodded to the constable; and there sat the light-heeled reprobate in the stocks; or if he danced, it was round the whipping-post, which might be termed the puritan maypole. a party of these grim puritans, toiling through the difficult woods, each with a horseload of iron armor to burden his footsteps, would sometimes draw near the sunny precincts of merry mount. there were the silken colonists, sporting round their maypole; perhaps teaching a bear to dance, or striving to communicate their mirth to the grave indian, or masquerading in the skins of deer and wolves which they had hunted for that especial purpose. often the whole colony were playing at blindman's buff, magistrates and all with their eyes bandaged, except a single scapegoat, whom the blinded sinners pursued by the tinkling of the bells at his garments. once, it is said, they were seen following a flower-decked corpse with merriment and festive music to his grave. but did the dead man laugh? in their quietest times they sang ballads and told tales for the edification of their pious visitors, or perplexed them with juggling tricks, or grinned at them through horse-collars; and when sport itself grew wearisome, they made game of their own stupidity and began a yawning-match. at the very least of these enormities the men of iron shook their heads and frowned so darkly that the revellers looked up, imagining that a momentary cloud had overcast the sunshine which was to be perpetual there. on the other hand, the puritans affirmed that when a psalm was pealing from their place of worship the echo which the forest sent them back seemed often like the chorus of a jolly catch, closing with a roar of laughter. who but the fiend and his bond-slaves the crew of merry mount had thus disturbed them? in due time a feud arose, stern and bitter on one side, and as serious on the other as anything could be among such light spirits as had sworn allegiance to the maypole. the future complexion of new england was involved in this important quarrel. should the grisly saints establish their jurisdiction over the gay sinners, then would their spirits darken all the clime and make it a land of clouded visages, of hard toil, of sermon and psalm for ever; but should the banner-staff of merry mount be fortunate, sunshine would break upon the hills, and flowers would beautify the forest and late posterity do homage to the maypole. after these authentic passages from history we return to the nuptials of the lord and lady of the may. alas! we have delayed too long, and must darken our tale too suddenly. as we glance again at the maypole a solitary sunbeam is fading from the summit, and leaves only a faint golden tinge blended with the hues of the rainbow banner. even that dim light is now withdrawn, relinquishing the whole domain of merry mount to the evening gloom which has rushed so instantaneously from the black surrounding woods. but some of these black shadows have rushed forth in human shape. yes, with the setting sun the last day of mirth had passed from merry mount. the ring of gay masquers was disordered and broken; the stag lowered his antlers in dismay; the wolf grew weaker than a lamb; the bells of the morrice-dancers tinkled with tremulous affright. the puritans had played a characteristic part in the maypole mummeries. their darksome figures were intermixed with the wild shapes of their foes, and made the scene a picture of the moment when waking thoughts start up amid the scattered fantasies of a dream. the leader of the hostile party stood in the centre of the circle, while the rout of monsters cowered around him like evil spirits in the presence of a dread magician. no fantastic foolery could look him in the face. so stern was the energy of his aspect that the whole man, visage, frame and soul, seemed wrought of iron gifted with life and thought, yet all of one substance with his headpiece and breastplate. it was the puritan of puritans: it was endicott himself. "stand off, priest of baal!" said he, with a grim frown and laying no reverent hand upon the surplice. "i know thee, blackstone![ ] thou art the man who couldst not abide the rule even of thine own corrupted church, and hast come hither to preach iniquity and to give example of it in thy life. but now shall it be seen that the lord hath sanctified this wilderness for his peculiar people. woe unto them that would defile it! and first for this flower-decked abomination, the altar of thy worship!" [footnote : did governor endicott speak less positively, we should suspect a mistake here. the rev. mr. blackstone, though an eccentric, is not known to have been an immoral man. we rather doubt his identity with the priest of merry mount.] and with his keen sword endicott assaulted the hallowed maypole. nor long did it resist his arm. it groaned with a dismal sound, it showered leaves and rosebuds upon the remorseless enthusiast, and finally, with all its green boughs and ribbons and flowers, symbolic of departed pleasures, down fell the banner-staff of merry mount. as it sank, tradition says, the evening sky grew darker and the woods threw forth a more sombre shadow. "there!" cried endicott, looking triumphantly on his work; "there lies the only maypole in new england. the thought is strong within me that by its fall is shadowed forth the fate of light and idle mirthmakers amongst us and our posterity. amen, saith john endicott!" "amen!" echoed his followers. but the votaries of the maypole gave one groan for their idol. at the sound the puritan leader glanced at the crew of comus, each a figure of broad mirth, yet at this moment strangely expressive of sorrow and dismay. "valiant captain," quoth peter palfrey, the ancient of the band, "what order shall be taken with the prisoners?" "i thought not to repent me of cutting down a maypole," replied endicott, "yet now i could find in my heart to plant it again and give each of these bestial pagans one other dance round their idol. it would have served rarely for a whipping-post." "but there are pine trees enow," suggested the lieutenant. "true, good ancient," said the leader. "wherefore bind the heathen crew and bestow on them a small matter of stripes apiece as earnest of our future justice. set some of the rogues in the stocks to rest themselves so soon as providence shall bring us to one of our own well-ordered settlements where such accommodations may be found. further penalties, such as branding and cropping of ears, shall be thought of hereafter." "how many stripes for the priest?" inquired ancient palfrey. "none as yet," answered endicott, bending his iron frown upon the culprit. "it must be for the great and general court to determine whether stripes and long imprisonment, and other grievous penalty, may atone for his transgressions. let him look to himself. for such as violate our civil order it may be permitted us to show mercy, but woe to the wretch that troubleth our religion!" "and this dancing bear?" resumed the officer. "must he share the stripes of his fellows?" "shoot him through the head!" said the energetic puritan. "i suspect witchcraft in the beast." "here be a couple of shining ones," continued peter palfrey, pointing his weapon at the lord and lady of the may. "they seem to be of high station among these misdoers. methinks their dignity will not be fitted with less than a double share of stripes." endicott rested on his sword and closely surveyed the dress and aspect of the hapless pair. there they stood, pale, downcast and apprehensive, yet there was an air of mutual support and of pure affection seeking aid and giving it that showed them to be man and wife with the sanction of a priest upon their love. the youth in the peril of the moment, had dropped his gilded staff and thrown his arm about the lady of the may, who leaned against his breast too lightly to burden him, but with weight enough to express that their destinies were linked together for good or evil. they looked first at each other and then into the grim captain's face. there they stood in the first hour of wedlock, while the idle pleasures of which their companions were the emblems had given place to the sternest cares of life, personified by the dark puritans. but never had their youthful beauty seemed so pure and high as when its glow was chastened by adversity. "youth," said endicott, "ye stand in an evil case--thou and thy maiden-wife. make ready presently, for i am minded that ye shall both have a token to remember your wedding-day." "stern man," cried the may-lord, "how can i move thee? were the means at hand, i would resist to the death; being powerless, i entreat. do with me as thou wilt, but let edith go untouched." "not so," replied the immitigable zealot. "we are not wont to show an idle courtesy to that sex which requireth the stricter discipline.--what sayest thou, maid? shall thy silken bridegroom suffer thy share of the penalty besides his own?" "be it death," said edith, "and lay it all on me." truly, as endicott had said, the poor lovers stood in a woeful case. their foes were triumphant, their friends captive and abased, their home desolate, the benighted wilderness around them, and a rigorous destiny in the shape of the puritan leader their only guide. yet the deepening twilight could not altogether conceal that the iron man was softened. he smiled at the fair spectacle of early love; he almost sighed for the inevitable blight of early hopes. "the troubles of life have come hastily on this young couple," observed endicott. "we will see how they comport themselves under their present trials ere we burden them with greater. if among the spoil there be any garments of a more decent fashion, let them be put upon this may-lord and his lady instead of their glistening vanities. look to it, some of you." "and shall not the youth's hair be cut?" asked peter palfrey, looking with abhorrence at the lovelock and long glossy curls of the young man. "crop it forthwith, and that in the true pumpkin-shell fashion," answered the captain. "then bring them along with us, but more gently than their fellows. there be qualities in the youth which may make him valiant to fight and sober to toil and pious to pray, and in the maiden that may fit her to become a mother in our israel, bringing up babes in better nurture than her own hath been.--nor think ye, young ones, that they are the happiest, even in our lifetime of a moment, who misspend it in dancing round a maypole." and endicott, the severest puritan of all who laid the rock-foundation of new england, lifted the wreath of roses from the ruin of the maypole and threw it with his own gauntleted hand over the heads of the lord and lady of the may. it was a deed of prophecy. as the moral gloom of the world overpowers all systematic gayety, even so was their home of wild mirth made desolate amid the sad forest. they returned to it no more. but as their flowery garland was wreathed of the brightest roses that had grown there, so in the tie that united them were intertwined all the purest and best of their early joys. they went heavenward supporting each other along the difficult path which it was their lot to tread, and never wasted one regretful thought on the vanities of merry mount. the gentle boy. in the course of the year several of the people called quakers--led, as they professed, by the inward movement of the spirit--made their appearance in new england. their reputation as holders of mystic and pernicious principles having spread before them, the puritans early endeavored to banish and to prevent the further intrusion of the rising sect. but the measures by which it was intended to purge the land of heresy, though more than sufficiently vigorous, were entirely unsuccessful. the quakers, esteeming persecution as a divine call to the post of danger, laid claim to a holy courage unknown to the puritans themselves, who had shunned the cross by providing for the peaceable exercise of their religion in a distant wilderness. though it was the singular fact that every nation of the earth rejected the wandering enthusiasts who practised peace toward all men, the place of greatest uneasiness and peril, and therefore in their eyes the most eligible, was the province of massachusetts bay. the fines, imprisonments and stripes liberally distributed by our pious forefathers, the popular antipathy, so strong that it endured nearly a hundred years after actual persecution had ceased, were attractions as powerful for the quakers as peace, honor and reward would have been for the worldly-minded. every european vessel brought new cargoes of the sect, eager to testify against the oppression which they hoped to share; and when shipmasters were restrained by heavy fines from affording them passage, they made long and circuitous journeys through the indian country, and appeared in the province as if conveyed by a supernatural power. their enthusiasm, heightened almost to madness by the treatment which they received, produced actions contrary to the rules of decency as well as of rational religion, and presented a singular contrast to the calm and staid deportment of their sectarian successors of the present day. the command of the spirit, inaudible except to the soul and not to be controverted on grounds of human wisdom, was made a plea for most indecorous exhibitions which, abstractedly considered, well deserved the moderate chastisement of the rod. these extravagances, and the persecution which was at once their cause and consequence, continued to increase, till in the year the government of massachusetts bay indulged two members of the quaker sect with the crown of martyrdom. an indelible stain of blood is upon the hands of all who consented to this act, but a large share of the awful responsibility must rest upon the person then at the head of the government. he was a man of narrow mind and imperfect education, and his uncompromising bigotry was made hot and mischievous by violent and hasty passions; he exerted his influence indecorously and unjustifiably to compass the death of the enthusiasts, and his whole conduct in respect to them was marked by brutal cruelty. the quakers, whose revengeful feelings were not less deep because they were inactive, remembered this man and his associates in after-times. the historian of the sect affirms that by the wrath of heaven a blight fell upon the land in the vicinity of the "bloody town" of boston, so that no wheat would grow there; and he takes his stand, as it were, among the graves of the ancient persecutors, and triumphantly recounts the judgments that overtook them in old age or at the parting-hour. he tells us that they died suddenly and violently and in madness, but nothing can exceed the bitter mockery with which he records the loathsome disease and "death by rottenness" of the fierce and cruel governor. * * * * * on the evening of the autumn day that had witnessed the martyrdom of two men of the quaker persuasion, a puritan settler was returning from the metropolis to the neighboring country-town in which he resided. the air was cool, the sky clear, and the lingering twilight was made brighter by the rays of a young moon which had now nearly reached the verge of the horizon. the traveller, a man of middle age, wrapped in a gray frieze cloak, quickened his pace when he had reached the outskirts of the town, for a gloomy extent of nearly four miles lay between him and his home. the low straw-thatched houses were scattered at considerable intervals along the road, and, the country having been settled but about thirty years, the tracts of original forest still bore no small proportion to the cultivated ground. the autumn wind wandered among the branches, whirling away the leaves from all except the pine trees and moaning as if it lamented the desolation of which it was the instrument. the road had penetrated the mass of woods that lay nearest to the town, and was just emerging into an open space, when the traveller's ears were saluted by a sound more mournful than even that of the wind. it was like the wailing of some one in distress, and it seemed to proceed from beneath a tall and lonely fir tree in the centre of a cleared but unenclosed and uncultivated field. the puritan could not but remember that this was the very spot which had been made accursed a few hours before by the execution of the quakers, whose bodies had been thrown together into one hasty grave beneath the tree on which they suffered. he struggled, however, against the superstitious fears which belonged to the age, and compelled himself to pause and listen. "the voice is most likely mortal, nor have i cause to tremble if it be otherwise," thought he, straining his eyes through the dim moonlight. "methinks it is like the wailing of a child--some infant, it may be, which has strayed from its mother and chanced upon this place of death. for the ease of mine own conscience i must search this matter out." he therefore left the path and walked somewhat fearfully across the field. though now so desolate, its soil was pressed down and trampled by the thousand footsteps of those who had witnessed the spectacle of that day, all of whom had now retired, leaving the dead to their loneliness. the traveller at length reached the fir tree, which from the middle upward was covered with living branches, although a scaffold had been erected beneath, and other preparations made for the work of death. under this unhappy tree--which in after-times was believed to drop poison with its dew--sat the one solitary mourner for innocent blood. it was a slender and light-clad little boy who leaned his face upon a hillock of fresh-turned and half-frozen earth and wailed bitterly, yet in a suppressed tone, as if his grief might receive the punishment of crime. the puritan, whose approach had been unperceived, laid his hand upon the child's shoulder and addressed him compassionately. "you have chosen a dreary lodging, my poor boy, and no wonder that you weep," said he. "but dry your eyes and tell me where your mother dwells; i promise you, if the journey be not too far, i will leave you in her arms tonight." the boy had hushed his wailing at once, and turned his face upward to the stranger. it was a pale, bright-eyed countenance, certainly not more than six years old, but sorrow, fear and want had destroyed much of its infantile expression. the puritan, seeing the boy's frightened gaze and feeling that he trembled under his hand, endeavored to reassure him: "nay, if i intended to do you harm, little lad, the readiest way were to leave you here. what! you do not fear to sit beneath the gallows on a new-made grave, and yet you tremble at a friend's touch? take heart, child, and tell me what is your name and where is your home." "friend," replied the little boy, in a sweet though faltering voice, "they call me ilbrahim, and my home is here." the pale, spiritual face, the eyes that seemed to mingle with the moonlight, the sweet, airy voice and the outlandish name almost made the puritan believe that the boy was in truth a being which had sprung up out of the grave on which he sat; but perceiving that the apparition stood the test of a short mental prayer, and remembering that the arm which he had touched was lifelike, he adopted a more rational supposition. "the poor child is stricken in his intellect," thought he, "but verily his words are fearful in a place like this." he then spoke soothingly, intending to humor the boy's fantasy: "your home will scarce be comfortable, ilbrahim, this cold autumn night, and i fear you are ill-provided with food. i am hastening to a warm supper and bed; and if you will go with me, you shall share them." "i thank thee, friend, but, though i be hungry and shivering with cold, thou wilt not give me food nor lodging," replied the boy, in the quiet tone which despair had taught him even so young. "my father was of the people whom all men hate; they have laid him under this heap of earth, and here is my home." the puritan, who had laid hold of little ilbrahim's hand, relinquished it as if he were touching a loathsome reptile. but he possessed a compassionate heart which not even religious prejudice could harden into stone. "god forbid that i should leave this child to perish, though he comes of the accursed sect," said he to himself. "do we not all spring from an evil root? are we not all in darkness till the light doth shine upon us? he shall not perish, neither in body nor, if prayer and instruction may avail for him, in soul." he then spoke aloud and kindly to ilbrahim, who had again hid his face in the cold earth of the grave: "was every door in the land shut against you, my child, that you have wandered to this unhallowed spot?" "they drove me forth from the prison when they took my father thence," said the boy, "and i stood afar off watching the crowd of people; and when they were gone, i came hither, and found only this grave. i knew that my father was sleeping here, and i said, 'this shall be my home.'" "no, child, no, not while i have a roof over my head or a morsel to share with you," exclaimed the puritan, whose sympathies were now fully excited. "rise up and come with me, and fear not any harm." the boy wept afresh, and clung to the heap of earth as if the cold heart beneath it were warmer to him than any in a living breast. the traveller, however, continued to entreat him tenderly, and, seeming to acquire some degree of confidence, he at length arose; but his slender limbs tottered with weakness, his little head grew dizzy, and he leaned against the tree of death for support. "my poor boy, are you so feeble?" said the puritan. "when did you taste food last?" "i ate of bread and water with my father in the prison," replied ilbrahim, "but they brought him none neither yesterday nor to-day, saying that he had eaten enough to bear him to his journey's end. trouble not thyself for my hunger, kind friend, for i have lacked food many times ere now." the traveller took the child in his arms and wrapped his cloak about him, while his heart stirred with shame and anger against the gratuitous cruelty of the instruments in this persecution. in the awakened warmth of his feelings he resolved that at whatever risk he would not forsake the poor little defenceless being whom heaven had confided to his care. with this determination he left the accursed field and resumed the homeward path from which the wailing of the boy had called him. the light and motionless burden scarcely impeded his progress, and he soon beheld the fire-rays from the windows of the cottage which he, a native of a distant clime, had built in the western wilderness. it was surrounded by a considerable extent of cultivated ground, and the dwelling was situated in the nook of a wood-covered hill, whither it seemed to have crept for protection. "look up, child," said the puritan to ilbrahim, whose faint head had sunk upon his shoulder; "there is our home." at the word "home" a thrill passed through the child's frame, but he continued silent. a few moments brought them to the cottage door, at which the owner knocked; for at that early period, when savages were wandering everywhere among the settlers, bolt and bar were indispensable to the security of a dwelling. the summons was answered by a bond-servant, a coarse-clad and dull-featured piece of humanity, who, after ascertaining that his master was the applicant, undid the door and held a flaring pine-knot torch to light him in. farther back in the passageway the red blaze discovered a matronly woman, but no little crowd of children came bounding forth to greet their father's return. as the puritan entered he thrust aside his cloak and displayed ilbrahim's face to the female. "dorothy, here is a little outcast whom providence hath put into our hands," observed he. "be kind to him, even as if he were of those dear ones who have departed from us." "what pale and bright-eyed little boy is this, tobias?" she inquired. "is he one whom the wilderness-folk have ravished from some christian mother?" "no, dorothy; this poor child is no captive from the wilderness," he replied. "the heathen savage would have given him to eat of his scanty morsel and to drink of his birchen cup, but christian men, alas! had cast him out to die." then he told her how he had found him beneath the gallows, upon his father's grave, and how his heart had prompted him like the speaking of an inward voice to take the little outcast home and be kind unto him. he acknowledged his resolution to feed and clothe him as if he were his own child, and to afford him the instruction which should counteract the pernicious errors hitherto instilled into his infant mind. dorothy was gifted with even a quicker tenderness than her husband, and she approved of all his doings and intentions. "have you a mother, dear child?" she inquired. the tears burst forth from his full heart as he attempted to reply, but dorothy at length understood that he had a mother, who like the rest of her sect was a persecuted wanderer. she had been taken from the prison a short time before, carried into the uninhabited wilderness and left to perish there by hunger or wild beasts. this was no uncommon method of disposing of the quakers, and they were accustomed to boast that the inhabitants of the desert were more hospitable to them than civilized man. "fear not, little boy; you shall not need a mother, and a kind one," said dorothy, when she had gathered this information. "dry your tears, ilbrahim, and be my child, as i will be your mother." the good woman prepared the little bed from which her own children had successively been borne to another resting-place. before ilbrahim would consent to occupy it he knelt down, and as dorothy listed to his simple and affecting prayer she marvelled how the parents that had taught it to him could have been judged worthy of death. when the boy had fallen asleep, she bent over his pale and spiritual countenance, pressed a kiss upon his white brow, drew the bedclothes up about his neck, and went away with a pensive gladness in her heart. tobias pearson was not among the earliest emigrants from the old country. he had remained in england during the first years of the civil war, in which he had borne some share as a cornet of dragoons under cromwell. but when the ambitious designs of his leader began to develop themselves, he quitted the army of the parliament and sought a refuge from the strife which was no longer holy among the people of his persuasion in the colony of massachusetts. a more worldly consideration had perhaps an influence in drawing him thither, for new england offered advantages to men of unprosperous fortunes as well as to dissatisfied religionists, and pearson had hitherto found it difficult to provide for a wife and increasing family. to this supposed impurity of motive the more bigoted puritans were inclined to impute the removal by death of all the children for whose earthly good the father had been over-thoughtful. they had left their native country blooming like roses, and like roses they had perished in a foreign soil. those expounders of the ways of providence, who had thus judged their brother and attributed his domestic sorrows to his sin, were not more charitable when they saw him and dorothy endeavoring to fill up the void in their hearts by the adoption of an infant of the accursed sect. nor did they fail to communicate their disapprobation to tobias, but the latter in reply merely pointed at the little quiet, lovely boy, whose appearance and deportment were indeed as powerful arguments as could possibly have been adduced in his own favor. even his beauty, however, and his winning manners sometimes produced an effect ultimately unfavorable; for the bigots, when the outer surfaces of their iron hearts had been softened and again grew hard, affirmed that no merely natural cause could have so worked upon them. their antipathy to the poor infant was also increased by the ill-success of divers theological discussions in which it was attempted to convince him of the errors of his sect. ilbrahim, it is true, was not a skilful controversialist, but the feeling of his religion was strong as instinct in him, and he could neither be enticed nor driven from the faith which his father had died for. the odium of this stubbornness was shared in a great measure by the child's protectors, insomuch that tobias and dorothy very shortly began to experience a most bitter species of persecution in the cold regards of many a friend whom they had valued. the common people manifested their opinions more openly. pearson was a man of some consideration, being a representative to the general court and an approved lieutenant in the train-bands, yet within a week after his adoption of ilbrahim he had been both hissed and hooted. once, also, when walking through a solitary piece of woods, he heard a loud voice from some invisible speaker, and it cried, "what shall be done to the backslider? lo! the scourge is knotted for him, even the whip of nine cords, and every cord three knots." these insults irritated pearson's temper for the moment; they entered also into his heart, and became imperceptible but powerful workers toward an end which his most secret thought had not yet whispered. * * * * * on the second sabbath after ilbrahim became a member of their family, pearson and his wife deemed it proper that he should appear with them at public worship. they had anticipated some opposition to this measure from the boy, but he prepared himself in silence, and at the appointed hour was clad in the new mourning-suit which dorothy had wrought for him. as the parish was then, and during many subsequent years, unprovided with a bell, the signal for the commencement of religious exercises was the beat of a drum. at the first sound of that martial call to the place of holy and quiet thoughts tobias and dorothy set forth, each holding a hand of little ilbrahim, like two parents linked together by the infant of their love. on their path through the leafless woods they were overtaken by many persons of their acquaintance, all of whom avoided them and passed by on the other side; but a severer trial awaited their constancy when they had descended the hill and drew near the pine-built and undecorated house of prayer. around the door, from which the drummer still sent forth his thundering summons, was drawn up a formidable phalanx, including several of the oldest members of the congregation, many of the middle-aged and nearly all the younger males. pearson found it difficult to sustain their united and disapproving gaze, but dorothy, whose mind was differently circumstanced, merely drew the boy closer to her and faltered not in her approach. as they entered the door they overheard the muttered sentiments of the assemblage; and when the reviling voices of the little children smote ilbrahim's ear, he wept. the interior aspect of the meeting-house was rude. the low ceiling, the unplastered walls, the naked woodwork and the undraperied pulpit offered nothing to excite the devotion which without such external aids often remains latent in the heart. the floor of the building was occupied by rows of long cushionless benches, supplying the place of pews, and the broad aisle formed a sexual division impassable except by children beneath a certain age. pearson and dorothy separated at the door of the meeting-house, and ilbrahim, being within the years of infancy, was retained under the care of the latter. the wrinkled beldams involved themselves in their rusty cloaks as he passed by; even the mild-featured maidens seemed to dread contamination; and many a stern old man arose and turned his repulsive and unheavenly countenance upon the gentle boy, as if the sanctuary were polluted by his presence. he was a sweet infant of the skies that had strayed away from his home, and all the inhabitants of this miserable world closed up their impure hearts against him, drew back their earth-soiled garments from his touch and said, "we are holier than thou." ilbrahim, seated by the side of his adopted mother and retaining fast hold of her hand, assumed a grave and decorous demeanor such as might befit a person of matured taste and understanding who should find himself in a temple dedicated to some worship which he did not recognize, but felt himself bound to respect. the exercises had not yet commenced, however, when the boy's attention was arrested by an event apparently of trifling interest. a woman having her face muffled in a hood and a cloak drawn completely about her form advanced slowly up the broad aisle and took place upon the foremost bench. ilbrahim's faint color varied, his nerves fluttered; he was unable to turn his eyes from the muffled female. when the preliminary prayer and hymn were over, the minister arose, and, having turned the hour-glass which stood by the great bible, commenced his discourse. he was now well stricken in years, a man of pale, thin countenance, and his gray hairs were closely covered by a black velvet skull-cap. in his younger days he had practically learned the meaning of persecution from archbishop laud, and he was not now disposed to forget the lesson against which he had murmured then. introducing the often-discussed subject of the quakers, he gave a history of that sect and a description of their tenets in which error predominated and prejudice distorted the aspect of what was true. he adverted to the recent measures in the province, and cautioned his hearers of weaker parts against calling in question the just severity which god-fearing magistrates had at length been compelled to exercise. he spoke of the danger of pity--in some cases a commendable and christian virtue, but inapplicable to this pernicious sect. he observed that such was their devilish obstinacy in error that even the little children, the sucking babes, were hardened and desperate heretics. he affirmed that no man without heaven's especial warrant should attempt their conversion lest while he lent his hand to draw them from the slough he should himself be precipitated into its lowest depths. the sands of the second hour were principally in the lower half of the glass when the sermon concluded. an approving murmur followed, and the clergyman, having given out a hymn, took his seat with much self-congratulation, and endeavored to read the effect of his eloquence in the visages of the people. but while voices from all parts of the house were tuning themselves to sing a scene occurred which, though not very unusual at that period in the province, happened to be without precedent in this parish. the muffled female, who had hitherto sat motionless in the front rank of the audience, now arose and with slow, stately and unwavering step ascended the pulpit stairs. the quaverings of incipient harmony were hushed and the divine sat in speechless and almost terrified astonishment while she undid the door and stood up in the sacred desk from which his maledictions had just been thundered. she then divested herself of the cloak and hood, and appeared in a most singular array. a shapeless robe of sackcloth was girded about her waist with a knotted cord; her raven hair fell down upon her shoulders, and its blackness was defiled by pale streaks of ashes, which she had strewn upon her head. her eyebrows, dark and strongly defined, added to the deathly whiteness of a countenance which, emaciated with want and wild with enthusiasm and strange sorrows, retained no trace of earlier beauty. this figure stood gazing earnestly on the audience, and there was no sound nor any movement except a faint shuddering which every man observed in his neighbor, but was scarcely conscious of in himself. at length, when her fit of inspiration came, she spoke for the first few moments in a low voice and not invariably distinct utterance. her discourse gave evidence of an imagination hopelessly entangled with her reason; it was a vague and incomprehensible rhapsody, which, however, seemed to spread its own atmosphere round the hearer's soul, and to move his feelings by some influence unconnected with the words. as she proceeded beautiful but shadowy images would sometimes be seen like bright things moving in a turbid river, or a strong and singularly shaped idea leapt forth and seized at once on the understanding or the heart. but the course of her unearthly eloquence soon led her to the persecutions of her sect, and from thence the step was short to her own peculiar sorrows. she was naturally a woman of mighty passions, and hatred and revenge now wrapped themselves in the garb of piety. the character of her speech was changed; her images became distinct though wild, and her denunciations had an almost hellish bitterness. "the governor and his mighty men," she said, "have gathered together, taking counsel among themselves and saying, 'what shall we do unto this people--even unto the people that have come into this land to put our iniquity to the blush?' and, lo! the devil entereth into the council-chamber like a lame man of low stature and gravely apparelled, with a dark and twisted countenance and a bright, downcast eye. and he standeth up among the rulers; yea, he goeth to and fro, whispering to each; and every man lends his ear, for his word is 'slay! slay!' but i say unto ye, woe to them that slay! woe to them that shed the blood of saints! woe to them that have slain the husband and cast forth the child, the tender infant, to wander homeless and hungry and cold till he die, and have saved the mother alive in the cruelty of their tender mercies! woe to them in their lifetime! cursed are they in the delight and pleasure of their hearts! woe to them in their death-hour, whether it come swiftly with blood and violence or after long and lingering pain! woe in the dark house, in the rottenness of the grave, when the children's children shall revile the ashes of the fathers! woe, woe, woe, at the judgment, when all the persecuted and all the slain in this bloody land, and the father, the mother and the child, shall await them in a day that they cannot escape! seed of the faith, seed of the faith, ye whose hearts are moving with a power that ye know not, arise, wash your hands of this innocent blood! lift your voices, chosen ones, cry aloud, and call down a woe and a judgment with me!" having thus given vent to the flood of malignity which she mistook for inspiration, the speaker was silent. her voice was succeeded by the hysteric shrieks of several women, but the feelings of the audience generally had not been drawn onward in the current with her own. they remained stupefied, stranded, as it were, in the midst of a torrent which deafened them by its roaring, but might not move them by its violence. the clergyman, who could not hitherto have ejected the usurper of his pulpit otherwise than by bodily force, now addressed her in the tone of just indignation and legitimate authority. "get you down, woman, from the holy place which you profane," he said, "is it to the lord's house that you come to pour forth the foulness of your heart and the inspiration of the devil? get you down, and remember that the sentence of death is on you--yea, and shall be executed, were it but for this day's work." "i go, friend, i go, for the voice hath had its utterance," replied she, in a depressed, and even mild, tone. "i have done my mission unto thee and to thy people; reward me with stripes, imprisonment or death, as ye shall be permitted." the weakness of exhausted passion caused her steps to totter as she descended the pulpit stairs. the people, in the mean while, were stirring to and fro on the floor of the house, whispering among themselves and glancing toward the intruder. many of them now recognized her as the woman who had assaulted the governor with frightful language as he passed by the window of her prison; they knew, also, that she was adjudged to suffer death, and had been preserved only by an involuntary banishment into the wilderness. the new outrage by which she had provoked her fate seemed to render further lenity impossible, and a gentleman in military dress, with a stout man of inferior rank, drew toward the door of the meetinghouse and awaited her approach. scarcely did her feet press the floor, however, when an unexpected scene occurred. in that moment of her peril, when every eye frowned with death, a little timid boy threw his arms round his mother. "i am here, mother; it is i, and i will go with thee to prison," he exclaimed. she gazed at him with a doubtful and almost frightened expression, for she knew that the boy had been cast out to perish, and she had not hoped to see his face again. she feared, perhaps, that it was but one of the happy visions with which her excited fancy had often deceived her in the solitude of the desert or in prison; but when she felt his hand warm within her own and heard his little eloquence of childish love, she began to know that she was yet a mother. "blessed art thou, my son!" she sobbed. "my heart was withered--yea, dead with thee and with thy father--and now it leaps as in the first moment when i pressed thee to my bosom." she knelt down and embraced him again and again, while the joy that could find no words expressed itself in broken accents, like the bubbles gushing up to vanish at the surface of a deep fountain. the sorrows of past years and the darker peril that was nigh cast not a shadow on the brightness of that fleeting moment. soon, however, the spectators saw a change upon her face as the consciousness of her sad estate returned, and grief supplied the fount of tears which joy had opened. by the words she uttered it would seem that the indulgence of natural love had given her mind a momentary sense of its errors, and made her know how far she had strayed from duty in following the dictates of a wild fanaticism. "in a doleful hour art thou returned to me, poor boy," she said, "for thy mother's path has gone darkening onward, till now the end is death. son, son, i have borne thee in my arms when my limbs were tottering, and i have fed thee with the food that i was fainting for; yet i have ill-performed a mother's part by thee in life, and now i leave thee no inheritance but woe and shame. thou wilt go seeking through the world, and find all hearts closed against thee and their sweet affections turned to bitterness for my sake. my child, my child, how many a pang awaits thy gentle spirit, and i the cause of all!" she hid her face on ilbrahim's head, and her long raven hair, discolored with the ashes of her mourning, fell down about him like a veil. a low and interrupted moan was the voice of her heart's anguish, and it did not fail to move the sympathies of many who mistook their involuntary virtue for a sin. sobs were audible in the female section of the house, and every man who was a father drew his hand across his eyes. tobias pearson was agitated and uneasy, but a certain feeling like the consciousness of guilt oppressed him; so that he could not go forth and offer himself as the protector of the child. dorothy, however, had watched her husband's eye. her mind was free from the influence that had begun to work on his, and she drew near the quaker woman and addressed her in the hearing of all the congregation. "stranger, trust this boy to me, and i will be his mother," she said, taking ilbrahim's hand. "providence has signally marked out my husband to protect him, and he has fed at our table and lodged under our roof now many days, till our hearts have grown very strongly unto him. leave the tender child with us, and be at ease concerning his welfare." the quaker rose from the ground, but drew the boy closer to her, while she gazed earnestly in dorothy's face. her mild but saddened features and neat matronly attire harmonized together and were like a verse of fireside poetry. her very aspect proved that she was blameless, so far as mortal could be so, in respect to god and man, while the enthusiast, in her robe of sackcloth and girdle of knotted cord, had as evidently violated the duties of the present life and the future by fixing her attention wholly on the latter. the two females, as they held each a hand of ilbrahim, formed a practical allegory: it was rational piety and unbridled fanaticism contending for the empire of a young heart. "thou art not of our people," said the quaker, mournfully. "no, we are not of your people," replied dorothy, with mildness, "but we are christians looking upward to the same heaven with you. doubt not that your boy shall meet you there, if there be a blessing on our tender and prayerful guidance of him. thither, i trust, my own children have gone before me, for i also have been a mother. i am no longer so," she added, in a faltering tone, "and your son will have all my care." "but will ye lead him in the path which his parents have trodden?" demanded the quaker. "can ye teach him the enlightened faith which his father has died for, and for which i--even i--am soon to become an unworthy martyr? the boy has been baptized in blood; will ye keep the mark fresh and ruddy upon his forehead?" "i will not deceive you," answered dorothy. "if your child become our child, we must breed him up in the instruction which heaven has imparted to us; we must pray for him the prayers of our own faith; we must do toward him according to the dictates of our own consciences, and not of yours. were we to act otherwise, we should abuse your trust, even in complying with your wishes." the mother looked down upon her boy with a troubled countenance, and then turned her eyes upward to heaven. she seemed to pray internally, and the contention of her soul was evident. "friend," she said, at length, to dorothy, "i doubt not that my son shall receive all earthly tenderness at thy hands. nay, i will believe that even thy imperfect lights may guide him to a better world, for surely thou art on the path thither. but thou hast spoken of a husband. doth he stand here among this multitude of people? let him come forth, for i must know to whom i commit this most precious trust." she turned her face upon the male auditors, and after a momentary delay tobias pearson came forth from among them. the quaker saw the dress which marked his military rank, and shook her head; but then she noted the hesitating air, the eyes that struggled with her own and were vanquished, the color that went and came and could find no resting-place. as she gazed an unmirthful smile spread over her features, like sunshine that grows melancholy in some desolate spot. her lips moved inaudibly, but at length she spake: "i hear it, i hear it! the voice speaketh within me and saith, 'leave thy child, catharine, for his place is here, and go hence, for i have other work for thee. break the bonds of natural affection, martyr thy love, and know that in all these things eternal wisdom hath its ends.' i go, friends, i go. take ye my boy, my precious jewel. i go hence trusting that all shall be well, and that even for his infant hands there is a labor in the vineyard." she knelt down and whispered to ilbrahim, who at first struggled and clung to his mother with sobs and tears, but remained passive when she had kissed his cheek and arisen from the ground. having held her hands over his head in mental prayer, she was ready to depart. "farewell, friends in mine extremity," she said to pearson and his wife; "the good deed ye have done me is a treasure laid up in heaven, to be returned a thousandfold hereafter.--and farewell, ye mine enemies, to whom it is not permitted to harm so much as a hair of my head, nor to stay my footsteps even for a moment. the day is coming when ye shall call upon me to witness for ye to this one sin uncommitted, and i will rise up and answer." she turned her steps toward the door, and the men who had stationed themselves to guard it withdrew and suffered her to pass. a general sentiment of pity overcame the virulence of religious hatred. sanctified by her love and her affliction, she went forth, and all the people gazed after her till she had journeyed up the hill and was lost behind its brow. she went, the apostle of her own unquiet heart, to renew the wanderings of past years. for her voice had been already heard in many lands of christendom, and she had pined in the cells of a catholic inquisition before she felt the lash and lay in the dungeons of the puritans. her mission had extended also to the followers of the prophet, and from them she had received the courtesy and kindness which all the contending sects of our purer religion united to deny her. her husband and herself had resided many months in turkey, where even the sultan's countenance was gracious to them; in that pagan land, too, was ilbrahim's birthplace, and his oriental name was a mark of gratitude for the good deeds of an unbeliever. * * * * * when pearson and his wife had thus acquired all the rights over ilbrahim that could be delegated, their affection for him became, like the memory of their native land or their mild sorrow for the dead, a piece of the immovable furniture of their hearts. the boy, also, after a week or two of mental disquiet, began to gratify his protectors by many inadvertent proofs that he considered them as parents and their house as home. before the winter snows were melted the persecuted infant, the little wanderer from a remote and heathen country, seemed native in the new england cottage and inseparable from the warmth and security of its hearth. under the influence of kind treatment, and in the consciousness that he was loved, ilbrahim's demeanor lost a premature manliness which had resulted from his earlier situation; he became more childlike and his natural character displayed itself with freedom. it was in many respects a beautiful one, yet the disordered imaginations of both his father and mother had perhaps propagated a certain unhealthiness in the mind of the boy. in his general state ilbrahim would derive enjoyment from the most trifling events and from every object about him; he seemed to discover rich treasures of happiness by a faculty analogous to that of the witch-hazel, which points to hidden gold where all is barren to the eye. his airy gayety, coming to him from a thousand sources, communicated itself to the family, and ilbrahim was like a domesticated sunbeam, brightening moody countenances and chasing away the gloom from the dark corners of the cottage. on the other hand, as the susceptibility of pleasure is also that of pain, the exuberant cheerfulness of the boy's prevailing temper sometimes yielded to moments of deep depression. his sorrows could not always be followed up to their original source, but most frequently they appeared to flow--though ilbrahim was young to be sad for such a cause--from wounded love. the flightiness of his mirth rendered him often guilty of offences against the decorum of a puritan household, and on these occasions he did not invariably escape rebuke. but the slightest word of real bitterness, which he was infallible in distinguishing from pretended anger, seemed to sink into his heart and poison all his enjoyments till he became sensible that he was entirely forgiven. of the malice which generally accompanies a superfluity of sensitiveness ilbrahim was altogether destitute. when trodden upon, he would not turn; when wounded, he could but die. his mind was wanting in the stamina of self-support. it was a plant that would twine beautifully round something stronger than itself; but if repulsed or torn away, it had no choice but to wither on the ground. dorothy's acuteness taught her that severity would crush the spirit of the child, and she nurtured him with the gentle care of one who handles a butterfly. her husband manifested an equal affection, although it grew daily less productive of familiar caresses. the feelings of the neighboring people in regard to the quaker infant and his protectors had not undergone a favorable change, in spite of the momentary triumph which the desolate mother had obtained over their sympathies. the scorn and bitterness of which he was the object were very grievous to ilbrahim, especially when any circumstance made him sensible that the children his equals in age partook of the enmity of their parents. his tender and social nature had already overflowed in attachments to everything about him, and still there was a residue of unappropriated love which he yearned to bestow upon the little ones who were taught to hate him. as the warm days of spring came on ilbrahim was accustomed to remain for hours silent and inactive within hearing of the children's voices at their play, yet with his usual delicacy of feeling he avoided their notice, and would flee and hide himself from the smallest individual among them. chance, however, at length seemed to open a medium of communication between his heart and theirs; it was by means of a boy about two years older than ilbrahim, who was injured by a fall from a tree in the vicinity of pearson's habitation. as the sufferer's own home was at some distance, dorothy willingly received him under her roof and became his tender and careful nurse. ilbrahim was the unconscious possessor of much skill in physiognomy, and it would have deterred him in other circumstances from attempting to make a friend of this boy. the countenance of the latter immediately impressed a beholder disagreeably, but it required some examination to discover that the cause was a very slight distortion of the mouth and the irregular, broken line and near approach of the eyebrows. analogous, perhaps, to these trifling deformities was an almost imperceptible twist of every joint and the uneven prominence of the breast, forming a body regular in its general outline, but faulty in almost all its details. the disposition of the boy was sullen and reserved, and the village schoolmaster stigmatized him as obtuse in intellect, although at a later period of life he evinced ambition and very peculiar talents. but, whatever might be his personal or moral irregularities, ilbrahim's heart seized upon and clung to him from the moment that he was brought wounded into the cottage; the child of persecution seemed to compare his own fate with that of the sufferer, and to feel that even different modes of misfortune had created a sort of relationship between them. food, rest and the fresh air for which he languished were neglected; he nestled continually by the bedside of the little stranger and with a fond jealousy endeavored to be the medium of all the cares that were bestowed upon him. as the boy became convalescent ilbrahim contrived games suitable to his situation or amused him by a faculty which he had perhaps breathed in with the air of his barbaric birthplace. it was that of reciting imaginary adventures on the spur of the moment, and apparently in inexhaustible succession. his tales were, of course, monstrous, disjointed and without aim, but they were curious on account of a vein of human tenderness which ran through them all and was like a sweet familiar face encountered in the midst of wild and unearthly scenery. the auditor paid much attention to these romances and sometimes interrupted them by brief remarks upon the incidents, displaying shrewdness above his years, mingled with a moral obliquity which grated very harshly against ilbrahim's instinctive rectitude. nothing, however, could arrest the progress of the latter's affection, and there were many proofs that it met with a response from the dark and stubborn nature on which it was lavished. the boy's parents at length removed him to complete his cure under their own roof. ilbrahim did not visit his new friend after his departure, but he made anxious and continual inquiries respecting him and informed himself of the day when he was to reappear among his playmates. on a pleasant summer afternoon the children of the neighborhood had assembled in the little forest-crowned amphitheatre behind the meeting-house, and the recovering invalid was there, leaning on a staff. the glee of a score of untainted bosoms was heard in light and airy voices, which danced among the trees like sunshine become audible; the grown men of this weary world as they journeyed by the spot marvelled why life, beginning in such brightness, should proceed in gloom, and their hearts or their imaginations answered them and said that the bliss of childhood gushes from its innocence. but it happened that an unexpected addition was made to the heavenly little band. it was ilbrahim, who came toward the children with a look of sweet confidence on his fair and spiritual face, as if, having manifested his love to one of them, he had no longer to fear a repulse from their society. a hush came over their mirth the moment they beheld him, and they stood whispering to each other while he drew nigh; but all at once the devil of their fathers entered into the unbreeched fanatics, and, sending up a fierce, shrill cry, they rushed upon the poor quaker child. in an instant he was the centre of a brood of baby-fiends, who lifted sticks against him, pelted him with stones and displayed an instinct of destruction far more loathsome than the bloodthirstiness of manhood. the invalid, in the mean while, stood apart from the tumult, crying out with a loud voice, "fear not, ilbrahim; come hither and take my hand," and his unhappy friend endeavored to obey him. after watching the victim's struggling approach with a calm smile and unabashed eye, the foul-hearted little villain lifted his staff and struck ilbrahim on the mouth so forcibly that the blood issued in a stream. the poor child's arms had been raised to guard his head from the storm of blows, but now he dropped them at once. his persecutors beat him down, trampled upon him, dragged him by his long fair locks, and ilbrahim was on the point of becoming as veritable a martyr as ever entered bleeding into heaven. the uproar, however, attracted the notice of a few neighbors, who put themselves to the trouble of rescuing the little heretic, and of conveying him to pearson's door. ilbrahim's bodily harm was severe, but long and careful nursing accomplished his recovery; the injury done to his sensitive spirit was more serious, though not so visible. its signs were principally of a negative character, and to be discovered only by those who had previously known him. his gait was thenceforth slow, even and unvaried by the sudden bursts of sprightlier motion which had once corresponded to his overflowing gladness; his countenance was heavier, and its former play of expression--the dance of sunshine reflected from moving water--was destroyed by the cloud over his existence; his notice was attracted in a far less degree by passing events, and he appeared to find greater difficulty in comprehending what was new to him than at a happier period. a stranger founding his judgment upon these circumstances would have said that the dulness of the child's intellect widely contradicted the promise of his features, but the secret was in the direction of ilbrahim's thoughts, which were brooding within him when they should naturally have been wandering abroad. an attempt of dorothy to revive his former sportiveness was the single occasion on which his quiet demeanor yielded to a violent display of grief; he burst into passionate weeping and ran and hid himself, for his heart had become so miserably sore that even the hand of kindness tortured it like fire. sometimes at night, and probably in his dreams, he was heard to cry, "mother! mother!" as if her place, which a stranger had supplied while ilbrahim was happy, admitted of no substitute in his extreme affliction. perhaps among the many life-weary wretches then upon the earth there was not one who combined innocence and misery like this poor broken-hearted infant so soon the victim of his own heavenly nature. while this melancholy change had taken place in ilbrahim, one of an earlier origin and of different character had come to its perfection in his adopted father. the incident with which this tale commences found pearson in a state of religious dulness, yet mentally disquieted and longing for a more fervid faith than he possessed. the first effect of his kindness to ilbrahim was to produce a softened feeling, an incipient love for the child's whole sect, but joined to this, and resulting, perhaps, from self-suspicion, was a proud and ostentatious contempt of their tenets and practical extravagances. in the course of much thought, however--for the subject struggled irresistibly into his mind--the foolishness of the doctrine began to be less evident, and the points which had particularly offended his reason assumed another aspect or vanished entirely away. the work within him appeared to go on even while he slept, and that which had been a doubt when he laid down to rest would often hold the place of a truth confirmed by some forgotten demonstration when he recalled his thoughts in the morning. but, while he was thus becoming assimilated to the enthusiasts, his contempt, in nowise decreasing toward them, grew very fierce against himself; he imagined, also, that every face of his acquaintance wore a sneer, and that every word addressed to him was a gibe. such was his state of mind at the period of ilbrahim's misfortune, and the emotions consequent upon that event completed the change of which the child had been the original instrument. in the mean time, neither the fierceness of the persecutors nor the infatuation of their victims had decreased. the dungeons were never empty; the streets of almost every village echoed daily with the lash; the life of a woman whose mild and christian spirit no cruelty could embitter had been sacrificed, and more innocent blood was yet to pollute the hands that were so often raised in prayer. early after the restoration the english quakers represented to charles ii. that a "vein of blood was open in his dominions," but, though the displeasure of the voluptuous king was roused, his interference was not prompt. and now the tale must stride forward over many months, leaving pearson to encounter ignominy and misfortune; his wife, to a firm endurance of a thousand sorrows; poor ilbrahim, to pine and droop like a cankered rose-bud; his mother, to wander on a mistaken errand, neglectful of the holiest trust which can be committed to a woman. * * * * * a winter evening, a night of storm, had darkened over pearson's habitation, and there were no cheerful faces to drive the gloom from his broad hearth. the fire, it is true, sent forth a glowing heat and a ruddy light, and large logs dripping with half-melted snow lay ready to cast upon the embers. but the apartment was saddened in its aspect by the absence of much of the homely wealth which had once adorned it, for the exaction of repeated fines and his own neglect of temporal affairs had greatly impoverished the owner. and with the furniture of peace the implements of war had likewise disappeared; the sword was broken, the helm and cuirass were cast away for ever: the soldier had done with battles, and might not lift so much as his naked hand to guard his head. but the holy book remained, and the table on which it rested was drawn before the fire, while two of the persecuted sect sought comfort from its pages. he who listened while the other read was the master of the house, now emaciated in form and altered as to the expression and healthiness of his countenance, for his mind had dwelt too long among visionary thoughts and his body had been worn by imprisonment and stripes. the hale and weatherbeaten old man who sat beside him had sustained less injury from a far longer course of the same mode of life. in person he was tall and dignified, and, which alone would have made him hateful to the puritans, his gray locks fell from beneath the broad-brimmed hat and rested on his shoulders. as the old man read the sacred page the snow drifted against the windows or eddied in at the crevices of the door, while a blast kept laughing in the chimney and the blaze leaped fiercely up to seek it. and sometimes, when the wind struck the hill at a certain angle and swept down by the cottage across the wintry plain, its voice was the most doleful that can be conceived; it came as if the past were speaking, as if the dead had contributed each a whisper, as if the desolation of ages were breathed in that one lamenting sound. the quaker at length closed the book, retaining, however, his hand between the pages which he had been reading, while he looked steadfastly at pearson. the attitude and features of the latter might have indicated the endurance of bodily pain; he leaned his forehead on his hands, his teeth were firmly closed and his frame was tremulous at intervals with a nervous agitation. "friend tobias," inquired the old man, compassionately, "hast thou found no comfort in these many blessed passages of scripture?" "thy voice has fallen on my ear like a sound afar off and indistinct," replied pearson, without lifting his eyes. "yea; and when i have hearkened carefully, the words seemed cold and lifeless and intended for another and a lesser grief than mine. remove the book," he added, in a tone of sullen bitterness; "i have no part in its consolations, and they do but fret my sorrow the more." "nay, feeble brother; be not as one who hath never known the light," said the elder quaker, earnestly, but with mildness. "art thou he that wouldst be content to give all and endure all for conscience' sake, desiring even peculiar trials that thy faith might be purified and thy heart weaned from worldly desires? and wilt thou sink beneath an affliction which happens alike to them that have their portion here below and to them that lay up treasure in heaven? faint not, for thy burden is yet light." "it is heavy! it is heavier than i can bear!" exclaimed pearson, with the impatience of a variable spirit. "from my youth upward i have been a man marked out for wrath, and year by year--yea, day after day--i have endured sorrows such as others know not in their lifetime. and now i speak not of the love that has been turned to hatred, the honor to ignominy, the ease and plentifulness of all things to danger, want and nakedness. all this i could have borne and counted myself blessed. but when my heart was desolate with many losses, i fixed it upon the child of a stranger, and he became dearer to me than all my buried ones; and now he too must die as if my love were poison. verily, i am an accursed man, and i will lay me down in the dust and lift up my head no more." "thou sinnest, brother, but it is not for me to rebuke thee, for i also have had my hours of darkness wherein i have murmured against the cross," said the old quaker. he continued, perhaps in the hope of distracting his companion's thoughts from his own sorrows: "even of late was the light obscured within me, when the men of blood had banished me on pain of death and the constables led me onward from village to village toward the wilderness. a strong and cruel hand was wielding the knotted cords; they sunk deep into the flesh, and thou mightst have tracked every reel and totter of my footsteps by the blood that followed. as we went on--" "have i not borne all this, and have i murmured?" interrupted pearson, impatiently. "nay, friend, but hear me," continued the other. "as we journeyed on night darkened on our path, so that no man could see the rage of the persecutors or the constancy of my endurance, though heaven forbid that i should glory therein. the lights began to glimmer in the cottage windows, and i could discern the inmates as they gathered in comfort and security, every man with his wife and children by their own evening hearth. at length we came to a tract of fertile land. in the dim light the forest was not visible around it, and, behold, there was a straw-thatched dwelling which bore the very aspect of my home far over the wild ocean--far in our own england. then came bitter thoughts upon me--yea, remembrances that were like death to my soul. the happiness of my early days was painted to me, the disquiet of my manhood, the altered faith of my declining years. i remembered how i had been moved to go forth a wanderer when my daughter, the youngest, the dearest of my flock, lay on her dying-bed, and--" "couldst thou obey the command at such a moment?" exclaimed pearson, shuddering. "yea! yea!" replied the old man, hurriedly. "i was kneeling by her bedside when the voice spoke loud within me, but immediately i rose and took my staff and gat me gone. oh that it were permitted me to forget her woeful look when i thus withdrew my arm and left her journeying through the dark valley alone! for her soul was faint and she had leaned upon my prayers. now in that night of horror i was assailed by the thought that i had been an erring christian and a cruel parent; yea, even my daughter with her pale dying features seemed to stand by me and whisper, 'father, you are deceived; go home and shelter your gray head.'--o thou to whom i have looked in my furthest wanderings," continued the quaker, raising his agitated eyes to heaven, "inflict not upon the bloodiest of our persecutors the unmitigated agony of my soul when i believed that all i had done and suffered for thee was at the instigation of a mocking fiend!--but i yielded not; i knelt down and wrestled with the tempter, while the scourge bit more fiercely into the flesh. my prayer was heard, and i went on in peace and joy toward the wilderness." the old man, though his fanaticism had generally all the calmness of reason, was deeply moved while reciting this tale, and his unwonted emotion seemed to rebuke and keep down that of his companion. they sat in silence, with their faces to the fire, imagining, perhaps, in its red embers new scenes of persecution yet to be encountered. the snow still drifted hard against the windows, and sometimes, as the blaze of the logs had gradually sunk, came down the spacious chimney and hissed upon the hearth. a cautious footstep might now and then be heard in a neighboring apartment, and the sound invariably drew the eyes of both quakers to the door which led thither. when a fierce and riotous gust of wind had led his thoughts by a natural association to homeless travellers on such a night, pearson resumed the conversation. "i have wellnigh sunk under my own share of this trial," observed he, sighing heavily; "yet i would that it might be doubled to me, if so the child's mother could be spared. her wounds have been deep and many, but this will be the sorest of all." "fear not for catharine," replied the old quaker, "for i know that valiant woman and have seen how she can bear the cross. a mother's heart, indeed, is strong in her, and may seem to contend mightily with her faith; but soon she will stand up and give thanks that her son has been thus early an accepted sacrifice. the boy hath done his work, and she will feel that he is taken hence in kindness both to him and her. blessed, blessed are they that with so little suffering can enter into peace!" the fitful rush of the wind was now disturbed by a portentous sound: it was a quick and heavy knocking at the outer door. pearson's wan countenance grew paler, for many a visit of persecution had taught him what to dread; the old man, on the other hand, stood up erect, and his glance was firm as that of the tried soldier who awaits his enemy. "the men of blood have come to seek me," he observed, with calmness. "they have heard how i was moved to return from banishment, and now am i to be led to prison, and thence to death. it is an end i have long looked for. i will open unto them lest they say, 'lo, he feareth!'" "nay; i will present myself before them," said pearson, with recovered fortitude. "it may be that they seek me alone and know not that thou abidest with me." "let us go boldly, both one and the other," rejoined his companion. "it is not fitting that thou or i should shrink." they therefore proceeded through the entry to the door, which they opened, bidding the applicant "come in, in god's name!" a furious blast of wind drove the storm into their faces and extinguished the lamp; they had barely time to discern a figure so white from head to foot with the drifted snow that it seemed like winter's self come in human shape to seek refuge from its own desolation. "enter, friend, and do thy errand, be it what it may," said pearson. "it must needs be pressing, since thou comest on such a bitter night." "peace be with this household!" said the stranger, when they stood on the floor of the inner apartment. pearson started; the elder quaker stirred the slumbering embers of the fire till they sent up a clear and lofty blaze. it was a female voice that had spoken; it was a female form that shone out, cold and wintry, in that comfortable light. "catharine, blessed woman," exclaimed the old man, "art thou come to this darkened land again? art thou come to bear a valiant testimony as in former years? the scourge hath not prevailed against thee, and from the dungeon hast thou come forth triumphant, but strengthen, strengthen now thy heart, catharine, for heaven will prove thee yet this once ere thou go to thy reward." "rejoice, friends!" she replied. "thou who hast long been of our people, and thou whom a little child hath led to us, rejoice! lo, i come, the messenger of glad tidings, for the day of persecution is over-past. the heart of the king, even charles, hath been moved in gentleness toward us, and he hath sent forth his letters to stay the hands of the men of blood. a ship's company of our friends hath arrived at yonder town, and i also sailed joyfully among them." as catharine spoke her eyes were roaming about the room in search of him for whose sake security was dear to her. pearson made a silent appeal to the old man, nor did the latter shrink from the painful task assigned him. "sister," he began, in a softened yet perfectly calm tone, "thou tellest us of his love manifested in temporal good, and now must we speak to thee of that selfsame love displayed in chastenings. hitherto, catharine, thou hast been as one journeying in a darksome and difficult path and leading an infant by the hand; fain wouldst thou have looked heavenward continually, but still the cares of that little child have drawn thine eyes and thy affections to the earth. sister, go on rejoicing, for his tottering footsteps shall impede thine own no more." but the unhappy mother was not thus to be consoled. she shook like a leaf; she turned white as the very snow that hung drifted into her hair. the firm old man extended his hand and held her up, keeping his eye upon hers as if to repress any outbreak of passion. "i am a woman--i am but a woman; will he try me above my strength?" said catharine, very quickly and almost in a whisper. "i have been wounded sore; i have suffered much--many things in the body, many in the mind; crucified in myself and in them that were dearest to me. surely," added she, with a long shudder, "he hath spared me in this one thing." she broke forth with sudden and irrepressible violence: "tell me, man of cold heart, what has god done to me? hath he cast me down never to rise again? hath he crushed my very heart in his hand?--and thou to whom i committed my child, how hast thou fulfilled thy trust? give me back the boy well, sound, alive--alive--or earth and heaven shall avenge me!" the agonized shriek of catharine was answered by the faint--the very faint--voice of a child. on this day it had become evident to pearson, to his aged guest and to dorothy that ilbrahim's brief and troubled pilgrimage drew near its close. the two former would willingly have remained by him to make use of the prayers and pious discourses which they deemed appropriate to the time, and which, if they be impotent as to the departing traveller's reception in the world whither he goes, may at least sustain him in bidding adieu to earth. but, though ilbrahim uttered no complaint, he was disturbed by the faces that looked upon him; so that dorothy's entreaties and their own conviction that the child's feet might tread heaven's pavement and not soil it had induced the two quakers to remove. ilbrahim then closed his eyes and grew calm, and, except for now and then a kind and low word to his nurse, might have been thought to slumber. as nightfall came on, however, and the storm began to rise, something seemed to trouble the repose of the boy's mind and to render his sense of hearing active and acute. if a passing wind lingered to shake the casement, he strove to turn his head toward it; if the door jarred to and fro upon its hinges, he looked long and anxiously thitherward; if the heavy voice of the old man as he read the scriptures rose but a little higher, the child almost held his dying-breath to listen; if a snowdrift swept by the cottage with a sound like the trailing of a garment, ilbrahim seemed to watch that some visitant should enter. but after a little time he relinquished whatever secret hope had agitated him and with one low complaining whisper turned his cheek upon the pillow. he then addressed dorothy with his usual sweetness and besought her to draw near him; she did so, and ilbrahim took her hand in both of his, grasping it with a gentle pressure, as if to assure himself that he retained it. at intervals, and without disturbing the repose of his countenance, a very faint trembling passed over him from head to foot, as if a mild but somewhat cool wind had breathed upon him and made him shiver. as the boy thus led her by the hand in his quiet progress over the borders of eternity, dorothy almost imagined that she could discern the near though dim delightfulness of the home he was about to reach; she would not have enticed the little wanderer back, though she bemoaned herself that she must leave him and return. but just when ilbrahim's feet were pressing on the soil of paradise he heard a voice behind him, and it recalled him a few, few paces of the weary path which he had travelled. as dorothy looked upon his features she perceived that their placid expression was again disturbed. her own thoughts had been so wrapped in him that all sounds of the storm and of human speech were lost to her; but when catharine's shriek pierced through the room, the boy strove to raise himself. "friend, she is come! open unto her!" cried he. in a moment his mother was kneeling by the bedside; she drew ilbrahim to her bosom, and he nestled there with no violence of joy, but contentedly as if he were hushing himself to sleep. he looked into her face, and, reading its agony, said with feeble earnestness, "mourn not, dearest mother. i am happy now;" and with these words the gentle boy was dead. * * * * * the king's mandate to stay the new england persecutors was effectual in preventing further martyrdoms, but the colonial authorities, trusting in the remoteness of their situation, and perhaps in the supposed instability of the royal government, shortly renewed their severities in all other respects. catharine's fanaticism had become wilder by the sundering of all human ties; and wherever a scourge was lifted, there was she to receive the blow; and whenever a dungeon was unbarred, thither she came to cast herself upon the floor. but in process of time a more christian spirit--a spirit of forbearance, though not of cordiality or approbation--began to pervade the land in regard to the persecuted sect. and then, when the rigid old pilgrims eyed her rather in pity than in wrath, when the matrons fed her with the fragments of their children's food and offered her a lodging on a hard and lowly bed, when no little crowd of schoolboys left their sports to cast stones after the roving enthusiast,--then did catharine return to pearson's dwelling, and made that her home. as if ilbrahim's sweetness yet lingered round his ashes, as if his gentle spirit came down from heaven to teach his parent a true religion, her fierce and vindictive nature was softened by the same griefs which had once irritated it. when the course of years had made the features of the unobtrusive mourner familiar in the settlement, she became a subject of not deep but general interest--a being on whom the otherwise superfluous sympathies of all might be bestowed. every one spoke of her with that degree of pity which it is pleasant to experience; every one was ready to do her the little kindnesses which are not costly, yet manifest good-will; and when at last she died, a long train of her once bitter persecutors followed her with decent sadness and tears that were not painful to her place by ilbrahim's green and sunken grave. mr. higginbotham's catastrophe. a young fellow, a tobacco-pedler by trade, was on his way from morristown, where he had dealt largely with the deacon of the shaker settlement, to the village of parker's falls, on salmon river. he had a neat little cart painted green, with a box of cigars depicted on each side-panel, and an indian chief holding a pipe and a golden tobacco-stalk on the rear. the pedler drove a smart little mare and was a young man of excellent character, keen at a bargain, but none the worse liked by the yankees, who, as i have heard them say, would rather be shaved with a sharp razor than a dull one. especially was he beloved by the pretty girls along the connecticut, whose favor he used to court by presents of the best smoking-tobacco in his stock, knowing well that the country-lasses of new england are generally great performers on pipes. moreover, as will be seen in the course of my story, the pedler was inquisitive and something of a tattler, always itching to hear the news and anxious to tell it again. after an early breakfast at morristown the tobacco-pedler--whose name was dominicus pike--had travelled seven miles through a solitary piece of woods without speaking a word to anybody but himself and his little gray mare. it being nearly seven o'clock, he was as eager to hold a morning gossip as a city shopkeeper to read the morning paper. an opportunity seemed at hand when, after lighting a cigar with a sun-glass, he looked up and perceived a man coming over the brow of the hill at the foot of which the pedler had stopped his green cart. dominicus watched him as he descended, and noticed that he carried a bundle over his shoulder on the end of a stick and travelled with a weary yet determined pace. he did not look as if he had started in the freshness of the morning, but had footed it all night, and meant to do the same all day. "good-morning, mister," said dominicus, when within speaking-distance. "you go a pretty good jog. what's the latest news at parker's falls?" the man pulled the broad brim of a gray hat over his eyes, and answered, rather sullenly, that he did not come from parker's falls, which, as being the limit of his own day's journey, the pedler had naturally mentioned in his inquiry. "well, then," rejoined dominicus pike, "let's have the latest news where you did come from. i'm not particular about parker's falls. any place will answer." being thus importuned, the traveller--who was as ill-looking a fellow as one would desire to meet in a solitary piece of woods--appeared to hesitate a little, as if he was either searching his memory for news or weighing the expediency of telling it. at last, mounting on the step of the cart, he whispered in the ear of dominicus, though he might have shouted aloud and no other mortal would have heard him. "i do remember one little trifle of news," said he. "old mr. higginbotham of kimballton was murdered in his orchard at eight o'clock last night by an irishman and a nigger. they strung him up to the branch of a st. michael's pear tree where nobody would find him till the morning." as soon as this horrible intelligence was communicated the stranger betook himself to his journey again with more speed than ever, not even turning his head when dominicus invited him to smoke a spanish cigar and relate all the particulars. the pedler whistled to his mare and went up the hill, pondering on the doleful fate of mr. higginbotham, whom he had known in the way of trade, having sold him many a bunch of long nines and a great deal of pig-tail, lady's twist and fig tobacco. he was rather astonished at the rapidity with which the news had spread. kimballton was nearly sixty miles distant in a straight line; the murder had been perpetrated only at eight o'clock the preceding night, yet dominicus had heard of it at seven in the morning, when, in all probability, poor mr. higginbotham's own family had but just discovered his corpse hanging on the st. michael's pear tree. the stranger on foot must have worn seven-league boots, to travel at such a rate. "ill-news flies fast, they say," thought dominicus pike, "but this beats railroads. the fellow ought to be hired to go express with the president's message." the difficulty was solved by supposing that the narrator had made a mistake of one day in the date of the occurrence; so that our friend did not hesitate to introduce the story at every tavern and country-store along the road, expending a whole bunch of spanish wrappers among at least twenty horrified audiences. he found himself invariably the first bearer of the intelligence, and was so pestered with questions that he could not avoid filling up the outline till it became quite a respectable narrative. he met with one piece of corroborative evidence. mr. higginbotham was a trader, and a former clerk of his to whom dominicus related the facts testified that the old gentleman was accustomed to return home through the orchard about nightfall with the money and valuable papers of the store in his pocket. the clerk manifested but little grief at mr. higginbotham's catastrophe, hinting--what the pedler had discovered in his own dealings with him--that he was a crusty old fellow as close as a vise. his property would descend to a pretty niece who was now keeping school in kimballton. what with telling the news for the public good and driving bargains for his own, dominicus was so much delayed on the road that he chose to put up at a tavern about five miles short of parker's falls. after supper, lighting one of his prime cigars, he seated himself in the bar-room and went through the story of the murder, which had grown so fast that it took him half an hour to tell. there were as many as twenty people in the room, nineteen of whom received it all for gospel. but the twentieth was an elderly farmer who had arrived on horseback a short time before and was now seated in a corner, smoking his pipe. when the story was concluded, he rose up very deliberately, brought his chair right in front of dominicus and stared him full in the face, puffing out the vilest tobacco-smoke the pedler had ever smelt. "will you make affidavit," demanded he, in the tone of a country-justice taking an examination, "that old squire higginbotham of kimballton was murdered in his orchard the night before last and found hanging on his great pear tree yesterday morning?" "i tell the story as i heard it, mister," answered dominicus, dropping his half-burnt cigar. "i don't say that i saw the thing done, so i can't take my oath that he was murdered exactly in that way." "but i can take mine," said the farmer, "that if squire higginbotham was murdered night before last i drank a glass of bitters with his ghost this morning. being a neighbor of mine, he called me into his store as i was riding by, and treated me, and then asked me to do a little business for him on the road. he didn't seem to know any more about his own murder than i did." "why, then it can't be a fact!" exclaimed dominicus pike. "i guess he'd have mentioned, if it was," said the old farmer; and he removed his chair back to the corner, leaving dominicus quite down in the mouth. here was a sad resurrection of old mr. higginbotham! the pedler had no heart to mingle in the conversation any more, but comforted himself with a glass of gin and water and went to bed, where all night long he dreamed of hanging on the st. michael's pear tree. to avoid the old farmer (whom he so detested that his suspension would have pleased him better than mr. higginbotham's), dominicus rose in the gray of the morning, put the little mare into the green cart and trotted swiftly away toward parker's falls. the fresh breeze, the dewy road and the pleasant summer dawn revived his spirits, and might have encouraged him to repeat the old story had there been anybody awake to bear it, but he met neither ox-team, light wagon, chaise, horseman nor foot-traveller till, just as he crossed salmon river, a man came trudging down to the bridge with a bundle over his shoulder, on the end of a stick. "good-morning, mister," said the pedler, reining in his mare. "if you come from kimballton or that neighborhood, maybe you can tell me the real fact about this affair of old mr. higginbotham. was the old fellow actually murdered two or three nights ago by an irishman and a nigger?" dominicus had spoken in too great a hurry to observe at first that the stranger himself had a deep tinge of negro blood. on hearing this sudden question the ethiopian appeared to change his skin, its yellow hue becoming a ghastly white, while, shaking and stammering, he thus replied: "no, no! there was no colored man. it was an irishman that hanged him last night at eight o'clock; i came away at seven. his folks can't have looked for him in the orchard yet." scarcely had the yellow man spoken, when he interrupted himself and, though he seemed weary enough before, continued his journey at a pace which would have kept the pedler's mare on a smart trot. dominicus stared after him in great perplexity. if the murder had not been committed till tuesday night, who was the prophet that had foretold it in all its circumstances on tuesday morning? if mr. higginbotham's corpse were not yet discovered by his own family, how came the mulatto, at above thirty miles' distance, to know that he was hanging in the orchard, especially as he had left kimballton before the unfortunate man was hanged at all? these ambiguous circumstances, with the stranger's surprise and terror, made dominicus think of raising a hue-and-cry after him as an accomplice in the murder, since a murder, it seemed, had really been perpetrated. "but let the poor devil go," thought the pedler. "i don't want his black blood on my head, and hanging the nigger wouldn't unhang mr. higginbotham. unhang the old gentleman? it's a sin, i know, but i should hate to have him come to life a second time and give me the lie." with these meditations dominicus pike drove into the street of parker's falls, which, as everybody knows, is as thriving a village as three cotton-factories and a slitting-mill can make it. the machinery was not in motion and but a few of the shop doors unbarred when he alighted in the stable-yard of the tavern and made it his first business to order the mare four quarts of oats. his second duty, of course, was to impart mr. higginbotham's catastrophe to the hostler. he deemed it advisable, however, not to be too positive as to the date of the direful fact, and also to be uncertain whether it were perpetrated by an irishman and a mulatto or by the son of erin alone. neither did he profess to relate it on his own authority or that of any one person, but mentioned it as a report generally diffused. the story ran through the town like fire among girdled trees, and became so much the universal talk that nobody could tell whence it had originated. mr. higginbotham was as well known at parker's falls as any citizen of the place, being part-owner of the slitting-mill and a considerable stockholder in the cotton-factories. the inhabitants felt their own prosperity interested in his fate. such was the excitement that the parker's falls _gazette_ anticipated its regular day of publication, and came out with half a form of blank paper and a column of double pica emphasized with capitals and headed "horrid murder of mr. higginbotham!" among other dreadful details, the printed account described the mark of the cord round the dead man's neck and stated the number of thousand dollars of which he had been robbed; there was much pathos, also, about the affliction of his niece, who had gone from one fainting-fit to another ever since her uncle was found hanging on the st. michael's pear tree with his pockets inside out. the village poet likewise commemorated the young lady's grief in seventeen stanzas of a ballad. the selectmen held a meeting, and in consideration of mr. higginbotham's claims on the town determined to issue handbills offering a reward of five hundred dollars for the apprehension of his murderers and the recovery of the stolen property. meanwhile, the whole population of parker's falls, consisting of shopkeepers, mistresses of boarding-houses, factory-girls, mill-men and schoolboys, rushed into the street and kept up such a terrible loquacity as more than compensated for the silence of the cotton-machines, which refrained from their usual din out of respect to the deceased. had mr. higginbotham cared about posthumous renown, his untimely ghost would have exulted in this tumult. our friend dominicus in his vanity of heart forgot his intended precautions, and, mounting on the town-pump, announced himself as the bearer of the authentic intelligence which had caused so wonderful a sensation. he immediately became the great man of the moment, and had just begun a new edition of the narrative with a voice like a field-preacher when the mail-stage drove into the village street. it had travelled all night, and must have shifted horses at kimballton at three in the morning. "now we shall hear all the particulars!" shouted the crowd. the coach rumbled up to the piazza of the tavern followed by a thousand people; for if any man had been minding his own business till then, he now left it at sixes and sevens to hear the news. the pedler, foremost in the race, discovered two passengers, both of whom had been startled from a comfortable nap to find themselves in the centre of a mob. every man assailing them with separate questions, all propounded at once, the couple were struck speechless, though one was a lawyer and the other a young lady. "mr. higginbotham! mr. higginbotham! tell us the particulars about old mr. higginbotham!" bawled the mob. "what is the coroner's verdict? are the murderers apprehended? is mr. higginbotham's niece come out of her fainting-fits? mr. higginbotham! mr. higginbotham!" the coachman said not a word except to swear awfully at the hostler for not bringing him a fresh team of horses. the lawyer inside had generally his wits about him even when asleep; the first thing he did after learning the cause of the excitement was to produce a large red pocketbook. meantime, dominicus pike, being an extremely polite young man, and also suspecting that a female tongue would tell the story as glibly as a lawyer's, had handed the lady out of the coach. she was a fine, smart girl, now wide awake and bright as a button, and had such a sweet, pretty mouth that dominicus would almost as lief have heard a love-tale from it as a tale of murder. "gentlemen and ladies," said the lawyer to the shopkeepers, the mill-men and the factory-girls, "i can assure you that some unaccountable mistake--or, more probably, a wilful falsehood maliciously contrived to injure mr. higginbotham's credit--has excited this singular uproar. we passed through kimballton at three o'clock this morning, and most certainly should have been informed of the murder had any been perpetrated. but i have proof nearly as strong as mr. higginbotham's own oral testimony in the negative. here is a note relating to a suit of his in the connecticut courts which was delivered me from that gentleman himself. i find it dated at ten o'clock last evening." so saying, the lawyer, exhibited the date and signature of the note, which irrefragably proved either that this perverse mr. higginbotham was alive when he wrote it, or, as some deemed the more probable case of two doubtful ones, that he was so absorbed in worldly business as to continue to transact it even after his death. but unexpected evidence was forthcoming. the young lady, after listening to the pedler's explanation, merely seized a moment to smooth her gown and put her curls in order, and then appeared at the tavern door, making a modest signal to be heard. "good people," said she, "i am mr. higginbotham's niece." a wondering murmur passed through the crowd on beholding her so rosy and bright--that same unhappy niece whom they had supposed, on the authority of the parker's falls _gazette_, to be lying at death's door in a fainting-fit. but some shrewd fellows had doubted all along whether a young lady would be quite so desperate at the hanging of a rich old uncle. "you see," continued miss higginbotham, with a smile, "that this strange story is quite unfounded as to myself, and i believe i may affirm it to be equally so in regard to my dear uncle higginbotham. he has the kindness to give me a home in his house, though i contribute to my own support by teaching a school. i left kimballton this morning to spend the vacation of commencement-week with a friend about five miles from parker's falls. my generous uncle, when he heard me on the stairs, called me to his bedside and gave me two dollars and fifty cents to pay my stage-fare, and another dollar for my extra expenses. he then laid his pocketbook under his pillow, shook hands with me, and advised me to take some biscuit in my bag instead of breakfasting on the road. i feel confident, therefore, that i left my beloved relative alive, and trust that i shall find him so on my return." the young lady courtesied at the close of her speech, which was so sensible and well worded, and delivered with such grace and propriety, that everybody thought her fit to be preceptress of the best academy in the state. but a stranger would have supposed that mr. higginbotham was an object of abhorrence at parker's falls and that a thanksgiving had been proclaimed for his murder, so excessive was the wrath of the inhabitants on learning their mistake. the mill-men resolved to bestow public honors on dominicus pike, only hesitating whether to tar and feather him, ride him on a rail or refresh him with an ablution at the town-pump, on the top of which he had declared himself the bearer of the news. the selectmen, by advice of the lawyer, spoke of prosecuting him for a misdemeanor in circulating unfounded reports, to the great disturbance of the peace of the commonwealth. nothing saved dominicus either from mob-law or a court of justice but an eloquent appeal made by the young lady in his behalf. addressing a few words of heartfelt gratitude to his benefactress, he mounted the green cart and rode out of town under a discharge of artillery from the schoolboys, who found plenty of ammunition in the neighboring clay-pits and mud-holes. as he turned his head to exchange a farewell glance with mr. higginbotham's niece a ball of the consistence of hasty-pudding hit him slap in the mouth, giving him a most grim aspect. his whole person was so bespattered with the like filthy missiles that he had almost a mind to ride back and supplicate for the threatened ablution at the town-pump; for, though not meant in kindness, it would now have been a deed of charity. however, the sun shone bright on poor dominicus, and the mud--an emblem of all stains of undeserved opprobrium--was easily brushed off when dry. being a funny rogue, his heart soon cheered up; nor could he refrain from a hearty laugh at the uproar which his story had excited. the handbills of the selectmen would cause the commitment of all the vagabonds in the state, the paragraph in the parker's falls _gazette_ would be reprinted from maine to florida, and perhaps form an item in the london newspapers, and many a miser would tremble for his moneybags and life on learning the catastrophe of mr. higginbotham. the pedler meditated with much fervor on the charms of the young schoolmistress, and swore that daniel webster never spoke nor looked so like an angel as miss higginbotham while defending him from the wrathful populace at parker's falls. dominicus was now on the kimballton turnpike, having all along determined to visit that place, though business had drawn, him out of the most direct road from morristown. as he approached the scene of the supposed murder he continued to revolve the circumstances in his mind, and was astonished at the aspect which the whole case assumed. had nothing occurred to corroborate the story of the first traveller, it might now have been considered as a hoax; but the yellow man was evidently acquainted either with the report or the fact, and there was a mystery in his dismayed and guilty look on being abruptly questioned. when to this singular combination of incidents it was added that the rumor tallied exactly with mr. higginbotham's character and habits of life, and that he had an orchard and a st. michael's pear tree, near which he always passed at nightfall, the circumstantial evidence appeared so strong that dominicus doubted whether the autograph produced by the lawyer, or even the niece's direct testimony, ought to be equivalent. making cautious inquiries along the road, the pedler further learned that mr. higginbotham had in his service an irishman of doubtful character whom he had hired without a recommendation, on the score of economy. "may i be hanged myself," exclaimed dominicus pike, aloud, on reaching the top of a lonely hill, "if i'll believe old higginbotham is unhanged till i see him with my own eyes and hear it from his own mouth. and, as he's a real shaver, i'll have the minister, or some other responsible man, for an endorser." it was growing dusk when he reached the toll-house on kimballton turnpike, about a quarter of a mile from the village of this name. his little mare was fast bringing him up with a man on horseback who trotted through the gate a few rods in advance of him, nodded to the toll-gatherer and kept on towards the village. dominicus was acquainted with the toll-man, and while making change the usual remarks on the weather passed between them. "i suppose," said the pedler, throwing back his whiplash to bring it down like a feather on the mare's flank, "you have not seen anything of old mr. higginbotham within a day or two?" "yes," answered the toll-gatherer; "he passed the gate just before you drove up, and yonder he rides now, if you can see him through the dusk. he's been to woodfield this afternoon, attending a sheriff's sale there. the old man generally shakes hands and has a little chat with me, but to-night he nodded, as if to say, 'charge my toll,' and jogged on; for, wherever he goes, he must always be at home by eight o'clock." "so they tell me," said dominicus. "i never saw a man look so yellow and thin as the squire does," continued the toll-gatherer. "says i to myself tonight, 'he's more like a ghost or an old mummy than good flesh and blood.'" the pedler strained his eyes through the twilight, and could just discern the horseman now far ahead on the village road. he seemed to recognize the rear of mr. higginbotham, but through the evening shadows and amid the dust from the horse's feet the figure appeared dim and unsubstantial, as if the shape of the mysterious old man were faintly moulded of darkness and gray light. dominicus shivered. "mr. higginbotham has come back from the other world by way of the kimballton turnpike," thought he. he shook the reins and rode forward, keeping about the same distance in the rear of the gray old shadow till the latter was concealed by a bend of the road. on reaching this point the pedler no longer saw the man on horseback, but found himself at the head of the village street, not far from a number of stores and two taverns clustered round the meeting-house steeple. on his left was a stone wall and a gate, the boundary of a wood-lot beyond which lay an orchard, farther still a mowing-field, and last of all a house. these were the premises of mr. higginbotham, whose dwelling stood beside the old highway, but had been left in the background by the kimballton turnpike. dominicus knew the place, and the little mare stopped short by instinct, for he was not conscious of tightening the reins. "for the soul of me, i cannot get by this gate!" said he, trembling. "i never shall be my own man again till i see whether mr. higginbotham is hanging on the st. michael's pear tree." he leaped from the cart, gave the rein a turn round the gate-post, and ran along the green path of the wood-lot as if old nick were chasing behind. just then the village clock tolled eight, and as each deep stroke fell dominicus gave a fresh bound and flew faster than before, till, dim in the solitary centre of the orchard, he saw the fated pear tree. one great branch stretched from the old contorted trunk across the path and threw the darkest shadow on that one spot. but something seemed to struggle beneath the branch. the pedler had never pretended to more courage than befits a man of peaceable occupation, nor could he account for his valor on this awful emergency. certain it is, however, that he rushed forward, prostrated a sturdy irishman with the butt-end of his whip, and found--not, indeed, hanging on the st. michael's pear tree, but trembling beneath it with a halter round his neck--the old identical mr. higginbotham. "mr. higginbotham," said dominicus, tremulously, "you're an honest man, and i'll take your word for it. have you been hanged, or not?" if the riddle be not already guessed, a few words will explain the simple machinery by which this "coming event" was made to cast its "shadow before." three men had plotted the robbery and murder of mr. higginbotham; two of them successively lost courage and fled, each delaying the crime one night by their disappearance; the third was in the act of perpetration, when a champion, blindly obeying the call of fate, like the heroes of old romance, appeared in the person of dominicus pike. it only remains to say that mr. higginbotham took the pedler into high favor, sanctioned his addresses to the pretty schoolmistress and settled his whole property on their children, allowing themselves the interest. in due time the old gentleman capped the climax of his favors by dying a christian death in bed; since which melancholy event, dominicus pike has removed from kimballton and established a large tobacco-manufactory in my native village. little annie's ramble. ding-dong! ding-dong! ding-dong! the town-crier has rung his bell at a distant corner, and little annie stands on her father's doorsteps trying to hear what the man with the loud voice is talking about. let me listen too. oh, he is telling the people that an elephant and a lion and a royal tiger and a horse with horns, and other strange beasts from foreign countries, have come to town and will receive all visitors who choose to wait upon them. perhaps little annie would like to go? yes, and i can see that the pretty child is weary of this wide and pleasant street with the green trees flinging their shade across the quiet sunshine and the pavements and the sidewalks all as clean as if the housemaid had just swept them with her broom. she feels that impulse to go strolling away--that longing after the mystery of the great world--which many children feel, and which i felt in my childhood. little annie shall take a ramble with me. see! i do but hold out my hand, and like some bright bird in the sunny air, with her blue silk frock fluttering upward from her white pantalets, she comes bounding on tiptoe across the street. smooth back your brown curls, annie, and let me tie on your bonnet, and we will set forth. what a strange couple to go on their rambles together! one walks in black attire, with a measured step and a heavy brow and his thoughtful eyes bent down, while the gay little girl trips lightly along as if she were forced to keep hold of my hand lest her feet should dance away from the earth. yet there is sympathy between us. if i pride myself on anything, it is because i have a smile that children love; and, on the other hand, there are few grown ladies that could entice me from the side of little annie, for i delight to let my mind go hand in hand with the mind of a sinless child. so come, annie; but if i moralize as we go, do not listen to me: only look about you and be merry. now we turn the corner. here are hacks with two horses and stage-coaches with four thundering to meet each other, and trucks and carts moving at a slower pace, being heavily laden with barrels from the wharves; and here are rattling gigs which perhaps will be smashed to pieces before our eyes. hitherward, also, comes a man trundling a wheelbarrow along the pavement. is not little annie afraid of such a tumult? no; she does not even shrink closer to my side, but passes on with fearless confidence, a happy child amidst a great throng of grown people who pay the same reverence to her infancy that they would to extreme old age. nobody jostles her: all turn aside to make way for little annie; and, what is most singular, she appears conscious of her claim to such respect. now her eyes brighten with pleasure. a street-musician has seated himself on the steps of yonder church and pours forth his strains to the busy town--a melody that has gone astray among the tramp of footsteps, the buzz of voices and the war of passing wheels. who heeds the poor organ-grinder? none but myself and little annie, whose feet begin to move in unison with the lively tune, as if she were loth that music should be wasted without a dance. but where would annie find a partner? some have the gout in their toes or the rheumatism in their joints; some are stiff with age, some feeble with disease; some are so lean that their bones would rattle, and others of such ponderous size that their agility would crack the flagstones; but many, many have leaden feet because their hearts are far heavier than lead. it is a sad thought that i have chanced upon. what a company of dancers should we be! for i too am a gentleman of sober footsteps, and therefore, little annie, let us walk sedately on. it is a question with me whether this giddy child or my sage self have most pleasure in looking at the shop-windows. we love the silks of sunny hue that glow within the darkened premises of the spruce dry-goods men; we are pleasantly dazzled by the burnished silver and the chased gold, the rings of wedlock and the costly love-ornaments, glistening at the window of the jeweller; but annie, more than i, seeks for a glimpse of her passing figure in the dusty looking-glasses at the hardware-stores. all that is bright and gay attracts us both. here is a shop to which the recollections of my boyhood as well as present partialities give a peculiar magic. how delightful to let the fancy revel on the dainties of a confectioner--those pies with such white and flaky paste, their contents being a mystery, whether rich mince with whole plums intermixed, or piquant apple delicately rose-flavored; those cakes, heart-shaped or round, piled in a lofty pyramid; those sweet little circlets sweetly named kisses; those dark majestic masses fit to be bridal-loaves at the wedding of an heiress, mountains in size, their summits deeply snow-covered with sugar! then the mighty treasures of sugarplums, white and crimson and yellow, in large glass vases, and candy of all varieties, and those little cockles--or whatever they are called--much prized by children for their sweetness, and more for the mottoes which they enclose, by love-sick maids and bachelors! oh, my mouth waters, little annie, and so doth yours, but we will not be tempted except to an imaginary feast; so let us hasten onward devouring the vision of a plum-cake. here are pleasures, as some people would say, of a more exalted kind, in the window of a bookseller. is annie a literary lady? yes; she is deeply read in peter parley's tomes and has an increasing love for fairy-tales, though seldom met with nowadays, and she will subscribe next year to the _juvenile miscellany_. but, truth to tell, she is apt to turn away from the printed page and keep gazing at the pretty pictures, such as the gay-colored ones which make this shop-window the continual loitering-place of children. what would annie think if, in the book which i mean to send her on new year's day, she should find her sweet little self bound up in silk or morocco with gilt edges, there to remain till she become a woman grown with children of her own to read about their mother's childhood? that would be very queer. little annie is weary of pictures and pulls me onward by the hand, till suddenly we pause at the most wondrous shop in all the town. oh, my stars! is this a toyshop, or is it fairy-land? for here are gilded chariots in which the king and queen of the fairies might ride side by side, while their courtiers on these small horses should gallop in triumphal procession before and behind the royal pair. here, too, are dishes of chinaware fit to be the dining-set of those same princely personages when they make a regal banquet in the stateliest hall of their palace--full five feet high--and behold their nobles feasting adown the long perspective of the table. betwixt the king and queen should sit my little annie, the prettiest fairy of them all. here stands a turbaned turk threatening us with his sabre, like an ugly heathen as he is, and next a chinese mandarin who nods his head at annie and myself. here we may review a whole army of horse and foot in red-and-blue uniforms, with drums, fifes, trumpets, and all kinds of noiseless music; they have halted on the shelf of this window after their weary march from liliput. but what cares annie for soldiers? no conquering queen is she--neither a semiramis nor a catharine; her whole heart is set upon that doll who gazes at us with such a fashionable stare. this is the little girl's true plaything. though made of wood, a doll is a visionary and ethereal personage endowed by childish fancy with a peculiar life; the mimic lady is a heroine of romance, an actor and a sufferer in a thousand shadowy scenes, the chief inhabitant of that wild world with which children ape the real one. little annie does not understand what i am saying, but looks wishfully at the proud lady in the window. we will invite her home with us as we return.--meantime, good-bye, dame doll! a toy yourself, you look forth from your window upon many ladies that are also toys, though they walk and speak, and upon a crowd in pursuit of toys, though they wear grave visages. oh, with your never-closing eyes, had you but an intellect to moralize on all that flits before them, what a wise doll would you be!--come, little annie, we shall find toys enough, go where we may. now we elbow our way among the throng again. it is curious in the most crowded part of a town to meet with living creatures that had their birthplace in some far solitude, but have acquired a second nature in the wilderness of men. look up, annie, at that canary-bird hanging out of the window in his cage. poor little fellow! his golden feathers are all tarnished in this smoky sunshine; he would have glistened twice as brightly among the summer islands, but still he has become a citizen in all his tastes and habits, and would not sing half so well without the uproar that drowns his music. what a pity that he does not know how miserable he is! there is a parrot, too, calling out, "pretty poll! pretty poll!" as we pass by. foolish bird, to be talking about her prettiness to strangers, especially as she is not a pretty poll, though gaudily dressed in green and yellow! if she had said "pretty annie!" there would have been some sense in it. see that gray squirrel at the door of the fruit-shop whirling round and round so merrily within his wire wheel! being condemned to the treadmill, he makes it an amusement. admirable philosophy! here comes a big, rough dog--a countryman's dog--in search of his master, smelling at everybody's heels and touching little annie's hand with his cold nose, but hurrying away, though she would fain have patted him.--success to your search, fidelity!--and there sits a great yellow cat upon a window-sill, a very corpulent and comfortable cat, gazing at this transitory world with owl's eyes, and making pithy comments, doubtless, or what appear such, to the silly beast.--oh, sage puss, make room for me beside you, and we will be a pair of philosophers. here we see something to remind us of the town-crier and his ding-dong-bell. look! look at that great cloth spread out in the air, pictured all over with wild beasts, as if they had met together to choose a king, according to their custom in the days of �sop. but they are choosing neither a king nor a president, else we should hear a most horrible snarling! they have come from the deep woods and the wild mountains and the desert sands and the polar snows only to do homage to my little annie. as we enter among them the great elephant makes us a bow in the best style of elephantine courtesy, bending lowly down his mountain bulk, with trunk abased and leg thrust out behind. annie returns the salute, much to the gratification of the elephant, who is certainly the best-bred monster in the caravan. the lion and the lioness are busy with two beef-bones. the royal tiger, the beautiful, the untamable, keeps pacing his narrow cage with a haughty step, unmindful of the spectators or recalling the fierce deeds of his former life, when he was wont to leap forth upon such inferior animals from the jungles of bengal. here we see the very same wolf--do not go near him, annie!--the selfsame wolf that devoured little red riding-hood and her grandmother. in the next cage a hyena from egypt who has doubtless howled around the pyramids and a black bear from our own forests are fellow-prisoners and most excellent friends. are there any two living creatures who have so few sympathies that they cannot possibly be friends? here sits a great white bear whom common observers would call a very stupid beast, though i perceive him to be only absorbed in contemplation; he is thinking of his voyages on an iceberg, and of his comfortable home in the vicinity of the north pole, and of the little cubs whom he left rolling in the eternal snows. in fact, he is a bear of sentiment. but oh those unsentimental monkeys! the ugly, grinning, aping, chattering, ill-natured, mischievous and queer little brutes! annie does not love the monkeys; their ugliness shocks her pure, instinctive delicacy of taste and makes her mind unquiet because it bears a wild and dark resemblance to humanity. but here is a little pony just big enough for annie to ride, and round and round he gallops in a circle, keeping time with his trampling hoofs to a band of music. and here, with a laced coat and a cocked hat, and a riding-whip in his hand--here comes a little gentleman small enough to be king of the fairies and ugly enough to be king of the gnomes, and takes a flying leap into the saddle. merrily, merrily plays the music, and merrily gallops the pony, and merrily rides the little old gentleman.--come, annie, into the street again; perchance we may see monkeys on horseback there. mercy on us! what a noisy world we quiet people live in! did annie ever read the cries of london city? with what lusty lungs doth yonder man proclaim that his wheelbarrow is full of lobsters! here comes another, mounted on a cart and blowing a hoarse and dreadful blast from a tin horn, as much as to say, "fresh fish!" and hark! a voice on high, like that of a muezzin from the summit of a mosque, announcing that some chimney-sweeper has emerged from smoke and soot and darksome caverns into the upper air. what cares the world for that? but, well-a-day, we hear a shrill voice of affliction--the scream of a little child, rising louder with every repetition of that smart, sharp, slapping sound produced by an open hand on tender flesh. annie sympathizes, though without experience of such direful woe. lo! the town-crier again, with some new secret for the public ear. will he tell us of an auction, or of a lost pocket-book or a show of beautiful wax figures, or of some monstrous beast more horrible than any in the caravan? i guess the latter. see how he uplifts the bell in his right hand and shakes it slowly at first, then with a hurried motion, till the clapper seems to strike both sides at once, and the sounds are scattered forth in quick succession far and near. ding-dong! ding-dong! ding-dong! now he raises his clear loud voice above all the din of the town. it drowns the buzzing talk of many tongues and draws each man's mind from his own business; it rolls up and down the echoing street, and ascends to the hushed chamber of the sick, and penetrates downward to the cellar kitchen where the hot cook turns from the fire to listen. who of all that address the public ear, whether in church or court-house or hall of state, has such an attentive audience as the town-crier! what saith the people's orator? "strayed from her home, a little girl of five years old, in a blue silk frock and white pantalets, with brown curling hair and hazel eyes. whoever will bring her back to her afflicted mother--" stop, stop, town-crier! the lost is found.--oh, my pretty annie, we forgot to tell your mother of our ramble, and she is in despair and has sent the town-crier to bellow up and down the streets, affrighting old and young, for the loss of a little girl who has not once let go my hand? well, let us hasten homeward; and as we go forget not to thank heaven, my annie, that after wandering a little way into the world you may return at the first summons with an untainted and unwearied heart, and be a happy child again. but i have gone too far astray for the town-crier to call me back. sweet has been the charm of childhood on my spirit throughout my ramble with little annie. say not that it has been a waste of precious moments, an idle matter, a babble of childish talk and a reverie of childish imaginations about topics unworthy of a grown man's notice. has it been merely this? not so--not so. they are not truly wise who would affirm it. as the pure breath of children revives the life of aged men, so is our moral nature revived by their free and simple thoughts, their native feeling, their airy mirth for little cause or none, their grief soon roused and soon allayed. their influence on us is at least reciprocal with ours on them. when our infancy is almost forgotten and our boyhood long departed, though it seems but as yesterday, when life settles darkly down upon us and we doubt whether to call ourselves young any more,--then it is good to steal away from the society of bearded men, and even of gentler woman, and spend an hour or two with children. after drinking from those fountains of still fresh existence we shall return into the crowd, as i do now, to struggle onward and do our part in life--perhaps as fervently as ever, but for a time with a kinder and purer heart and a spirit more lightly wise. all this by thy sweet magic, dear little annie! wakefield. in some old magazine or newspaper i recollect a story, told as truth, of a man--let us call him wakefield--who absented himself for a long time from his wife. the fact, thus abstractedly stated, is not very uncommon, nor, without a proper distinction of circumstances, to be condemned either as naughty or nonsensical. howbeit, this, though far from the most aggravated, is perhaps the strangest instance on record of marital delinquency, and, moreover, as remarkable a freak as may be found in the whole list of human oddities. the wedded couple lived in london. the man, under pretence of going a journey, took lodgings in the next street to his own house, and there, unheard of by his wife or friends and without the shadow of a reason for such self-banishment, dwelt upward of twenty years. during that period he beheld his home every day, and frequently the forlorn mrs. wakefield. and after so great a gap in his matrimonial felicity--when his death was reckoned certain, his estate settled, his name dismissed from memory and his wife long, long ago resigned to her autumnal widowhood--he entered the door one evening quietly as from a day's absence, and became a loving spouse till death. this outline is all that i remember. but the incident, though of the purest originality, unexampled, and probably never to be repeated, is one, i think, which appeals to the general sympathies of mankind. we know, each for himself, that none of us would perpetrate such a folly, yet feel as if some other might. to my own contemplations, at least, it has often recurred, always exciting wonder, but with a sense that the story must be true and a conception of its hero's character. whenever any subject so forcibly affects the mind, time is well spent in thinking of it. if the reader choose, let him do his own meditation; or if he prefer to ramble with me through the twenty years of wakefield's vagary, i bid him welcome, trusting that there will be a pervading spirit and a moral, even should we fail to find them, done up neatly and condensed into the final sentence. thought has always its efficacy and every striking incident its moral. what sort of a man was wakefield? we are free to shape out our own idea and call it by his name. he was now in the meridian of life; his matrimonial affections, never violent, were sobered into a calm, habitual sentiment; of all husbands, he was likely to be the most constant, because a certain sluggishness would keep his heart at rest wherever it might be placed. he was intellectual, but not actively so; his mind occupied itself in long and lazy musings that tended to no purpose or had not vigor to attain it; his thoughts were seldom so energetic as to seize hold of words. imagination, in the proper meaning of the term, made no part of wakefield's gifts. with a cold but not depraved nor wandering heart, and a mind never feverish with riotous thoughts nor perplexed with originality, who could have anticipated that our friend would entitle himself to a foremost place among the doers of eccentric deeds? had his acquaintances been asked who was the man in london the surest to perform nothing to-day which should be remembered on the morrow, they would have thought of wakefield. only the wife of his bosom might have hesitated. she, without having analyzed his character, was partly aware of a quiet selfishness that had rusted into his inactive mind; of a peculiar sort of vanity, the most uneasy attribute about him; of a disposition to craft which had seldom produced more positive effects than the keeping of petty secrets hardly worth revealing; and, lastly, of what she called a little strangeness sometimes in the good man. this latter quality is indefinable, and perhaps non-existent. let us now imagine wakefield bidding adieu to his wife. it is the dusk of an october evening. his equipment is a drab greatcoat, a hat covered with an oil-cloth, top-boots, an umbrella in one hand and a small portmanteau in the other. he has informed mrs. wakefield that he is to take the night-coach into the country. she would fain inquire the length of his journey, its object and the probable time of his return, but, indulgent to his harmless love of mystery, interrogates him only by a look. he tells her not to expect him positively by the return-coach nor to be alarmed should he tarry three or four days, but, at all events, to look for him at supper on friday evening. wakefield, himself, be it considered, has no suspicion of what is before him. he holds out his hand; she gives her own and meets his parting kiss in the matter-of-course way of a ten years' matrimony, and forth goes the middle-aged mr. wakefield, almost resolved to perplex his good lady by a whole week's absence. after the door has closed behind him, she perceives it thrust partly open and a vision of her husband's face through the aperture, smiling on her and gone in a moment. for the time this little incident is dismissed without a thought, but long afterward, when she has been more years a widow than a wife, that smile recurs and flickers across all her reminiscences of wakefield's visage. in her many musings she surrounds the original smile with a multitude of fantasies which make it strange and awful; as, for instance, if she imagines him in a coffin, that parting look is frozen on his pale features; or if she dreams of him in heaven, still his blessed spirit wears a quiet and crafty smile. yet for its sake, when all others have given him up for dead, she sometimes doubts whether she is a widow. but our business is with the husband. we must hurry after him along the street ere he lose his individuality and melt into the great mass of london life. it would be vain searching for him there. let us follow close at his heels, therefore, until, after several superfluous turns and doublings, we find him comfortably established by the fireside of a small apartment previously bespoken. he is in the next street to his own and at his journey's end. he can scarcely trust his good-fortune in having got thither unperceived, recollecting that at one time he was delayed by the throng in the very focus of a lighted lantern, and again there were footsteps that seemed to tread behind his own, distinct from the multitudinous tramp around him, and anon he heard a voice shouting afar and fancied that it called his name. doubtless a dozen busybodies had been watching him and told his wife the whole affair. poor wakefield! little knowest thou thine own insignificance in this great world. no mortal eye but mine has traced thee. go quietly to thy bed, foolish man, and on the morrow, if thou wilt be wise, get thee home to good mrs. wakefield and tell her the truth. remove not thyself even for a little week from thy place in her chaste bosom. were she for a single moment to deem thee dead or lost or lastingly divided from her, thou wouldst be woefully conscious of a change in thy true wife for ever after. it is perilous to make a chasm in human affections--not that they gape so long and wide, but so quickly close again. almost repenting of his frolic, or whatever it may be termed, wakefield lies down betimes, and, starting from his first nap, spreads forth his arms into the wide and solitary waste of the unaccustomed bed, "no," thinks he, gathering the bedclothes about him; "i will not sleep alone another night." in the morning he rises earlier than usual and sets himself to consider what he really means to do. such are his loose and rambling modes of thought that he has taken this very singular step with the consciousness of a purpose, indeed, but without being able to define it sufficiently for his own contemplation. the vagueness of the project and the convulsive effort with which he plunges into the execution of it are equally characteristic of a feeble-minded man. wakefield sifts his ideas, however, as minutely as he may, and finds himself curious to know the progress of matters at home--how his exemplary wife will endure her widowhood of a week, and, briefly, how the little sphere of creatures and circumstances in which he was a central object will be affected by his removal. a morbid vanity, therefore, lies nearest the bottom of the affair. but how is he to attain his ends? not, certainly, by keeping close in this comfortable lodging, where, though he slept and awoke in the next street to his home, he is as effectually abroad as if the stage-coach had been whirling him away all night. yet should he reappear, the whole project is knocked in the head. his poor brains being hopelessly puzzled with this dilemma, he at length ventures out, partly resolving to cross the head of the street and send one hasty glance toward his forsaken domicile. habit--for he is a man of habits--takes him by the hand and guides him, wholly unaware, to his own door, where, just at the critical moment, he is aroused by the scraping of his foot upon the step.--wakefield, whither are you going? at that instant his fate was turning on the pivot. little dreaming of the doom to which his first backward step devotes him, he hurries away, breathless with agitation hitherto unfelt, and hardly dares turn his head at the distant corner. can it be that nobody caught sight of him? will not the whole household--the decent mrs. wakefield, the smart maid-servant and the dirty little footboy--raise a hue-and-cry through london streets in pursuit of their fugitive lord and master? wonderful escape! he gathers courage to pause and look homeward, but is perplexed with a sense of change about the familiar edifice such as affects us all when, after a separation of months or years, we again see some hill or lake or work of art with which we were friends of old. in ordinary cases this indescribable impression is caused by the comparison and contrast between our imperfect reminiscences and the reality. in wakefield the magic of a single night has wrought a similar transformation, because in that brief period a great moral change has been effected. but this is a secret from himself. before leaving the spot he catches a far and momentary glimpse of his wife passing athwart the front window with her face turned toward the head of the street. the crafty nincompoop takes to his heels, scared with the idea that among a thousand such atoms of mortality her eye must have detected him. right glad is his heart, though his brain be somewhat dizzy, when he finds himself by the coal-fire of his lodgings. so much for the commencement of this long whim-wham. after the initial conception and the stirring up of the man's sluggish temperament to put it in practice, the whole matter evolves itself in a natural train. we may suppose him, as the result of deep deliberation, buying a new wig of reddish hair and selecting sundry garments, in a fashion unlike his customary suit of brown, from a jew's old-clothes bag. it is accomplished: wakefield is another man. the new system being now established, a retrograde movement to the old would be almost as difficult as the step that placed him in his unparalleled position. furthermore, he is rendered obstinate by a sulkiness occasionally incident to his temper and brought on at present by the inadequate sensation which he conceives to have been produced in the bosom of mrs. wakefield. he will not go back until she be frightened half to death. well, twice or thrice has she passed before his sight, each time with a heavier step, a paler cheek and more anxious brow, and in the third week of his non-appearance he detects a portent of evil entering the house in the guise of an apothecary. next day the knocker is muffled. toward nightfall comes the chariot of a physician and deposits its big-wigged and solemn burden at wakefield's door, whence after a quarter of an hour's visit he emerges, perchance the herald of a funeral. dear woman! will she die? by this time wakefield is excited to something like energy of feeling, but still lingers away from his wife's bedside, pleading with his conscience that she must not be disturbed at such a juncture. if aught else restrains him, he does not know it. in the course of a few weeks she gradually recovers. the crisis is over; her heart is sad, perhaps, but quiet, and, let him return soon or late, it will never be feverish for him again. such ideas glimmer through the mist of wakefield's mind and render him indistinctly conscious that an almost impassable gulf divides his hired apartment from his former home. "it is but in the next street," he sometimes says. fool! it is in another world. hitherto he has put off' his return from one particular day to another; henceforward he leaves the precise time undetermined--not to-morrow; probably next week; pretty soon. poor man! the dead have nearly as much chance of revisiting their earthly homes as the self-banished wakefield. would that i had a folio to write, instead of an article of a dozen pages! then might i exemplify how an influence beyond our control lays its strong hand on every deed which we do and weaves its consequences into an iron tissue of necessity. wakefield is spellbound. we must leave him for ten years or so to haunt around his house without once crossing the threshold, and to be faithful to his wife with all the affection of which his heart is capable, while he is slowly fading out of hers. long since, it must be remarked, he has lost the perception of singularity in his conduct. now for a scene. amid the throng of a london street we distinguish a man, now waxing elderly, with few characteristics to attract careless observers, yet bearing in his whole aspect the handwriting of no common fate for such as have the skill to read it. he is meagre; his low and narrow forehead is deeply wrinkled; his eyes, small and lustreless, sometimes wander apprehensively about him, but oftener seem to look inward. he bends his head and moves with an indescribable obliquity of gait, as if unwilling to display his full front to the world. watch him long enough to see what we have described, and you will allow that circumstances--which often produce remarkable men from nature's ordinary handiwork--have produced one such here. next, leaving him to sidle along the footwalk, cast your eyes in the opposite direction, where a portly female considerably in the wane of life, with a prayer-book in her hand, is proceeding to yonder church. she has the placid mien of settled widowhood. her regrets have either died away or have become so essential to her heart that they would be poorly exchanged for joy. just as the lean man and well-conditioned woman are passing a slight obstruction occurs and brings these two figures directly in contact. their hands touch; the pressure of the crowd forces her bosom against his shoulder; they stand face to face, staring into each other's eyes. after a ten years' separation thus wakefield meets his wife. the throng eddies away and carries them asunder. the sober widow, resuming her former pace, proceeds to church, but pauses in the portal and throws a perplexed glance along the street. she passes in, however, opening her prayer-book as she goes. and the man? with so wild a face that busy and selfish london stands to gaze after him he hurries to his lodgings, bolts the door and throws himself upon the bed. the latent feelings of years break out; his feeble mind acquires a brief energy from their strength; all the miserable strangeness of his life is revealed to him at a glance, and he cries out passionately, "wakefield, wakefield! you are mad!" perhaps he was so. the singularity of his situation must have so moulded him to itself that, considered in regard to his fellow-creatures and the business of life, he could not be said to possess his right mind. he had contrived--or, rather, he had happened--to dissever himself from the world, to vanish, to give up his place and privileges with living men without being admitted among the dead. the life of a hermit is nowise parallel to his. he was in the bustle of the city as of old, but the crowd swept by and saw him not; he was, we may figuratively say, always beside his wife and at his hearth, yet must never feel the warmth of the one nor the affection of the other. it was wakefield's unprecedented fate to retain his original share of human sympathies and to be still involved in human interests, while he had lost his reciprocal influence on them. it would be a most curious speculation to trace out the effect of such circumstances on his heart and intellect separately and in unison. yet, changed as he was, he would seldom be conscious of it, but deem himself the same man as ever; glimpses of the truth, indeed, would come, but only for the moment, and still he would keep saying, "i shall soon go back," nor reflect that he had been saying so for twenty years. i conceive, also, that these twenty years would appear in the retrospect scarcely longer than the week to which wakefield had at first limited his absence. he would look on the affair as no more than an interlude in the main business of his life. when, after a little while more, he should deem it time to re-enter his parlor, his wife would clap her hands for joy on beholding the middle-aged mr. wakefield. alas, what a mistake! would time but await the close of our favorite follies, we should be young men--all of us--and till doomsday. one evening, in the twentieth year since he vanished, wakefield is taking his customary walk toward the dwelling which he still calls his own. it is a gusty night of autumn, with frequent showers that patter down upon the pavement and are gone before a man can put up his umbrella. pausing near the house, wakefield discerns through the parlor-windows of the second floor the red glow and the glimmer and fitful flash of a comfortable fire. on the ceiling appears a grotesque shadow of good mrs. wakefield. the cap, the nose and chin and the broad waist form an admirable caricature, which dances, moreover, with the up-flickering and down-sinking blaze almost too merrily for the shade of an elderly widow. at this instant a shower chances to fall, and is driven by the unmannerly gust full into wakefield's face and bosom. he is quite penetrated with its autumnal chill. shall he stand wet and shivering here, when his own hearth has a good fire to warm him and his own wife will run to fetch the gray coat and small-clothes which doubtless she has kept carefully in the closet of their bedchamber? no; wakefield is no such fool. he ascends the steps--heavily, for twenty years have stiffened his legs since he came down, but he knows it not.--stay, wakefield! would you go to the sole home that is left you? then step into your grave.--the door opens. as he passes in we have a parting glimpse of his visage, and recognize the crafty smile which was the precursor of the little joke that he has ever since been playing off at his wife's expense. how unmercifully has he quizzed the poor woman! well, a good night's rest to wakefield! this happy event--supposing it to be such--could only have occurred at an unpremeditated moment. we will not follow our friend across the threshold. he has left us much food for thought, a portion of which shall lend its wisdom to a moral and be shaped into a figure. amid the seeming confusion of our mysterious world individuals are so nicely adjusted to a system, and systems to one another and to a whole, that by stepping aside for a moment a man exposes himself to a fearful risk of losing his place for ever. like wakefield, he may become, as it were, the outcast of the universe. a rill from the town-pump. (scene, _the corner of two principal streets_,[ ] _the_ town-pump _talking through its nose_.) noon by the north clock! noon by the east! high noon, too, by these hot sunbeams, which full, scarcely aslope, upon my head and almost make the water bubble and smoke in the trough under my nose. truly, we public characters have a tough time of it! and among all the town-officers chosen at march meeting, where is he that sustains for a single year the burden of such manifold duties as are imposed in perpetuity upon the town-pump? the title of "town-treasurer" is rightfully mine, as guardian of the best treasure that the town has. the overseers of the poor ought to make me their chairman, since i provide bountifully for the pauper without expense to him that pays taxes. i am at the head of the fire department and one of the physicians to the board of health. as a keeper of the peace all water-drinkers will confess me equal to the constable. i perform some of the duties of the town-clerk by promulgating public notices when they are posted on my front. to speak within bounds, i am the chief person of the municipality, and exhibit, moreover, an admirable pattern to my brother-officers by the cool, steady, upright, downright and impartial discharge of my business and the constancy with which i stand to my post. summer or winter, nobody seeks me in vain, for all day long i am seen at the busiest corner, just above the market, stretching out my arms to rich and poor alike, and at night i hold a lantern over my head both to show where i am and keep people out of the gutters. at this sultry noontide i am cupbearer to the parched populace, for whose benefit an iron goblet is chained to my waist. like a dramseller on the mall at muster-day, i cry aloud to all and sundry in my plainest accents and at the very tiptop of my voice. [footnote : essex and washington streets, salem.] here it is, gentlemen! here is the good liquor! walk up, walk up, gentlemen! walk up, walk up! here is the superior stuff! here is the unadulterated ale of father adam--better than cognac, hollands, jamaica, strong beer or wine of any price; here it is by the hogshead or the single glass, and not a cent to pay! walk up, gentlemen, walk up, and help yourselves! it were a pity if all this outcry should draw no customers. here they come.--a hot day, gentlemen! quaff and away again, so as to keep yourselves in a nice cool sweat.--you, my friend, will need another cupful to wash the dust out of your throat, if it be as thick there as it is on your cowhide shoes. i see that you have trudged half a score of miles to-day, and like a wise man have passed by the taverns and stopped at the running brooks and well-curbs. otherwise, betwixt heat without and fire within, you would have been burnt to a cinder or melted down to nothing at all, in the fashion of a jelly-fish. drink and make room for that other fellow, who seeks my aid to quench the fiery fever of last night's potations, which he drained from no cup of mine.--welcome, most rubicund sir! you and i have been great strangers hitherto; nor, to confess the truth, will my nose be anxious for a closer intimacy till the fumes of your breath be a little less potent. mercy on you, man! the water absolutely hisses down your red-hot gullet and is converted quite to steam in the miniature tophet which you mistake for a stomach. fill again, and tell me, on the word of an honest toper, did you ever, in cellar, tavern, or any kind of a dram-shop, spend the price of your children's food for a swig half so delicious? now, for the first time these ten years, you know the flavor of cold water. good-bye; and whenever you are thirsty, remember that i keep a constant supply at the old stand.--who next?--oh, my little friend, you are let loose from school and come hither to scrub your blooming face and drown the memory of certain taps of the ferule, and other schoolboy troubles, in a draught from the town-pump? take it, pure as the current of your young life. take it, and may your heart and tongue never be scorched with a fiercer thirst than now! there, my dear child! put down the cup and yield your place to this elderly gentleman who treads so tenderly over the paving-stones that i suspect he is afraid of breaking them. what! he limps by without so much as thanking me, as if my hospitable offers were meant only for people who have no wine-cellars.--well, well, sir, no harm done, i hope? go draw the cork, tip the decanter; but when your great toe shall set you a-roaring, it will be no affair of mine. if gentlemen love the pleasant titillation of the gout, it is all one to the town-pump. this thirsty dog with his red tongue lolling out does not scorn my hospitality, but stands on his hind legs and laps eagerly out of the trough. see how lightly he capers away again!--jowler, did your worship ever have the gout? are you all satisfied? then wipe your mouths, my good friends, and while my spout has a moment's leisure i will delight the town with a few historical remniscences. in far antiquity, beneath a darksome shadow of venerable boughs, a spring bubbled out of the leaf-strewn earth in the very spot where you now behold me on the sunny pavement. the water was as bright and clear and deemed as precious as liquid diamonds. the indian sagamores drank of it from time immemorial till the fatal deluge of the firewater burst upon the red men and swept their whole race away from the cold fountains. endicott and his followers came next, and often knelt down to drink, dipping their long beards in the spring. the richest goblet then was of birch-bark. governor winthrop, after a journey afoot from boston, drank here out of the hollow of his hand. the elder higginson here wet his palm and laid it on the brow of the first town-born child. for many years it was the watering-place, and, as it were, the washbowl, of the vicinity, whither all decent folks resorted to purify their visages and gaze at them afterward--at least, the pretty maidens did--in the mirror which it made. on sabbath-days, whenever a babe was to be baptized, the sexton filled his basin here and placed it on the communion-table of the humble meeting-house, which partly covered the site of yonder stately brick one. thus one generation after another was consecrated to heaven by its waters, and cast their waxing and waning shadows into its glassy bosom, and vanished from the earth, as if mortal life were but a flitting image in a fountain. finally the fountain vanished also. cellars were dug on all sides and cart-loads of gravel flung upon its source, whence oozed a turbid stream, forming a mud-puddle at the corner of two streets. in the hot months, when its refreshment was most needed, the dust flew in clouds over the forgotten birthplace of the waters, now their grave. but in the course of time a town-pump was sunk into the source of the ancient spring; and when the first decayed, another took its place, and then another, and still another, till here stand i, gentlemen and ladies, to serve you with my iron goblet. drink and be refreshed. the water is as pure and cold as that which slaked the thirst of the red sagamore beneath the aged boughs, though now the gem of the wilderness is treasured under these hot stones, where no shadow falls but from the brick buildings. and be it the moral of my story that, as this wasted and long-lost fountain is now known and prized again, so shall the virtues of cold water--too little valued since your fathers' days--be recognized by all. your pardon, good people! i must interrupt my stream of eloquence and spout forth a stream of water to replenish the trough for this teamster and his two yoke of oxen, who have come from topsfield, or somewhere along that way. no part of my business is pleasanter than the watering of cattle. look! how rapidly they lower the water-mark on the sides of the trough, till their capacious stomachs are moistened with a gallon or two apiece and they can afford time to breathe it in with sighs of calm enjoyment. now they roll their quiet eyes around the brim of their monstrous drinking-vessel. an ox is your true toper. but i perceive, my dear auditors, that you are impatient for the remainder of my discourse. impute it, i beseech you, to no defect of modesty if i insist a little longer on so fruitful a topic as my own multifarious merits. it is altogether for your good. the better you think of me, the better men and women you will find yourselves. i shall say nothing of my all-important aid on washing-days, though on that account alone i might call myself the household god of a hundred families. far be it from me, also, to hint, my respectable friends, at the show of dirty faces which you would present without my pains to keep you clean. nor will i remind you how often, when the midnight bells make you tremble for your combustible town, you have fled to the town-pump and found me always at my post firm amid the confusion and ready to drain my vital current in your behalf. neither is it worth while to lay much stress on my claims to a medical diploma as the physician whose simple rule of practice is preferable to all the nauseous lore which has found men sick, or left them so, since the days of hippocrates. let us take a broader view of my beneficial influence on mankind. no; these are trifles, compared with the merits which wise men concede to me--if not in my single self, yet as the representative of a class--of being the grand reformer of the age. from my spout, and such spouts as mine, must flow the stream that shall cleanse our earth of the vast portion of its crime and anguish which has gushed from the fiery fountains of the still. in this mighty enterprise the cow shall be my great confederate. milk and water--the town-pump and the cow! such is the glorious copartnership that shall tear down the distilleries and brewhouses, uproot the vineyards, shatter the cider-presses, ruin the tea and coffee trade, and finally monopolize the whole business of quenching thirst. blessed consummation! then poverty shall pass away from the land, finding no hovel so wretched where her squalid form may shelter herself. then disease, for lack of other victims, shall gnaw its own heart and die. then sin, if she do not die, shall lose half her strength. until now the frenzy of hereditary fever has raged in the human blood, transmitted from sire to son and rekindled in every generation by fresh draughts of liquid flame. when that inward fire shall be extinguished, the heat of passion cannot but grow cool, and war--the drunkenness of nations--perhaps will cease. at least, there will be no war of households. the husband and wife, drinking deep of peaceful joy--a calm bliss of temperate affections--shall pass hand in hand through life and lie down not reluctantly at its protracted close. to them the past will be no turmoil of mad dreams, nor the future an eternity of such moments as follow the delirium of the drunkard. their dead faces shall express what their spirits were and are to be by a lingering smile of memory and hope. ahem! dry work, this speechifying, especially to an unpractised orator. i never conceived till now what toil the temperance lecturers undergo for my sake; hereafter they shall have the business to themselves.--do, some kind christian, pump a stroke or two, just to wet my whistle.--thank you, sir!--my dear hearers, when the world shall have been regenerated by my instrumentality, you will collect your useless vats and liquor-casks into one great pile and make a bonfire in honor of the town-pump. and when i shall have decayed like my predecessors, then, if you revere my memory, let a marble fountain richly sculptured take my place upon this spot. such monuments should be erected everywhere and inscribed with the names of the distinguished champions of my cause. now, listen, for something very important is to come next. there are two or three honest friends of mine--and true friends i know they are--who nevertheless by their fiery pugnacity in my behalf do put me in fearful hazard of a broken nose, or even a total overthrow upon the pavement and the loss of the treasure which i guard.--i pray you, gentlemen, let this fault be amended. is it decent, think you, to get tipsy with zeal for temperance and take up the honorable cause of the town-pump in the style of a toper fighting for his brandy-bottle? or can the excellent qualities of cold water be no otherwise exemplified than by plunging slapdash into hot water and woefully scalding yourselves and other people? trust me, they may. in the moral warfare which you are to wage--and, indeed, in the whole conduct of your lives--you cannot choose a better example than myself, who have never permitted the dust and sultry atmosphere, the turbulence and manifold disquietudes, of the world around me to reach that deep, calm well of purity which may be called my soul. and whenever i pour out that soul, it is to cool earth's fever or cleanse its stains. one o'clock! nay, then, if the dinner-bell begins to speak, i may as well hold my peace. here comes a pretty young girl of my acquaintance with a large stone pitcher for me to fill. may she draw a husband while drawing her water, as rachel did of old!--hold out your vessel, my dear! there it is, full to the brim; so now run home, peeping at your sweet image in the pitcher as you go, and forget not in a glass of my own liquor to drink "success to the town-pump." the great carbuncle.[ ] a mystery of the white mountains. at nightfall once in the olden time, on the rugged side of one of the crystal hills, a party of adventurers were refreshing themselves after a toilsome and fruitless quest for the great carbuncle. they had come thither, not as friends nor partners in the enterprise, but each, save one youthful pair, impelled by his own selfish and solitary longing for this wondrous gem. their feeling of brotherhood, however, was strong enough to induce them to contribute a mutual aid in building a rude hut of branches and kindling a great fire of shattered pines that had drifted down the headlong current of the amonoosuck, on the lower bank of which they were to pass the night. there was but one of their number, perhaps, who had become so estranged from natural sympathies by the absorbing spell of the pursuit as to acknowledge no satisfaction at the sight of human faces in the remote and solitary region whither they had ascended. a vast extent of wilderness lay between them and the nearest settlement, while scant a mile above their heads was that bleak verge where the hills throw off their shaggy mantle of forest-trees and either robe themselves in clouds or tower naked into the sky. the roar of the amonoosuck would have been too awful for endurance if only a solitary man had listened while the mountain-stream talked with the wind. [footnote : the indian tradition on which this somewhat extravagant tale is founded is both too wild and too beautiful to be adequately wrought up in prose. sullivan, in his history of maine, written since the revolution, remarks that even then the existence of the great carbuncle was not entirely discredited.] the adventurers, therefore, exchanged hospitable greetings and welcomed one another to the hut where each man was the host and all were the guests of the whole company. they spread their individual supplies of food on the flat surface of a rock and partook of a general repast; at the close of which a sentiment of good-fellowship was perceptible among the party, though repressed by the idea that the renewed search for the great carbuncle must make them strangers again in the morning. seven men and one young woman, they warmed themselves together at the fire, which extended its bright wall along the whole front of their wigwam. as they observed the various and contrasted figures that made up the assemblage, each man looking like a caricature of himself in the unsteady light that flickered over him, they came mutually to the conclusion that an odder society had never met in city or wilderness, on mountain or plain. the eldest of the group--a tall, lean, weatherbeaten man some sixty years of age--was clad in the skins of wild animals whose fashion of dress he did well to imitate, since the deer, the wolf and the bear had long been his most intimate companions. he was one of those ill-fated mortals, such as the indians told of, whom in their early youth the great carbuncle smote with a peculiar madness and became the passionate dream of their existence. all who visited that region knew him as "the seeker," and by no other name. as none could remember when he first took up the search, there went a fable in the valley of the saco that for his inordinate lust after the great carbuncle he had been condemned to wander among the mountains till the end of time, still with the same feverish hopes at sunrise, the same despair at eve. near this miserable seeker sat a little elderly personage wearing a high-crowned hat shaped somewhat like a crucible. he was from beyond the sea--a doctor cacaphodel, who had wilted and dried himself into a mummy by continually stooping over charcoal-furnaces and inhaling unwholesome fumes during his researches in chemistry and alchemy. it was told of him--whether truly or not--that at the commencement of his studies he had drained his body of all its richest blood and wasted it, with other inestimable ingredients, in an unsuccessful experiment, and had never been a well man since. another of the adventurers was master ichabod pigsnort, a weighty merchant and selectman of boston, and an elder of the famous mr. norton's church. his enemies had a ridiculous story that master pigsnort was accustomed to spend a whole hour after prayer-time every morning and evening in wallowing naked among an immense quantity of pine-tree shillings, which were the earliest silver coinage of massachusetts. the fourth whom we shall notice had no name that his companions knew of, and was chiefly distinguished by a sneer that always contorted his thin visage, and by a prodigious pair of spectacles which were supposed to deform and discolor the whole face of nature to this gentleman's perception. the fifth adventurer likewise lacked a name, which was the greater pity, as he appeared to be a poet. he was a bright-eyed man, but woefully pined away, which was no more than natural if, as some people affirmed, his ordinary diet was fog, morning mist and a slice of the densest cloud within his reach, sauced with moonshine whenever he could get it. certain it is that the poetry which flowed from him had a smack of all these dainties. the sixth of the party was a young man of haughty mien and sat somewhat apart from the rest, wearing his plumed hat loftily among his elders, while the fire glittered on the rich embroidery of his dress and gleamed intensely on the jewelled pommel of his sword. this was the lord de vere, who when at home was said to spend much of his time in the burial-vault of his dead progenitors rummaging their mouldy coffins in search of all the earthly pride and vainglory that was hidden among bones and dust; so that, besides his own share, he had the collected haughtiness of his whole line of ancestry. lastly, there was a handsome youth in rustic garb, and by his side a blooming little person in whom a delicate shade of maiden reserve was just melting into the rich glow of a young wife's affection. her name was hannah, and her husband's matthew--two homely names, yet well enough adapted to the simple pair who seemed strangely out of place among the whimsical fraternity whose wits had been set agog by the great carbuncle. beneath the shelter of one hut, in the bright blaze of the same fire, sat this varied group of adventurers, all so intent upon a single object that of whatever else they began to speak their closing words were sure to be illuminated with the great carbuncle. several related the circumstances that brought them thither. one had listened to a traveller's tale of this marvellous stone in his own distant country, and had immediately been seized with such a thirst for beholding it as could only be quenched in its intensest lustre. another, so long ago as when the famous captain smith visited these coasts, had seen it blazing far at sea, and had felt no rest in all the intervening years till now that he took up the search. a third, being encamped on a hunting-expedition full forty miles south of the white mountains, awoke at midnight and beheld the great carbuncle gleaming like a meteor, so that the shadows of the trees fell backward from it. they spoke of the innumerable attempts which had been made to reach the spot, and of the singular fatality which had hitherto withheld success from all adventurers, though it might seem so easy to follow to its source a light that overpowered the moon and almost matched the sun. it was observable that each smiled scornfully at the madness of every other in anticipating better fortune than the past, yet nourished a scarcely-hidden conviction that he would himself be the favored one. as if to allay their too sanguine hopes, they recurred to the indian traditions that a spirit kept watch about the gem and bewildered those who sought it either by removing it from peak to peak of the higher hills or by calling up a mist from the enchanted lake over which it hung. but these tales were deemed unworthy of credit, all professing to believe that the search had been baffled by want of sagacity or perseverance in the adventurers, or such other causes as might naturally obstruct the passage to any given point among the intricacies of forest, valley and mountain. in a pause of the conversation the wearer of the prodigious spectacles looked round upon the party, making each individual in turn the object of the sneer which invariably dwelt upon his countenance. "so, fellow-pilgrims," said he, "here we are, seven wise men and one fair damsel, who doubtless is as wise as any graybeard of the company. here we are, i say, all bound on the same goodly enterprise. methinks, now, it were not amiss that each of us declare what he proposes to do with the great carbuncle, provided he have the good hap to clutch it.--what says our friend in the bearskin? how mean you, good sir, to enjoy the prize which you have been seeking the lord knows how long among the crystal hills?" "how enjoy it!" exclaimed the aged seeker, bitterly. "i hope for no enjoyment from it: that folly has past long ago. i keep up the search for this accursed stone because the vain ambition of my youth has become a fate upon me in old age. the pursuit alone is my strength, the energy of my soul, the warmth of my blood and the pith and marrow of my bones. were i to turn my back upon it, i should fall down dead on the hither side of the notch which is the gateway of this mountain-region. yet not to have my wasted lifetime back again would i give up my hopes of is deemed little better than a traffic with the evil one. now, think ye that i would have done this grievous wrong to my soul, body, reputation and estate without a reasonable chance of profit?" at "yet...profit?" the seeker's dialogue is suddenly interpolated with that of master pigsnort, in the original story a few paragraphs later, making this exchange nonsensical. a good version of the story can be found here: http://www.eldritchpress.org/nh/tgc.html , as well as on the internet archive and in print editions. ideally, you would check this entire ebook with the other editions to make sure there are no more such textual errors. the above-quoted paragraph should be as follows, including the paragraphs missing from the text: "how enjoy it!" exclaimed the aged seeker, bitterly. "i hope for no enjoyment from it--that folly has past, long ago! i keep up the search for this accursed stone, because the vain ambition of my youth has become a fate upon me, in old age. the pursuit alone is my strength--the energy of my soul--the warmth of my blood, and the pith and marrow of my bones! were i to turn my back upon it, i should fall down dead, on the hither side of the notch, which is the gate-way of this mountain region. yet, not to have my wasted life time back again, would i give up my hopes of the great carbuncle! having found it, i shall bear it to a certain cavern that i wot of, and there, grasping it in my arms, lie down and die, and keep it buried with me for ever." "oh, wretch, regardless of the interests of science!" cried doctor cacaphodel, with philosophic indignation. "thou art not worthy to behold, even from afar off, the lustre of this most precious gem that ever was concocted in the laboratory of nature. mine is the sole purpose for which a wise man may desire the possession of the great carbuncle. immediately on obtaining it--for i have a presentiment, good people, that the prize is reserved to crown my scientific reputation--i shall return to europe, and employ my remaining years in reducing it to its first elements. a portion of the stone will i grind to impalpable powder; other parts shall be dissolved in acids, or whatever solvents will act upon so admirable a composition; and the remainder i design to melt in the crucible, or set on fire with the blow-pipe. by these various methods, i shall gain an accurate analysis, and finally bestow the result of my labours upon the world, in a folio volume." "excellent!" quoth the man with the spectacles. "nor need you hesitate, learned sir, on account of the necessary destruction of the gem; since the perusal of your folio may teach every mother's son of us to concoct a great carbuncle of his own." "but, verily," said master ichabod pigsnort, "for mine own part, i object to the making of these counterfeits, as being calculated to reduce the marketable value of the true gem. i tell ye frankly, sirs, i have an interest in keeping up the price. here have i quitted my regular traffic, leaving my warehouse in the care of my clerks, and putting my credit to great hazard, and furthermore, have put myself to peril of death or captivity by the accursed heathen savages--and all this without daring to ask the prayers of the congregation, because the quest for the great carbuncle is deemed little better than a traffic with the evil one. now think ye that i would have done this grievous wrong to my soul, body, reputation and estate, without a reasonable chance of profit?" "not i, pious master pigsnort," said the man with the spectacles. "i never laid such a great folly to thy charge." "truly, i hope not," said the merchant. "now, as touching this great carbuncle, i am free to own that i have never had a glimpse of it, but, be it only the hundredth part so bright as people tell, it will surely outvalue the great mogul's best diamond, which he holds at an incalculable sum; wherefore i am minded to put the great carbuncle on shipboard and voyage with it to england, france, spain, italy, or into heathendom if providence should send me thither, and, in a word, dispose of the gem to the best bidder among the potentates of the earth, that he may place it among his crown-jewels. if any of ye have a wiser plan, let him expound it." "that have i, thou sordid man!" exclaimed the poet. "dost thou desire nothing brighter than gold, that thou wouldst transmute all this ethereal lustre into such dross as thou wallowest in already? for myself, hiding the jewel under my cloak, i shall hie me back to my attic-chamber in one of the darksome alleys of london. there night and day will i gaze upon it. my soul shall drink its radiance; it shall be diffused throughout my intellectual powers and gleam brightly in every line of poesy that i indite. thus long ages after i am gone the splendor of the great carbuncle will blaze around my name." "well said, master poet!" cried he of the spectacles. "hide it under thy cloak, sayest thou? why, it will gleam through the holes and make thee look like a jack-o'-lantern!" "to think," ejaculated the lord de vere, rather to himself than his companions, the best of whom he held utterly unworthy of his intercourse--"to think that a fellow in a tattered cloak should talk of conveying the great carbuncle to a garret in grubb street! have not i resolved within myself that the whole earth contains no fitter ornament for the great hall of my ancestral castle? there shall it flame for ages, making a noonday of midnight, glittering on the suits of armor, the banners and escutcheons, that hang around the wall, and keeping bright the memory of heroes. wherefore have all other adventurers sought the prize in vain but that i might win it and make it a symbol of the glories of our lofty line? and never on the diadem of the white mountains did the great carbuncle hold a place half so honored as is reserved for it in the hall of the de veres." "it is a noble thought," said the cynic, with an obsequious sneer. "yet, might i presume to say so, the gem would make a rare sepulchral lamp, and would display the glories of your lordship's progenitors more truly in the ancestral vault than in the castle-hall." "nay, forsooth," observed matthew, the young rustic, who sat hand in hand with his bride, "the gentleman has bethought himself of a profitable use for this bright stone. hannah here and i are seeking it for a like purpose." "how, fellow?" exclaimed his lordship, in surprise. "what castle-hall hast thou to hang it in?" "no castle," replied matthew, "but as neat a cottage as any within sight of the crystal hills. ye must know, friends, that hannah and i, being wedded the last week, have taken up the search of the great carbuncle because we shall need its light in the long winter evenings and it will be such a pretty thing to show the neighbors when they visit us! it will shine through the house, so that we may pick up a pin in any corner, and will set all the windows a-glowing as if there were a great fire of pine-knots in the chimney. and then how pleasant, when we awake in the night, to be able to see one another's faces!" there was a general smile among the adventurers at the simplicity of the young couple's project in regard to this wondrous and invaluable stone, with which the greatest monarch on earth might have been proud to adorn his palace. especially the man with spectacles, who had sneered at all the company in turn, now twisted his visage into such an expression of ill-natured mirth that matthew asked him rather peevishly what he himself meant to do with the great carbuncle. "the great carbuncle!" answered the cynic, with ineffable scorn. "why, you blockhead, there is no such thing in _rerum naturâ_. i have come three thousand miles, and am resolved to set my foot on every peak of these mountains and poke my head into every chasm for the sole purpose of demonstrating to the satisfaction of any man one whit less an ass than thyself that the great carbuncle is all a humbug." vain and foolish were the motives that had brought most of the adventurers to the crystal hills, but none so vain, so foolish, and so impious too, as that of the scoffer with the prodigious spectacles. he was one of those wretched and evil men whose yearnings are downward to the darkness instead of heavenward, and who, could they but extinguish the lights which god hath kindled for us, would count the midnight gloom their chiefest glory. as the cynic spoke several of the party were startled by a gleam of red splendor that showed the huge shapes of the surrounding mountains and the rock-bestrewn bed of the turbulent river, with an illumination unlike that of their fire, on the trunks and black boughs of the forest-trees. they listened for the roll of thunder, but heard nothing, and were glad that the tempest came not near them. the stars--those dial-points of heaven--now warned the adventurers to close their eyes on the blazing logs and open them in dreams to the glow of the great carbuncle. the young married couple had taken their lodgings in the farthest corner of the wigwam, and were separated from the rest of the party by a curtain of curiously-woven twigs such as might have hung in deep festoons around the bridal-bower of eve. the modest little wife had wrought this piece of tapestry while the other guests were talking. she and her husband fell asleep with hands tenderly clasped, and awoke from visions of unearthly radiance to meet the more blessed light of one another's eyes. they awoke at the same instant and with one happy smile beaming over their two faces, which grew brighter with their consciousness of the reality of life and love. but no sooner did she recollect where they were than the bride peeped through the interstices of the leafy curtain and saw that the outer room of the hut was deserted. "up, dear matthew!" cried she, in haste. "the strange folk are all gone. up this very minute, or we shall lose the great carbuncle!" in truth, so little did these poor young people deserve the mighty prize which had lured them thither that they had slept peacefully all night and till the summits of the hills were glittering with sunshine, while the other adventurers had tossed their limbs in feverish wakefulness or dreamed of climbing precipices, and set off to realize their dreams with the curliest peep of dawn. but matthew and hannah after their calm rest were as light as two young deer, and merely stopped to say their prayers and wash themselves in a cold pool of the amonoosuck, and then to taste a morsel of food ere they turned their faces to the mountain-side. it was a sweet emblem of conjugal affection as they toiled up the difficult ascent gathering strength from the mutual aid which they afforded. after several little accidents, such as a torn robe, a lost shoe and the entanglement of hannah's hair in a bough, they reached the upper verge of the forest and were now to pursue a more adventurous course. the innumerable trunks and heavy foliage of the trees had hitherto shut in their thoughts, which now shrank affrighted from the region of wind and cloud and naked rocks and desolate sunshine that rose immeasurably above them. they gazed back at the obscure wilderness which they had traversed, and longed to be buried again in its depths rather than trust themselves to so vast and visible a solitude. "shall we go on?" said matthew, throwing his arm round hannah's waist both to protect her and to comfort his heart by drawing her close to it. but the little bride, simple as she was, had a woman's love of jewels, and could not forego the hope of possessing the very brightest in the world, in spite of the perils with which it must be won. "let us climb a little higher," whispered she, yet tremulously, as she turned her face upward to the lonely sky. "come, then," said matthew, mustering his manly courage and drawing her along with him; for she became timid again the moment that he grew bold. and upward, accordingly, went the pilgrims of the great carbuncle, now treading upon the tops and thickly-interwoven branches of dwarf pines which by the growth of centuries, though mossy with age, had barely reached three feet in altitude. next they came to masses and fragments of naked rock heaped confusedly together like a cairn reared by giants in memory of a giant chief. in this bleak realm of upper air nothing breathed, nothing grew; there was no life but what was concentred in their two hearts; they had climbed so high that nature herself seemed no longer to keep them company. she lingered beneath them within the verge of the forest-trees, and sent a farewell glance after her children as they strayed where her own green footprints had never been. but soon they were to be hidden from her eye. densely and dark the mists began to gather below, casting black spots of shadow on the vast landscape and sailing heavily to one centre, as if the loftiest mountain-peak had summoned a council of its kindred clouds. finally the vapors welded themselves, as it were, into a mass, presenting the appearance of a pavement over which the wanderers might have trodden, but where they would vainly have sought an avenue to the blessed earth which they had lost. and the lovers yearned to behold that green earth again--more intensely, alas! than beneath a clouded sky they had ever desired a glimpse of heaven. they even felt it a relief to their desolation when the mists, creeping gradually up the mountain, concealed its lonely peak, and thus annihilated--at least, for them--the whole region of visible space. but they drew closer together with a fond and melancholy gaze, dreading lest the universal cloud should snatch them from each other's sight. still, perhaps, they would have been resolute to climb as far and as high between earth and heaven as they could find foothold if hannah's strength had not begun to fail, and with that her courage also. her breath grew short. she refused to burden her husband with her weight, but often tottered against his side, and recovered herself each time by a feebler effort. at last she sank down on one of the rocky steps of the acclivity. "we are lost, dear matthew," said she, mournfully; "we shall never find our way to the earth again. and oh how happy we might have been in our cottage!" "dear heart, we will yet be happy there," answered matthew. "look! in this direction the sunshine penetrates the dismal mist; by its aid i can direct our course to the passage of the notch. let us go back, love, and dream no more of the great carbuncle." "the sun cannot be yonder," said hannah, with despondence. "by this time it must be noon; if there could ever be any sunshine here, it would come from above our heads." "but look!" repeated matthew, in a somewhat altered tone. "it is brightening every moment. if not sunshine, what can it be?" nor could the young bride any longer deny that a radiance was breaking through the mist and changing its dim hue to a dusky red, which continually grew more vivid, as if brilliant particles were interfused with the gloom. now, also, the cloud began to roll away from the mountain, while, as it heavily withdrew, one object after another started out of its impenetrable obscurity into sight with precisely the effect of a new creation before the indistinctness of the old chaos had been completely swallowed up. as the process went on they saw the gleaming of water close at their feet, and found themselves on the very border of a mountain-lake, deep, bright, clear and calmly beautiful, spreading from brim to brim of a basin that had been scooped out of the solid rock. a ray of glory flashed across its surface. the pilgrims looked whence it should proceed, but closed their eyes, with a thrill of awful admiration, to exclude the fervid splendor that glowed from the brow of a cliff impending over the enchanted lake. for the simple pair had reached that lake of mystery and found the long-sought shrine of the great carbuncle. they threw their arms around each other and trembled at their own success, for as the legends of this wondrous gem rushed thick upon their memory they felt themselves marked out by fate, and the consciousness was fearful. often from childhood upward they had seen it shining like a distant star, and now that star was throwing its intensest lustre on their hearts. they seemed changed to one another's eyes in the red brilliancy that flamed upon their cheeks, while it lent the same fire to the lake, the rocks and sky, and to the mists which had rolled back before its power. but with their next glance they beheld an object that drew their attention even from the mighty stone. at the base of the cliff, directly beneath the great carbuncle, appeared the figure of a man with his arms extended in the act of climbing and his face turned upward as if to drink the full gush of splendor. but he stirred not, no more than if changed to marble. "it is the seeker," whispered hannah, convulsively grasping her husband's arm. "matthew, he is dead." "the joy of success has killed him," replied matthew, trembling violently. "or perhaps the very light of the great carbuncle was death." "'the great carbuncle'!" cried a peevish voice behind them. "the great humbug! if you have found it, prithee point it out to me." they turned their heads, and there was the cynic with his prodigious spectacles set carefully on his nose, staring now at the lake, now at the rocks, now at the distant masses of vapor, now right at the great carbuncle itself, yet seemingly as unconscious of its light as if all the scattered clouds were condensed about his person. though its radiance actually threw the shadow of the unbeliever at his own feet as he turned his back upon the glorious jewel, he would not be convinced that there was the least glimmer there. "where is your great humbug?" he repeated. "i challenge you to make me see it." "there!" said matthew, incensed at such perverse blindness, and turning the cynic round toward the illuminated cliff. "take off those abominable spectacles, and you cannot help seeing it." now, these colored spectacles probably darkened the cynic's sight in at least as great a degree as the smoked glasses through which people gaze at an eclipse. with resolute bravado, however, he snatched them from his nose and fixed a bold stare full upon the ruddy blaze of the great carbuncle. but scarcely had he encountered it when, with a deep, shuddering groan, he dropped his head and pressed both hands across his miserable eyes. thenceforth there was in very truth no light of the great carbuncle, nor any other light on earth, nor light of heaven itself, for the poor cynic. so long accustomed to view all objects through a medium that deprived them of every glimpse of brightness, a single flash of so glorious a phenomenon, striking upon his naked vision, had blinded him for ever. "matthew," said hannah, clinging to him, "let us go hence." matthew saw that she was faint, and, kneeling down, supported her in his arms while he threw some of the thrillingly-cold water of the enchanted lake upon her face and bosom. it revived her, but could not renovate her courage. "yes, dearest," cried matthew, pressing her tremulous form to his breast; "we will go hence and return to our humble cottage. the blessed sunshine and the quiet moonlight shall come through our window. we will kindle the cheerful glow of our hearth at eventide and be happy in its light. but never again will we desire more light than all the world may share with us." "no," said his bride, "for how could we live by day or sleep by night in this awful blaze of the great carbuncle?" out of the hollow of their hands they drank each a draught from the lake, which presented them its waters uncontaminated by an earthly lip. then, lending their guidance to the blinded cynic, who uttered not a word, and even stifled his groans in his own most wretched heart, they began to descend the mountain. yet as they left the shore, till then untrodden, of the spirit's lake, they threw a farewell glance toward the cliff and beheld the vapors gathering in dense volumes, through which the gem burned duskily. as touching the other pilgrims of the great carbuncle, the legend goes on to tell that the worshipful master ichabod pigsnort soon gave up the quest as a desperate speculation, and wisely resolved to betake himself again to his warehouse, near the town-dock, in boston. but as he passed through the notch of the mountains a war-party of indians captured our unlucky merchant and carried him to montreal, there holding him in bondage till by the payment of a heavy ransom he had woefully subtracted from his hoard of pine-tree shillings. by his long absence, moreover, his affairs had become so disordered that for the rest of his life, instead of wallowing in silver, he had seldom a sixpence-worth of copper. doctor cacaphodel, the alchemist, returned to his laboratory with a prodigious fragment of granite, which he ground to powder, dissolved in acids, melted in the crucible and burnt with the blowpipe, and published the result of his experiments in one of the heaviest folios of the day. and for all these purposes the gem itself could not have answered better than the granite. the poet, by a somewhat similar mistake, made prize of a great piece of ice which he found in a sunless chasm of the mountains, and swore that it corresponded in all points with his idea of the great carbuncle. the critics say that, if his poetry lacked the splendor of the gem, it retained all the coldness of the ice. the lord de vere went back to his ancestral hall, where he contented himself with a wax-lighted chandelier, and filled in due course of time another coffin in the ancestral vault. as the funeral torches gleamed within that dark receptacle, there was no need of the great carbuncle to show the vanity of earthly pomp. the cynic, having cast aside his spectacles, wandered about the world a miserable object, and was punished with an agonizing desire of light for the wilful blindness of his former life. the whole night long he would lift his splendor-blasted orbs to the moon and stars; he turned his face eastward at sunrise as duly as a persian idolater; he made a pilgrimage to rome to witness the magnificent illumination of saint peter's church, and finally perished in the great fire of london, into the midst of which he had thrust himself with the desperate idea of catching one feeble ray from the blaze that was kindling earth and heaven. matthew and his bride spent many peaceful years and were fond of telling the legend of the great carbuncle. the tale, however, toward the close of their lengthened lives, did not meet with the full credence that had been accorded to it by those who remembered the ancient lustre of the gem. for it is affirmed that from the hour when two mortals had shown themselves so simply wise as to reject a jewel which would have dimmed all earthly things its splendor waned. when our pilgrims reached the cliff, they found only an opaque stone with particles of mica glittering on its surface. there is also a tradition that as the youthful pair departed the gem was loosened from the forehead of the cliff and fell into the enchanted lake, and that at noontide the seeker's form may still be seen to bend over its quenchless gleam. some few believe that this inestimable stone is blazing as of old, and say that they have caught its radiance, like a flash of summer lightning, far down the valley of the saco. and be it owned that many a mile from the crystal hills i saw a wondrous light around their summits, and was lured by the faith of poesy to be the latest pilgrim of the great carbuncle. the prophetic pictures.[ ] "but this painter!" cried walter ludlow, with animation. "he not only excels in his peculiar art, but possesses vast acquirements in all other learning and science. he talks hebrew with dr. mather and gives lectures in anatomy to dr. boylston. in a word, he will meet the best-instructed man among us on his own ground. moreover, he is a polished gentleman, a citizen of the world--yes, a true cosmopolite; for he will speak like a native of each clime and country on the globe, except our own forests, whither he is now going. nor is all this what i most admire in him." [footnote : this story was suggested by an anecdote of stuart related in dunlap's _history of the arts of designs_--a most entertaining book to the general reader, and a deeply-interesting one, we should think, to the artist.] "indeed!" said elinor, who had listened with a women's interest to the description of such a man. "yet this is admirable enough." "surely it is," replied her lover, "but far less so than his natural gift of adapting himself to every variety of character, insomuch that all men--and all women too, elinor--shall find a mirror of themselves in this wonderful painter. but the greatest wonder is yet to be told." "nay, if he have more wonderful attributes than these," said elinor, laughing, "boston is a perilous abode for the poor gentleman. are you telling me of a painter, or a wizard?" "in truth," answered he, "that question might be asked much more seriously than you suppose. they say that he paints not merely a man's features, but his mind and heart. he catches the secret sentiments and passions and throws them upon the canvas like sunshine, or perhaps, in the portraits of dark-souled men, like a gleam of infernal fire. it is an awful gift," added walter, lowering his voice from its tone of enthusiasm. "i shall be almost afraid to sit to him." "walter, are you in earnest?" exclaimed elinor. "for heaven's sake, dearest elinor, do not let him paint the look which you now wear," said her lover, smiling, though rather perplexed. "there! it is passing away now; but when you spoke, you seemed frightened to death, and very sad besides. what were you thinking of?" "nothing, nothing!" answered elinor, hastily. "you paint my face with your own fantasies. well, come for me tomorrow, and we will visit this wonderful artist." but when the young man had departed, it cannot be denied that a remarkable expression was again visible on the fair and youthful face of his mistress. it was a sad and anxious look, little in accordance with what should have been the feelings of a maiden on the eve of wedlock. yet walter ludlow was the chosen of her heart. "a look!" said elinor to herself. "no wonder that it startled him if it expressed what i sometimes feel. i know by my own experience how frightful a look may be. but it was all fancy. i thought nothing of it at the time; i have seen nothing of it since; i did but dream it;" and she busied herself about the embroidery of a ruff in which she meant that her portrait should be taken. the painter of whom they had been speaking was not one of those native artists who at a later period than this borrowed their colors from the indians and manufactured their pencils of the furs of wild beasts. perhaps, if he could have revoked his life and prearranged his destiny, he might have chosen to belong to that school without a master in the hope of being at least original, since there were no works of art to imitate nor rules to follow. but he had been born and educated in europe. people said that he had studied the grandeur or beauty of conception and every touch of the master-hand in all the most famous pictures in cabinets and galleries and on the walls of churches till there was nothing more for his powerful mind to learn. art could add nothing to its lessons, but nature might. he had, therefore, visited a world whither none of his professional brethren had preceded him, to feast his eyes on visible images that were noble and picturesque, yet had never been transferred to canvas. america was too poor to afford other temptations to an artist of eminence, though many of the colonial gentry on the painter's arrival had expressed a wish to transmit their lineaments to posterity by moans of his skill. whenever such proposals were made, he fixed his piercing eyes on the applicant and seemed to look him through and through. if he beheld only a sleek and comfortable visage, though there were a gold-laced coat to adorn the picture and golden guineas to pay for it, he civilly rejected the task and the reward; but if the face were the index of anything uncommon in thought, sentiment or experience, or if he met a beggar in the street with a white beard and a furrowed brow, or if sometimes a child happened to look up and smile, he would exhaust all the art on them that he denied to wealth. pictorial skill being so rare in the colonies, the painter became an object of general curiosity. if few or none could appreciate the technical merit of his productions, yet there were points in regard to which the opinion of the crowd was as valuable as the refined judgment of the amateur. he watched the effect that each picture produced on such untutored beholders, and derived profit from their remarks, while they would as soon have thought of instructing nature herself as him who seemed to rival her. their admiration, it must be owned, was tinctured with the prejudices of the age and country. some deemed it an offence against the mosaic law, and even a presumptuous mockery of the creator, to bring into existence such lively images of his creatures. others, frightened at the art which could raise phantoms at will and keep the form of the dead among the living, were inclined to consider the painter as a magician, or perhaps the famous black man of old witch-times plotting mischief in a new guise. these foolish fancies were more than half believed among the mob. even in superior circles his character was invested with a vague awe, partly rising like smoke-wreaths from the popular superstitions, but chiefly caused by the varied knowledge and talents which he made subservient to his profession. being on the eve of marriage, walter ludlow and elinor were eager to obtain their portraits as the first of what, they doubtless hoped, would be a long series of family pictures. the day after the conversation above recorded they visited the painter's rooms. a servant ushered them into an apartment where, though the artist himself was not visible, there were personages whom they could hardly forbear greeting with reverence. they knew, indeed, that the whole assembly were but pictures, yet felt it impossible to separate the idea of life and intellect from such striking counterfeits. several of the portraits were known to them either as distinguished characters of the day or their private acquaintances. there was governor burnett, looking as if he had just received an undutiful communication from the house of representatives and were inditing a most sharp response. mr. cooke hung beside the ruler whom he opposed, sturdy and somewhat puritanical, as befitted a popular leader. the ancient lady of sir william phipps eyed them from the wall in ruff and farthingale, an imperious old dame not unsuspected of witchcraft. john winslow, then a very young man, wore the expression of warlike enterprise which long afterward made him a distinguished general. their personal friends were recognized at a glance. in most of the pictures the whole mind and character were brought out on the countenance and concentrated into a single look; so that, to speak paradoxically, the originals hardly resembled themselves so strikingly as the portraits did. among these modern worthies there were two old bearded saints who had almost vanished into the darkening canvas. there was also a pale but unfaded madonna who had perhaps been worshipped in rome, and now regarded the lovers with such a mild and holy look that they longed to worship too. "how singular a thought," observed walter ludlow, "that this beautiful face has been beautiful for above two hundred years! oh, if all beauty would endure so well! do you not envy her, elinor?" "if earth were heaven, i might," she replied. "but, where all things fade, how miserable to be the one that could not fade!" "this dark old st. peter has a fierce and ugly scowl, saint though he be," continued walter; "he troubles me. but the virgin looks kindly at us." "yes, but very sorrowfully, methinks," said elinor. the easel stood beneath these three old pictures, sustaining one that had been recently commenced. after a little inspection they began to recognize the features of their own minister, the rev. dr. colman, growing into shape and life, as it were, out of a cloud. "kind old man!" exclaimed elinor. "he gazes at me as if he were about to utter a word of paternal advice." "and at me," said walter, "as if he were about to shake his head and rebuke me for some suspected iniquity. but so does the original. i shall never feel quite comfortable under his eye till we stand before him to be married." they now heard a footstep on the floor, and, turning, beheld the painter, who had been some moments in the room and had listened to a few of their remarks. he was a middle-aged man with a countenance well worthy of his own pencil. indeed, by the picturesque though careless arrangement of his rich dress, and perhaps because his soul dwelt always among painted shapes, he looked somewhat like a portrait himself. his visitors were sensible of a kindred between the artist and his works, and felt as if one of the pictures had stepped from the canvas to salute them. walter ludlow, who was slightly known to the painter, explained the object of their visit. while he spoke a sunbeam was falling athwart his figure and elinor's with so happy an effect that they also seemed living pictures of youth and beauty gladdened by bright fortune. the artist was evidently struck. "my easel is occupied for several ensuing days, and my stay in boston must be brief," said he, thoughtfully; then, after an observant glance, he added, "but your wishes shall be gratified though i disappoint the chief-justice and madame oliver. i must not lose this opportunity for the sake of painting a few ells of broadcloth and brocade." the painter expressed a desire to introduce both their portraits into one picture and represent them engaged in some appropriate action. this plan would have delighted the lovers, but was necessarily rejected because so large a space of canvas would have been unfit for the room which it was intended to decorate. two half-length portraits were therefore fixed upon. after they had taken leave, walter ludlow asked elinor, with a smile, whether she knew what an influence over their fates the painter was about to acquire. "the old women of boston affirm," continued he, "that after he has once got possession of a person's face and figure he may paint him in any act or situation whatever, and the picture will be prophetic. do you believe it?" "not quite," said elinor, smiling. "yet if he has such magic, there is something so gentle in his manner that i am sure he will use it well." it was the painter's choice to proceed with both the portraits at the same time, assigning as a reason, in the mystical language which he sometimes used, that the faces threw light upon each other. accordingly, he gave now a touch to walter and now to elinor, and the features of one and the other began to start forth so vividly that it appeared as if his triumphant art would actually disengage them from the canvas. amid the rich light and deep shade they beheld their phantom selves, but, though the likeness promised to be perfect, they were not quite satisfied with the expression: it seemed more vague than in most of the painter's works. he, however, was satisfied with the prospect of success, and, being much interested in the lovers, employed his leisure moments, unknown to them, in making a crayon sketch of their two figures. during their sittings he engaged them in conversation and kindled up their faces with characteristic traits, which, though continually varying, it was his purpose to combine and fix. at length he announced that at their next visit both the portraits would be ready for delivery. "if my pencil will but be true to my conception in the few last touches which i meditate," observed he, "these two pictures will be my very best performances. seldom indeed has an artist such subjects." while speaking he still bent his penetrative eye upon them, nor withdrew it till they had reached the bottom of the stairs. nothing in the whole circle of human vanities takes stronger hold of the imagination than this affair of having a portrait painted. yet why should it be so? the looking-glass, the polished globes of the andirons, the mirror-like water, and all other reflecting surfaces, continually present us with portraits--or, rather, ghosts--of ourselves which we glance at and straightway forget them. but we forget them only because they vanish. it is the idea of duration--of earthly immortality--that gives such a mysterious interest to our own portraits. walter and elinor were not insensible to this feeling, and hastened to the painter's room punctually at the appointed hour to meet those pictured shapes which were to be their representatives with posterity. the sunshine flashed after them into the apartment, but left it somewhat gloomy as they closed the door. their eyes were immediately attracted to their portraits, which rested against the farthest wall of the room. at the first glance through the dim light and the distance, seeing themselves in precisely their natural attitudes and with all the air that they recognized so well, they uttered a simultaneous exclamation of delight. "there we stand," cried walter, enthusiastically, "fixed in sunshine for ever. no dark passions can gather on our faces." "no," said elinor, more calmly; "no dreary change can sadden us." this was said while they were approaching and had yet gained only an imperfect view of the pictures. the painter, after saluting them, busied himself at a table in completing a crayon sketch, leaving his visitors to form their own judgment as to his perfected labors. at intervals he sent a glance from beneath his deep eyebrows, watching their countenances in profile with his pencil suspended over the sketch. they had now stood some moments, each in front of the other's picture, contemplating it with entranced attention, but without uttering a word. at length walter stepped forward, then back, viewing elinor's portrait in various lights, and finally spoke. "is there not a change?" said he, in a doubtful and meditative tone. "yes; the perception of it grows more vivid the longer i look. it is certainly the same picture that i saw yesterday; the dress, the features, all are the same, and yet something is altered." "is, then, the picture less like than it was yesterday?" inquired the painter, now drawing near with irrepressible interest. "the features are perfect elinor," answered walter, "and at the first glance the expression seemed also hers; but i could fancy that the portrait has changed countenance while i have been looking at it. the eyes are fixed on mine with a strangely sad and anxious expression. nay, it is grief and terror. is this like elinor?" "compare the living face with the pictured one," said the painter. walter glanced sidelong at his mistress, and started. motionless and absorbed, fascinated, as it were, in contemplation of walter's portrait, elinor's face had assumed precisely the expression of which he had just been complaining. had she practised for whole hours before a mirror, she could not have caught the look so successfully. had the picture itself been a mirror, it could not have thrown back her present aspect with stronger and more melancholy truth. she appeared quite unconscious of the dialogue between the artist and her lover. "elinor," exclaimed walter, in amazement, "what change has come over you?" she did not hear him nor desist from her fixed gaze till he seized her hand, and thus attracted her notice; then with a sudden tremor she looked from the picture to the face of the original. "do you see no change in your portrait?" asked she. "in mine? none," replied walter, examining it. "but let me see. yes; there is a slight change--an improvement, i think, in the picture, though none in the likeness. it has a livelier expression than yesterday, as if some bright thought were flashing from the eyes and about to be uttered from the lips. now that i have caught the look, it becomes very decided." while he was intent on these observations elinor turned to the painter. she regarded him with grief and awe, and felt that he repaid her with sympathy and commiseration, though wherefore she could but vaguely guess. "that look!" whispered she, and shuddered. "how came it there?" "madam," said the painter, sadly, taking her hand and leading her apart, "in both these pictures i have painted what i saw. the artist--the true artist--must look beneath the exterior. it is his gift--his proudest, but often a melancholy one--to see the inmost soul, and by a power indefinable even to himself to make it glow or darken upon the canvas in glances that express the thought and sentiment of years. would that i might convince myself of error in the present instance!" they had now approached the table, on which were heads in chalk, hands almost as expressive as ordinary faces, ivied church-towers, thatched cottages, old thunder-stricken trees, oriental and antique costume, and all such picturesque vagaries of an artist's idle moments. turning them over with seeming carelessness, a crayon sketch of two figures was disclosed. "if i have failed," continued he--"if your heart does not see itself reflected in your own portrait, if you have no secret cause to trust my delineation of the other--it is not yet too late to alter them. i might change the action of these figures too. but would it influence the event?" he directed her notice to the sketch. a thrill ran through elinor's frame; a shriek was upon her lips, but she stifled it with the self-command that becomes habitual to all who hide thoughts of fear and anguish within their bosoms. turning from the table, she perceived that walter had advanced near enough to have seen the sketch, though she could not determine whether it had caught his eye. "we will not have the pictures altered," said she, hastily. "if mine is sad, i shall but look the gayer for the contrast." "be it so," answered the painter, bowing. "may your griefs be such fanciful ones that only your pictures may mourn for them! for your joys, may they be true and deep, and paint themselves upon this lovely face till it quite belie my art!" after the marriage of walter and elinor the pictures formed the two most splendid ornaments of their abode. they hung side by side, separated by a narrow panel, appearing to eye each other constantly, yet always returning the gaze of the spectator. travelled gentlemen who professed a knowledge of such subjects reckoned these among the most admirable specimens of modern portraiture, while common observers compared them with the originals, feature by feature, and were rapturous in praise of the likeness. but it was on a third class--neither travelled connoisseurs nor common observers, but people of natural sensibility--that the pictures wrought their strongest effect. such persons might gaze carelessly at first, but, becoming interested, would return day after day and study these painted faces like the pages of a mystic volume. walter ludlow's portrait attracted their earliest notice. in the absence of himself and his bride they sometimes disputed as to the expression which the painter had intended to throw upon the features, all agreeing that there was a look of earnest import, though no two explained it alike. there was less diversity of opinion in regard to elinor's picture. they differed, indeed, in their attempts to estimate the nature and depth of the gloom that dwelt upon her face, but agreed that it was gloom and alien from the natural temperament of their youthful friend. a certain fanciful person announced as the result of much scrutiny that both these pictures were parts of one design, and that the melancholy strength of feeling in elinor's countenance bore reference to the more vivid emotion--or, as he termed it, the wild passion--in that of walter. though unskilled in the art, he even began a sketch in which the action of the two figures was to correspond with their mutual expression. it was whispered among friends that day by day elinor's face was assuming a deeper shade of pensiveness which threatened soon to render her too true a counterpart of her melancholy picture. walter, on the other hand, instead of acquiring the vivid look which the painter had given him on the canvas, became reserved and downcast, with no outward flashes of emotion, however it might be smouldering within. in course of time elinor hung a gorgeous curtain of purple silk wrought with flowers and fringed with heavy golden tassels before the pictures, under pretence that the dust would tarnish their hues or the light dim them. it was enough. her visitors felt that the massive folds of the silk must never be withdrawn nor the portraits mentioned in her presence. time wore on, and the painter came again. he had been far enough to the north to see the silver cascade of the crystal hills, and to look over the vast round of cloud and forest from the summit of new england's loftiest mountain. but he did not profane that scene by the mockery of his art. he had also lain in a canoe on the bosom of lake george, making his soul the mirror of its loveliness and grandeur till not a picture in the vatican was more vivid than his recollection. he had gone with the indian hunters to niagara, and there, again, had flung his hopeless pencil down the precipice, feeling that he could as soon paint the roar as aught else that goes to make up the wondrous cataract. in truth, it was seldom his impulse to copy natural scenery except as a framework for the delineations of the human form and face, instinct with thought, passion or suffering. with store of such his adventurous ramble had enriched him. the stern dignity of indian chiefs, the dusky loveliness of indian girls, the domestic life of wigwams, the stealthy march, the battle beneath gloomy pine trees, the frontier fortress with its garrison, the anomaly of the old french partisan bred in courts, but grown gray in shaggy deserts,--such were the scenes and portraits that he had sketched. the glow of perilous moments, flashes of wild feeling, struggles of fierce power, love, hate, grief, frenzy--in a word, all the worn-out heart of the old earth--had been revealed to him under a new form. his portfolio was filled with graphic illustrations of the volume of his memory which genius would transmute into its own substance and imbue with immortality. he felt that the deep wisdom in his art which he had sought so far was found. but amid stern or lovely nature, in the perils of the forest or its overwhelming peacefulness, still there had been two phantoms, the companions of his way. like all other men around whom an engrossing purpose wreathes itself, he was insulated from the mass of humankind. he had no aim, no pleasure, no sympathies, but what were ultimately connected with his art. though gentle in manner and upright in intent and action, he did not possess kindly feelings; his heart was cold: no living creature could be brought near enough to keep him warm. for these two beings, however, he had felt in its greatest intensity the sort of interest which always allied him to the subjects of his pencil. he had pried into their souls with his keenest insight and pictured the result upon their features with his utmost skill, so as barely to fall short of that standard which no genius ever reached, his own severe conception. he had caught from the duskiness of the future--at least, so he fancied--a fearful secret, and had obscurely revealed it on the portraits. so much of himself--of his imagination and all other powers--had been lavished on the study of walter and elinor that he almost regarded them as creations of his own, like the thousands with which he had peopled the realms of picture. therefore did they flit through the twilight of the woods, hover on the mist of waterfalls, look forth from the mirror of the lake, nor melt away in the noontide sun. they haunted his pictorial fancy, not as mockeries of life nor pale goblins of the dead, but in the guise of portraits, each with an unalterable expression which his magic had evoked from the caverns of the soul. he could not recross the atlantic till he had again beheld the originals of those airy pictures. "o glorious art!" thus mused the enthusiastic painter as he trod the street. "thou art the image of the creator's own. the innumerable forms that wander in nothingness start into being at thy beck. the dead live again; thou recallest them to their old scenes and givest their gray shadows the lustre of a better life, at once earthly and immortal. thou snatchest back the fleeting moments of history. with thee there is no past, for at thy touch all that is great becomes for ever present, and illustrious men live through long ages in the visible performance of the very deeds which made them what they are. o potent art! as thou bringest the faintly-revealed past to stand in that narrow strip of sunlight which we call 'now,' canst thou summon the shrouded future to meet her there? have i not achieved it? am i not thy prophet?" thus with a proud yet melancholy fervor did he almost cry aloud as he passed through the toilsome street among people that knew not of his reveries nor could understand nor care for them. it is not good for man to cherish a solitary ambition. unless there be those around him by whose example he may regulate himself, his thoughts, desires and hopes will become extravagant and he the semblance--perhaps the reality--of a madman. reading other bosoms with an acuteness almost preternatural, the painter failed to see the disorder of his own. "and this should be the house," said he, looking up and down the front before he knocked. "heaven help my brains! that picture! methinks it will never vanish. whether i look at the windows or the door, there it is framed within them, painted strongly and glowing in the richest tints--the faces of the portraits, the figures and action of the sketch!" he knocked. "the portraits--are they within?" inquired he of the domestic; then, recollecting himself, "your master and mistress--are they at home?" "they are, sir," said the servant, adding, as he noticed that picturesque aspect of which the painter could never divest himself, "and the portraits too." the guest was admitted into a parlor communicating by a central door with an interior room of the same size. as the first apartment was empty, he passed to the entrance of the second, within which his eyes were greeted by those living personages, as well as their pictured representatives, who had long been the objects of so singular an interest. he involuntarily paused on the threshold. they had not perceived his approach. walter and elinor were standing before the portraits, whence the former had just flung back the rich and voluminous folds of the silken curtain, holding its golden tassel with one hand, while the other grasped that of his bride. the pictures, concealed for months, gleamed forth again in undiminished splendor, appearing to throw a sombre light across the room rather than to be disclosed by a borrowed radiance. that of elinor had been almost prophetic. a pensiveness, and next a gentle sorrow, had successively dwelt upon her countenance, deepening with the lapse of time into a quiet anguish. a mixture of affright would now have made it the very expression of the portrait. walter's face was moody and dull or animated only by fitful flashes which left a heavier darkness for their momentary illumination. he looked from elinor to her portrait, and thence to his own, in the contemplation of which he finally stood absorbed. the painter seemed to hear the step of destiny approaching behind him on its progress toward its victims. a strange thought darted into his mind. was not his own the form in which that destiny had embodied itself, and he a chief agent of the coming evil which he had foreshadowed? still, walter remained silent before the picture, communing with it as with his own heart and abandoning himself to the spell of evil influence that the painter had cast upon the features. gradually his eyes kindled, while as elinor watched the increasing wildness of his face her own assumed a look of terror; and when, at last, he turned upon her, the resemblance of both to their portraits was complete. "our fate is upon us!" howled walter. "die!" drawing a knife, he sustained her as she was sinking to the ground, and aimed it at her bosom. in the action and in the look and attitude of each the painter beheld the figures of his sketch. the picture, with all its tremendous coloring, was finished. "hold, madman!" cried he, sternly. he had advanced from the door and interposed himself between the wretched beings with the same sense of power to regulate their destiny as to alter a scene upon the canvas. he stood like a magician controlling the phantoms which he had evoked. "what!" muttered walter ludlow as he relapsed from fierce excitement into sullen gloom. "does fate impede its own decree?" "wretched lady," said the painter, "did i not warn you?" "you did," replied elinor, calmly, as her terror gave place to the quiet grief which it had disturbed. "but i loved him." is there not a deep moral in the tale? could the result of one or all our deeds be shadowed forth and set before us, some would call it fate and hurry onward, others be swept along by their passionate desires, and none be turned aside by the prophetic pictures. david swan. a fantasy. we can be but partially acquainted even with the events which actually influence our course through life and our final destiny. there are innumerable other events, if such they may be called, which come close upon us, yet pass away without actual results or even betraying their near approach by the reflection of any light or shadow across our minds. could we know all the vicissitudes of our fortunes, life would be too full of hope and fear, exultation or disappointment, to afford us a single hour of true serenity. this idea may be illustrated by a page from the secret history of david swan. we have nothing to do with david until we find him, at the age of twenty, on the high road from his native place to the city of boston, where his uncle, a small dealer in the grocery line, was to take him behind the counter. be it enough to say that he was a native of new hampshire, born of respectable parents, and had received an ordinary school education with a classic finish by a year at gilmanton academy. after journeying on foot from sunrise till nearly noon of a summer's day, his weariness and the increasing heat determined him to sit down in the first convenient shade and await the coming up of the stage-coach. as if planted on purpose for him, there soon appeared a little tuft of maples with a delightful recess in the midst, and such a fresh bubbling spring that it seemed never to have sparkled for any wayfarer but david swan. virgin or not, he kissed it with his thirsty lips and then flung himself along the brink, pillowing his head upon some shirts and a pair of pantaloons tied up in a striped cotton handkerchief. the sunbeams could not reach him; the dust did not yet rise from the road after the heavy rain of yesterday, and his grassy lair suited the young man better than a bed of down. the spring murmured drowsily beside him; the branches waved dreamily across the blue sky overhead, and a deep sleep, perchance hiding dreams within its depths, fell upon david swan. but we are to relate events which he did not dream of. while he lay sound asleep in the shade other people were wide awake, and passed to and fro, afoot, on horseback and in all sorts of vehicles, along the sunny road by his bedchamber. some looked neither to the right hand nor the left and knew not that he was there; some merely glanced that way without admitting the slumberer among their busy thoughts; some laughed to see how soundly he slept, and several whose hearts were brimming full of scorn ejected their venomous superfluity on david swan. a middle-aged widow, when nobody else was near, thrust her head a little way into the recess, and vowed that the young fellow looked charming in his sleep. a temperance lecturer saw him, and wrought poor david into the texture of his evening's discourse as an awful instance of dead drunkenness by the roadside. but censure, praise, merriment, scorn and indifference were all one--or, rather, all nothing--to david swan. he had slept only a few moments when a brown carriage drawn by a handsome pair of horses bowled easily along and was brought to a standstill nearly in front of david's resting-place. a linch-pin had fallen out and permitted one of the wheels to slide off. the damage was slight and occasioned merely a momentary alarm to an elderly merchant and his wife, who were returning to boston in the carriage. while the coachman and a servant were replacing the wheel the lady and gentleman sheltered themselves beneath the maple trees, and there espied the bubbling fountain and david swan asleep beside it. impressed with the awe which the humblest sleeper usually sheds around him, the merchant trod as lightly as the gout would allow, and his spouse took good heed not to rustle her silk gown lest david should start up all of a sudden. "how soundly he sleeps!" whispered the old gentleman. "from what a depth he draws that easy breath! such sleep as that, brought on without an opiate, would be worth more to me than half my income, for it would suppose health and an untroubled mind." "and youth besides," said the lady. "healthy and quiet age does not sleep thus. our slumber is no more like his than our wakefulness." the longer they looked, the more did this elderly couple feel interested in the unknown youth to whom the wayside and the maple shade were as a secret chamber with the rich gloom of damask curtains brooding over him. perceiving that a stray sunbeam glimmered down upon his face, the lady contrived to twist a branch aside so as to intercept it, and, having done this little act of kindness, she began to feel like a mother to him. "providence seems to have laid him here," whispered she to her husband, "and to have brought us hither to find him, after our disappointment in our cousin's son. methinks i can see a likeness to our departed henry. shall we waken him?" "to what purpose?" said the merchant, hesitating. "we know nothing of the youth's character." "that open countenance!" replied his wife, in the same hushed voice, yet earnestly. "this innocent sleep!" while these whispers were passing, the sleeper's heart did not throb, nor his breath become agitated, nor his features betray the least token of interest. yet fortune was bending over him, just ready to let fall a burden of gold. the old merchant had lost his only son, and had no heir to his wealth except a distant relative with whose conduct he was dissatisfied. in such cases people sometimes do stranger things than to act the magician and awaken a young man to splendor who fell asleep in poverty. "shall we not waken him?" repeated the lady, persuasively. "the coach is ready, sir," said the servant, behind. the old couple started, reddened and hurried away, mutually wondering that they should ever have dreamed of doing anything so very ridiculous. the merchant threw himself back in the carriage and occupied his mind with the plan of a magnificent asylum for unfortunate men of business. meanwhile, david swan enjoyed his nap. the carriage could not have gone above a mile or two when a pretty young girl came along with a tripping pace which showed precisely how her little heart was dancing in her bosom. perhaps it was this merry kind of motion that caused--is there any harm in saying it?--her garter to slip its knot. conscious that the silken girth--if silk it were--was relaxing its hold, she turned aside into the shelter of the maple trees, and there found a young man asleep by the spring. blushing as red as any rose that she should have intruded into a gentleman's bedchamber, and for such a purpose too, she was about to make her escape on tiptoe. but there was peril near the sleeper. a monster of a bee had been wandering overhead--buzz, buzz, buzz--now among the leaves, now flashing through the strips of sunshine, and now lost in the dark shade, till finally he appeared to be settling on the eyelid of david swan. the sting of a bee is sometimes deadly. as free-hearted as she was innocent, the girl attacked the intruder with her handkerchief, brushed him soundly and drove him from beneath the maple shade. how sweet a picture! this good deed accomplished, with quickened breath and a deeper blush she stole a glance at the youthful stranger for whom she had been battling with a dragon in the air. "he is handsome!" thought she, and blushed redder yet. how could it be that no dream of bliss grew so strong within him that, shattered by its very strength, it should part asunder and allow him to perceive the girl among its phantoms? why, at least, did no smile of welcome brighten upon his face? she was come, the maid whose soul, according to the old and beautiful idea, had been severed from his own, and whom in all his vague but passionate desires he yearned to meet. her only could he love with a perfect love, him only could she receive into the depths of her heart, and now her image was faintly blushing in the fountain by his side; should it pass away, its happy lustre would never gleam upon his life again. "how sound he sleeps!" murmured the girl. she departed, but did not trip along the road so lightly as when she came. now, this girl's father was a thriving country merchant in the neighborhood, and happened at that identical time to be looking out for just such a young man as david swan. had david formed a wayside acquaintance with the daughter, he would have become the father's clerk, and all else in natural succession. so here, again, had good fortune--the best of fortunes--stolen so near that her garments brushed against him, and he knew nothing of the matter. the girl was hardly out of sight when two men turned aside beneath the maple shade. both had dark faces set off by cloth caps, which were drawn down aslant over their brows. their dresses were shabby, yet had a certain smartness. these were a couple of rascals who got their living by whatever the devil sent them, and now, in the interim of other business, had staked the joint profits of their next piece of villainy on a game of cards which was to have been decided here under the trees. but, finding david asleep by the spring, one of the rogues whispered to his fellow: "hist! do you see that bundle under his head?" the other villain nodded, winked and leered. "i'll bet you a horn of brandy," said the first, "that the chap has either a pocketbook or a snug little hoard of small change stowed away amongst his shirts. and if not there, we will find it in his pantaloons pocket." "but how if he wakes?" said the other. his companion thrust aside his waistcoat, pointed to the handle of a dirk and nodded. "so be it!" muttered the second villain. they approached the unconscious david, and, while one pointed the dagger toward his heart, the other began to search the bundle beneath his head. their two faces, grim, wrinkled and ghastly with guilt and fear, bent over their victim, looking horrible enough to be mistaken for fiends should he suddenly awake. nay, had the villains glanced aside into the spring, even they would hardly have known themselves as reflected there. but david swan had never worn a more tranquil aspect, even when asleep on his mother's breast. "i must take away the bundle," whispered one. "if he stirs, i'll strike," muttered the other. but at this moment a dog scenting along the ground came in beneath the maple trees and gazed alternately at each of these wicked men and then at the quiet sleeper. he then lapped out of the fountain. "pshaw!" said one villain. "we can do nothing now. the dog's master must be close behind." "let's take a drink and be off," said the other. the man with the dagger thrust back the weapon into his bosom and drew forth a pocket-pistol, but not of that kind which kills by a single discharge. it was a flask of liquor with a block-tin tumbler screwed upon the mouth. each drank a comfortable dram, and left the spot with so many jests and such laughter at their unaccomplished wickedness that they might be said to have gone on their way rejoicing. in a few hours they had forgotten the whole affair, nor once imagined that the recording angel had written down the crime of murder against their souls in letters as durable as eternity. as for david swan, he still slept quietly, neither conscious of the shadow of death when it hung over him nor of the glow of renewed life when that shadow was withdrawn. he slept, but no longer so quietly as at first. an hour's repose had snatched from his elastic frame the weariness with which many hours of toil had burdened it. now he stirred, now moved his lips without a sound, now talked in an inward tone to the noonday spectres of his dream. but a noise of wheels came rattling louder and louder along the road, until it dashed through the dispersing mist of david's slumber; and there was the stagecoach. he started up with all his ideas about him. "halloo, driver! take a passenger?" shouted he. "room on top!" answered the driver. up mounted david, and bowled away merrily toward boston without so much as a parting glance at that fountain of dreamlike vicissitude. he knew not that a phantom of wealth had thrown a golden hue upon its waters, nor that one of love had sighed softly to their murmur, nor that one of death had threatened to crimson them with his blood, all in the brief hour since he lay down to sleep. sleeping or waking, we hear not the airy footsteps of the strange things that almost happen. does it not argue a superintending providence that, while viewless and unexpected events thrust themselves continually athwart our path, there should still be regularity enough in mortal life to render foresight even partially available? sights from a steeple. so! i have climbed high, and my reward is small. here i stand with wearied knees--earth, indeed, at a dizzy depth below, but heaven far, far beyond me still. oh that i could soar up into the very zenith, where man never breathed nor eagle ever flew, and where the ethereal azure melts away from the eye and appears only a deepened shade of nothingness! and yet i shiver at that cold and solitary thought. what clouds are gathering in the golden west with direful intent against the brightness and the warmth of this summer afternoon? they are ponderous air-ships, black as death and freighted with the tempest, and at intervals their thunder--the signal-guns of that unearthly squadron--rolls distant along the deep of heaven. these nearer heaps of fleecy vapor--methinks i could roll and toss upon them the whole day long--seem scattered here and there for the repose of tired pilgrims through the sky. perhaps--for who can tell?--beautiful spirits are disporting themselves there, and will bless my mortal eye with the brief appearance of their curly locks of golden light and laughing faces fair and faint as the people of a rosy dream. or where the floating mass so imperfectly obstructs the color of the firmament a slender foot and fairy limb resting too heavily upon the frail support may be thrust through and suddenly withdrawn, while longing fancy follows them in vain. yonder, again, is an airy archipelago where the sunbeams love to linger in their journeyings through space. every one of those little clouds has been dipped and steeped in radiance which the slightest pressure might disengage in silvery profusion like water wrung from a sea-maid's hair. bright they are as a young man's visions, and, like them, would be realized in dullness, obscurity and tears. i will look on them no more. in three parts of the visible circle whose centre is this spire i discern cultivated fields, villages, white country-seats, the waving lines of rivulets, little placid lakes, and here and there a rising ground that would fain be termed a hill. on the fourth side is the sea, stretching away toward a viewless boundary, blue and calm except where the passing anger of a shadow flits across its surface and is gone. hitherward a broad inlet penetrates far into the land; on the verge of the harbor formed by its extremity is a town, and over it am i, a watchman, all-heeding and unheeded. oh that the multitude of chimneys could speak, like those of madrid, and betray in smoky whispers the secrets of all who since their first foundation have assembled at the hearths within! oh that the limping devil of le sage would perch beside me here, extend his wand over this contiguity of roofs, uncover every chamber and make me familiar with their inhabitants! the most desirable mode of existence might be that of a spiritualized paul pry hovering invisible round man and woman, witnessing their deeds, searching into their hearts, borrowing brightness from their felicity and shade from their sorrow, and retaining no emotion peculiar to himself. but none of these things are possible; and if i would know the interior of brick walls or the mystery of human bosoms, i can but guess. yonder is a fair street extending north and south. the stately mansions are placed each on its carpet of verdant grass, and a long flight of steps descends from every door to the pavement. ornamental trees--the broadleafed horse-chestnut, the elm so lofty and bending, the graceful but infrequent willow, and others whereof i know not the names--grow thrivingly among brick and stone. the oblique rays of the sun are intercepted by these green citizens and by the houses, so that one side of the street is a shaded and pleasant walk. on its whole extent there is now but a single passenger, advancing from the upper end, and he, unless distance and the medium of a pocket spyglass do him more than justice, is a fine young man of twenty. he saunters slowly forward, slapping his left hand with his folded gloves, bending his eyes upon the pavement, and sometimes raising them to throw a glance before him. certainly he has a pensive air. is he in doubt or in debt? is he--if the question be allowable--in love? does he strive to be melancholy and gentlemanlike, or is he merely overcome by the heat? but i bid him farewell for the present. the door of one of the houses--an aristocratic edifice with curtains of purple and gold waving from the windows--is now opened, and down the steps come two ladies swinging their parasols and lightly arrayed for a summer ramble. both are young, both are pretty; but methinks the left-hand lass is the fairer of the twain, and, though she be so serious at this moment, i could swear that there is a treasure of gentle fun within her. they stand talking a little while upon the steps, and finally proceed up the street. meantime, as their faces are now turned from me, i may look elsewhere. upon that wharf and down the corresponding street is a busy contrast to the quiet scene which i have just noticed. business evidently has its centre there, and many a man is wasting the summer afternoon in labor and anxiety, in losing riches or in gaining them, when he would be wiser to flee away to some pleasant country village or shaded lake in the forest or wild and cool sea-beach. i see vessels unlading at the wharf and precious merchandise strown upon the ground abundantly as at the bottom of the sea--that market whence no goods return, and where there is no captain nor supercargo to render an account of sales. here the clerks are diligent with their paper and pencils and sailors ply the block and tackle that hang over the hold, accompanying their toil with cries long-drawn and roughly melodious till the bales and puncheons ascend to upper air. at a little distance a group of gentlemen are assembled round the door of a warehouse. grave seniors be they, and i would wager--if it were safe, in these times, to be responsible for any one--that the least eminent among them might vie with old vincentio, that incomparable trafficker of pisa. i can even select the wealthiest of the company. it is the elderly personage in somewhat rusty black, with powdered hair the superfluous whiteness of which is visible upon the cape of his coat. his twenty ships are wafted on some of their many courses by every breeze that blows, and his name, i will venture to say, though i know it not, is a familiar sound among the far-separated merchants of europe and the indies. but i bestow too much of my attention in this quarter. on looking again to the long and shady walk i perceive that the two fair girls have encountered the young man. after a sort of shyness in the recognition, he turns back with them. moreover, he has sanctioned my taste in regard to his companions by placing himself on the inner side of the pavement, nearest the venus to whom i, enacting on a steeple-top the part of paris on the top of ida, adjudged the golden apple. in two streets converging at right angles toward my watch-tower i distinguish three different processions. one is a proud array of voluntary soldiers in bright uniform, resembling, from the height whence i look down, the painted veterans that garrison the windows of a toy-shop. and yet it stirs my heart. their regular advance, their nodding plumes, the sun-flash on their bayonets and musket-barrels, the roll of their drums ascending past me, and the fife ever and anon piercing through,--these things have wakened a warlike fire, peaceful though i be. close to their rear marches a battalion of schoolboys ranged in crooked and irregular platoons, shouldering sticks, thumping a harsh and unripe clatter from an instrument of tin and ridiculously aping the intricate manoeuvres of the foremost band. nevertheless, as slight differences are scarcely perceptible from a church-spire, one might be tempted to ask, "which are the boys?" or, rather, "which the men?" but, leaving these, let us turn to the third procession, which, though sadder in outward show, may excite identical reflections in the thoughtful mind. it is a funeral--a hearse drawn by a black and bony steed and covered by a dusty pall, two or three coaches rumbling over the stones, their drivers half asleep, a dozen couple of careless mourners in their every-day attire. such was not the fashion of our fathers when they carried a friend to his grave. there is now no doleful clang of the bell to proclaim sorrow to the town. was the king of terrors more awful in those days than in our own, that wisdom and philosophy have been able to produce this change? not so. here is a proof that he retains his proper majesty. the military men and the military boys are wheeling round the corner, and meet the funeral full in the face. immediately the drum is silent, all but the tap that regulates each simultaneous footfall. the soldiers yield the path to the dusty hearse and unpretending train, and the children quit their ranks and cluster on the sidewalks with timorous and instinctive curiosity. the mourners enter the churchyard at the base of the steeple and pause by an open grave among the burial-stones; the lightning glimmers on them as they lower down the coffin, and the thunder rattles heavily while they throw the earth upon its lid. verily, the shower is near, and i tremble for the young man and the girls, who have now disappeared from the long and shady street. how various are the situations of the people covered by the roofs beneath me, and how diversified are the events at this moment befalling them! the new-born, the aged, the dying, the strong in life and the recent dead are in the chambers of these many mansions. the full of hope, the happy, the miserable and the desperate dwell together within the circle of my glance. in some of the houses over which my eyes roam so coldly guilt is entering into hearts that are still tenanted by a debased and trodden virtue; guilt is on the very edge of commission, and the impending deed might be averted; guilt is done, and the criminal wonders if it be irrevocable. there are broad thoughts struggling in my mind, and, were i able to give them distinctness, they would make their way in eloquence. lo! the raindrops are descending. the clouds within a little time have gathered over all the sky, hanging heavily, as if about to drop in one unbroken mass upon the earth. at intervals the lightning flashes from their brooding hearts, quivers, disappears, and then comes the thunder, travelling slowly after its twin-born flame. a strong wind has sprung up, howls through the darkened streets, and raises the dust in dense bodies to rebel against the approaching storm. the disbanded soldiers fly, the funeral has already vanished like its dead, and all people hurry homeward--all that have a home--while a few lounge by the corners or trudge on desperately at their leisure. in a narrow lane which communicates with the shady street i discern the rich old merchant putting himself to the top of his speed lest the rain should convert his hair-powder to a paste. unhappy gentleman! by the slow vehemence and painful moderation wherewith he journeys, it is but too evident that podagra has left its thrilling tenderness in his great toe. but yonder, at a far more rapid pace, come three other of my acquaintance, the two pretty girls and the young man unseasonably interrupted in their walk. their footsteps are supported by the risen dust, the wind lends them its velocity, they fly like three sea-birds driven landward by the tempestuous breeze. the ladies would not thus rival atalanta if they but knew that any one were at leisure to observe them. ah! as they hasten onward, laughing in the angry face of nature, a sudden catastrophe has chanced. at the corner where the narrow lane enters into the street they come plump against the old merchant, whose tortoise-motion has just brought him to that point. he likes not the sweet encounter; the darkness of the whole air gathers speedily upon his visage, and there is a pause on both sides. finally he thrusts aside the youth with little courtesy, seizes an arm of each of the two girls, and plods onward like a magician with a prize of captive fairies. all this is easy to be understood. how disconsolate the poor lover stands, regardless of the rain that threatens an exceeding damage to his well-fashioned habiliments, till he catches a backward glance of mirth from a bright eye, and turns away with whatever comfort it conveys! the old man and his daughters are safely housed, and now the storm lets loose its fury. in every dwelling i perceive the faces of the chambermaids as they shut down the windows, excluding the impetuous shower and shrinking away from the quick fiery glare. the large drops descend with force upon the slated roofs and rise again in smoke. there is a rush and roar as of a river through the air, and muddy streams bubble majestically along the pavement, whirl their dusky foam into the kennel, and disappear beneath iron grates. thus did arethusa sink. i love not my station here aloft in the midst of the tumult which i am powerless to direct or quell, with the blue lightning wrinkling on my brow and the thunder muttering its first awful syllables in my ear. i will descend. yet let me give another glance to the sea, where the foam breaks out in long white lines upon a broad expanse of blackness or boils up in far-distant points like snowy mountain-tops in the eddies of a flood; and let me look once more at the green plain and little hills of the country, over which the giant of the storm is striding in robes of mist, and at the town whose obscured and desolate streets might beseem a city of the dead; and, turning a single moment to the sky, now gloomy as an author's prospects, i prepare to resume my station on lower earth. but stay! a little speck of azure has widened in the western heavens; the sunbeams find a passage and go rejoicing through the tempest, and on yonder darkest cloud, born like hallowed hopes of the glory of another world and the trouble and tears of this, brightens forth the rainbow. the hollow of the three hills. in those strange old times when fantastic dreams and madmen's reveries were realized among the actual circumstances of life, two persons met together at an appointed hour and place. one was a lady graceful in form and fair of feature, though pale and troubled and smitten with an untimely blight in what should have been the fullest bloom of her years; the other was an ancient and meanly-dressed woman of ill-favored aspect, and so withered, shrunken and decrepit that even the space since she began to decay must have exceeded the ordinary term of human existence. in the spot where they encountered no mortal could observe them. three little hills stood near each other, and down in the midst of them sunk a hollow basin almost mathematically circular, two or three hundred feet in breadth and of such depth that a stately cedar might but just be visible above the sides. dwarf pines were numerous upon the hills and partly fringed the outer verge of the intermediate hollow, within which there was nothing but the brown grass of october and here and there a tree-trunk that had fallen long ago and lay mouldering with no green successor from its roots. one of these masses of decaying wood, formerly a majestic oak, rested close beside a pool of green and sluggish water at the bottom of the basin. such scenes as this (so gray tradition tells) were once the resort of a power of evil and his plighted subjects, and here at midnight or on the dim verge of evening they were said to stand round the mantling pool disturbing its putrid waters in the performance of an impious baptismal rite. the chill beauty of an autumnal sunset was now gilding the three hill-tops, whence a paler tint stole down their sides into the hollow. "here is our pleasant meeting come to pass," said the aged crone, "according as thou hast desired. say quickly what thou wouldst have of me, for there is but a short hour that we may tarry here." as the old withered woman spoke a smile glimmered on her countenance like lamplight on the wall of a sepulchre. the lady trembled and cast her eyes upward to the verge of the basin, as if meditating to return with her purpose unaccomplished. but it was not so ordained. "i am stranger in this land, as you know," said she, at length. "whence i come it matters not, but i have left those behind me with whom my fate was intimately bound, and from whom i am cut off for ever. there is a weight in my bosom that i cannot away with, and i have come hither to inquire of their welfare." "and who is there by this green pool that can bring thee news from the ends of the earth?" cried the old woman, peering into the lady's face. "not from my lips mayst thou hear these tidings; yet be thou bold, and the daylight shall not pass away from yonder hilltop before thy wish be granted." "i will do your bidding though i die," replied the lady, desperately. the old woman seated herself on the trunk of the fallen tree, threw aside the hood that shrouded her gray locks and beckoned her companion to draw near. "kneel down," she said, "and lay your forehead on my knees." she hesitated a moment, but the anxiety that had long been kindling burned fiercely up within her. as she knelt down the border of her garment was dipped into the pool; she laid her forehead on the old woman's knees, and the latter drew a cloak about the lady's face, so that she was in darkness. then she heard the muttered words of prayer, in the midst of which she started and would have arisen. "let me flee! let me flee and hide myself, that they may not look upon me!" she cried. but, with returning recollection, she hushed herself and was still as death, for it seemed as if other voices, familiar in infancy and unforgotten through many wanderings and in all the vicissitudes of her heart and fortune, were mingling with the accents of the prayer. at first the words were faint and indistinct--not rendered so by distance, but rather resembling the dim pages of a book which we strive to read by an imperfect and gradually brightening light. in such a manner, as the prayer proceeded, did those voices strengthen upon the ear, till at length the petition ended, and the conversation of an aged man and of a woman broken and decayed like himself became distinctly audible to the lady as she knelt. but those strangers appeared not to stand in the hollow depth between the three hills. their voices were encompassed and re-echoed by the walls of a chamber the windows of which were rattling in the breeze; the regular vibration of a clock, the crackling of a fire and the tinkling of the embers as they fell among the ashes rendered the scene almost as vivid as if painted to the eye. by a melancholy hearth sat these two old people, the man calmly despondent, the woman querulous and tearful, and their words were all of sorrow. they spoke of a daughter, a wanderer they knew not where, bearing dishonor along with her and leaving shame and affliction to bring their gray heads to the grave. they alluded also to other and more recent woe, but in the midst of their talk their voices seemed to melt into the sound of the wind sweeping mournfully among the autumn leaves; and when the lady lifted her eyes, there was she kneeling in the hollow between three hills. "a weary and lonesome time yonder old couple have of it," remarked the old woman, smiling in the lady's face. "and did you also hear them?" exclaimed she, a sense of intolerable humiliation triumphing over her agony and fear. "yea, and we have yet more to hear," replied the old woman, "wherefore cover thy face quickly." again the withered hag poured forth the monotonous words of a prayer that was not meant to be acceptable in heaven, and soon in the pauses of her breath strange murmurings began to thicken, gradually increasing, so as to drown and overpower the charm by which they grew. shrieks pierced through the obscurity of sound and were succeeded by the singing of sweet female voices, which in their turn gave way to a wild roar of laughter broken suddenly by groanings and sobs, forming altogether a ghastly confusion of terror and mourning and mirth. chains were rattling, fierce and stern voices uttered threats and the scourge resounded at their command. all these noises deepened and became substantial to the listener's ear, till she could distinguish every soft and dreamy accent of the love-songs that died causelessly into funeral-hymns. she shuddered at the unprovoked wrath which blazed up like the spontaneous kindling of flume, and she grew faint at the fearful merriment raging miserably around her. in the midst of this wild scene, where unbound passions jostled each other in a drunken career, there was one solemn voice of a man, and a manly and melodious voice it might once have been. he went to and fro continually, and his feet sounded upon the floor. in each member of that frenzied company whose own burning thoughts had become their exclusive world he sought an auditor for the story of his individual wrong, and interpreted their laughter and tears as his reward of scorn or pity. he spoke of woman's perfidy, of a wife who had broken her holiest vows, of a home and heart made desolate. even as he went on, the shout, the laugh, the shriek, the sob, rose up in unison, till they changed into the hollow, fitful and uneven sound of the wind as it fought among the pine trees on those three lonely hills. the lady looked up, and there was the withered woman smiling in her face. "couldst thou have thought there were such merry times in a mad-house?" inquired the latter. "true, true!" said the lady to herself; "there is mirth within its walls, but misery, misery without." "wouldst thou hear more?" demanded the old woman. "there is one other voice i would fain listen to again," replied the lady, faintly. "then lay down thy head speedily upon my knees, that thou mayst get thee hence before the hour be past." the golden skirts of day were yet lingering upon the hills, but deep shades obscured the hollow and the pool, as if sombre night were rising thence to overspread the world. again that evil woman began to weave her spell. long did it proceed unanswered, till the knolling of a bell stole in among the intervals of her words like a clang that had travelled far over valley and rising ground and was just ready to die in the air. the lady shook upon her companion's knees as she heard that boding sound. stronger it grew, and sadder, and deepened into the tone of a death-bell, knolling dolefully from some ivy-mantled tower and bearing tidings of mortality and woe to the cottage, to the hall and to the solitary wayfarer, that all might weep for the doom appointed in turn to them. then came a measured tread, passing slowly, slowly on, as of mourners with a coffin, their garments trailing on the ground, so that the ear could measure the length of their melancholy array. before them went the priest, reading the burial-service, while the leaves of his book were rustling in the breeze. and though no voice but his was heard to speak aloud, still there were revilings and anathemas, whispered but distinct, from women and from men, breathed against the daughter who had wrung the aged hearts of her parents, the wife who had betrayed the trusting fondness of her husband, the mother who had sinned against natural affection and left her child to die. the sweeping sound of the funeral train faded away like a thin vapor, and the wind, that just before had seemed to shake the coffin-pall, moaned sadly round the verge of the hollow between three hills. but when the old woman stirred the kneeling lady, she lifted not her head. "here has been a sweet hour's sport!" said the withered crone, chuckling to herself. the toll-gatherer's day. a sketch of transitory life. methinks, for a person whose instinct bids him rather to pore over the current of life than to plunge into its tumultuous waves, no undesirable retreat were a toll-house beside some thronged thoroughfare of the land. in youth, perhaps, it is good for the observer to run about the earth, to leave the track of his footsteps far and wide, to mingle himself with the action of numberless vicissitudes, and, finally, in some calm solitude to feed a musing spirit on all that he has seen and felt. but there are natures too indolent or too sensitive to endure the dust, the sunshine or the rain, the turmoil of moral and physical elements, to which all the wayfarers of the world expose themselves. for such a man how pleasant a miracle could life be made to roll its variegated length by the threshold of his own hermitage, and the great globe, as it were, perform its revolutions and shift its thousand scenes before his eyes without whirling him onward in its course! if any mortal be favored with a lot analogous to this, it is the toll-gatherer. so, at least, have i often fancied while lounging on a bench at the door of a small square edifice which stands between shore and shore in the midst of a long bridge. beneath the timbers ebbs and flows an arm of the sea, while above, like the life-blood through a great artery, the travel of the north and east is continually throbbing. sitting on the aforesaid bench, i amuse myself with a conception, illustrated by numerous pencil-sketches in the air, of the toll-gatherer's day. in the morning--dim, gray, dewy summer's morn--the distant roll of ponderous wheels begins to mingle with my old friend's slumbers, creaking more and more harshly through the midst of his dream and gradually replacing it with realities. hardly conscious of the change from sleep to wakefulness, he finds himself partly clad and throwing wide the toll-gates for the passage of a fragrant load of hay. the timbers groan beneath the slow-revolving wheels; one sturdy yeoman stalks beside the oxen, and, peering from the summit of the hay, by the glimmer of the half-extinguished lantern over the toll-house is seen the drowsy visage of his comrade, who has enjoyed a nap some ten miles long. the toll is paid; creak, creak, again go the wheels, and the huge hay-mow vanishes into the morning mist. as yet nature is but half awake, and familiar objects appear visionary. but yonder, dashing from the shore with a rattling thunder of the wheels and a confused clatter of hoofs, comes the never-tiring mail, which has hurried onward at the same headlong, restless rate all through the quiet night. the bridge resounds in one continued peal as the coach rolls on without a pause, merely affording the toll-gatherer a glimpse at the sleepy passengers, who now bestir their torpid limbs and snuff a cordial in the briny air. the morn breathes upon them and blushes, and they forget how wearily the darkness toiled away. and behold now the fervid day in his bright chariot, glittering aslant over the waves, nor scorning to throw a tribute of his golden beams on the toll-gatherer's little hermitage. the old man looks eastward, and (for he is a moralizer) frames a simile of the stage-coach and the sun. while the world is rousing itself we may glance slightly at the scene of our sketch. it sits above the bosom of the broad flood--a spot not of earth, but in the midst of waters which rush with a murmuring sound among the massive beams beneath. over the door is a weatherbeaten board inscribed with the rates of toll in letters so nearly effaced that the gilding of the sunshine can hardly make them legible. beneath the window is a wooden bench on which a long succession of weary wayfarers have reposed themselves. peeping within-doors, we perceive the whitewashed walls bedecked with sundry lithographic prints and advertisements of various import and the immense show-bill of a wandering caravan. and there sits our good old toll-gatherer, glorified by the early sunbeams. he is a man, as his aspect may announce, of quiet soul and thoughtful, shrewd, yet simple mind, who of the wisdom which the passing world scatters along the wayside has gathered a reasonable store. now the sun smiles upon the landscape and earth smiles back again upon the sky. frequent now are the travellers. the toll-gatherer's practised ear can distinguish the weight of every vehicle, the number of its wheels and how many horses beat the resounding timbers with their iron tramp. here, in a substantial family chaise, setting forth betimes to take advantage of the dewy road, come a gentleman and his wife with their rosy-cheeked little girl sitting gladsomely between them. the bottom of the chaise is heaped with multifarious bandboxes and carpet-bags, and beneath the axle swings a leathern trunk dusty with yesterday's journey. next appears a four-wheeled carryall peopled with a round half dozen of pretty girls, all drawn by a single horse and driven by a single gentleman. luckless wight doomed through a whole summer day to be the butt of mirth and mischief among the frolicsome maidens! bolt upright in a sulky rides a thin, sour-visaged man who as he pays his toll hands the toll-gatherer a printed card to stick upon the wall. the vinegar-faced traveller proves to be a manufacturer of pickles. now paces slowly from timber to timber a horseman clad in black, with a meditative brow, as of one who, whithersoever his steed might bear him, would still journey through a mist of brooding thought. he is a country preacher going to labor at a protracted meeting. the next object passing townward is a butcher's cart canopied with its arch of snow-white cotton. behind comes a "sauceman" driving a wagon full of new potatoes, green ears of corn, beets, carrots, turnips and summer squashes, and next two wrinkled, withered witch-looking old gossips in an antediluvian chaise drawn by a horse of former generations and going to peddle out a lot of huckleberries. see, there, a man trundling a wheelbarrow-load of lobsters. and now a milk-cart rattles briskly onward, covered with green canvas and conveying the contributions of a whole herd of cows, in large tin canisters. but let all these pay their toll and pass. here comes a spectacle that causes the old toll-gatherer to smile benignantly, as if the travellers brought sunshine with them and lavished its gladsome influence all along the road. it is a barouche of the newest style, the varnished panels of which reflect the whole moving panorama of the landscape, and show a picture, likewise, of our friend with his visage broadened, so that his meditative smile is transformed to grotesque merriment. within sits a youth fresh as the summer morn, and beside him a young lady in white with white gloves upon her slender hands and a white veil flowing down over her face. but methinks her blushing cheek burns through the snowy veil. another white-robed virgin sits in front. and who are these on whom, and on all that appertains to them, the dust of earth seems never to have settled? two lovers whom the priest has blessed this blessed morn and sent them forth, with one of the bride-maids, on the matrimonial tour.--take my blessing too, ye happy ones! may the sky not frown upon you nor clouds bedew you with their chill and sullen rain! may the hot sun kindle no fever in your hearts! may your whole life's pilgrimage be as blissful as this first day's journey, and its close be gladdened with even brighter anticipations than those which hallow your bridal-night! they pass, and ere the reflection of their joy has faded from his face another spectacle throws a melancholy shadow over the spirit of the observing man. in a close carriage sits a fragile figure muffled carefully and shrinking even from the mild breath of summer. she leans against a manly form, and his arm enfolds her as if to guard his treasure from some enemy. let but a few weeks pass, and when he shall strive to embrace that loved one, he will press only desolation to his heart. and now has morning gathered up her dewy pearls and fled away. the sun rolls blazing through the sky, and cannot find a cloud to cool his face with. the horses toil sluggishly along the bridge, and heave their glistening sides in short quick pantings when the reins are tightened at the toll-house. glisten, too, the faces of the travellers. their garments are thickly bestrewn with dust; their whiskers and hair look hoary; their throats are choked with the dusty atmosphere which they have left behind them. no air is stirring on the road. nature dares draw no breath lest she should inhale a stifling cloud of dust. "a hot and dusty day!" cry the poor pilgrims as they wipe their begrimed foreheads and woo the doubtful breeze which the river bears along with it.--"awful hot! dreadful dusty!" answers the sympathetic toll-gatherer. they start again to pass through the fiery furnace, while he re-enters his cool hermitage and besprinkles it with a pail of briny water from the stream beneath. he thinks within himself that the sun is not so fierce here as elsewhere, and that the gentle air doth not forget him in these sultry days. yes, old friend, and a quiet heart will make a dog-day temperate. he hears a weary footstep, and perceives a traveller with pack and staff, who sits down upon the hospitable bench and removes the hat from his wet brow. the toll-gatherer administers a cup of cold water, and, discovering his guest to be a man of homely sense, he engages him in profitable talk, uttering the maxims of a philosophy which he has found in his own soul, but knows not how it came there. and as the wayfarer makes ready to resume his journey he tells him a sovereign remedy for blistered feet. now comes the noontide hour--of all the hours, nearest akin to midnight, for each has its own calmness and repose. soon, however, the world begins to turn again upon its axis, and it seems the busiest epoch of the day, when an accident impedes the march of sublunary things. the draw being lifted to permit the passage of a schooner laden with wood from the eastern forests, she sticks immovably right athwart the bridge. meanwhile, on both sides of the chasm a throng of impatient travellers fret and fume. here are two sailors in a gig with the top thrown back, both puffing cigars and swearing all sorts of forecastle oaths; there, in a smart chaise, a dashingly-dressed gentleman and lady, he from a tailor's shop-board and she from a milliner's back room--the aristocrats of a summer afternoon. and what are the haughtiest of us but the ephemeral aristocrats of a summer's day? here is a tin-pedler whose glittering ware bedazzles all beholders like a travelling meteor or opposition sun, and on the other side a seller of spruce beer, which brisk liquor is confined in several dozen of stone bottles. here conic a party of ladies on horseback, in green ridings habits, and gentlemen attendant, and there a flock of sheep for the market, pattering over the bridge with a multitude nous clatter of their little hoofs; here a frenchman with a hand-organ on his shoulder, and there an itinerant swiss jeweller. on this side, heralded by a blast of clarions and bugles, appears a train of wagons conveying all the wild beasts of a caravan; and on that a company of summer soldiers marching from village to village on a festival campaign, attended by the "brass band." now look at the scene, and it presents an emblem of the mysterious confusion, the apparently insolvable riddle, in which individuals, or the great world itself, seem often to be involved. what miracle shall set all things right again? but see! the schooner has thrust her bulky carcase through the chasm; the draw descends; horse and foot pass onward and leave the bridge vacant from end to end. "and thus," muses the toll-gatherer, "have i found it with all stoppages, even though the universe seemed to be at a stand." the sage old man! far westward now the reddening sun throws a broad sheet of splendor across the flood, and to the eyes of distant boatmen gleams brightly among the timbers of the bridge. strollers come from the town to quaff the freshening breeze. one or two let down long lines and haul up flapping flounders or cunners or small cod, or perhaps an eel. others, and fair girls among them, with the flush of the hot day still on their cheeks, bend over the railing and watch the heaps of seaweed floating upward with the flowing tide. the horses now tramp heavily along the bridge and wistfully bethink them of their stables.--rest, rest, thou weary world! for to-morrow's round of toil and pleasure will be as wearisome as to-day's has been, yet both shall bear thee onward a day's march of eternity.--now the old toll-gatherer looks seaward and discerns the lighthouse kindling on a far island, and the stars, too, kindling in the sky, as if but a little way beyond; and, mingling reveries of heaven with remembrances of earth, the whole procession of mortal travellers, all the dusty pilgrimage which he has witnessed, seems like a flitting show of phantoms for his thoughtful soul to muse upon. the vision of the fountain. at fifteen i became a resident in a country village more than a hundred miles from home. the morning after my arrival--a september morning, but warm and bright as any in july--i rambled into a wood of oaks with a few walnut trees intermixed, forming the closest shade above my head. the ground was rocky, uneven, overgrown with bushes and clumps of young saplings and traversed only by cattle-paths. the track which i chanced to follow led me to a crystal spring with a border of grass as freshly green as on may morning, and overshadowed by the limb of a great oak. one solitary sunbeam found its way down and played like a goldfish in the water. from my childhood i have loved to gaze into a spring. the water filled a circular basin, small but deep and set round with stones, some of which were covered with slimy moss, the others naked and of variegated hue--reddish, white and brown. the bottom was covered with coarse sand, which sparkled in the lonely sunbeam and seemed to illuminate the spring with an unborrowed light. in one spot the gush of the water violently agitated the sand, but without obscuring the fountain or breaking the glassiness of its surface. it appeared as if some living creature were about to emerge--the naiad of the spring, perhaps, in the shape of a beautiful young woman with a gown of filmy water-moss, a belt of rainbow-drops and a cold, pure, passionless countenance. how would the beholder shiver, pleasantly yet fearfully, to see her sitting on one of the stones, paddling her white feet in the ripples and throwing up water to sparkle in the sun! wherever she laid her hands on grass and flowers, they would immediately be moist, as with morning dew. then would she set about her labors, like a careful housewife, to clear the fountain of withered leaves, and bits of slimy wood, and old acorns from the oaks above, and grains of corn left by cattle in drinking, till the bright sand in the bright water were like a treasury of diamonds. but, should the intruder approach too near, he would find only the drops of a summer shower glistening about the spot where he had seen her. reclining on the border of grass where the dewy goddess should have been, i bent forward, and a pair of eyes met mine within the watery mirror. they were the reflection of my own. i looked again, and, lo! another face, deeper in the fountain than my own image, more distinct in all the features, yet faint as thought. the vision had the aspect of a fair young girl with locks of paly gold. a mirthful expression laughed in the eyes and dimpled over the whole shadowy countenance, till it seemed just what a fountain would be if, while dancing merrily into the sunshine, it should assume the shape of woman. through the dim rosiness of the cheeks i could see the brown leaves, the slimy twigs, the acorns and the sparkling sand. the solitary sunbeam was diffused among the golden hair, which melted into its faint brightness and became a glory round that head so beautiful. my description can give no idea how suddenly the fountain was thus tenanted and how soon it was left desolate. i breathed, and there was the face; i held my breath, and it was gone. had it passed away or faded into nothing? i doubted whether it had ever been. my sweet readers, what a dreamy and delicious hour did i spend where that vision found and left me! for a long time i sat perfectly still, waiting till it should reappear, and fearful that the slightest motion, or even the flutter of my breath, might frighten it away. thus have i often started from a pleasant dream, and then kept quiet in hopes to wile it back. deep were my musings as to the race and attributes of that ethereal being. had i created her? was she the daughter of my fancy, akin to those strange shapes which peep under the lids of children's eyes? and did her beauty gladden me for that one moment and then die? or was she a water-nymph within the fountain, or fairy or woodland goddess peeping over my shoulder, or the ghost of some forsaken maid who had drowned herself for love? or, in good truth, had a lovely girl with a warm heart and lips that would bear pressure stolen softly behind me and thrown her image into the spring? i watched and waited, but no vision came again. i departed, but with a spell upon me which drew me back that same afternoon to the haunted spring. there was the water gushing, the sand sparkling and the sunbeam glimmering. there the vision was not, but only a great frog, the hermit of that solitude, who immediately withdrew his speckled snout and made himself invisible--all except a pair of long legs--beneath a stone. methought he had a devilish look. i could have slain him as an enchanter who kept the mysterious beauty imprisoned in the fountain. sad and heavy, i was returning to the village. between me and the church-spire rose a little hill, and on its summit a group of trees insulated from all the rest of the wood, with their own share of radiance hovering on them from the west and their own solitary shadow falling to the east. the afternoon being far declined, the sunshine was almost pensive and the shade almost cheerful; glory and gloom were mingled in the placid light, as if the spirits of the day and evening had met in friendship under those trees and found themselves akin. i was admiring the picture when the shape of a young girl emerged from behind the clump of oaks. my heart knew her: it was the vision, but so distant and ethereal did she seem, so unmixed with earth, so imbued with the pensive glory of the spot where she was standing, that my spirit sunk within me, sadder than before. how could i ever reach her? while i gazed a sudden shower came pattering down upon the leaves. in a moment the air was full of brightness, each raindrop catching a portion of sunlight as it fell, and the whole gentle shower appearing like a mist, just substantial enough to bear the burden of radiance. a rainbow vivid as niagara's was painted in the air. its southern limb came down before the group of trees and enveloped the fair vision as if the hues of heaven were the only garment for her beauty. when the rainbow vanished, she who had seemed a part of it was no longer there. was her existence absorbed in nature's loveliest phenomenon, and did her pure frame dissolve away in the varied light? yet i would not despair of her return, for, robed in the rainbow, she was the emblem of hope. thus did the vision leave me, and many a doleful day succeeded to the parting moment. by the spring and in the wood and on the hill and through the village, at dewy sunrise, burning noon, and at that magic hour of sunset, when she had vanished from my sight, i sought her, but in vain. weeks came and went, months rolled away, and she appeared not in them. i imparted my mystery to none, but wandered to and fro or sat in solitude like one that had caught a glimpse of heaven and could take no more joy on earth. i withdrew into an inner world where my thoughts lived and breathed, and the vision in the midst of them. without intending it, i became at once the author and hero of a romance, conjuring up rivals, imagining events, the actions of others and my own, and experiencing every change of passion, till jealousy and despair had their end in bliss. oh, had i the burning fancy of my early youth with manhood's colder gift, the power of expression, your hearts, sweet ladies, should flutter at my tale. in the middle of january i was summoned home. the day before my departure, visiting the spots which had been hallowed by the vision, i found that the spring had a frozen bosom, and nothing but the snow and a glare of winter sunshine on the hill of the rainbow. "let me hope," thought i, "or my heart will be as icy as the fountain and the whole world as desolate as this snowy hill." most of the day was spent in preparing for the journey, which was to commence at four o'clock the next morning. about an hour after supper, when all was in readiness, i descended from my chamber to the sitting-room to take leave of the old clergyman and his family with whom i had been an inmate. a gust of wind blew out my lamp as i passed through the entry. according to their invariable custom--so pleasant a one when the fire blazes cheerfully--the family were sitting in the parlor with no other light than what came from the hearth. as the good clergyman's scanty stipend compelled him to use all sorts of economy, the foundation of his fires was always a large heap of tan, or ground bark, which would smoulder away from morning till night with a dull warmth and no flame. this evening the heap of tan was newly put on and surmounted with three sticks of red oak full of moisture, and a few pieces of dry pine that had not yet kindled. there was no light except the little that came sullenly from two half-burnt brands, without even glimmering on the andirons. but i knew the position of the old minister's arm-chair, and also where his wife sat with her knitting-work, and how to avoid his two daughters--one a stout country lass, and the other a consumptive girl. groping through the gloom, i found my own place next to that of the son, a learned collegian who had come home to keep school in the village during the winter vacation. i noticed that there was less room than usual to-night between the collegian's chair and mine. as people are always taciturn in the dark, not a word was said for some time after my entrance. nothing broke the stillness but the regular click of the matron's knitting-needles. at times the fire threw out a brief and dusky gleam which twinkled on the old man's glasses and hovered doubtfully round our circle, but was far too faint to portray the individuals who composed it. were we not like ghosts? dreamy as the scene was, might it not be a type of the mode in which departed people who had known and loved each other here would hold communion in eternity? we were aware of each other's presence, not by sight nor sound nor touch, but by an inward consciousness. would it not be so among the dead? the silence was interrupted by the consumptive daughter addressing a remark to some one in the circle whom she called rachel. her tremulous and decayed accents were answered by a single word, but in a voice that made me start and bend toward the spot whence it had proceeded. had i ever heard that sweet, low tone? if not, why did it rouse up so many old recollections, or mockeries of such, the shadows of things familiar yet unknown, and fill my mind with confused images of her features who had spoken, though buried in the gloom of the parlor? whom had my heart recognized, that it throbbed so? i listened to catch her gentle breathing, and strove by the intensity of my gaze to picture forth a shape where none was visible. suddenly the dry pine caught; the fire blazed up with a ruddy glow, and where the darkness had been, there was she--the vision of the fountain. a spirit of radiance only, she had vanished with the rainbow and appeared again in the firelight, perhaps to flicker with the blaze and be gone. yet her cheek was rosy and lifelike, and her features, in the bright warmth of the room, were even sweeter and tenderer than my recollection of them. she knew me. the mirthful expression that had laughed in her eyes and dimpled over her countenance when i beheld her faint beauty in the fountain was laughing and dimpling there now. one moment our glance mingled; the next, down rolled the heap of tan upon the kindled wood, and darkness snatched away that daughter of the light, and gave her back to me no more! fair ladies, there is nothing more to tell. must the simple mystery be revealed, then, that rachel was the daughter of the village squire and had left home for a boarding-school the morning after i arrived and returned the day before my departure? if i transformed her to an angel, it is what every youthful lover does for his mistress. therein consists the essence of my story. but slight the change, sweet maids, to make angels of yourselves. fancy's show-box. a morality. what is guilt? a stain upon the soul. and it is a point of vast interest whether the soul may contract such stains in all their depth and flagrancy from deeds which may have been plotted and resolved upon, but which physically have never had existence. must the fleshly hand and visible frame of man set its seal to the evil designs of the soul, in order to give them their entire validity against the sinner? or, while none but crimes perpetrated are cognizable before an earthly tribunal, will guilty thoughts--of which guilty deeds are no more than shadows,--will these draw down the full weight of a condemning sentence in the supreme court of eternity? in the solitude of a midnight chamber or in a desert afar from men or in a church while the body is kneeling the soul may pollute itself even with those crimes which we are accustomed to deem altogether carnal. if this be true, it is a fearful truth. let us illustrate the subject by an imaginary example. a venerable gentleman--one mr. smith--who had long been regarded as a pattern of moral excellence was warming his aged blood with a glass or two of generous wine. his children being gone forth about their worldly business and his grandchildren at school, he sat alone in a deep luxurious arm-chair with his feet beneath a richly-carved mahogany table. some old people have a dread of solitude, and when better company may not be had rejoice even to hear the quiet breathing of a babe asleep upon the carpet. but mr. smith, whose silver hair was the bright symbol of a life unstained except by such spots as are inseparable from human nature--he had no need of a babe to protect him by its purity, nor of a grown person to stand between him and his own soul. nevertheless, either manhood must converse with age, or womanhood must soothe him with gentle cares, or infancy must sport around his chair, or his thoughts will stray into the misty region of the past and the old man be chill and sad. wine will not always cheer him. such might have been the case with mr. smith, when, through the brilliant medium of his glass of old madeira, he beheld three figures entering the room. these were fancy, who had assumed the garb and aspect of an itinerant showman, with a box of pictures on her back; and memory, in the likeness of a clerk, with a pen behind her ear, an inkhorn at her buttonhole and a huge manuscript volume beneath her arm; and lastly, behind the other two, a person shrouded in a dusky mantle which concealed both face and form. but mr. smith had a shrewd idea that it was conscience. how kind of fancy, memory and conscience to visit the old gentleman just as he was beginning to imagine that the wine had neither so bright a sparkle nor so excellent a flavor as when himself and the liquor were less aged! through the dim length of the apartment, where crimson curtains muffled the glare of sunshine and created a rich obscurity, the three guests drew near the silver-haired old man. memory, with a finger between the leaves of her huge volume, placed herself at his right hand; conscience, with her face still hidden in the dusky mantle, took her station on the left, so as to be next his heart; while fancy set down her picture-box upon the table with the magnifying-glass convenient to his eye. we can sketch merely the outlines of two or three out of the many pictures which at the pulling of a string successively peopled the box with the semblances of living scenes. one was a moonlight picture, in the background a lowly dwelling, and in front, partly shadowed by a tree, yet besprinkled with flakes of radiance, two youthful figures, male and female. the young man stood with folded arms, a haughty smile upon his lip and a gleam of triumph in his eye as he glanced downward at the kneeling girl. she was almost prostrate at his feet, evidently sinking under a weight of shame and anguish which hardly allowed her to lift her clasped hands in supplication. her eyes she could not lift. but neither her agony, nor the lovely features on which it was depicted, nor the slender grace of the form which it convulsed, appeared to soften the obduracy of the young man. he was the personification of triumphant scorn. now, strange to say, as old mr. smith peeped through the magnifying-glass, which made the objects start out from the canvas with magical deception, he began to recognize the farmhouse, the tree and both the figures of the picture. the young man in times long past had often met his gaze within the looking-glass; the girl was the very image of his first love--his cottage-love, his martha burroughs. mr. smith was scandalized. "oh, vile and slanderous picture!" he exclaims. "when have i triumphed over ruined innocence? was not martha wedded in her teens to david tomkins, who won her girlish love and long enjoyed her affection as a wife? and ever since his death she has lived a reputable widow!" meantime, memory was turning over the leaves of her volume, rustling them to and fro with uncertain fingers, until among the earlier pages she found one which had reference to this picture. she reads it close to the old gentleman's ear: it is a record merely of sinful thought which never was embodied in an act, but, while memory is reading, conscience unveils her face and strikes a dagger to the heart of mr. smith. though not a death-blow, the torture was extreme. the exhibition proceeded. one after another fancy displayed her pictures, all of which appeared to have been painted by some malicious artist on purpose to vex mr. smith. not a shadow of proof could have been adduced in any earthly court that he was guilty of the slightest of those sins which were thus made to stare him in the face. in one scene there was a table set out, with several bottles and glasses half filled with wine, which threw back the dull ray of an expiring lamp. there had been mirth and revelry until the hand of the clock stood just at midnight, when murder stepped between the boon-companions. a young man had fallen on the floor, and lay stone dead with a ghastly wound crushed into his temple, while over him, with a delirium of mingled rage and horror in his countenance, stood the youthful likeness of mr. smith. the murdered youth wore the features of edward spencer. "what does this rascal of a painter mean?" cries mr. smith, provoked beyond all patience. "edward spencer was my earliest and dearest friend, true to me as i to him through more than half a century. neither i nor any other ever murdered him. was he not alive within five years, and did he not, in token of our long friendship, bequeath me his gold-headed cane and a mourning-ring?" again had memory been turning over her volume, and fixed at length upon so confused a page that she surely must have scribbled it when she was tipsy. the purport was, however, that while mr. smith and edward spencer were heating their young blood with wine a quarrel had flashed up between them, and mr. smith, in deadly wrath, had flung a bottle at spencer's head. true, it missed its aim and merely smashed a looking-glass; and the next morning, when the incident was imperfectly remembered, they had shaken hands with a hearty laugh. yet, again, while memory was reading, conscience unveiled her face, struck a dagger to the heart of mr. smith and quelled his remonstrance with her iron frown. the pain was quite excruciating. some of the pictures had been painted with so doubtful a touch, and in colors so faint and pale, that the subjects could barely be conjectured. a dull, semi-transparent mist had been thrown over the surface of the canvas, into which the figures seemed to vanish while the eye sought most earnestly to fix them. but in every scene, however dubiously portrayed, mr. smith was invariably haunted by his own lineaments at various ages as in a dusty mirror. after poring several minutes over one of these blurred and almost indistinguishable pictures, he began to see that the painter had intended to represent him, now in the decline of life, as stripping the clothes from the backs of three half-starved children. "really, this puzzles me!" quoth mr. smith, with the irony of conscious rectitude. "asking pardon of the painter, i pronounce him a fool as well as a scandalous knave. a man of my standing in the world to be robbing little children of their clothes! ridiculous!" but while he spoke memory had searched her fatal volume and found a page which with her sad calm voice she poured into his ear. it was not altogether inapplicable to the misty scene. it told how mr. smith had been grievously tempted by many devilish sophistries, on the ground of a legal quibble, to commence a lawsuit against three orphan-children, joint-heirs to a considerable estate. fortunately, before he was quite decided, his claims had turned out nearly as devoid of law as justice. as memory ceased to read conscience again thrust aside her mantle, and would have struck her victim with the envenomed dagger only that he struggled and clasped his hands before his heart. even then, however, he sustained an ugly gash. why should we follow fancy through the whole series of those awful pictures? painted by an artist of wondrous power and terrible acquaintance with the secret soul, they embodied the ghosts of all the never-perpetrated sins that had glided through the lifetime of mr. smith. and could such beings of cloudy fantasy, so near akin to nothingness, give valid evidence against him at the day of judgment? be that the case or not, there is reason to believe that one truly penitential tear would have washed away each hateful picture and left the canvas white as snow. but mr. smith, at a prick of conscience too keen to be endured, bellowed aloud with impatient agony, and suddenly discovered that his three guests were gone. there he sat alone, a silver-haired and highly-venerated old man, in the rich gloom of the crimsoned-curtained room, with no box of pictures on the table, but only a decanter of most excellent madeira. yet his heart still seemed to fester with the venom of the dagger. nevertheless, the unfortunate old gentleman might have argued the matter with conscience and alleged many reasons wherefore she should not smite him so pitilessly. were we to take up his cause, it should be somewhat in the following fashion. a scheme of guilt, till it be put in execution, greatly resembles a train of incidents in a projected tale. the latter, in order to produce a sense of reality in the reader's mind, must be conceived with such proportionate strength by the author as to seem in the glow of fancy more like truth, past, present or to come, than purely fiction. the prospective sinner, on the other hand, weaves his plot of crime, but seldom or never feels a perfect certainty that it will be executed. there is a dreaminess diffused about his thoughts; in a dream, as it were, he strikes the death-blow into his victim's heart and starts to find an indelible blood-stain on his hand. thus a novel-writer or a dramatist, in creating a villain of romance and fitting him with evil deeds, and the villain of actual life in projecting crimes that will be perpetrated, may almost meet each other halfway between reality and fancy. it is not until the crime is accomplished that guilt clenches its gripe upon the guilty heart and claims it for his own. then, and not before, sin is actually felt and acknowledged, and, if unaccompanied by repentance, grows a thousandfold more virulent by its self-consciousness. be it considered, also, that men often overestimate their capacity for evil. at a distance, while its attendant circumstances do not press upon their notice and its results are dimly seen, they can bear to contemplate it. they may take the steps which lead to crime, impelled by the same sort of mental action as in working out a mathematical problem, yet be powerless with compunction at the final moment. they knew not what deed it was that they deemed themselves resolved to do. in truth, there is no such thing in man's nature as a settled and full resolve, either for good or evil, except at the very moment of execution. let us hope, therefore, that all the dreadful consequences of sin will not be incurred unless the act have set its seal upon the thought. yet, with the slight fancy-work which we have framed, some sad and awful truths are interwoven. man must not disclaim his brotherhood even with the guiltiest, since, though his hand be clean, his heart has surely been polluted by the flitting phantoms of iniquity. he must feel that when he shall knock at the gate of heaven no semblance of an unspotted life can entitle him to entrance there. penitence must kneel and mercy come from the footstool of the throne, or that golden gate will never open. dr. heidegger's experiment. that very singular man old dr. heidegger once invited four venerable friends to meet him in his study. there were three white-bearded gentlemen--mr. medbourne, colonel killigrew and mr. gascoigne--and a withered gentlewoman whose name was the widow wycherly. they were all melancholy old creatures who had been unfortunate in life, and whose greatest misfortune it was that they were not long ago in their graves. mr. medbourne, in the vigor of his age, had been a prosperous merchant, but had lost his all by a frantic speculation, and was now little better than a mendicant. colonel killigrew had wasted his best years and his health and substance in the pursuit of sinful pleasures which had given birth to a brood of pains, such as the gout and divers other torments of soul and body. mr. gascoigne was a ruined politician, a man of evil fame--or, at least, had been so till time had buried him from the knowledge of the present generation and made him obscure instead of infamous. as for the widow wycherly, tradition tells us that she was a great beauty in her day, but for a long while past she had lived in deep seclusion on account of certain scandalous stories which had prejudiced the gentry of the town against her. it is a circumstance worth mentioning that each of these three old gentlemen--mr. medbourne, colonel killigrew and mr. gascoigne--were early lovers of the widow wycherly, and had once been on the point of cutting each other's throats for her sake. and before proceeding farther i will merely hint that dr. heidegger and all his four guests were sometimes thought to be a little beside themselves, as is not infrequently the case with old people when worried either by present troubles or woeful recollections. "my dear old friends," said dr. heidegger, motioning them to be seated, "i am desirous of your assistance in one of those little experiments with which i amuse myself here in my study." if all stories were true, dr. heidegger's study must have been a very curious place. it was a dim, old-fashioned chamber festooned with cobwebs and besprinkled with antique dust. around the walls stood several oaken bookcases, the lower shelves of which were filled with rows of gigantic folios and black-letter quartos, and the upper with little parchment-covered duodecimos. over the central bookcase was a bronze bust of hippocrates, with which, according to some authorities, dr. heidegger was accustomed to hold consultations in all difficult cases of his practice. in the obscurest corner of the room stood a tall and narrow oaken closet with its door ajar, within which doubtfully appeared a skeleton. between two of the bookcases hung a looking-glass, presenting its high and dusty plate within a tarnished gilt frame. among many wonderful stories related of this mirror, it was fabled that the spirits of all the doctor's deceased patients dwelt within its verge and would stare him in the face whenever he looked thitherward. the opposite side of the chamber was ornamented with the full-length portrait of a young lady arrayed in the faded magnificence of silk, satin and brocade, and with a visage as faded as her dress. above half a century ago dr. heidegger had been on the point of marriage with this young lady, but, being affected with some slight disorder, she had swallowed one of her lover's prescriptions and died on the bridal-evening. the greatest curiosity of the study remains to be mentioned: it was a ponderous folio volume bound in black leather, with massive silver clasps. there were no letters on the back, and nobody could tell the title of the book. but it was well known to be a book of magic, and once, when a chambermaid had lifted it merely to brush away the dust, the skeleton had rattled in its closet, the picture of the young lady had stepped one foot upon the floor and several ghastly faces had peeped forth from the mirror, while the brazen head of hippocrates frowned and said, "forbear!" such was dr. heidegger's study. on the summer afternoon of our tale a small round table as black as ebony stood in the centre of the room, sustaining a cut-glass vase of beautiful form and elaborate workmanship. the sunshine came through the window between the heavy festoons of two faded damask curtains and fell directly across this vase, so that a mild splendor was reflected from it on the ashen visages of the five old people who sat around. four champagne-glasses were also on the table. "my dear old friends," repeated dr. heidegger, "may i reckon on your aid in performing an exceedingly curious experiment?" now, dr. heidegger was a very strange old gentleman whose eccentricity had become the nucleus for a thousand fantastic stories. some of these fables--to my shame be it spoken--might possibly be traced back to mine own veracious self; and if any passages of the present tale should startle the reader's faith, i must be content to bear the stigma of a fiction-monger. when the doctor's four guests heard him talk of his proposed experiment, they anticipated nothing more wonderful than the murder of a mouse in an air-pump or the examination of a cobweb by the microscope, or some similar nonsense with which he was constantly in the habit of pestering his intimates. but without waiting for a reply dr. heidegger hobbled across the chamber and returned with the same ponderous folio bound in black leather which common report affirmed to be a book of magic. undoing the silver clasps, he opened the volume and took from among its black-letter pages a rose, or what was once a rose, though now the green leaves and crimson petals had assumed one brownish hue and the ancient flower seemed ready to crumble to dust in the doctor's hands. "this rose," said dr. heidegger, with a sigh--"this same withered and crumbling flower--blossomed five and fifty years ago. it was given me by sylvia ward, whose portrait hangs yonder, and i meant to wear it in my bosom at our wedding. five and fifty years it has been treasured between the leaves of this old volume. now, would you deem it possible that this rose of half a century could ever bloom again?" "nonsense!" said the widow wycherly, with a peevish toss of her head. "you might as well ask whether an old woman's wrinkled face could ever bloom again." "see!" answered dr. heidegger. he uncovered the vase and threw the faded rose into the water which it contained. at first it lay lightly on the surface of the fluid, appearing to imbibe none of its moisture. soon, however, a singular change began to be visible. the crushed and dried petals stirred and assumed a deepening tinge of crimson, as if the flower were reviving from a deathlike slumber, the slender stalk and twigs of foliage became green, and there was the rose of half a century, looking as fresh as when sylvia ward had first given it to her lover. it was scarcely full-blown, for some of its delicate red leaves curled modestly around its moist bosom, within which two or three dewdrops were sparkling. "that is certainly a very pretty deception," said the doctor's friends--carelessly, however, for they had witnessed greater miracles at a conjurer's show. "pray, how was it effected?" "did you never hear of the fountain of youth?" asked dr. heidegger, "which ponce de leon, the spanish adventurer, went in search of two or three centuries ago?" "but did ponce de leon ever find it?" said the widow wycherly. "no," answered dr. heidegger, "for he never sought it in the right place. the famous fountain of youth, if i am rightly informed, is situated in the southern part of the floridian peninsula, not far from lake macaco. its source is overshadowed by several gigantic magnolias which, though numberless centuries old, have been kept as fresh as violets by the virtues of this wonderful water. an acquaintance of mine, knowing my curiosity in such matters, has sent me what you see in the vase." "ahem!" said colonel killigrew, who believed not a word of the doctor's story; "and what may be the effect of this fluid on the human frame?" "you shall judge for yourself, my dear colonel," replied dr. heidegger.--"and all of you, my respected friends, are welcome to so much of this admirable fluid as may restore to you the bloom of youth. for my own part, having had much trouble in growing old, i am in no hurry to grow young again. with your permission, therefore, i will merely watch the progress of the experiment." while he spoke dr. heidegger had been filling the four champagne-glasses with the water of the fountain of youth. it was apparently impregnated with an effervescent gas, for little bubbles were continually ascending from the depths of the glasses and bursting in silvery spray at the surface. as the liquor diffused a pleasant perfume, the old people doubted not that it possessed cordial and comfortable properties, and, though utter sceptics as to its rejuvenescent power, they were inclined to swallow it at once. but dr. heidegger besought them to stay a moment. "before you drink, my respectable old friends," said he, "it would be well that, with the experience of a lifetime to direct you, you should draw up a few general rules for your guidance in passing a second time through the perils of youth. think what a sin and shame it would be if, with your peculiar advantages, you should not become patterns of virtue and wisdom to all the young people of the age!" the doctor's four venerable friends made him no answer except by a feeble and tremulous laugh, so very ridiculous was the idea that, knowing how closely repentance treads behind the steps of error, they should ever go astray again. "drink, then," said the doctor, bowing; "i rejoice that i have so well selected the subjects of my experiment." with palsied hands they raised the glasses to their lips. the liquor, if it really possessed such virtues as dr. heidegger imputed to it, could not have been bestowed on four human beings who needed it more woefully. they looked as if they had never known what youth or pleasure was, but had been the offspring of nature's dotage, and always the gray, decrepit, sapless, miserable creatures who now sat stooping round the doctor's table without life enough in their souls or bodies to be animated even by the prospect of growing young again. they drank off the water and replaced their glasses on the table. assuredly, there was an almost immediate improvement in the aspect of the party--not unlike what might have been produced by a glass of generous wine--together with a sudden glow of cheerful sunshine, brightening over all their visages at once. there was a healthful suffusion on their cheeks instead of the ashen hue that had made them look so corpse-like. they gazed at one another, and fancied that some magic power had really begun to smooth away the deep and sad inscriptions which father time had been so long engraving on their brows. the widow wycherly adjusted her cap, for she felt almost like a woman again. "give us more of this wondrous water," cried they, eagerly. "we are younger, but we are still too old. quick! give us more!" "patience, patience!" quoth dr. heidegger, who sat, watching the experiment with philosophic coolness. "you have been a long time growing old; surely you might be content to grow young in half an hour. but the water is at your service." again he filled their glasses with the liquor of youth, enough of which still remained in the vase to turn half the old people in the city to the age of their own grandchildren. while the bubbles were yet sparkling on the brim the doctor's four guests snatched their glasses from the table and swallowed the contents at a single gulp. was it delusion? even while the draught was passing down their throats it seemed to have wrought a change on their whole systems. their eyes grew clear and bright; a dark shade deepened among their silvery locks: they sat around the table three gentlemen of middle age and a woman hardly beyond her buxom prime. "my dear widow, you are charming!" cried colonel killigrew, whose eyes had been fixed upon her face while the shadows of age were flitting from it like darkness from the crimson daybreak. the fair widow knew of old that colonel killigrew's compliments were not always measured by sober truth; so she started up and ran to the mirror, still dreading that the ugly visage of an old woman would meet her gaze. meanwhile, the three gentlemen behaved in such a manner as proved that the water of the fountain of youth possessed some intoxicating qualities--unless, indeed, their exhilaration of spirits were merely a lightsome dizziness caused by the sudden removal of the weight of years. mr. gascoigne's mind seemed to run on political topics, but whether relating to the past, present or future could not easily be determined, since the same ideas and phrases have been in vogue these fifty years. now he rattled forth full-throated sentences about patriotism, national glory and the people's right; now he muttered some perilous stuff or other in a sly and doubtful whisper, so cautiously that even his own conscience could scarcely catch the secret; and now, again, he spoke in measured accents and a deeply-deferential tone, as if a royal ear were listening to his well-turned periods. colonel killigrew all this time had been trolling forth a jolly bottle-song and ringing his glass in symphony with the chorus, while his eyes wandered toward the buxom figure of the widow wycherly. on the other side of the table, mr. medbourne was involved in a calculation of dollars and cents with which was strangely intermingled a project for supplying the east indies with ice by harnessing a team of whales to the polar icebergs. as for the widow wycherly, she stood before the mirror courtesying and simpering to her own image and greeting it as the friend whom she loved better than all the world besides. she thrust her face close to the glass to see whether some long-remembered wrinkle or crow's-foot had indeed vanished; she examined whether the snow had so entirely melted from her hair that the venerable cap could be safely thrown aside. at last, turning briskly away, she came with a sort of dancing step to the table. "my dear old doctor," cried she, "pray favor me with another glass." "certainly, my dear madam--certainly," replied the complaisant doctor. "see! i have already filled the glasses." there, in fact, stood the four glasses brimful of this wonderful water, the delicate spray of which, as it effervesced from the surface, resembled the tremulous glitter of diamonds. it was now so nearly sunset that the chamber had grown duskier than ever, but a mild and moonlike splendor gleamed from within the vase and rested alike on the four guests and on the doctor's venerable figure. he sat in a high-backed, elaborately-carved oaken arm-chair with a gray dignity of aspect that might have well befitted that very father time whose power had never been disputed save by this fortunate company. even while quaffing the third draught of the fountain of youth, they were almost awed by the expression of his mysterious visage. but the next moment the exhilarating gush of young life shot through their veins. they were now in the happy prime of youth. age, with its miserable train of cares and sorrows and diseases, was remembered only as the trouble of a dream from which they had joyously awoke. the fresh gloss of the soul, so early lost and without which the world's successive scenes had been but a gallery of faded pictures, again threw its enchantment over all their prospects. they felt like new-created beings in a new-created universe. "we are young! we are young!" they cried, exultingly. youth, like the extremity of age, had effaced the strongly-marked characteristics of middle life and mutually assimilated them all. they were a group of merry youngsters almost maddened with the exuberant frolicsomeness of their years. the most singular effect of their gayety was an impulse to mock the infirmity and decrepitude of which they had so lately been the victims. they laughed loudly at their old-fashioned attire--the wide-skirted coats and flapped waistcoats of the young men and the ancient cap and gown of the blooming girl. one limped across the floor like a gouty grandfather; one set a pair of spectacles astride of his nose and pretended to pore over the black-letter pages of the book of magic; a third seated himself in an arm-chair and strove to imitate the venerable dignity of dr. heidegger. then all shouted mirthfully and leaped about the room. the widow wycherly--if so fresh a damsel could be called a widow--tripped up to the doctor's chair with a mischievous merriment in her rosy face. "doctor, you dear old soul," cried she, "get up and dance with me;" and then the four young people laughed louder than ever to think what a queer figure the poor old doctor would cut. "pray excuse me," answered the doctor, quietly. "i am old and rheumatic, and my dancing-days were over long ago. but either of these gay young gentlemen will be glad of so pretty a partner." "dance with me, clara," cried colonel killigrew. "no, no! i will be her partner," shouted mr. gascoigne. "she promised me her hand fifty years ago," exclaimed mr. medbourne. they all gathered round her. one caught both her hands in his passionate grasp, another threw his arm about her waist, the third buried his hand among the glossy curls that clustered beneath the widow's cap. blushing, panting, struggling, chiding, laughing, her warm breath fanning each of their faces by turns, she strove to disengage herself, yet still remained in their triple embrace. never was there a livelier picture of youthful rivalship, with bewitching beauty for the prize. yet, by a strange deception, owing to the duskiness of the chamber and the antique dresses which they still wore, the tall mirror is said to have reflected the figures of the three old, gray, withered grand-sires ridiculously contending for the skinny ugliness of a shrivelled grandam. but they were young: their burning passions proved them so. inflamed to madness by the coquetry of the girl-widow, who neither granted nor quite withheld her favors, the three rivals began to interchange threatening glances. still keeping hold of the fair prize, they grappled fiercely at one another's throats. as they struggled to and fro the table was overturned and the vase dashed into a thousand fragments. the precious water of youth flowed in a bright stream across the floor, moistening the wings of a butterfly which, grown old in the decline of summer, had alighted there to die. the insect fluttered lightly through the chamber and settled on the snowy head of dr. heidegger. "come, come, gentlemen! come, madam wycherly!" exclaimed the doctor. "i really must protest against this riot." they stood still and shivered, for it seemed as if gray time were calling them back from their sunny youth far down into the chill and darksome vale of years. they looked at old dr. heidegger, who sat in his carved armchair holding the rose of half a century, which he had rescued from among the fragments of the shattered vase. at the motion of his hand the four rioters resumed their seats--the more readily because their violent exertions had wearied them, youthful though they were. "my poor sylvia's rose!" ejaculated dr. heidegger, holding it in the light of the sunset clouds. "it appears to be fading again." and so it was. even while the party were looking at it the flower continued to shrivel up, till it became as dry and fragile as when the doctor had first thrown it into the vase. he shook off the few drops of moisture which clung to its petals. "i love it as well thus as in its dewy freshness," observed he, pressing the withered rose to his withered lips. while he spoke the butterfly fluttered down from the doctor's snowy head and fell upon the floor. his guests shivered again. a strange dullness--whether of the body or spirit they could not tell--was creeping gradually over them all. they gazed at one another, and fancied that each fleeting moment snatched away a charm and left a deepening furrow where none had been before. was it an illusion? had the changes of a lifetime been crowded into so brief a space, and were they now four aged people sitting with their old friend dr. heidegger? "are we grown old again so soon?" cried they, dolefully. in truth, they had. the water of youth possessed merely a virtue more transient than that of wine; the delirium which it created had effervesced away. yes, they were old again. with a shuddering impulse that showed her a woman still, the widow clasped her skinny hands before her face and wished that the coffin-lid were over it, since it could be no longer beautiful. "yes, friends, ye are old again," said dr. heidegger, "and, lo! the water of youth is all lavished on the ground. well, i bemoan it not; for if the fountain gushed at my very doorstep, i would not stoop to bathe my lips in it--no, though its delirium were for years instead of moments. such is the lesson ye have taught me." but the doctor's four friends had taught no such lesson to themselves. they resolved forthwith to make a pilgrimage to florida and quaff at morning, noon and night from the fountain of youth. legends of the province-house. i.--howe's masquerade. ii.--edward randolph's portrait. iii.--lady eleanore's mantle. iv.--old esther dudley. i. howe's masquerade. one afternoon last summer, while walking along washington street, my eye was attracted by a sign-board protruding over a narrow archway nearly opposite the old south church. the sign represented the front of a stately edifice which was designated as the "old province house, kept by thomas waite." i was glad to be thus reminded of a purpose, long entertained, of visiting and rambling over the mansion of the old royal governors of massachusetts, and, entering the arched passage which penetrated through the middle of a brick row of shops, a few steps transported me from the busy heart of modern boston into a small and secluded court-yard. one side of this space was occupied by the square front of the province house, three stories high and surmounted by a cupola, on the top of which a gilded indian was discernible, with his bow bent and his arrow on the string, as if aiming at the weathercock on the spire of the old south. the figure has kept this attitude for seventy years or more, ever since good deacon drowne, a cunning carver of wood, first stationed him on his long sentinel's watch over the city. the province house is constructed of brick, which seems recently to have been overlaid with a coat of light-colored paint. a flight of red freestone steps fenced in by a balustrade of curiously wrought iron ascends from the court-yard to the spacious porch, over which is a balcony with an iron balustrade of similar pattern and workmanship to that beneath. these letters and figures--" p.s. "--are wrought into the ironwork of the balcony, and probably express the date of the edifice, with the initials of its founder's name. a wide door with double leaves admitted me into the hall or entry, on the right of which is the entrance to the bar-room. it was in this apartment, i presume, that the ancient governors held their levees with vice-regal pomp, surrounded by the military men, the counsellors, the judges, and other officers of the crown, while all the loyalty of the province thronged to do them honor. but the room in its present condition cannot boast even of faded magnificence. the panelled wainscot is covered with dingy paint and acquires a duskier hue from the deep shadow into which the province house is thrown by the brick block that shuts it in from washington street. a ray of sunshine never visits this apartment any more than the glare of the festal torches which have been extinguished from the era of the revolution. the most venerable and ornamental object is a chimney-piece set round with dutch tiles of blue-figured china, representing scenes from scripture, and, for aught i know, the lady of pownall or bernard may have sat beside this fireplace and told her children the story of each blue tile. a bar in modern style, well replenished with decanters, bottles, cigar-boxes and network bags of lemons, and provided with a beer-pump and a soda-fount, extends along one side of the room. at my entrance an elderly person was smacking his lips with a zest which satisfied me that the cellars of the province house still hold good liquor, though doubtless of other vintages than were quaffed by the old governors. after sipping a glass of port-sangaree prepared by the skilful hands of mr. thomas waite, i besought that worthy successor and representative of so many historic personages to conduct me over their time-honored mansion. he readily complied, but, to confess the truth, i was forced to draw strenuously upon my imagination in order to find aught that was interesting in a house which, without its historic associations, would have seemed merely such a tavern as is usually favored by the custom of decent city boarders and old-fashioned country gentlemen. the chambers, which were probably spacious in former times, are now cut up by partitions and subdivided into little nooks, each affording scanty room for the narrow bed and chair and dressing-table of a single lodger: the great staircase, however, may be termed, without much hyperbole, a feature of grandeur and magnificence. it winds through the midst of the house by flights of broad steps, each flight terminating in a square landing-place, whence the ascent is continued toward the cupola. a carved balustrade, freshly painted in the lower stories, but growing dingier as we ascend, borders the staircase with its quaintly twisted and intertwined pillars, from top to bottom. up these stairs the military boots, or perchance the gouty shoes, of many a governor have trodden as the wearers mounted to the cupola which afforded them so wide a view over their metropolis and the surrounding country. the cupola is an octagon with several windows, and a door opening upon the roof. from this station, as i pleased myself with imagining, gage may have beheld his disastrous victory on bunker hill (unless one of the tri-mountains intervened), and howe have marked the approaches of washington's besieging army, although the buildings since erected in the vicinity have shut out almost every object save the steeple of the old south, which seems almost within arm's length. descending from the cupola, i paused in the garret to observe the ponderous white-oak framework, so much more massive than the frames of modern houses, and thereby resembling an antique skeleton. the brick walls, the materials of which were imported from holland, and the timbers of the mansion, are still as sound as ever, but, the floors and other interior parts being greatly decayed, it is contemplated to gut the whole and build a new house within the ancient frame-and brickwork. among other inconveniences of the present edifice, mine host mentioned that any jar or motion was apt to shake down the dust of ages out of the ceiling of one chamber upon the floor of that beneath it. we stepped forth from the great front window into the balcony where in old times it was doubtless the custom of the king's representative to show himself to a loyal populace, requiting their huzzas and tossed-up hats with stately bendings of his dignified person. in those days the front of the province house looked upon the street, and the whole site now occupied by the brick range of stores, as well as the present court-yard, was laid out in grass-plats overshadowed by trees and bordered by a wrought-iron fence. now the old aristocratic edifice hides its time-worn visage behind an upstart modern building; at one of the back windows i observed some pretty tailoresses sewing and chatting and laughing, with now and then a careless glance toward the balcony. descending thence, we again entered the bar-room, where the elderly gentleman above mentioned--the smack of whose lips had spoken so favorably for mr. waite's good liquor--was still lounging in his chair. he seemed to be, if not a lodger, at least a familiar visitor of the house who might be supposed to have his regular score at the bar, his summer seat at the open window and his prescriptive corner at the winter's fireside. being of a sociable aspect, i ventured to address him with a remark calculated to draw forth his historical reminiscences, if any such were in his mind, and it gratified me to discover that, between memory and tradition, the old gentleman was really possessed of some very pleasant gossip about the province house. the portion of his talk which chiefly interested me was the outline of the following legend. he professed to have received it at one or two removes from an eye-witness, but this derivation, together with the lapse of time, must have afforded opportunities for many variations of the narrative; so that, despairing of literal and absolute truth, i have not scrupled to make such further changes as seemed conducive to the reader's profit and delight. * * * * * at one of the entertainments given at the province-house during the latter part of the siege of boston there passed a scene which has never yet been satisfactorily explained. the officers of the british army and the loyal gentry of the province, most of whom were collected within the beleaguered town, had been invited to a masqued ball, for it was the policy for sir william howe to hide the distress and danger of the period and the desperate aspect of the siege under an ostentation of festivity. the spectacle of this evening, if the oldest members of the provincial court circle might be believed, was the most gay and gorgeous affair that had occurred in the annals of the government. the brilliantly-lighted apartments were thronged with figures that seemed to have stepped from the dark canvas of historic portraits or to have flitted forth from the magic pages of romance, or at least to have flown hither from one of the london theatres without a change of garments. steeled knights of the conquest, bearded statesmen of queen elizabeth and high-ruffed ladies of her court were mingled with characters of comedy, such as a parti-colored merry andrew jingling his cap and bells, a falstaff almost as provocative of laughter as his prototype, and a don quixote with a bean-pole for a lance and a pot-lid for a shield. but the broadest merriment was excited by a group of figures ridiculously dressed in old regimentals which seemed to have been purchased at a military rag-fair or pilfered from some receptacle of the cast-off clothes of both the french and british armies. portions of their attire had probably been worn at the siege of louisburg, and the coats of most recent cut might have been rent and tattered by sword, ball or bayonet as long ago as wolfe's victory. one of these worthies--a tall, lank figure brandishing a rusty sword of immense longitude--purported to be no less a personage than general george washington, and the other principal officers of the american army, such as gates, lee, putnam, schuyler, ward and heath, were represented by similar scarecrows. an interview in the mock-heroic style between the rebel warriors and the british commander-in-chief was received with immense applause, which came loudest of all from the loyalists of the colony. there was one of the guests, however, who stood apart, eying these antics sternly and scornfully at once with a frown and a bitter smile. it was an old man formerly of high station and great repute in the province, and who had been a very famous soldier in his day. some surprise had been expressed that a person of colonel joliffe's known whig principles, though now too old to take an active part in the contest, should have remained in boston during the siege, and especially that he should consent to show himself in the mansion of sir william howe. but thither he had come with a fair granddaughter under his arm, and there, amid all the mirth and buffoonery, stood this stern old figure, the best-sustained character in the masquerade, because so well representing the antique spirit of his native land. the other guests affirmed that colonel joliffe's black puritanical scowl threw a shadow round about him, although, in spite of his sombre influence, their gayety continued to blaze higher, like--an ominous comparison--the flickering brilliancy of a lamp which has but a little while to burn. eleven strokes full half an hour ago had pealed from the clock of the old south, when a rumor was circulated among the company that some new spectacle or pageant was about to be exhibited which should put a fitting close to the splendid festivities of the night. "what new jest has your excellency in hand?" asked the reverend mather byles, whose presbyterian scruples had not kept him from the entertainment. "trust me, sir, i have already laughed more than beseems my cloth at your homeric confabulation with yonder ragamuffin general of the rebels. one other such fit of merriment, and i must throw off my clerical wig and band." "not so, good dr. byles," answered sir william howe; "if mirth were a crime, you had never gained your doctorate in divinity. as to this new foolery, i know no more about it than yourself--perhaps not so much. honestly, now, doctor, have you not stirred up the sober brains of some of your countrymen to enact a scene in our masquerade?" "perhaps," slyly remarked the granddaughter of colonel joliffe, whose high spirit had been stung by many taunts against new england--"perhaps we are to have a masque of allegorical figures--victory with trophies from lexington and bunker hill, plenty with her overflowing horn to typify the present abundance in this good town, and glory with a wreath for his excellency's brow." sir william howe smiled at words which he would have answered with one of his darkest frowns had they been uttered by lips that wore a beard. he was spared the necessity of a retort by a singular interruption. a sound of music was heard without the house, as if proceeding from a full band of military instruments stationed in the street, playing, not such a festal strain as was suited to the occasion, but a slow funeral-march. the drums appeared to be muffled, and the trumpets poured forth a wailing breath which at once hushed the merriment of the auditors, filling all with wonder and some with apprehension. the idea occurred to many that either the funeral procession of some great personage had halted in front of the province-house, or that a corpse in a velvet-covered and gorgeously-decorated coffin was about to be borne from the portal. after listening a moment, sir william howe called in a stern voice to the leader of the musicians, who had hitherto enlivened the entertainment with gay and lightsome melodies. the man was drum-major to one of the british regiments. "dighton," demanded the general, "what means this foolery? bid your band silence that dead march, or, by my word, they shall have sufficient cause for their lugubrious strains. silence it, sirrah!" "please, your honor," answered the drum-major, whose rubicund visage had lost all its color, "the fault is none of mine. i and my band are all here together, and i question whether there be a man of us that could play that march without book. i never heard it but once before, and that was at the funeral of his late majesty, king george ii." "well, well!" said sir william howe, recovering his composure; "it is the prelude to some masquerading antic. let it pass." a figure now presented itself, but among the many fantastic masks that were dispersed through the apartments none could tell precisely from whence it came. it was a man in an old-fashioned dress of black serge and having the aspect of a steward or principal domestic in the household of a nobleman or great english landholder. this figure advanced to the outer door of the mansion, and, throwing both its leaves wide open, withdrew a little to one side and looked back toward the grand staircase, as if expecting some person to descend. at the same time, the music in the street sounded a loud and doleful summons. the eyes of sir william howe and his guests being directed to the staircase, there appeared on the uppermost landing-place, that was discernible from the bottom, several personages descending toward the door. the foremost was a man of stern visage, wearing a steeple-crowned hat and a skull-cap beneath it, a dark cloak and huge wrinkled boots that came halfway up his legs. under his arm was a rolled-up banner which seemed to be the banner of england, but strangely rent and torn; he had a sword in his right hand and grasped a bible in his left. the next figure was of milder aspect, yet full of dignity, wearing a broad ruff, over which descended a beard, a gown of wrought velvet and a doublet and hose of black satin; he carried a roll of manuscript in his hand. close behind these two came a young man of very striking countenance and demeanor with deep thought and contemplation on his brow, and perhaps a flash of enthusiasm in his eye; his garb, like that of his predecessors, was of an antique fashion, and there was a stain of blood upon his ruff. in the same group with these were three or four others, all men of dignity and evident command, and bearing themselves like personages who were accustomed to the gaze of the multitude. it was the idea of the beholders that these figures went to join the mysterious funeral that had halted in front of the province-house, yet that supposition seemed to be contradicted by the air of triumph with which they waved their hands as they crossed the threshold and vanished through the portal. "in the devil's name, what is this?" muttered sir william howe to a gentleman beside him. "a procession of the regicide judges of king charles the martyr?" "these," said colonel joliffe, breaking silence almost for the first time that evening--"these, if i interpret them aright, are the puritan governors, the rulers of the old original democracy of massachusetts--endicott with the banner from which he had torn the symbol of subjection, and winthrop and sir henry vane and dudley, haynes, bellingham and leverett." "why had that young man a stain of blood upon his ruff?" asked miss joliffe. "because in after-years," answered her grandfather, "he laid down the wisest head in england upon the block for the principles of liberty." "will not your excellency order out the guard?" whispered lord percy, who, with other british officers, had now assembled round the general. "there may be a plot under this mummery." "tush! we have nothing to fear," carelessly replied sir william howe. "there can be no worse treason in the matter than a jest, and that somewhat of the dullest. even were it a sharp and bitter one, our best policy would be to laugh it off. see! here come more of these gentry." another group of characters had now partly descended the staircase. the first was a venerable and white-bearded patriarch who cautiously felt his way downward with a staff. treading hastily behind him, and stretching forth his gauntleted hand as if to grasp the old man's shoulder, came a tall soldier-like figure equipped with a plumed cap of steel, a bright breastplate and a long sword, which rattled against the stairs. next was seen a stout man dressed in rich and courtly attire, but not of courtly demeanor; his gait had the swinging motion of a seaman's walk, and, chancing to stumble on the staircase, he suddenly grew wrathful and was heard to mutter an oath. he was followed by a noble-looking personage in a curled wig such as are represented in the portraits of queen anne's time and earlier, and the breast of his coat was decorated with an embroidered star. while advancing to the door he bowed to the right hand and to the left in a very gracious and insinuating style, but as he crossed the threshold, unlike the early puritan governors, he seemed to wring his hands with sorrow. "prithee, play the part of a chorus, good dr. byles," said sir william howe. "what worthies are these?" "if it please your excellency, they lived somewhat before my day," answered the doctor; "but doubtless our friend the colonel has been hand and glove with them." "their living faces i never looked upon," said colonel joliffe, gravely; "although i have spoken face to face with many rulers of this land, and shall greet yet another with an old man's blessing ere i die. but we talk of these figures. i take the venerable patriarch to be bradstreet, the last of the puritans, who was governor at ninety or thereabouts. the next is sir edmund andros, a tyrant, as any new england schoolboy will tell you, and therefore the people cast him down from his high seat into a dungeon. then comes sir william phipps, shepherd, cooper, sea-captain and governor. may many of his countrymen rise as high from as low an origin! lastly, you saw the gracious earl of bellamont, who ruled us under king william." "but what is the meaning of it all?" asked lord percy. "now, were i a rebel," said miss joliffe, half aloud, "i might fancy that the ghosts of these ancient governors had been summoned to form the funeral procession of royal authority in new england." several other figures were now seen at the turn of the staircase. the one in advance had a thoughtful, anxious and somewhat crafty expression of face, and in spite of his loftiness of manner, which was evidently the result both of an ambitious spirit and of long continuance in high stations, he seemed not incapable of cringing to a greater than himself. a few steps behind came an officer in a scarlet and embroidered uniform cut in a fashion old enough to have been worn by the duke of marlborough. his nose had a rubicund tinge, which, together with the twinkle of his eye, might have marked him as a lover of the wine-cup and good-fellowship; notwithstanding which tokens, he appeared ill at ease, and often glanced around him as if apprehensive of some secret mischief. next came a portly gentleman wearing a coat of shaggy cloth lined with silken velvet; he had sense, shrewdness and humor in his face and a folio volume under his arm, but his aspect was that of a man vexed and tormented beyond all patience and harassed almost to death. he went hastily down, and was followed by a dignified person dressed in a purple velvet suit with very rich embroidery; his demeanor would have possessed much stateliness, only that a grievous fit of the gout compelled him to hobble from stair to stair with contortions of face and body. when dr. byles beheld this figure on the staircase, he shivered as with an ague, but continued to watch him steadfastly until the gouty gentleman had reached the threshold, made a gesture of anguish and despair and vanished into the outer gloom, whither the funeral music summoned him. "governor belcher--my old patron--in his very shape and dress!" gasped dr. byles. "this is an awful mockery." "a tedious foolery, rather," said sir william howe, with an air of indifference. "but who were the three that preceded him?" "governor dudley, a cunning politician; yet his craft once brought him to a prison," replied colonel joliffe. "governor shute, formerly a colonel under marlborough, and whom the people frightened out of the province, and learned governor burnett, whom the legislature tormented into a mortal fever." "methinks they were miserable men--these royal governors of massachusetts," observed miss joliffe. "heavens! how dim the light grows!" it was certainly a fact that the large lamp which illuminated the staircase now burned dim and duskily; so that several figures which passed hastily down the stairs and went forth from the porch appeared rather like shadows than persons of fleshly substance. sir william howe and his guests stood at the doors of the contiguous apartments watching the progress of this singular pageant with various emotions of anger, contempt or half-acknowledged fear, but still with an anxious curiosity. the shapes which now seemed hastening to join the mysterious procession were recognized rather by striking peculiarities of dress or broad characteristics of manner than by any perceptible resemblance of features to their prototypes. their faces, indeed, were invariably kept in deep shadow, but dr. byles and other gentlemen who had long been familiar with the successive rulers of the province were heard to whisper the names of shirley, of pownall, of sir francis bernard and of the well-remembered hutchinson, thereby confessing that the actors, whoever they might be, in this spectral march of governors had succeeded in putting on some distant portraiture of the real personages. as they vanished from the door, still did these shadows toss their arms into the gloom of night with a dread expression of woe. following the mimic representative of hutchinson came a military figure holding before his face the cocked hat which he had taken from his powdered head, but his epaulettes and other insignia of rank were those of a general officer, and something in his mien reminded the beholders of one who had recently been master of the province-house and chief of all the land. "the shape of gage, as true as in a looking-glass!" exclaimed lord percy, turning pale. "no, surely," cried miss joliffe, laughing hysterically; "it could not be gage, or sir william would have greeted his old comrade in arms. perhaps he will not suffer the next to pass unchallenged." "of that be assured, young lady," answered sir william howe, fixing his eyes with a very marked expression upon the immovable visage of her grandfather. "i have long enough delayed to pay the ceremonies of a host to these departing guests; the next that takes his leave shall receive due courtesy." a wild and dreary burst of music came through the open door. it seemed as it the procession, which had been gradually filling up its ranks, were now about to move, and that this loud peal of the wailing trumpets and roll of the muffled drums were a call to some loiterer to make haste. many eyes, by an irresistible impulse, were turned upon sir william howe, as if it were he whom the dreary music summoned to the funeral of departed power. "see! here comes the last," whispered miss joliffe, pointing her tremulous finger to the staircase. a figure had come into view as if descending the stairs, although so dusky was the region whence it emerged some of the spectators fancied that they had seen this human shape suddenly moulding itself amid the gloom. downward the figure came with a stately and martial tread, and, reaching the lowest stair, was observed to be a tall man booted and wrapped in a military cloak, which was drawn up around the face so as to meet the napped brim of a laced hat; the features, therefore, were completely hidden. but the british officers deemed that they had seen that military cloak before, and even recognized the frayed embroidery on the collar, as well as the gilded scabbard of a sword which protruded from the folds of the cloak and glittered in a vivid gleam of light. apart from these trifling particulars there were characteristics of gait and bearing which impelled the wondering guests to glance from the shrouded figure to sir william howe, as if to satisfy themselves that their host had not suddenly vanished from the midst of them. with a dark flush of wrath upon his brow, they saw the general draw his sword and advance to meet the figure in the cloak before the latter had stepped one pace upon the floor. "villain, unmuffle yourself!" cried he. "you pass no farther." the figure, without blenching a hair's-breadth from the sword which was pointed at his breast, made a solemn pause and lowered the cape of the cloak from about his face, yet not sufficiently for the spectators to catch a glimpse of it. but sir william howe had evidently seen enough. the sternness of his countenance gave place to a look of wild amazement, if not horror, while he recoiled several steps from the figure and let fall his sword upon the floor. the martial shape again drew the cloak about his features and passed on, but, reaching the threshold with his back toward the spectators, he was seen to stamp his foot and shake his clenched hands in the air. it was afterward affirmed that sir william howe had repeated that selfsame gesture of rage and sorrow when for the last time, and as the last royal governor, he passed through the portal of the province-house. "hark! the procession moves," said miss joliffe. the music was dying away along the street, and its dismal strains were mingled with the knell of midnight from the steeple of the old south and with the roar of artillery which announced that the beleaguered army of washington had intrenched itself upon a nearer height than before. as the deep boom of the cannon smote upon his ear colonel joliffe raised himself to the full height of his aged form and smiled sternly on the british general. "would your excellency inquire further into the mystery of the pageant?" said he. "take care of your gray head!" cried sir william howe, fiercely, though with a quivering lip. "it has stood too long on a traitor's shoulders." "you must make haste to chop it off, then," calmly replied the colonel, "for a few hours longer, and not all the power of sir william howe, nor of his master, shall cause one of these gray hairs to fall. the empire of britain in this ancient province is at its last gasp to-night; almost while i speak it is a dead corpse, and methinks the shadows of the old governors are fit mourners at its funeral." with these words colonel joliffe threw on his cloak, and, drawing his granddaughter's arm within his own, retired from the last festival that a british ruler ever held in the old province of massachusetts bay. it was supposed that the colonel and the young lady possessed some secret intelligence in regard to the mysterious pageant of that night. however this might be, such knowledge has never become general. the actors in the scene have vanished into deeper obscurity than even that wild indian hand who scattered the cargoes of the tea-ships on the waves and gained a place in history, yet left no names. but superstition, among other legends of this mansion, repeats the wondrous tale that on the anniversary night of britain's discomfiture the ghosts of the ancient governors of massachusetts still glide through the portal of the province house. and last of all comes a figure shrouded in a military cloak, tossing his clenched hands into the air and stamping his iron-shod boots upon the broad freestone steps with a semblance of feverish despair, but without the sound of a foot-tramp. * * * * * when the truth-telling accents of the elderly gentleman were hushed, i drew a long breath and looked round the room, striving with the best energy of my imagination to throw a tinge of romance and historic grandeur over the realities of the scene. but my nostrils snuffed up a scent of cigar-smoke, clouds of which the narrator had emitted by way of visible emblem, i suppose, of the nebulous obscurity of his tale. moreover, my gorgeous fantasies were woefully disturbed by the rattling of the spoon in a tumbler of whiskey-punch which mr. thomas waite was mingling for a customer. nor did it add to the picturesque appearance of the panelled walls that the slate of the brookline stage was suspended against them, instead of the armorial escutcheon of some far-descended governor. a stage-driver sat at one of the windows reading a penny paper of the day--the boston _times_--and presenting a figure which could nowise be brought into any picture of "times in boston" seventy or a hundred years ago. on the window-seat lay a bundle neatly done up in brown paper, the direction of which i had the idle curiosity to read: "miss susan huggins, at the province house." a pretty chambermaid, no doubt. in truth, it is desperately hard work when we attempt to throw the spell of hoar antiquity over localities with which the living world and the day that is passing over us have aught to do. yet, as i glanced at the stately staircase down which the procession of the old governors had descended, and as i emerged through the venerable portal whence their figures had preceded me, it gladdened me to be conscious of a thrill of awe. then, diving through the narrow archway, a few strides transported me into the densest throng of washington street. ii. edward randolph's portrait. the old legendary guest of the province house abode in my remembrance from midsummer till january. one idle evening last winter, confident that he would be found in the snuggest corner of the bar-room, i resolved to pay him another visit, hoping to deserve well of my country by snatching from oblivion some else unheard-of fact of history. the night was chill and raw, and rendered boisterous by almost a gale of wind which whistled along washington street, causing the gaslights to flare and flicker within the lamps. as i hurried onward my fancy was busy with a comparison between the present aspect of the street and that which it probably wore when the british governors inhabited the mansion whither i was now going. brick edifices in those times were few till a succession of destructive fires had swept, and swept again, the wooden dwellings and warehouses from the most populous quarters of the town. the buildings stood insulated and independent, not, as now, merging their separate existences into connected ranges with a front of tiresome identity, but each possessing features of its own, as if the owner's individual taste had shaped it, and the whole presenting a picturesque irregularity the absence of which is hardly compensated by any beauties of our modern architecture. such a scene, dimly vanishing from the eye by the ray of here and there a tallow candle glimmering through the small panes of scattered windows, would form a sombre contrast to the street as i beheld it with the gaslights blazing from corner to corner, flaming within the shops and throwing a noonday brightness through the huge plates of glass. but the black, lowering sky, as i turned my eyes upward, wore, doubtless, the same visage as when it frowned upon the ante-revolutionary new englanders. the wintry blast had the same shriek that was familiar to their ears. the old south church, too, still pointed its antique spire into the darkness and was lost between earth and heaven, and, as i passed, its clock, which had warned so many generations how transitory was their lifetime, spoke heavily and slow the same unregarded moral to myself. "only seven o'clock!" thought i. "my old friend's legends will scarcely kill the hours 'twixt this and bedtime." passing through the narrow arch, i crossed the courtyard, the confined precincts of which were made visible by a lantern over the portal of the province house. on entering the bar-room, i found, as i expected, the old tradition-monger seated by a special good fire of anthracite, compelling clouds of smoke from a corpulent cigar. he recognized me with evident pleasure, for my rare properties as a patient listener invariably make me a favorite with elderly gentlemen and ladies of narrative propensites. drawing a chair to the fire, i desired mine host to favor us with a glass apiece of whiskey-punch, which was speedily prepared, steaming hot, with a slice of lemon at the bottom, a dark-red stratum of port wine upon the surface and a sprinkling of nutmeg strewn over all. as we touched our glasses together, my legendary friend made himself known to me as mr. bela tiffany, and i rejoiced at the oddity of the name, because it gave his image and character a sort of individuality in my conception. the old gentleman's draught acted as a solvent upon his memory, so that it overflowed with tales, traditions, anecdotes of famous dead people and traits of ancient manners, some of which were childish as a nurse's lullaby, while others might have been worth the notice of the grave historian. nothing impressed me more than a story of a black mysterious picture which used to hang in one of the chambers of the province house, directly above the room where we were now sitting. the following is as correct a version of the fact as the reader would be likely to obtain from any other source, although, assuredly, it has a tinge of romance approaching to the marvellous. * * * * * in one of the apartments of the province-house there was long preserved an ancient picture the frame of which was as black as ebony, and the canvas itself so dark with age, damp and smoke that not a touch of the painter's art could be discerned. time had thrown an impenetrable veil over it and left to tradition and fable and conjecture to say what had once been there portrayed. during the rule of many successive governors it had hung, by prescriptive and undisputed right, over the mantel piece of the same chamber, and it still kept its place when lieutenant-governor hutchinson assumed the administration of the province on the departure of sir francis bernard. the lieutenant-governor sat one afternoon resting his head against the carved back of his stately arm-chair and gazing up thoughtfully at the void blackness of the picture. it was scarcely a time for such inactive musing, when affairs of the deepest moment required the ruler's decision; for within that very hour hutchinson had received intelligence of the arrival of a british fleet bringing three regiments from halifax to overawe the insubordination of the people. these troops awaited his permission to occupy the fortress of castle william and the town itself, yet, instead of affixing his signature to an official order, there sat the lieutenant-governor so carefully scrutinizing the black waste of canvas that his demeanor attracted the notice of two young persons who attended him. one, wearing a military dress of buff, was his kinsman, francis lincoln, the provincial captain of castle william; the other, who sat on a low stool beside his chair, was alice vane, his favorite niece. she was clad entirely in white--a pale, ethereal creature who, though a native of new england, had been educated abroad and seemed not merely a stranger from another clime, but almost a being from another world. for several years, until left an orphan, she had dwelt with her father in sunny italy, and there had acquired a taste and enthusiasm for sculpture and painting which she found few opportunities of gratifying in the undecorated dwellings of the colonial gentry. it was said that the early productions of her own pencil exhibited no inferior genius, though perhaps the rude atmosphere of new england had cramped her hand and dimmed the glowing colors of her fancy. but, observing her uncle's steadfast gaze, which appeared to search through the mist of years to discover the subject of the picture, her curiosity was excited. "is it known, my dear uncle," inquired she, "what this old picture once represented? possibly, could it be made visible, it might prove a masterpiece of some great artist; else why has it so long held such a conspicuous place?" as her uncle, contrary to his usual custom--for he was as attentive to all the humors and caprices of alice as if she had been his own best-beloved child--did not immediately reply, the young captain of castle william took that office upon himself. "this dark old square of canvas, my fair cousin," said he, "has been an heirloom in the province-house from time immemorial. as to the painter, i can tell you nothing; but if half the stories told of it be true, not one of the great italian masters has ever produced so marvellous a piece of work as that before you." captain lincoln proceeded to relate some of the strange fables and fantasies which, as it was impossible to refute them by ocular demonstration, had grown to be articles of popular belief in reference to this old picture. one of the wildest, and at the same time the best-accredited, accounts stated it to be an original and authentic portrait of the evil one, taken at a witch-meeting near salem, and that its strong and terrible resemblance had been confirmed by several of the confessing wizards and witches at their trial in open court. it was likewise affirmed that a familiar spirit or demon abode behind the blackness of the picture, and had shown himself at seasons of public calamity to more than one of the royal governors. shirley, for instance, had beheld this ominous apparition on the eve of general abercrombie's shameful and bloody defeat under the walls of ticonderoga. many of the servants of the province-house had caught glimpses of a visage frowning down upon them at morning or evening twilight, or in the depths of night while raking up the fire that glimmered on the hearth beneath, although, if any were, bold enough to hold a torch before the picture, it would appear as black and undistinguishable as ever. the oldest inhabitant of boston recollected that his father--in whose days the portrait had not wholly faded out of sight--had once looked upon it, but would never suffer himself to be questioned as to the face which was there represented. in connection with such stories, it was remarkable that over the top of the frame there were some ragged remnants of black silk, indicating that a veil had formerly hung down before the picture until the duskiness of time had so effectually concealed it. but, after all, it was the most singular part of the affair that so many of the pompous governors of massachusetts had allowed the obliterated picture to remain in the state-chamber of the province-house. "some of these fables are really awful," observed alice vane, who had occasionally shuddered as well as smiled while her cousin spoke. "it would be almost worth while to wipe away the black surface of the canvas, since the original picture can hardly be so formidable as those which fancy paints instead of it." "but would it be possible," inquired her cousin," to restore this dark picture to its pristine hues?" "such arts are known in italy," said alice. the lieutenant-governor had roused himself from his abstracted mood, and listened with a smile to the conversation of his young relatives. yet his voice had something peculiar in its tones when he undertook the explanation of the mystery. "i am sorry, alice, to destroy your faith in the legends of which you are so fond," remarked he, "but my antiquarian researches have long since made me acquainted with the subject of this picture--if picture it can be called--which is no more visible, nor ever will be, than the face of the long-buried man whom it once represented. it was the portrait of edward randolph, the founder of this house, a person famous in the history of new england." "of that edward randolph," exclaimed captain lincoln, "who obtained the repeal of the first provincial charter, under which our forefathers had enjoyed almost democratic privileges--he that was styled the arch-enemy of new england, and whose memory is still held in detestation as the destroyer of our liberties?" "it was the same randolph," answered hutchinson, moving uneasily in his chair. "it was his lot to taste the bitterness of popular odium." "our annals tell us," continued the captain of castle william, "that the curse of the people followed this randolph where he went and wrought evil in all the subsequent events of his life, and that its effect was seen, likewise, in the manner of his death. they say, too, that the inward misery of that curse worked itself outward and was visible on the wretched man's countenance, making it too horrible to be looked upon. if so, and if this picture truly represented his aspect, it was in mercy that the cloud of blackness has gathered over it." "these traditions are folly to one who has proved, as i have, how little of historic truth lies at the bottom," said the lieutenant-governor. "as regards the life and character of edward randolph, too implicit credence has been given to dr. cotton mather, who--i must say it, though some of his blood runs in my veins--has filled our early history with old women's tales as fanciful and extravagant as those of greece or rome." "and yet," whispered alice vane, "may not such fables have a moral? and methinks, if the visage of this portrait be so dreadful, it is not without a cause that it has hung so long in a chamber of the province-house. when the rulers feel themselves irresponsible, it were well that they should be reminded of the awful weight of a people's curse." the lieutenant-governor started and gazed for a moment at his niece, as if her girlish fantasies had struck upon some feeling in his own breast which all his policy or principles could not entirely subdue. he knew, indeed, that alice, in spite of her foreign education, retained the native sympathies of a new england girl. "peace, silly child!" cried he, at last, more harshly than he had ever before addressed the gentle alice. "the rebuke of a king; is more to be dreaded than the clamor of a wild, misguided multitude.--captain lincoln, it is decided: the fortress of castle william must be occupied by the royal troops. the two remaining regiments shall be billeted in the town or encamped upon the common. it is time, after years of tumult, and almost rebellion, that his majesty's government should have a wall of strength about it." "trust, sir--trust yet a while to the loyalty of the people," said captain lincoln, "nor teach them that they can ever be on other terms with british soldiers than those of brotherhood, as when they fought side by side through the french war. do not convert the streets of your native town into a camp. think twice before you give up old castle william, the key of the province, into other keeping than that of true-born new englanders." "young man, it is decided," repeated hutchinson, rising from his chair. "a british officer will be in attendance this evening to receive the necessary instructions for the disposal of the troops. your presence also will be required. till then, farewell." with these words the lieutenant-governor hastily left the room, while alice and her cousin more slowly followed, whispering together, and once pausing to glance back at the mysterious picture. the captain of castle william fancied that the girl's air and mien were such as might have belonged to one of those spirits of fable--fairies or creatures of a more antique mythology--who sometimes mingled their agency with mortal affairs, half in caprice, yet with a sensibility to human weal or woe. as he held the door for her to pass alice beckoned to the picture and smiled. "come forth, dark and evil shape!" cried she. "it is thine hour." in the evening lieutenant-governor hutchinson sat in the same chamber where the foregoing scene had occurred, surrounded by several persons whose various interests had summoned them together. there were the selectmen of boston--plain patriarchal fathers of the people, excellent representatives of the old puritanical founders whose sombre strength had stamped so deep an impress upon the new england character. contrasting with these were one or two members of council, richly dressed in the white wigs, the embroidered waistcoats and other magnificence of the time, and making a somewhat ostentatious display of courtier-like ceremonial. in attendance, likewise, was a major of the british army, awaiting the lieutenant-governor's orders for the landing of the troops, which still remained on board the transports. the captain of castle william stood beside hutchinson's chair, with folded arms, glancing rather haughtily at the british officer by whom he was soon to be superseded in his command. on a table in the centre of the chamber stood a branched silver candlestick, throwing down the glow of half a dozen waxlights upon a paper apparently ready for the lieutenant-governor's signature. partly shrouded in the voluminous folds of one of the window-curtains, which fell from the ceiling to the floor, was seen the white drapery of a lady's robe. it may appear strange that alice vane should have been there at such a time, but there was something so childlike, so wayward, in her singular character, so apart from ordinary rules, that her presence did not surprise the few who noticed it. meantime, the chairman of the selectmen was addressing to the lieutenant-governor a long and solemn protest against the reception of the british troops into the town. "and if your honor," concluded this excellent but somewhat prosy old gentleman, "shall see fit to persist in bringing these mercenary sworders and musketeers into our quiet streets, not on our heads be the responsibility. think, sir, while there is yet time, that if one drop of blood be shed, that blood shall be an eternal stain upon your honor's memory. you, sir, have written with an able pen the deeds of our forefathers; the more to be desired is it, therefore, that yourself should deserve honorable mention as a true patriot and upright ruler when your own doings shall be written down in history." "i am not insensible, my good sir, to the natural desire to stand well in the annals of my country," replied hutchinson, controlling his impatience into courtesy, "nor know i any better method of attaining that end than by withstanding the merely temporary spirit of mischief which, with your pardon, seems to have infected older men than myself. would you have me wait till the mob shall sack the province-house as they did my private mansion? trust me, sir, the time may come when you will be glad to flee for protection to the king's banner, the raising of which is now so distasteful to you." "yes," said the british major, who was impatiently expecting the lieutenant-governor's orders. "the demagogues of this province have raised the devil, and cannot lay him again. we will exorcise him in god's name and the king's." "if you meddle with the devil, take care of his claws," answered the captain of castle william, stirred by the taunt against his countrymen. "craving your pardon, young sir," said the venerable selectman, "let not an evil spirit enter into your words. we will strive against the oppressor with prayer and fasting, as our forefathers would have done. like them, moreover, we will submit to whatever lot a wise providence may send us--always after our own best exertions to amend it." "and there peep forth the devil's claws!" muttered hutchinson, who well understood the nature of puritan submission. "this matter shall be expedited forthwith. when there shall be a sentinel at every corner and a court of guard before the town-house, a loyal gentleman may venture to walk abroad. what to me is the outcry of a mob in this remote province of the realm? the king is my master, and england is my country; upheld by their armed strength, i set my foot upon the rabble and defy them." he snatched a pen and was about to affix his signature to the paper that lay on the table, when the captain of castle william placed his hand upon his shoulder. the freedom of the action, so contrary to the ceremonious respect which was then considered due to rank and dignity, awakened general surprise, and in none more than in the lieutenant-governor himself. looking angrily up, he perceived that his young relative was pointing his finger to the opposite wall. hutchinson's eye followed the signal, and he saw what had hitherto been unobserved--that a black silk curtain was suspended before the mysterious picture, so as completely to conceal it. his thoughts immediately recurred to the scene of the preceding afternoon, and in his surprise, confused by indistinct emotions, yet sensible that his niece must have had an agency in this phenomenon, he called loudly upon her: "alice! come hither, alice!" no sooner had he spoken than alice vane glided from her station, and, pressing one hand across her eyes, with the other snatched away the sable curtain that concealed the portrait. an exclamation of surprise burst from every beholder, but the lieutenant-governor's voice had a tone of horror. "by heaven!" said he, in a low inward murmur, speaking rather to himself than to those around him; "if the spirit of edward randolph were to appear among us from the place of torment, he could not wear more of the terrors of hell upon his face." "for some wise end," said the aged selectman, solemnly, "hath providence scattered away the mist of years that had so long hid this dreadful effigy. until this hour no living man hath seen what we behold." within the antique frame which so recently had enclosed a sable waste of canvas now appeared a visible picture-still dark, indeed, in its hues and shadings, but thrown forward in strong relief. it was a half-length figure of a gentleman in a rich but very old-fashioned dress of embroidered velvet, with a broad ruff and a beard, and wearing a hat the brim of which overshadowed his forehead. beneath this cloud the eyes had a peculiar glare which was almost lifelike. the whole portrait started so distinctly out of the background that it had the effect of a person looking down from the wall at the astonished and awe-stricken spectators. the expression of the face, if any words can convey an idea of it, was that of a wretch detected in some hideous guilt and exposed to the bitter hatred and laughter and withering scorn of a vast surrounding multitude. there was the struggle of defiance, beaten down and overwhelmed by the crushing weight of ignominy. the torture of the soul had come forth upon the countenance. it seemed as if the picture, while hidden behind the cloud of immemorial years, had been all the time acquiring an intenser depth and darkness of expression, till now it gloomed forth again and threw its evil omen over the present hour. such, if the wild legend may be credited, was the portrait of edward randolph as he appeared when a people's curse had wrought its influence upon his nature. "'twould drive me mad, that awful face," said hutchinson, who seemed fascinated by the contemplation of it. "be warned, then," whispered alice. "he trampled on a people's rights. behold his punishment, and avoid a crime like his." the lieutenant-governor actually trembled for an instant, but, exerting his energy--which was not, however, his most characteristic feature--he strove to shake off the spell of randolph's countenance. "girl," cried he, laughing bitterly, as he turned to alice, "have you brought hither your painter's art, your italian spirit of intrigue, your tricks of stage-effect, and think to influence the councils of rulers and the affairs of nations by such shallow contrivances? see here!" "stay yet a while," said the selectman as hutchinson again snatched the pen; "for if ever mortal man received a warning from a tormented soul, your honor is that man." "away!" answered hutchinson, fiercely. "though yonder senseless picture cried 'forbear!' it should not move me!" casting a scowl of defiance at the pictured face--which seemed at that moment to intensify the horror of its miserable and wicked look--he scrawled on the paper, in characters that betokened it a deed of desperation, the name of thomas hutchinson. then, it is said, he shuddered, as if that signature had granted away his salvation. "it is done," said he, and placed his hand upon his brow. "may heaven forgive the deed!" said the soft, sad accents of alice vane, like the voice of a good spirit flitting away. when morning came, there was a stifled whisper through the household, and spreading thence about the town, that the dark mysterious picture had started from the wall and spoken face to face with lieutenant-governor hutchinson. if such a miracle had been wrought, however, no traces of it remained behind; for within the antique frame nothing could be discerned save the impenetrable cloud which had covered the canvas since the memory of man. if the figure had, indeed, stepped forth, it had fled back, spirit-like, at the day-dawn, and hidden itself behind a century's obscurity. the truth probably was that alice vane's secret for restoring the hues of the picture had merely effected a temporary renovation. but those who in that brief interval had beheld the awful visage of edward randolph desired no second glance, and ever afterward trembled at the recollection of the scene, as if an evil spirit had appeared visibly among them. and, as for hutchinson, when, far over the ocean, his dying-hour drew on, he gasped for breath and complained that he was choking with the blood of the boston massacre, and francis lincoln, the former captain of castle william, who was standing at his bedside, perceived a likeness in his frenzied look to that of edward randolph. did his broken spirit feel at that dread hour the tremendous burden of a people's curse? * * * * * at the conclusion of this miraculous legend i inquired of mine host whether the picture still remained in the chamber over our heads, but mr. tiffany informed me that it had long since been removed, and was supposed to be hidden in some out-of-the-way corner of the new england museum. perchance some curious antiquary may light upon it there, and, with the assistance of mr. howorth, the picture-cleaner, may supply a not unnecessary proof of the authenticity of the facts here set down. during the progress of the story a storm had been gathering abroad and raging and rattling so loudly in the upper regions of the province house that it seemed as if all the old governors and great men were running riot above stairs while mr. bela tiffany babbled of them below. in the course of generations, when many people have lived and died in an ancient house, the whistling of the wind through its crannies and the creaking of its beams and rafters become strangely like the tones of the human voice, or thundering laughter, or heavy footsteps treading the deserted chambers. it is as if the echoes of half a century were revived. such were the ghostly sounds that roared and murmured in our ears when i took leave of the circle round the fireside of the province house and, plunging down the doorsteps, fought my way homeward against a drifting snow-storm. iii. lady eleanore's mantle. mine excellent friend the landlord of the province house was pleased the other evening to invite mr. tiffany and myself to an oyster-supper. this slight mark of respect and gratitude, as he handsomely observed, was far less than the ingenious tale-teller, and i, the humble note-taker of his narratives, had fairly earned by the public notice which our joint lucubrations had attracted to his establishment. many a cigar had been smoked within his premises, many a glass of wine or more potent _aqua vitæ_ had been quaffed, many a dinner had been eaten, by curious strangers who, save for the fortunate conjunction of mr. tiffany and me, would never have ventured through that darksome avenue which gives access to the historic precincts of the province house. in short, if any credit be due to the courteous assurances of mr. thomas waite, we had brought his forgotten mansion almost as effectually into public view as if we had thrown down the vulgar range of shoe-shops and dry-good stores which hides its aristocratic front from washington street. it may be unadvisable, however, to speak too loudly of the increased custom of the house, lest mr. waite should find it difficult to renew the lease on so favorable terms as heretofore. being thus welcomed as benefactors, neither mr. tiffany nor myself felt any scruple in doing full justice to the good things that were set before us. if the feast were less magnificent than those same panelled walls had witnessed in a bygone century; if mine host presided with somewhat less of state than might have befitted a successor of the royal governors; if the guests made a less imposing show than the bewigged and powdered and embroidered dignitaries who erst banqueted at the gubernatorial table and now sleep within their armorial tombs on copp's hill or round king's chapel,--yet never, i may boldly say, did a more comfortable little party assemble in the province-house from queen anne's days to the revolution. the occasion was rendered more interesting by the presence of a venerable personage whose own actual reminiscences went back to the epoch of gage and howe, and even supplied him with a doubtful anecdote or two of hutchinson. he was one of that small, and now all but extinguished, class whose attachment to royalty, and to the colonial institutions and customs that were connected with it, had never yielded to the democratic heresies of after-times. the young queen of britain has not a more loyal subject in her realm--perhaps not one who would kneel before her throne with such reverential love--as this old grandsire whose head has whitened beneath the mild sway of the republic which still in his mellower moments he terms a usurpation. yet prejudices so obstinate have not made him an ungentle or impracticable companion. if the truth must be told, the life of the aged loyalist has been of such a scrambling and unsettled character--he has had so little choice of friends and been so often destitute of any--that i doubt whether he would refuse a cup of kindness with either oliver cromwell or john hancock, to say nothing of any democrat now upon the stage. in another paper of this series i may perhaps give the reader a closer glimpse of his portrait. our host in due season uncorked a bottle of madeira of such exquisite perfume and admirable flavor that he surely must have discovered it in an ancient bin down deep beneath the deepest cellar where some jolly old butler stored away the governor's choicest wine and forgot to reveal the secret on his death-bed. peace to his red-nosed ghost and a libation to his memory! this precious liquor was imbibed by mr. tiffany with peculiar zest, and after sipping the third glass it was his pleasure to give us one of the oddest legends which he had yet raked from the storehouse where he keeps such matters. with some suitable adornments from my own fancy, it ran pretty much as follows. * * * * * not long after colonel shute had assumed the government of massachusetts bay--now nearly a hundred and twenty years ago--a young lady of rank and fortune arrived from england to claim his protection as her guardian. he was her distant relative, but the nearest who had survived the gradual extinction of her family; so that no more eligible shelter could be found for the rich and high-born lady eleanore rochcliffe than within the province-house of a transatlantic colony. the consort of governor shute, moreover, had been as a mother to her childhood, and was now anxious to receive her in the hope that a beautiful young woman would be exposed to infinitely less peril from the primitive society of new england than amid the artifices and corruptions of a court. if either the governor or his lady had especially consulted their own comfort, they would probably have sought to devolve the responsibility on other hands, since with some noble and splendid traits of character lady eleanore was remarkable for a harsh, unyielding pride, a haughty consciousness of her hereditary and personal advantages, which made her almost incapable of control. judging from many traditionary anecdotes, this peculiar temper was hardly less than a monomania; or if the acts which it inspired were those of a sane person, it seemed due from providence that pride so sinful should be followed by as severe a retribution. that tinge of the marvellous which is thrown over so many of these half-forgotten legends has probably imparted an additional wildness to the strange story of lady eleanore rochcliffe. the ship in which she came passenger had arrived at newport, whence lady eleanore was conveyed to boston in the governor's coach, attended by a small escort of gentlemen on horseback. the ponderous equipage, with its four black horses, attracted much notice as it rumbled through cornhill surrounded by the prancing steeds of half a dozen cavaliers with swords dangling to their stirrups and pistols at their holsters. through the large glass windows of the coach, as it rolled along, the people could discern the figure of lady eleanore, strangely combining an almost queenly stateliness with the grace and beauty of a maiden in her teens. a singular tale had gone abroad among the ladies of the province that their fair rival was indebted for much of the irresistible charm of her appearance to a certain article of dress--an embroidered mantle--which had been wrought by the most skilful artist in london, and possessed even magical properties of adornment. on the present occasion, however, she owed nothing to the witchery of dress, being clad in a riding-habit of velvet which would have appeared stiff and ungraceful on any other form. the coachman reined in his four black steeds, and the whole cavalcade came to a pause in front of the contorted iron balustrade that fenced the province-house from the public street. it was an awkward coincidence that the bell of the old south was just then tolling for a funeral; so that, instead of a gladsome peal with which it was customary to announce the arrival of distinguished strangers, lady eleanore rochcliffe was ushered by a doleful clang, as if calamity had come embodied in her beautiful person. "a very great disrespect!" exclaimed captain langford, an english officer who had recently brought despatches to governor shute. "the funeral should have been deferred lest lady eleanore's spirits be affected by such a dismal welcome." "with your pardon, sir," replied dr. clarke, a physician and a famous champion of the popular party, "whatever the heralds may pretend, a dead beggar must have precedence of a living queen. king death confers high privileges." these remarks-were interchanged while the speakers waited a passage through the crowd which had gathered on each side of the gateway, leaving an open avenue to the portal of the province-house. a black slave in livery now leaped from behind the coach and threw open the door, while at the same moment governor shute descended the flight of steps from his mansion to assist lady eleanore in alighting. but the governor's stately approach was anticipated in a manner that excited general astonishment. a pale young man with his black hair all in disorder rushed from the throng and prostrated himself beside the coach, thus offering his person as a footstool for lady eleanore rochcliffe to tread upon. she held back an instant, yet with an expression as if doubting whether the young man were worthy to bear the weight of her footstep rather than dissatisfied to receive such awful reverence from a fellow-mortal. "up, sir!" said the governor, sternly, at the same time lifting his cane over the intruder. "what means the bedlamite by this freak?" "nay," answered lady eleanore, playfully, but with more scorn than pity in her tone; "your excellency shall not strike him. when men seek only to be trampled upon, it were a pity to deny them a favor so easily granted--and so well deserved!" then, though as lightly as a sunbeam on a cloud, she placed her foot upon the cowering form and extended her hand to meet that of the governor. there was a brief interval during which lady eleanore retained this attitude, and never, surely, was there an apter emblem of aristocracy and hereditary pride trampling on human sympathies and the kindred of nature than these two figures presented at that moment. yet the spectators were so smitten with her beauty, and so essential did pride seem to the existence of such a creature, that they gave a simultaneous acclamation of applause. "who is this insolent young fellow?" inquired captain langford, who still remained beside dr. clarke. "if he be in his senses, his impertinence demands the bastinado; if mad, lady eleanore should be secured from further inconvenience by his confinement." "his name is jervase helwyse," answered the doctor--"a youth of no birth or fortune, or other advantages save the mind and soul that nature gave him; and, being secretary to our colonial agent in london, it was his misfortune to meet this lady eleanore rochcliffe. he loved her, and her scorn has driven him mad." "he was mad so to aspire," observed the english officer. "it may be so," said dr. clarke, frowning as he spoke; "but i tell you, sir, i could wellnigh doubt the justice of the heaven above us if no signal humiliation overtake this lady who now treads so haughtily into yonder mansion. she seeks to place herself above the sympathies of our common nature, which envelops all human souls; see if that nature do not assert its claim over her in some mode that shall bring her level with the lowest." "never!" cried captain langford, indignantly--"neither in life nor when they lay her with her ancestors." not many days afterward the governor gave a ball in honor of lady eleanore rochcliffe. the principal gentry of the colony received invitations, which were distributed to their residences far and near by messengers on horseback bearing missives sealed with all the formality of official despatches. in obedience to the summons, there was a general gathering of rank, wealth and beauty, and the wide door of the province-house had seldom given admittance to more numerous and honorable guests than on the evening of lady eleanore's ball. without much extravagance of eulogy, the spectacle might even be termed splendid, for, according to the fashion of the times, the ladies shone in rich silks and satins outspread over wide-projecting hoops, and the gentlemen glittered in gold embroidery laid unsparingly upon the purple or scarlet or sky-blue velvet which was the material of their coats and waistcoats. the latter article of dress was of great importance, since it enveloped the wearer's body nearly to the knees and was perhaps bedizened with the amount of his whole year's income in golden flowers and foliage. the altered taste of the present day--a taste symbolic of a deep change in the whole system of society--would look upon almost any of those gorgeous figures as ridiculous, although that evening the guests sought their reflections in the pier-glasses and rejoiced to catch their own glitter amid the glittering crowd. what a pity that one of the stately mirrors has not preserved a picture of the scene which by the very traits that were so transitory might have taught us much that would be worth knowing and remembering! would, at least, that either painter or mirror could convey to us some faint idea of a garment already noticed in this legend--the lady eleanore's embroidered mantle, which the gossips whispered was invested with magic properties, so as to lend a new and untried grace to her figure each time that she put it on! idle fancy as it is, this mysterious mantle has thrown an awe around my image of her, partly from its fabled virtues and partly because it was the handiwork of a dying woman, and perchance owed the fantastic grace of its conception to the delirium of approaching death. after the ceremonial greetings had been paid, lady eleanore rochcliffe stood apart from the mob of guests, insulating herself within a small and distinguished circle to whom she accorded a more cordial favor than to the general throng. the waxen torches threw their radiance vividly over the scene, bringing out its brilliant points in strong relief, but she gazed carelessly, and with now and then an expression of weariness or scorn tempered with such feminine grace that her auditors scarcely perceived the moral deformity of which it was the utterance. she beheld the spectacle not with vulgar ridicule, as disdaining to be pleased with the provincial mockery of a court-festival, but with the deeper scorn of one whose spirit held itself too high to participate in the enjoyment of other human souls. whether or no the recollections of those who saw her that evening were influenced by the strange events with which she was subsequently connected, so it was that her figure ever after recurred to them as marked by something wild and unnatural, although at the time the general whisper was of her exceeding beauty and of the indescribable charm which her mantle threw around her. some close observers, indeed, detected a feverish flush and alternate paleness of countenance, with a corresponding flow and revulsion of spirits, and once or twice a painful and helpless betrayal of lassitude, as if she were on the point of sinking to the ground. then, with a nervous shudder, she seemed to arouse her energies, and threw some bright and playful yet half-wicked sarcasm into the conversation. there was so strange a characteristic in her manners and sentiments that it astonished every right-minded listener, till, looking in her face, a lurking and incomprehensible glance and smile perplexed them with doubts both as to her seriousness and sanity. gradually, lady eleanore rochcliffe's circle grew smaller, till only four gentlemen remained in it. these were captain langford, the english officer before mentioned; a virginian planter who had come to massachusetts on some political errand; a young episcopal clergyman, the grandson of a british earl; and, lastly, the private secretary of governor shute, whose obsequiousness had won a sort of tolerance from lady eleanore. at different periods of the evening the liveried servants of the province-house passed among the guests bearing huge trays of refreshments and french and spanish wines. lady eleanore rochcliffe, who refused to wet her beautiful lips even with a bubble of champagne, had sunk back into a large damask chair, apparently overwearied either with the excitement of the scene or its tedium; and while, for an instant, she was unconscious of voices, laughter and music, a young man stole forward and knelt down at her feet. he bore a salver in his hand on which was a chased silver goblet filled to the brim with wine, which he offered as reverentially as to a crowned queen--or, rather, with the awful devotion of a priest doing sacrifice to his idol. conscious that some one touched her robe, lady eleanore started, and unclosed her eyes upon the pale, wild features and dishevelled hair of jervase helwyse. "why do you haunt me thus?" said she, in a languid tone, but with a kindlier feeling than she ordinarily permitted herself to express. "they tell me that i have done you harm." "heaven knows if that be so," replied the young man, solemnly. "but, lady eleanore, in requital of that harm, if such there be, and for your own earthly and heavenly welfare, i pray you to take one sip of this holy wine and then to pass the goblet round among the guests. and this shall be a symbol that you have not sought to withdraw yourself from the chain of human sympathies, which whoso would shake off must keep company with fallen angels." "where has this mad fellow stolen that sacramental vessel?" exclaimed the episcopal clergyman. this question drew the notice of the guests to the silver cup, which was recognized as appertaining to the communion-plate of the old south church, and, for aught that could be known, it was brimming over with the consecrated wine. "perhaps it is poisoned," half whispered the governor's secretary. "pour it down the villain's throat!" cried the virginian, fiercely. "turn him out of the house!" cried captain langford, seizing jervase helwyse so roughly by the shoulder that the sacramental cup was overturned and its contents sprinkled upon lady eleanore's mantle. "whether knave, fool or bedlamite, it is intolerable that the fellow should go at large." "pray, gentlemen, do my poor admirer no harm," said lady eleanore, with a faint and weary smile. "take him out of my sight, if such be your pleasure, for i can find in my heart to do nothing but laugh at him, whereas, in all decency and conscience, it would become me to weep for the mischief i have wrought." but while the bystanders were attempting to lead away the unfortunate young man he broke from them and with a wild, impassioned earnestness offered a new and equally strange petition to lady eleanore. it was no other than that she should throw off the mantle, which while he pressed the silver cup of wine upon her she had drawn more closely around her form, so as almost to shroud herself within it. "cast it from you," exclaimed jervase helwyse, clasping his hands in an agony of entreaty. "it may not yet be too late. give the accursed garment to the flames." but lady eleanore, with a laugh of scorn, drew the rich folds of the embroidered mantle over her head in such a fashion as to give a completely new aspect to her beautiful face, which, half hidden, half revealed, seemed to belong to some being of mysterious character and purposes. "farewell, jervase helwyse!" said she. "keep my image in your remembrance as you behold it now." "alas, lady!" he replied, in a tone no longer wild, but sad as a funeral-bell; "we must meet shortly when your face may wear another aspect, and that shall be the image that must abide within me." he made no more resistance to the violent efforts of the gentlemen and servants who almost dragged him out of the apartment and dismissed him roughly from the iron gate of the province-house. captain langford, who had been very active in this affair, was returning to the presence of lady eleanore rochcliffe, when he encountered the physician, dr. clarke, with whom he had held some casual talk on the day of her arrival. the doctor stood apart, separated from lady eleanore by the width of the room, but eying her with such keen sagacity that captain langford involuntarily gave him credit for the discovery of some deep secret. "you appear to be smitten, after all, with the charms of this queenly maiden," said he, hoping thus to draw forth the physician's hidden knowledge. "god forbid!" answered dr. clarke, with a grave smile; "and if you be wise, you will put up the same prayer for yourself. woe to those who shall be smitten by this beautiful lady eleanore! but yonder stands the governor, and i have a word or two for his private ear. good-night!" he accordingly advanced to governor shute and addressed him in so low a tone that none of the bystanders could catch a word of what he said, although the sudden change of his excellency's hitherto cheerful visage betokened that the communication could be of no agreeable import. a very few moments afterward it was announced to the guests that an unforeseen circumstance rendered it necessary to put a premature close to the festival. the ball at the province-house supplied a topic of conversation for the colonial metropolis for some days after its occurrence, and might still longer have been the general theme, only that a subject of all-engrossing interest thrust it for a time from the public recollection. this was the appearance of a dreadful epidemic which in that age, and long before and afterward, was wont to slay its hundreds and thousands on both sides of the atlantic. on the occasion of which we speak it was distinguished by a peculiar virulence, insomuch that it has left its traces--its pitmarks, to use an appropriate figure--on the history of the country, the affairs of which were thrown into confusion by its ravages. at first, unlike its ordinary course, the disease seemed to confine itself to the higher circles of society, selecting its victims from among the proud, the well-born and the wealthy, entering unabashed into stately chambers and lying down with the slumberers in silken beds. some of the most distinguished guests of the province-house--even those whom the haughty lady eleanore rochcliffe had deemed not unworthy of her favor--were stricken by this fatal scourge. it was noticed with an ungenerous bitterness of feeling that the four gentlemen--the virginian, the british officer, the young clergyman and the governor's secretary--who had been her most devoted attendants on the evening of the ball were the foremost on whom the plague-stroke fell. but the disease, pursuing its onward progress, soon ceased to be exclusively a prerogative of aristocracy. its red brand was no longer conferred like a noble's star or an order of knighthood. it threaded its way through the narrow and crooked streets, and entered the low, mean, darksome dwellings and laid its hand of death upon the artisans and laboring classes of the town. it compelled rich and poor to feel themselves brethren then, and stalking to and fro across the three hills with a fierceness which made it almost a new pestilence, there was that mighty conqueror--that scourge and horror of our forefathers--the small-pox. we cannot estimate the affright which this plague inspired of yore by contemplating it as the fangless monster of the present day. we must remember, rather, with what awe we watched the gigantic footsteps of the asiatic cholera striding from shore to shore of the atlantic and marching like destiny upon cities far remote which flight had already half depopulated. there is no other fear so horrible and unhumanizing as that which makes man dread to breathe heaven's vital air lest it be poison, or to grasp the hand of a brother or friend lest the grip of the pestilence should clutch him. such was the dismay that now followed in the track of the disease or ran before it throughout the town. graves were hastily dug and the pestilential relics as hastily covered, because the dead were enemies of the living and strove to draw them headlong, as it were, into their own dismal pit. the public councils were suspended, as if mortal wisdom might relinquish its devices now that an unearthly usurper had found his way into the ruler's mansion. had an enemy's fleet been hovering on the coast or his armies trampling on our soil, the people would probably have committed their defence to that same direful conqueror who had wrought their own calamity and would permit no interference with his sway. this conqueror had a symbol of his triumphs: it was a blood-red flag that fluttered in the tainted air over the door of every dwelling into which the small-pox had entered. such a banner was long since waving over the portal of the province-house, for thence, as was proved by tracking its footsteps back, had all this dreadful mischief issued. it had been traced back to a lady's luxurious chamber, to the proudest of the proud, to her that was so delicate and hardly owned herself of earthly mould, to the haughty one who took her stand above human sympathies--to lady eleanore. there remained no room for doubt that the contagion had lurked in that gorgeous mantle which threw so strange a grace around her at the festival. its fantastic splendor had been conceived in the delirious brain of a woman on her death-bed and was the last toil of her stiffening fingers, which had interwoven fate and misery with its golden threads. this dark tale, whispered at first, was now bruited far and wide. the people raved against the lady eleanore and cried out that her pride and scorn had evoked a fiend, and that between them both this monstrous evil had been born. at times their rage and despair took the semblance of grinning mirth; and whenever the red flag of the pestilence was hoisted over another and yet another door, they clapped their hands and shouted through the streets in bitter mockery: "behold a new triumph for the lady eleanore!" one day in the midst of these dismal times a wild figure approached the portal of the province-house, and, folding his arms, stood contemplating the scarlet banner, which a passing breeze shook fitfully, as if to fling abroad the contagion that it typified. at length, climbing one of the pillars by means of the iron balustrade, he took down the flag, and entered the mansion waving it above his head. at the foot of the staircase he met the governor, booted and spurred, with his cloak drawn around him, evidently on the point of setting forth upon a journey. "wretched lunatic, what do you seek here?" exclaimed shute, extending his cane to guard himself from contact. "there is nothing here but death; back, or you will meet him." "death will not touch me, the banner-bearer of the pestilence," cried jervase helwyse, shaking the red flag aloft. "death and the pestilence, who wears the aspect of the lady eleanore, will walk through the streets to-night, and i must march before them with this banner." "why do i waste words on the fellow?" muttered the governor, drawing his cloak across his mouth. "what matters his miserable life, when none of us are sure of twelve hours' breath?--on, fool, to your own destruction!" he made way for jervase helwyse, who immediately ascended the staircase, but on the first landing-place was arrested by the firm grasp of a hand upon his shoulder. looking fiercely up with a madman's impulse to struggle with and rend asunder his opponent, he found himself powerless beneath a calm, stern eye which possessed the mysterious property of quelling frenzy at its height. the person whom he had now encountered was the physician, dr. clarke, the duties of whose sad profession had led him to the province-house, where he was an infrequent guest in more prosperous times. "young man, what is your purpose?" demanded he. "i seek the lady eleanore," answered jervase helwyse, submissively. "all have fled from her," said the physician. "why do you seek her now? i tell you, youth, her nurse fell death-stricken on the threshold of that fatal chamber. know ye not that never came such a curse to our shores as this lovely lady eleanore, that her breath has filled the air with poison, that she has shaken pestilence and death upon the land from the folds of her accursed mantle?" "let me look upon her," rejoined the mad youth, more wildly. "let me behold her in her awful beauty, clad in the regal garments of the pestilence. she and death sit on a throne together; let me kneel down before them." "poor youth!" said dr. clarke, and, moved by a deep sense of human weakness, a smile of caustic humor curled his lip even then. "wilt thou still worship the destroyer and surround her image with fantasies the more magnificent the more evil she has wrought? thus man doth ever to his tyrants. approach, then. madness, as i have noted, has that good efficacy that it will guard you from contagion, and perhaps its own cure may be found in yonder chamber." ascending another flight of stairs, he threw open a door and signed to jervase helwyse that he should enter. the poor lunatic, it seems probable, had cherished a delusion that his haughty mistress sat in state, unharmed herself by the pestilential influence which as by enchantment she scattered round about her. he dreamed, no doubt, that her beauty was not dimmed, but brightened into superhuman splendor. with such anticipations he stole reverentially to the door at which the physician stood, but paused upon the threshold, gazing fearfully into the gloom of the darkened chamber. "where is the lady eleanore?" whispered he. "call her," replied the physician. "lady eleanore! princess! queen of death!" cried jervase helwyse, advancing three steps into the chamber. "she is not here. there, on yonder table, i behold the sparkle of a diamond which once she wore upon her bosom. there"--and he shuddered--"there hangs her mantle, on which a dead woman embroidered a spell of dreadful potency. but where is the lady eleanore?" something stirred within the silken curtains of a canopied bed and a low moan was uttered, which, listening intently, jervase helwyse began to distinguish as a woman's voice complaining dolefully of thirst. he fancied, even, that he recognized its tones. "my throat! my throat is scorched," murmured the voice. "a drop of water!" "what thing art thou?" said the brain-stricken youth, drawing near the bed and tearing asunder its curtains. "whose voice hast thou stolen for thy murmurs and miserable petitions, as if lady eleanore could be conscious of mortal infirmity? fie! heap of diseased mortality, why lurkest thou in my lady's chamber?" "oh, jervase helwyse," said the voice--and as it spoke the figure contorted itself, struggling to hide its blasted face--"look not now on the woman you once loved. the curse of heaven hath stricken me because i would not call man my brother nor woman sister. i wrapped myself in pride as in a mantle and scorned the sympathies of nature, and therefore has nature made this wretched body the medium of a dreadful sympathy. you are avenged, they are all avenged, nature is avenged; for i am eleanore rochcliffe." the malice of his mental disease, the bitterness lurking at the bottom of his heart, mad as he was, for a blighted and ruined life and love that had been paid with cruel scorn, awoke within the breast of jervase helwyse. he shook his finger at the wretched girl, and the chamber echoed, the curtains of the bed were shaken, with his outburst of insane merriment. "another triumph for the lady eleanore!" he cried. "all have been her victims; who so worthy to be the final victim as herself?" impelled by some new fantasy of his crazed intellect, he snatched the fatal mantle and rushed from the chamber and the house. that night a procession passed by torchlight through the streets, bearing in the midst the figure of a woman enveloped with a richly-embroidered mantle, while in advance stalked jervase helwyse waving the red flag of the pestilence. arriving opposite the province-house, the mob burned the effigy, and a strong wind came and swept away the ashes. it was said that from that very hour the pestilence abated, as if its sway had some mysterious connection, from the first plague-stroke to the last, with lady elcanore's mantle. a remarkable uncertainty broods over that unhappy lady's fate. there is a belief, however, that in a certain chamber of this mansion a female form may sometimes be duskily discerned shrinking into the darkest corner and muffling her face within an embroidered mantle. supposing the legend true, can this be other than the once proud lady eleanore? * * * * * mine host and the old loyalist and i bestowed no little warmth of applause upon this narrative, in which we had all been deeply interested; for the reader can scarcely conceive how unspeakably the effect of such a tale is heightened when, as in the present case, we may repose perfect confidence in the veracity of him who tells it. for my own part, knowing how scrupulous is mr. tiffany to settle the foundation of his facts, i could not have believed him one whit the more faithfully had he professed himself an eyewitness of the doings and sufferings of poor lady eleanore. some sceptics, it is true, might demand documentary evidence, or even require him to produce the embroidered mantle, forgetting that--heaven be praised!--it was consumed to ashes. but now the old loyalist, whose blood was warmed by the good cheer, began to talk, in his turn, about the traditions of the province house, and hinted that he, if it were agreeable, might add a few reminiscences to our legendary stock. mr. tiffany, having no cause to dread a rival, immediately besought him to favor us with a specimen; my own entreaties, of course, were urged to the same effect; and our venerable guest, well pleased to find willing auditors, awaited only the return of mr. thomas waite, who had been summoned forth to provide accommodations for several new arrivals. perchance the public--but be this as its own caprice and ours shall settle the matter--may read the result in another tale of the province house. iv. old esther dudley. our host having resumed the chair, he as well as mr. tiffany and myself expressed much eagerness to be made acquainted with the story to which the loyalist had alluded. that venerable man first of all saw lit to moisten his throat with another glass of wine, and then, turning his face toward our coal-fire, looked steadfastly for a few moments into the depths of its cheerful glow. finally he poured forth a great fluency of speech. the generous liquid that he had imbibed, while it warmed his age-chilled blood, likewise took off the chill from his heart and mind, and gave him an energy to think and feel which we could hardly have expected to find beneath the snows of fourscore winters. his feelings, indeed, appeared to me more excitable than those of a younger man--or, at least, the same degree of feeling manifested itself by more visible effects than if his judgment and will had possessed the potency of meridian life. at the pathetic passages of his narrative he readily melted into tears. when a breath of indignation swept across his spirit, the blood flushed his withered visage even to the roots of his white hair, and he shook his clinched fist at the trio of peaceful auditors, seeming to fancy enemies in those who felt very kindly toward the desolate old soul. but ever and anon, sometimes in the midst of his most earnest talk, this ancient person's intellect would wander vaguely, losing its hold of the matter in hand and groping for it amid misty shadows. then would he cackle forth a feeble laugh and express a doubt whether his wits--for by that phrase it pleased our ancient friend to signify his mental powers--were not getting a little the worse for wear. under these disadvantages, the old loyalist's story required more revision to render it fit for the public eye than those of the series which have preceded it; nor should it be concealed that the sentiment and tone of the affair may have undergone some slight--or perchance more than slight--metamorphosis in its transmission to the reader through the medium of a thoroughgoing democrat. the tale itself is a mere sketch with no involution of plot nor any great interest of events, yet possessing, if i have rehearsed it aright, that pensive influence over the mind which the shadow of the old province house flings upon the loiterer in its court-yard. * * * * * the hour had come--the hour of defeat and humiliation--when sir william howe was to pass over the threshold of the province-house and embark, with no such triumphal ceremonies as he once promised himself, on board the british fleet. he bade his servants and military attendants go before him, and lingered a moment in the loneliness of the mansion to quell the fierce emotions that struggled in his bosom as with a death-throb. preferable then would he have deemed his fate had a warrior's death left him a claim to the narrow territory of a grave within the soil which the king had given him to defend. with an ominous perception that as his departing footsteps echoed adown the staircase the sway of britain was passing for ever from new england, he smote his clenched hand on his brow and cursed the destiny that had flung the shame of a dismembered empire upon him. "would to god," cried he, hardly repressing his tears of rage, "that the rebels were even now at the doorstep! a blood-stain upon the floor should then bear testimony that the last british ruler was faithful to his trust." the tremulous voice of a woman replied to his exclamation. "heaven's cause and the king's are one," it said. "go forth, sir william howe, and trust in heaven to bring back a royal governor in triumph." subduing at once the passion to which he had yielded only in the faith that it was unwitnessed, sir william howe became conscious that an aged woman leaning on a gold-headed staff was standing betwixt him and the door. it was old esther dudley, who had dwelt almost immemorial years in this mansion, until her presence seemed as inseparable from it as the recollections of its history. she was the daughter of an ancient and once eminent family which had fallen into poverty and decay and left its last descendant no resource save the bounty of the king, nor any shelter except within the walls of the province-house. an office in the household with merely nominal duties had been assigned to her as a pretext for the payment of a small pension, the greater part of which she expended in adorning herself with an antique magnificence of attire. the claims of esther dudley's gentle blood were acknowledged by all the successive governors, and they treated her with the punctilious courtesy which it was her foible to demand, not always with success, from a neglectful world. the only actual share which she assumed in the business of the mansion was to glide through its passages and public chambers late at night to see that the servants had dropped no fire from their flaring torches nor left embers crackling and blazing on the hearths. perhaps it was this invariable custom of walking her rounds in the hush of midnight that caused the superstition of the times to invest the old woman with attributes of awe and mystery, fabling that she had entered the portal of the province-house--none knew whence--in the train of the first royal governor, and that it was her fate to dwell there till the last should have departed. but sir william howe, if he ever heard this legend, had forgotten it. "mistress dudley, why are you loitering here?" asked he, with some severity of tone. "it is my pleasure to be the last in this mansion of the king." "not so, if it please your excellency," answered the time-stricken woman. "this roof has sheltered me long; i will not pass from it until they bear me to the tomb of my forefathers. what other shelter is there for old esther dudley save the province-house or the grave?" "now, heaven forgive me!" said sir william howe to himself. "i was about to leave this wretched old creature to starve or beg.--take this, good mistress dudley," he added, putting a purse into her hands. "king george's head on these golden guineas is sterling yet, and will continue so, i warrant you, even should the rebels crown john hancock their king. that purse will buy a better shelter than the province-house can now afford." "while the burden of life remains upon me i will have no other shelter than this roof," persisted esther dudley, striking her staff upon the floor with a gesture that expressed immovable resolve; "and when your excellency returns in triumph, i will totter into the porch to welcome you." "my poor old friend!" answered the british general, and all his manly and martial pride could no longer restrain a gush of bitter tears. "this is an evil hour for you and me. the province which the king entrusted to my charge is lost. i go hence in misfortune--perchance in disgrace--to return no more. and you, whose present being is incorporated with the past, who have seen governor after governor in stately pageantry ascend these steps, whose whole life has been an observance of majestic ceremonies and a worship of the king,--how will you endure the change? come with us; bid farewell to a land that has shaken off its allegiance, and live still under a royal government at halifax." "never! never!" said the pertinacious old dame. "here will i abide, and king george shall still have one true subject in his disloyal province." "beshrew the old fool!" muttered sir william howe, growing impatient of her obstinacy and ashamed of the emotion into which he had been betrayed. "she is the very moral of old-fashioned prejudice, and could exist nowhere but in this musty edifice.--well, then, mistress dudley, since you will needs tarry, i give the province-house in charge to you. take this key, and keep it safe until myself or some other royal governor shall demand it of you." smiling bitterly at himself and her, he took the heavy key of the province-house, and, delivering it into the old lady's hands, drew his cloak around him for departure. as the general glanced back at esther dudley's antique figure he deemed her well fitted for such a charge, as being so perfect a representative of the decayed past--of an age gone by, with its manners, opinions, faith and feelings all fallen into oblivion or scorn, of what had once been a reality, but was now merely a vision of faded magnificence. then sir william howe strode forth, smiting his clenched hands together in the fierce anguish of his spirit, and old esther dudley was left to keep watch in the lonely province-house, dwelling there with memory; and if hope ever seemed to flit around her, still it was memory in disguise. the total change of affairs that ensued on the departure of the british troops did not drive the venerable lady from her stronghold. there was not for many years afterward a governor of massachusetts, and the magistrates who had charge of such matters saw no objection to esther dudley's residence in the province-house, especially as they must otherwise have paid a hireling for taking care of the premises, which with her was a labor of love; and so they left her the undisturbed mistress of the old historic edifice. many and strange were the fables which the gossips whispered about her in all the chimney-corners of the town. among the time-worn articles of furniture that had been left in the mansion, there was a tall antique mirror which was well worthy of a tale by itself, and perhaps may hereafter be the theme of one. the gold of its heavily-wrought frame was tarnished, and its surface so blurred that the old woman's figure, whenever she paused before it, looked indistinct and ghostlike. but it was the general belief that esther could cause the governors of the overthrown dynasty, with the beautiful ladies who had once adorned their festivals, the indian chiefs who had come up to the province-house to hold council or swear allegiance, the grim provincial warriors, the severe clergymen--in short, all the pageantry of gone days, all the figures that ever swept across the broad-plate of glass in former times,--she could cause the whole to reappear and people the inner world of the mirror with shadows of old life. such legends as these, together with the singularity of her isolated existence, her age and the infirmity that each added winter flung upon her, made mistress dudley the object both of fear and pity, and it was partly the result of either sentiment that, amid all the angry license of the times, neither wrong nor insult ever fell upon her unprotected head. indeed, there was so much haughtiness in her demeanor toward intruders--among whom she reckoned all persons acting under the new authorities--that it was really an affair of no small nerve to look her in the face. and, to do the people justice, stern republicans as they had now become, they were well content that the old gentlewoman, in her hoop-petticoat and faded embroidery, should still haunt the palace of ruined pride and overthrown power, the symbol of a departed system, embodying a history in her person. so esther dudley dwelt year after year in the province-house, still reverencing all that others had flung aside, still faithful to her king, who, so long as the venerable dame yet held her post, might be said to retain one true subject in new england and one spot of the empire that had been wrested from him. and did she dwell there in utter loneliness? rumor said, "not so." whenever her chill and withered heart desired warmth, she was wont to summon a black slave of governor shirley's from the blurred mirror and send him in search of guests who had long ago been familiar in those deserted chambers. forth went the sable messenger, with the starlight or the moonshine gleaming through him, and did his errand in the burial-grounds, knocking at the iron doors of tombs or upon the marble slabs that covered them, and whispering to those within, "my mistress, old esther dudley, bids you to the province-house at midnight;" and punctually as the clock of the old south told twelve came the shadows of the olivers, the hutchinsons, the dudleys--all the grandees of a bygone generation--gliding beneath the portal into the well-known mansion, where esther mingled with them as if she likewise were a shade. without vouching for the truth of such traditions, it is certain that mistress dudley sometimes assembled a few of the stanch though crestfallen old tories who had lingered in the rebel town during those days of wrath and tribulation. out of a cobwebbed bottle containing liquor that a royal governor might have smacked his lips over they quaffed healths to the king and babbled treason to the republic, feeling as if the protecting shadow of the throne were still flung around them. but, draining the last drops of their liquor, they stole timorously homeward, and answered not again if the rude mob reviled them in the street. yet esther dudley's most frequent and favored guests were the children of the town. toward them she was never stern. a kindly and loving nature hindered elsewhere from its free course by a thousand rocky prejudices lavished itself upon these little ones. by bribes of gingerbread of her own making, stamped with a royal crown, she tempted their sunny sportiveness beneath the gloomy portal of the province-house, and would often beguile them to spend a whole play-day there, sitting in a circle round the verge of her hoop-petticoat, greedily attentive to her stories of a dead world. and when these little boys and girls stole forth again from the dark, mysterious mansion, they went bewildered, full of old feelings that graver people had long ago forgotten, rubbing their eyes at the world around them as if they had gone astray into ancient times and become children of the past. at home, when their parents asked where they had loitered such a weary while and with whom they had been at play, the children would talk of all the departed worthies of the province as far back as governor belcher and the haughty dame of sir william phipps. it would seem as though they had been sitting on the knees of these famous personages, whom the grave had hidden for half a century, and had toyed with the embroidery of their rich waistcoats or roguishly pulled the long curls of their flowing wigs. "but governor belcher has been dead this many a year," would the mother say to her little boy. "and did you really see him at the province-house?"--"oh yes, dear mother--yes!" the half-dreaming child would answer. "but when old esther had done speaking about him, he faded away out of his chair." thus, without affrighting her little guests, she led them by the hand into the chambers of her own desolate heart and made childhood's fancy discern the ghosts that haunted there. living so continually in her own circle of ideas, and never regulating her mind by a proper reference to present things, esther dudley appears to have grown partially crazed. it was found that she had no right sense of the progress and true state of the revolutionary war, but held a constant faith that the armies of britain were victorious on every field and destined to be ultimately triumphant. whenever the town rejoiced for a battle won by washington or gates or morgan or greene, the news, in passing through the door of the province-house as through the ivory gate of dreams, became metamorphosed into a strange tale of the prowess of howe, clinton or cornwallis. sooner or later, it was her invincible belief, the colonies would be prostrate at the footstool of the king. sometimes she seemed to take for granted that such was already the case. on one occasion she startled the townspeople by a brilliant illumination of the province-house with candles at every pane of glass and a transparency of the king's initials and a crown of light in the great balcony-window. the figure of the aged woman in the most gorgeous of her mildewed velvets and brocades was seen passing from casement to casement, until she paused before the balcony and flourished a huge key above her head. her wrinkled visage actually gleamed with triumph, as if the soul within her were a festal lamp. "what means this blaze of light? what does old esther's joy portend?" whispered a spectator. "it is frightful to see her gliding about the chambers and rejoicing there without a soul to bear her company." "it is as if she were making merry in a tomb," said another. "pshaw! it is no such mystery," observed an old man, after some brief exercise of memory. "mistress dudley is keeping jubilee for the king of england's birthday." then the people laughed aloud, and would have thrown mud against the blazing transparency of the king's crown and initials, only that they pitied the poor old dame who was so dismally triumphant amid the wreck and ruin of the system to which she appertained. oftentimes it was her custom to climb the weary staircase that wound upward to the cupola, and thence strain her dimmed eyesight seaward and countryward, watching for a british fleet or for the march of a grand procession with the king's banner floating over it. the passengers in the street below would discern her anxious visage and send up a shout: "when the golden indian on the province-house shall shoot his arrow, and when the cock on the old south spire shall crow, then look for a royal governor again!" for this had grown a by-word through the town. and at last, after long, long years, old esther dudley knew--or perchance she only dreamed--that a royal governor was on the eve of returning to the province-house to receive the heavy key which sir william howe had committed to her charge. now, it was the fact that intelligence bearing some faint analogy to esther's version of it was current among the townspeople. she set the mansion in the best order that her means allowed, and, arraying herself in silks and tarnished gold, stood long before the blurred mirror to admire her own magnificence. as she gazed the gray and withered lady moved her ashen lips, murmuring half aloud, talking to shapes that she saw within the mirror, to shadows of her own fantasies, to the household friends of memory, and bidding them rejoice with her and come forth to meet the governor. and while absorbed in this communion mistress dudley heard the tramp of many footsteps in the street, and, looking out at the window, beheld what she construed as the royal governor's arrival. "oh, happy day! oh, blessed, blessed hour!" she exclaimed. "let me but bid him welcome within the portal, and my task in the province-house and on earth is done." then, with tottering feet which age and tremulous joy caused to tread amiss, she hurried down the grand staircase, her silks sweeping and rustling as she went; so that the sound was as if a train of special courtiers were thronging from the dim mirror. and esther dudley fancied that as soon as the wide door should be flung open all the pomp and splendor of bygone times would pace majestically into the province-house and the gilded tapestry of the past would be brightened by the sunshine of the present. she turned the key, withdrew it from the lock, unclosed the door and stepped across the threshold. advancing up the court-yard appeared a person of most dignified mien, with tokens, as esther interpreted them, of gentle blood, high rank and long-accustomed authority even in his walk and every gesture. he was richly dressed, but wore a gouty shoe, which, however, did not lessen the stateliness of his gait. around and behind him were people in plain civic dresses and two or three war-worn veterans--evidently officers of rank--arrayed in a uniform of blue and buff. but esther dudley, firm in the belief that had fastened its roots about her heart, beheld only the principal personage, and never doubted that this was the long-looked-for governor to whom she was to surrender up her charge. as he approached she involuntarily sank down on her knees and tremblingly held forth the heavy key. "receive my trust! take it quickly," cried she, "for methinks death is striving to snatch away my triumph. but he comes too late. thank heaven for this blessed hour! god save king george!" "that, madam, is a strange prayer to be offered up at such a moment," replied the unknown guest of the province-house, and, courteously removing his hat, he offered his arm to raise the aged woman. "yet, in reverence for your gray hairs and long-kept faith, heaven forbid that any here should say you nay. over the realms which still acknowledge his sceptre, god save king george!" esther dudley started to her feet, and, hastily clutching back the key, gazed with fearful earnestness at the stranger, and dimly and doubtfully, as if suddenly awakened from a dream, her bewildered eyes half recognized his face. years ago she had known him among the gentry of the province, but the ban of the king had fallen upon him. how, then, came the doomed victim here? proscribed, excluded from mercy, the monarch's most dreaded and hated foe, this new england merchant had stood triumphantly against a kingdom's strength, and his foot now trod upon humbled royalty as he ascended the steps of the province-house, the people's chosen governor of massachusetts. "wretch, wretch that i am!" muttered the old woman, with such a heartbroken expression that the tears gushed from the stranger's eyes. "have i bidden a traitor welcome?--come, death! come quickly!" "alas, venerable lady!" said governor hancock, lending her his support with all the reverence that a courtier would have shown to a queen, "your life has been prolonged until the world has changed around you. you have treasured up all that time has rendered worthless--the principles, feelings, manners, modes of being and acting which another generation has flung aside--and you are a symbol of the past. and i and these around me--we represent a new race of men, living no longer in the past, scarcely in the present, but projecting our lives forward into the future. ceasing to model ourselves on ancestral superstitions, it is our faith and principle to press onward--onward.--yet," continued he, turning to his attendants, "let us reverence for the last time the stately and gorgeous prejudices of the tottering past." while the republican governor spoke he had continued to support the helpless form of esther dudley; her weight grew heavier against his arm, but at last, with a sudden effort to free herself, the ancient woman sank down beside one of the pillars of the portal. the key of the province-house fell from her grasp and clanked against the stone. "i have been faithful unto death," murmured she. "god save the king!" "she hath done her office," said hancock, solemnly. "we will follow her reverently to the tomb of her ancestors, and then, my fellow-citizens, onward--onward. we are no longer children of the past." as the old loyalist concluded his narrative the enthusiasm which had been fitfully flashing within his sunken eyes and quivering across his wrinkled visage faded away, as if all the lingering fire of his soul were extinguished. just then, too, a lamp upon the mantelpiece threw out a dying gleam, which vanished as speedily as it shot upward, compelling our eyes to grope for one another's features by the dim glow of the hearth. with such a lingering fire, methought, with such a dying gleam, had the glory of the ancient system vanished from the province-house when the spirit of old esther dudley took its flight. and now, again, the clock of the old south threw its voice of ages on the breeze, knolling the hourly knell of the past, crying out far and wide through the multitudinous city, and filling our ears, as we sat in the dusky chamber, with its reverberating depth of tone. in that same mansion--in that very chamber--what a volume of history had been told off into hours by the same voice that was now trembling in the air! many a governor had heard those midnight accents and longed to exchange his stately cares for slumber. and, as for mine host and mr. bela tiffany and the old loyalist and me, we had babbled about dreams of the past until we almost fancied that the clock was still striking in a bygone century. neither of us would have wondered had a hoop-petticoated phantom of esther dudley tottered into the chamber, walking her rounds in the hush of midnight as of yore, and motioned us to quench the fading embers of the fire and leave the historic precincts to herself and her kindred shades. but, as no such vision was vouchsafed, i retired unbidden, and would advise mr. tiffany to lay hold of another auditor, being resolved not to show my face in the province house for a good while hence--if ever. the haunted mind. what a singular moment is the first one, when you have hardly begun to recollect yourself, after starting from midnight slumber! by unclosing your eyes so suddenly you seem to have surprised the personages of your dream in full convocation round your bed, and catch one broad glance at them before they can flit into obscurity. or, to vary the metaphor, you find yourself for a single instant wide awake in that realm of illusions whither sleep has been the passport, and behold its ghostly inhabitants and wondrous scenery with a perception of their strangeness such as you never attain while the dream is undisturbed. the distant sound of a church-clock is borne faintly on the wind. you question with yourself, half seriously, whether it has stolen to your waking ear from some gray tower that stood within the precincts of your dream. while yet in suspense another clock flings its heavy clang over the slumbering town with so full and distinct a sound, and such a long murmur in the neighboring air, that you are certain it must proceed from the steeple at the nearest corner; you count the strokes--one, two; and there they cease with a booming sound like the gathering of a third stroke within the bell. if you could choose an hour of wakefulness out of the whole night, it would be this. since your sober bedtime, at eleven, you have had rest enough to take off the pressure of yesterday's fatigue, while before you, till the sun comes from "far cathay" to brighten your window, there is almost the space of a summer night--one hour to be spent in thought with the mind's eye half shut, and two in pleasant dreams, and two in that strangest of enjoyments the forgetfulness alike of joy and woe. the moment of rising belongs to another period of time, and appears so distant that the plunge out of a warm bed into the frosty air cannot yet be anticipated with dismay. yesterday has already vanished among the shadows of the past; to-morrow has not yet emerged from the future. you have found an intermediate space where the business of life does not intrude, where the passing moment lingers and becomes truly the present; a spot where father time, when he thinks nobody is watching him, sits down by the wayside to take breath. oh that he would fall asleep and let mortals live on without growing older! hitherto you have lain perfectly still, because the slightest motion would dissipate the fragments of your slumber. now, being irrevocably awake, you peep through the half-drawn window-curtain, and observe that the glass is ornamented with fanciful devices in frost-work, and that each pane presents something like a frozen dream. there will be time enough to trace out the analogy while waiting the summons to breakfast. seen through the clear portion of the glass where the silvery mountain-peaks of the frost-scenery do not ascend, the most conspicuous object is the steeple, the white spire of which directs you to the wintry lustre of the firmament. you may almost distinguish the figures on the clock that has just told the hour. such a frosty sky and the snow-covered roofs and the long vista of the frozen street, all white, and the distant water hardened into rock, might make you shiver even under four blankets and a woollen comforter. yet look at that one glorious star! its beams are distinguishable from all the rest, and actually cast the shadow of the casement on the bed with a radiance of deeper hue than moonlight, though not so accurate an outline. you sink down and muffle your head in the clothes, shivering all the while, but less from bodily chill than the bare idea of a polar atmosphere. it is too cold even for the thoughts to venture abroad. you speculate on the luxury of wearing out a whole existence in bed like an oyster in its shell, content with the sluggish ecstasy of inaction, and drowsily conscious of nothing but delicious warmth such as you now feel again. ah! that idea has brought a hideous one in its train. you think how the dead are lying in their cold shrouds and narrow coffins through the drear winter of the grave, and cannot persuade your fancy that they neither shrink nor shiver when the snow is drifting over their little hillocks and the bitter blast howls against the door of the tomb. that gloomy thought will collect a gloomy multitude and throw its complexion over your wakeful hour. in the depths of every heart there is a tomb and a dungeon, though the lights, the music and revelry, above may cause us to forget their existence and the buried ones or prisoners whom they hide. but sometimes, and oftenest at midnight, those dark receptacles are flung wide open. in an hour like this, when the mind has a passive sensibility, but no active strength--when the imagination is a mirror imparting vividness to all ideas without the power of selecting or controlling them--then pray that your griefs may slumber and the brotherhood of remorse not break their chain. it is too late. a funeral train comes gliding by your bed in which passion and feeling assume bodily shape and things of the mind become dim spectres to the eye. there is your earliest sorrow, a pale young mourner wearing a sister's likeness to first love, sadly beautiful, with a hallowed sweetness in her melancholy features and grace in the flow of her sable robe. next appears a shade of ruined loveliness with dust among her golden hair and her bright garments all faded and defaced, stealing from your glance with drooping head, as fearful of reproach: she was your fondest hope, but a delusive one; so call her disappointment now. a sterner form succeeds, with a brow of wrinkles, a look and gesture of iron authority; there is no name for him unless it be fatality--an emblem of the evil influence that rules your fortunes, a demon to whom you subjected yourself by some error at the outset of life, and were bound his slave for ever by once obeying him. see those fiendish lineaments graven on the darkness, the writhed lip of scorn, the mockery of that living eye, the pointed finger touching the sore place in your heart! do you remember any act of enormous folly at which you would blush even in the remotest cavern of the earth? then recognize your shame. pass, wretched band! well for the wakeful one if, riotously miserable, a fiercer tribe do not surround him--the devils of a guilty heart that holds its hell within itself. what if remorse should assume the features of an injured friend? what if the fiend should come in woman's garments with a pale beauty amid sin and desolation, and lie down by your side? what if he should stand at your bed's foot in the likeness of a corpse with a bloody stain upon the shroud? sufficient without such guilt is this nightmare of the soul, this heavy, heavy sinking of the spirits, this wintry gloom about the heart, this indistinct horror of the mind blending itself with the darkness of the chamber. by a desperate effort you start upright, breaking from a sort of conscious sleep and gazing wildly round the bed, as if the fiends were anywhere but in your haunted mind. at the same moment the slumbering embers on the hearth send forth a gleam which palely illuminates the whole outer room and flickers through the door of the bedchamber, but cannot quite dispel its obscurity. your eye searches for whatever may remind you of the living world. with eager minuteness you take note of the table near the fireplace, the book with an ivory knife between its leaves, the unfolded letter, the hat and the fallen glove. soon the flame vanishes, and with it the whole scene is gone, though its image remains an instant in your mind's eye when darkness has swallowed the reality. throughout the chamber there is the same obscurity as before, but not the same gloom within your breast. as your head falls back upon the pillow you think--in a whisper be it spoken--how pleasant in these night solitudes would be the rise and fall of a softer breathing than your own, the slight pressure of a tenderer bosom, the quiet throb of a purer heart, imparting its peacefulness to your troubled one, as if the fond sleeper were involving you in her dream. her influence is over you, though she have no existence but in that momentary image. you sink down in a flowery spot on the borders of sleep and wakefulness, while your thoughts rise before you in pictures, all disconnected, yet all assimilated by a pervading gladsomeness and beauty. the wheeling of gorgeous squadrons that glitter in the sun is succeeded by the merriment of children round the door of a schoolhouse beneath the glimmering shadow of old trees at the corner of a rustic lane. you stand in the sunny rain of a summer shower, and wander among the sunny trees of an autumnal wood, and look upward at the brightest of all rainbows overarching the unbroken sheet of snow on the american side of niagara. your mind struggles pleasantly between the dancing radiance round the hearth of a young man and his recent bride and the twittering flight of birds in spring about their new-made nest. you feel the merry bounding of a ship before the breeze, and watch the tuneful feet of rosy girls as they twine their last and merriest dance in a splendid ball-room, and find yourself in the brilliant circle of a crowded theatre as the curtain falls over a light and airy scene. with an involuntary start you seize hold on consciousness, and prove yourself but half awake by running a doubtful parallel between human life and the hour which has now elapsed. in both you emerge from mystery, pass through a vicissitude that you can but imperfectly control, and are borne onward to another mystery. now comes the peal of the distant clock with fainter and fainter strokes as you plunge farther into the wilderness of sleep. it is the knell of a temporary death. your spirit has departed, and strays like a free citizen among the people of a shadowy world, beholding strange sights, yet without wonder or dismay. so calm, perhaps, will be the final change--so undisturbed, as if among familiar things, the entrance of the soul to its eternal home. the village uncle. an imaginary retrospect. come! another log upon the hearth. true, our little parlor is comfortable, especially here where the old man sits in his old arm-chair; but on thanksgiving-night the blaze should dance higher up the chimney and send a shower of sparks into the outer darkness. toss on an armful of those dry oak chips, the last relicts of the mermaid's knee-timbers--the bones of your namesake, susan. higher yet, and clearer, be the blaze, till our cottage windows glow the ruddiest in the village and the light of our household mirth flash far across the bay to nahant. and now come, susan; come, my children. draw your chairs round me, all of you. there is a dimness over your figures. you sit quivering indistinctly with each motion of the blaze, which eddies about you like a flood; so that you all have the look of visions or people that dwell only in the firelight, and will vanish from existence as completely as your own shadows when the flame shall sink among the embers. hark! let me listen for the swell of the surf; it should be audible a mile inland on a night like this. yes; there i catch the sound, but only an uncertain murmur, as if a good way down over the beach, though by the almanac it is high tide at eight o'clock, and the billows must now be dashing within thirty yards of our door. ah! the old man's ears are failing him, and so is his eyesight, and perhaps his mind, else you would not all be so shadowy in the blaze of his thanksgiving fire. how strangely the past is peeping over the shoulders of the present! to judge by my recollections, it is but a few moments since i sat in another room. yonder model of a vessel was not there, nor the old chest of drawers, nor susan's profile and mine in that gilt frame--nothing, in short, except this same fire, which glimmered on books, papers and a picture, and half discovered my solitary figure in a looking-glass. but it was paler than my rugged old self, and younger, too, by almost half a century. speak to me, susan; speak, my beloved ones; for the scene is glimmering on my sight again, and as it brightens you fade away. oh, i should be loth to lose my treasure of past happiness and become once more what i was then--a hermit in the depths of my own mind, sometimes yawning over drowsy volumes and anon a scribbler of wearier trash than what i read; a man who had wandered out of the real world and got into its shadow, where his troubles, joys and vicissitudes were of such slight stuff that he hardly knew whether he lived or only dreamed of living. thank heaven i am an old man now and have done with all such vanities! still this dimness of mine eyes!--come nearer, susan, and stand before the fullest blaze of the hearth. now i behold you illuminated from head to foot, in your clean cap and decent gown, with the dear lock of gray hair across your forehead and a quiet smile about your mouth, while the eyes alone are concealed by the red gleam of the fire upon your spectacles. there! you made me tremble again. when the flame quivered, my sweet susan, you quivered with it and grew indistinct, as if melting into the warm light, that my last glimpse of you might be as visionary as the first was, full many a year since. do you remember it? you stood on the little bridge over the brook that runs across king's beach into the sea. it was twilight, the waves rolling in, the wind sweeping by, the crimson clouds fading in the west and the silver moon brightening above the hill; and on the bridge were you, fluttering in the breeze like a sea-bird that might skim away at your pleasure. you seemed a daughter of the viewless wind, a creature of the ocean-foam and the crimson light, whose merry life was spent in dancing on the crests of the billows that threw up their spray to support your footsteps. as i drew nearer i fancied you akin to the race of mermaids, and thought how pleasant it would be to dwell with you among the quiet coves in the shadow of the cliffs, and to roam along secluded beaches of the purest sand, and, when our northern shores grew bleak, to haunt the islands, green and lonely, far amid summer seas. and yet it gladdened me, after all this nonsense, to find you nothing but a pretty young girl sadly perplexed with the rude behavior of the wind about your petticoats. thus i did with susan as with most other things in my earlier days, dipping her image into my mind and coloring it of a thousand fantastic hues before i could see her as she really was. now, susan, for a sober picture of our village. it was a small collection of dwellings that seemed to have been cast up by the sea with the rock-weed and marine plants that it vomits after a storm, or to have come ashore among the pipe-staves and other lumber which had been washed from the deck of an eastern schooner. there was just space for the narrow and sandy street between the beach in front and a precipitous hill that lifted its rocky forehead in the rear among a waste of juniper-bushes and the wild growth of a broken pasture. the village was picturesque in the variety of its edifices, though all were rude. here stood a little old hovel, built, perhaps, of driftwood, there a row of boat-houses, and beyond them a two-story dwelling of dark and weatherbeaten aspect, the whole intermixed with one or two snug cottages painted white, a sufficiency of pig-styes and a shoemaker's shop. two grocery stores stood opposite each other in the centre of the village. these were the places of resort at their idle hours of a hardy throng of fishermen in red baize shirts, oilcloth trousers and boots of brown leather covering the whole leg--true seven-league boots, but fitter to wade the ocean than walk the earth. the wearers seemed amphibious, as if they did but creep out of salt water to sun themselves; nor would it have been wonderful to see their lower limbs covered with clusters of little shellfish such as cling to rocks and old ship-timber over which the tide ebbs and flows. when their fleet of boats was weather-bound, the butchers raised their price, and the spit was busier than the frying-pan; for this was a place of fish, and known as such to all the country round about. the very air was fishy, being perfumed with dead sculpins, hard-heads and dogfish strewn plentifully on the beach.--you see, children, the village is but little changed since your mother and i were young. how like a dream it was when i bent over a pool of water one pleasant morning and saw that the ocean had dashed its spray over me and made me a fisherman! there was the tarpaulin, the baize shirt, the oilcloth trousers and seven-league boots, and there my own features, but so reddened with sunburn and sea-breezes that methought i had another face, and on other shoulders too. the seagulls and the loons and i had now all one trade: we skimmed the crested waves and sought our prey beneath them, the man with as keen enjoyment as the birds. always when the east grew purple i launched my dory, my little flat-bottomed skiff, and rowed cross-handed to point ledge, the middle ledge, or perhaps beyond egg rock; often, too, did i anchor off dread ledge--a spot of peril to ships unpiloted--and sometimes spread an adventurous sail and tracked across the bay to south shore, casting my lines in sight of scituate. ere nightfall i hauled my skiff high and dry on the beach, laden with red rock-cod or the white-bellied ones of deep water, haddock bearing the black marks of st. peter's fingers near the gills, the long-bearded hake whose liver holds oil enough for a midnight lamp, and now and then a mighty halibut with a back broad as my boat. in the autumn i toled and caught those lovely fish the mackerel. when the wind was high, when the whale-boats anchored off the point nodded their slender masts at each other and the dories pitched and tossed in the surf, when nahant beach was thundering three miles off and the spray broke a hundred feet in the air round the distant base of egg rock, when the brimful and boisterous sea threatened to tumble over the street of our village,--then i made a holiday on shore. many such a day did i sit snugly in mr. bartlett's store, attentive to the yarns of uncle parker--uncle to the whole village by right of seniority, but of southern blood, with no kindred in new england. his figure is before me now enthroned upon a mackerel-barrel--a lean old man of great height, but bent with years and twisted into an uncouth shape by seven broken limbs; furrowed, also, and weatherworn, as if every gale for the better part of a century had caught him somewhere on the sea. he looked like a harbinger of tempest--a shipmate of the flying dutchman. after innumerable voyages aboard men-of-war and merchantmen, fishing-schooners and chebacco-boats, the old salt had become master of a hand-cart, which he daily trundled about the vicinity, and sometimes blew his fish-horn through the streets of salem. one of uncle parker's eyes had been blown out with gunpowder, and the other did but glimmer in its socket. turning it upward as he spoke, it was his delight to tell of cruises against the french and battles with his own shipmates, when he and an antagonist used to be seated astride of a sailor's chest, each fastened down by a spike-nail through his trousers, and there to fight it out. sometimes he expatiated on the delicious flavor of the hagden, a greasy and goose-like fowl which the sailors catch with hook and line on the grand banks. he dwelt with rapture on an interminable winter at the isle of sables, where he had gladdened himself amid polar snows with the rum and sugar saved from the wreck of a west india schooner. and wrathfully did he shake his fist as he related how a party of cape cod men had robbed him and his companions of their lawful spoils and sailed away with every keg of old jamaica, leaving him not a drop to drown his sorrow. villains they were, and of that wicked brotherhood who are said to tie lanterns to horses' tails to mislead the mariner along the dangerous shores of the cape. even now i seem to see the group of fishermen with that old salt in the midst. one fellow sits on the counter, a second bestrides an oil-barrel, a third lolls at his length on a parcel of new cod-lines, and another has planted the tarry seat of his trousers on a heap of salt which will shortly be sprinkled over a lot of fish. they are a likely set of men. some have voyaged to the east indies or the pacific, and most of them have sailed in marblehead schooners to newfoundland; a few have been no farther than the middle banks, and one or two have always fished along the shore; but, as uncle parker used to say, they have all been christened in salt water and know more than men ever learn in the bushes. a curious figure, by way of contrast, is a fish-dealer from far up-country listening with eyes wide open to narratives that might startle sinbad the sailor.--be it well with you, my brethren! ye are all gone--some to your graves ashore and others to the depths of ocean--but my faith is strong that ye are happy; for whenever i behold your forms, whether in dream or vision, each departed friend is puffing his long nine, and a mug of the right blackstrap goes round from lip to lip. but where was the mermaid in those delightful times? at a certain window near the centre of the village appeared a pretty display of gingerbread men and horses, picture-books and ballads, small fish-hooks, pins, needles, sugarplums and brass thimbles--articles on which the young fishermen used to expend their money from pure gallantry. what a picture was susan behind the counter! a slender maiden, though the child of rugged parents, she had the slimmest of all waists, brown hair curling on her neck, and a complexion rather pale except when the sea-breeze flushed it. a few freckles became beauty-spots beneath her eyelids.--how was it, susan, that you talked and acted so carelessly, yet always for the best, doing whatever was right in your own eyes, and never once doing wrong in mine, nor shocked a taste that had been morbidly sensitive till now? and whence had you that happiest gift of brightening every topic with an unsought gayety, quiet but irresistible, so that even gloomy spirits felt your sunshine and did not shrink from it? nature wrought the charm. she made you a frank, simple, kind-hearted, sensible and mirthful girl. obeying nature, you did free things without indelicacy, displayed a maiden's thoughts to every eye, and proved yourself as innocent as naked eve.--it was beautiful to observe how her simple and happy nature mingled itself with mine. she kindled a domestic fire within my heart and took up her dwelling there, even in that chill and lonesome cavern hung round with glittering icicles of fancy. she gave me warmth of feeling, while the influence of my mind made her contemplative. i taught her to love the moonlight hour, when the expanse of the encircled bay was smooth as a great mirror and slept in a transparent shadow, while beyond nahant the wind rippled the dim ocean into a dreamy brightness which grew faint afar off without becoming gloomier. i held her hand and pointed to the long surf-wave as it rolled calmly on the beach in an unbroken line of silver; we were silent together till its deep and peaceful murmur had swept by us. when the sabbath sun shone down into the recesses of the cliffs, i led the mermaid thither and told her that those huge gray, shattered rocks, and her native sea that raged for ever like a storm against them, and her own slender beauty in so stern a scene, were all combined into a strain of poetry. but on the sabbath-eve, when her mother had gone early to bed and her gentle sister had smiled and left us, as we sat alone by the quiet hearth with household things around, it was her turn to make me feel that here was a deeper poetry, and that this was the dearest hour of all. thus went on our wooing, till i had shot wild-fowl enough to feather our bridal-bed, and the daughter of the sea was mine. i built a cottage for susan and myself, and made a gateway in the form of a gothic arch by setting up a whale's jaw-bones. we bought a heifer with her first calf, and had a little garden on the hillside to supply us with potatoes and green sauce for our fish. our parlor, small and neat, was ornamented with our two profiles in one gilt frame, and with shells and pretty pebbles on the mantelpiece, selected from the sea's treasury of such things on nahant beach. on the desk, beneath the looking-glass, lay the bible, which i had begun to read aloud at the book of genesis, and the singing-book that susan used for her evening psalm. except the almanac, we had no other literature. all that i heard of books was when an indian history or tale of shipwreck was sold by a pedler or wandering subscription-man to some one in the village, and read through its owner's nose to a slumbrous auditory. like my brother-fishermen, i grew into the belief that all human erudition was collected in our pedagogue, whose green spectacles and solemn phiz as he passed to his little schoolhouse amid a waste of sand might have gained him a diploma from any college in new england. in truth, i dreaded him.--when our children were old enough to claim his care, you remember, susan, how i frowned, though you were pleased at this learned man's encomiums on their proficiency. i feared to trust them even with the alphabet: it was the key to a fatal treasure. but i loved to lead them by their little hands along the beach and point to nature in the vast and the minute--the sky, the sea, the green earth, the pebbles and the shells. then did i discourse of the mighty works and coextensive goodness of the deity with the simple wisdom of a man whose mind had profited by lonely days upon the deep and his heart by the strong and pure affections of his evening home. sometimes my voice lost itself in a tremulous depth, for i felt his eye upon me as i spoke. once, while my wife and all of us were gazing at ourselves in the mirror left by the tide in a hollow of the sand, i pointed to the pictured heaven below and bade her observe how religion was strewn everywhere in our path, since even a casual pool of water recalled the idea of that home whither we were travelling to rest for ever with our children. suddenly your image, susan, and all the little faces made up of yours and mine, seemed to fade away and vanish around me, leaving a pale visage like my own of former days within the frame of a large looking-glass. strange illusion! my life glided on, the past appearing to mingle with the present and absorb the future, till the whole lies before me at a glance. my manhood has long been waning with a stanch decay; my earlier contemporaries, after lives of unbroken health, are all at rest without having known the weariness of later age; and now with a wrinkled forehead and thin white hair as badges of my dignity i have become the patriarch--the uncle--of the village. i love that name: it widens the circle of my sympathies; it joins all the youthful to my household in the kindred of affection. like uncle parker, whose rheumatic bones were dashed against egg rock full forty years ago, i am a spinner of long yarns. seated on the gunnel of a dory or on the sunny side of a boat-house, where the warmth is grateful to my limbs, or by my own hearth when a friend or two are there, i overflow with talk, and yet am never tedious. with a broken voice i give utterance to much wisdom. such, heaven be praised! is the vigor of my faculties that many a forgotten usage, and traditions ancient in my youth, and early adventures of myself or others hitherto effaced by things more recent, acquire new distinctness in my memory. i remember the happy days when the haddock were more numerous on all the fishing-grounds than sculpins in the surf--when the deep-water cod swam close in-shore, and the dogfish, with his poisonous horn, had not learnt to take the hook. i can number every equinoctial storm in which the sea has overwhelmed the street, flooded the cellars of the village and hissed upon our kitchen hearth. i give the history of the great whale that was landed on whale beach, and whose jaws, being now my gateway, will last for ages after my coffin shall have passed beneath them. thence it is an easy digression to the halibut--scarcely smaller than the whale--which ran out six codlines and hauled my dory to the mouth of boston harbor before i could touch him with the gaff. if melancholy accidents be the theme of conversation, i tell how a friend of mine was taken out of his boat by an enormous shark, and the sad, true tale of a young man on the eve of marriage who had been nine days missing, when his drowned body floated into the very pathway on marble-head neck that had often led him to the dwelling of his bride, as if the dripping corpse would have come where the mourner was. with such awful fidelity did that lover return to fulfil his vows! another favorite story is of a crazy maiden who conversed with angels and had the gift of prophecy, and whom all the village loved and pitied, though she went from door to door accusing us of sin, exhorting to repentance and foretelling our destruction by flood or earthquake. if the young men boast their knowledge of the ledges and sunken rocks, i speak of pilots who knew the wind by its scent and the wave by its taste, and could have steered blindfold to any port between boston and mount desert guided only by the rote of the shore--the peculiar sound of the surf on each island, beach and line of rocks along the coast. thus do i talk, and all my auditors grow wise while they deem it pastime. i recollect no happier portion of my life than this my calm old age. it is like the sunny and sheltered slope of a valley where late in the autumn the grass is greener than in august, and intermixed with golden dandelions that had not been seen till now since the first warmth of the year. but with me the verdure and the flowers are not frost-bitten in the midst of winter. a playfulness has revisited my mind--a sympathy with the young and gay, an unpainful interest in the business of others, a light and wandering curiosity--arising, perhaps, from the sense that my toil on earth is ended and the brief hour till bedtime may be spent in play. still, i have fancied that there is a depth of feeling and reflection under this superficial levity peculiar to one who has lived long and is soon to die. show me anything that would make an infant smile, and you shall behold a gleam of mirth over the hoary ruin of my visage. i can spend a pleasant hour in the sun watching the sports of the village children on the edge of the surf. now they chase the retreating wave far down over the wet sand; now it steals softly up to kiss their naked feet; now it comes onward with threatening front, and roars after the laughing crew as they scamper beyond its reach. why should not an old man be merry too, when the great sea is at play with those little children? i delight, also, to follow in the wake of a pleasure-party of young men and girls strolling along the beach after an early supper at the point. here, with handkerchiefs at nose, they bend over a heap of eel-grass entangled in which is a dead skate so oddly accoutred with two legs and a long tail that they mistake him for a drowned animal. a few steps farther the ladies scream, and the gentlemen make ready to protect them against a young shark of the dogfish kind rolling with a lifelike motion in the tide that has thrown him up. next they are smit with wonder at the black shells of a wagon-load of live lobsters packed in rock-weed for the country-market. and when they reach the fleet of dories just hauled ashore after the day's fishing, how do i laugh in my sleeve, and sometimes roar outright, at the simplicity of these young folks and the sly humor of the fishermen! in winter, when our village is thrown into a bustle by the arrival of perhaps a score of country dealers bargaining for frozen fish to be transported hundreds of miles and eaten fresh in vermont or canada, i am a pleased but idle spectator in the throng. for i launch my boat no more. when the shore was solitary, i have found a pleasure that seemed even to exalt my mind in observing the sports or contentions of two gulls as they wheeled and hovered about each other with hoarse screams, one moment flapping on the foam of the wave, and then soaring aloft till their white bosoms melted into the upper sunshine. in the calm of the summer sunset i drag my aged limbs with a little ostentation of activity, because i am so old, up to the rocky brow of the hill. there i see the white sails of many a vessel outward bound or homeward from afar, and the black trail of a vapor behind the eastern steamboat; there, too, is the sun, going down, but not in gloom, and there the illimitable ocean mingling with the sky, to remind me of eternity. but sweetest of all is the hour of cheerful musing and pleasant talk that comes between the dusk and the lighted candle by my glowing fireside. and never, even on the first thanksgiving-night, when susan and i sat alone with our hopes, nor the second, when a stranger had been sent to gladden us and be the visible image of our affection, did i feel such joy as now. all that belongs to me are here: death has taken none, nor disease kept them away, nor strife divided them from their parents or each other; with neither poverty nor riches to disturb them, nor the misery of desires beyond their lot, they have kept new england's festival round the patriarch's board. for i am a patriarch. here i sit among my descendants, in my old arm-chair and immemorial corner, while the firelight throws an appropriate glory round my venerable frame.--susan! my children! something whispers me that this happiest hour must be the final one, and that nothing remains but to bless you all and depart with a treasure of recollected joys to heaven. will you meet me there? alas! your figures grow indistinct, fading into pictures on the air, and now to fainter outlines, while the fire is glimmering on the walls of a familiar room, and shows the book that i flung down and the sheet that i left half written some fifty years ago. i lift my eyes to the looking-glass, and perceive myself alone, unless those be the mermaid's features retiring into the depths of the mirror with a tender and melancholy smile. ah! one feels a chilliness--not bodily, but about the heart--and, moreover, a foolish dread of looking behind him, after these pastimes. i can imagine precisely how a magician would sit down in gloom and terror after dismissing the shadows that had personated dead or distant people and stripping his cavern of the unreal splendor which had changed it to a palace. and now for a moral to my reverie. shall it be that, since fancy can create so bright a dream of happiness, it were better to dream on from youth to age than to awake and strive doubtfully for something real? oh, the slight tissue of a dream can no more preserve us from the stern reality of misfortune than a robe of cobweb could repel the wintry blast. be this the moral, then: in chaste and warm affections, humble wishes and honest toil for some useful end there is health for the mind and quiet for the heart, the prospect of a happy life and the fairest hope of heaven. the ambitious guest. one september night a family had gathered round their hearth and piled it high with the driftwood of mountain-streams, the dry cones of the pine, and the splintered ruins of great trees that had come crashing down the precipice. up the chimney roared the fire, and brightened the room with its broad blaze. the faces of the father and mother had a sober gladness; the children laughed. the eldest daughter was the image of happiness at seventeen, and the aged grandmother, who sat knitting in the warmest place, was the image of happiness grown old. they had found the "herb heart's-ease" in the bleakest spot of all new england. this family were situated in the notch of the white hills, where the wind was sharp throughout the year and pitilessly cold in the winter, giving their cottage all its fresh inclemency before it descended on the valley of the saco. they dwelt in a cold spot and a dangerous one, for a mountain towered above their heads so steep that the stones would often rumble down its sides and startle them at midnight. the daughter had just uttered some simple jest that filled them all with mirth, when the wind came through the notch and seemed to pause before their cottage, rattling the door with a sound of wailing and lamentation before it passed into the valley. for a moment it saddened them, though there was nothing unusual in the tones. but the family were glad again when they perceived that the latch was lifted by some traveller whose footsteps had been unheard amid the dreary blast which heralded his approach and wailed as he was entering and went moaning away from the door. though they dwelt in such a solitude, these people held daily converse with the world. the romantic pass of the notch is a great artery through which the life-blood of internal commerce is continually throbbing between maine on one side and the green mountains and the shores of the st. lawrence on the other. the stage-coach always drew up before the door of the cottage. the wayfarer with no companion but his staff paused here to exchange a word, that the sense of loneliness might not utterly overcome him ere he could pass through the cleft of the mountain or reach the first house in the valley. and here the teamster on his way to portland market would put up for the night, and, if a bachelor, might sit an hour beyond the usual bedtime and steal a kiss from the mountain-maid at parting. it was one of those primitive taverns where the traveller pays only for food and lodging, but meets with a homely kindness beyond all price. when the footsteps were heard, therefore, between the outer door and the inner one, the whole family rose up, grandmother, children and all, as if about to welcome some one who belonged to them, and whose fate was linked with theirs. the door was opened by a young man. his face at first wore the melancholy expression, almost despondency, of one who travels a wild and bleak road at nightfall and alone, but soon brightened up when he saw the kindly warmth of his reception. he felt his heart spring forward to meet them all, from the old woman who wiped a chair with her apron to the little child that held out its arms to him. one glance and smile placed the stranger on a footing of innocent familiarity with the eldest daughter. "ah! this fire is the right thing," cried he, "especially when there is such a pleasant circle round it. i am quite benumbed, for the notch is just like the pipe of a great pair of bellows; it has blown a terrible blast in my face all the way from bartlett." "then you are going toward vermont?" said the master of the house as he helped to take a light knapsack off the young man's shoulders. "yes, to burlington, and far enough beyond," replied he. "i meant to have been at ethan crawford's to-night, but a pedestrian lingers along such a road as this. it is no matter; for when i saw this good fire and all your cheerful faces, i felt as if you had kindled it on purpose for me and were waiting my arrival. so i shall sit down among you and make myself at home." the frank-hearted stranger had just drawn his chair to the fire when something like a heavy footstep was heard without, rushing down the steep side of the mountain as with long and rapid strides, and taking such a leap in passing the cottage as to strike the opposite precipice. the family held their breath, because they knew the sound, and their guest held his by instinct. "the old mountain has thrown a stone at us for fear we should forget him," said the landlord, recovering himself. "he sometimes nods his head and threatens to come down, but we are old neighbors, and agree together pretty well, upon the whole. besides, we have a sure place of refuge hard by if he should be coming in good earnest." let us now suppose the stranger to have finished his supper of bear's meat, and by his natural felicity of manner to have placed himself on a footing of kindness with the whole family; so that they talked as freely together as if he belonged to their mountain-brood. he was of a proud yet gentle spirit, haughty and reserved among the rich and great, but ever ready to stoop his head to the lowly cottage door and be like a brother or a son at the poor man's fireside. in the household of the notch he found warmth and simplicity of feeling, the pervading intelligence of new england, and a poetry of native growth which they had gathered when they little thought of it from the mountain-peaks and chasms, and at the very threshold of their romantic and dangerous abode. he had travelled far and alone; his whole life, indeed, had been a solitary path, for, with the lofty caution of his nature, he had kept himself apart from those who might otherwise have been his companions. the family, too, though so kind and hospitable, had that consciousness of unity among themselves and separation from the world at large which in every domestic circle should still keep a holy place where no stranger may intrude. but this evening a prophetic sympathy impelled the refined and educated youth to pour out his heart before the simple mountaineers, and constrained them to answer him with the same free confidence. and thus it should have been. is not the kindred of a common fate a closer tie than that of birth? the secret of the young man's character was a high and abstracted ambition. he could have borne to live an undistinguished life, but not to be forgotten in the grave. yearning desire had been transformed to hope, and hope, long cherished, had become like certainty that, obscurely as he journeyed now, a glory was to beam on all his pathway, though not, perhaps, while he was treading it. but when posterity should gaze back into the gloom of what was now the present, they would trace the brightness of his footsteps, brightening as meaner glories faded, and confess that a gifted one had passed from his cradle to his tomb with none to recognize him. "as yet," cried the stranger, his cheek glowing and his eye flashing with enthusiasm--"as yet i have done nothing. were i to vanish from the earth to-morrow, none would know so much of me as you--that a nameless youth came up at nightfall from the valley of the saco, and opened his heart to you in the evening, and passed through the notch by sunrise, and was seen no more. not a soul would ask, 'who was he? whither did the wanderer go?' but i cannot die till i have achieved my destiny. then let death come: i shall have built my monument." there was a continual flow of natural emotion gushing forth amid abstracted reverie which enabled the family to understand this young man's sentiments, though so foreign from their own. with quick sensibility of the ludicrous, he blushed at the ardor into which he had been betrayed. "you laugh at me," said he, taking the eldest daughter's hand and laughing himself. "you think my ambition as nonsensical as if i were to freeze myself to death on the top of mount washington only that people might spy at me from the country roundabout. and truly that would be a noble pedestal for a man's statue." "it is better to sit here by this fire," answered the girl, blushing, "and be comfortable and contented, though nobody thinks about us." "i suppose," said her father, after a fit of musing, "there is something natural in what the young man says; and if my mind had been turned that way, i might have felt just the same.--it is strange, wife, how his talk has set my head running on things that are pretty certain never to come to pass." "perhaps they may," observed the wife. "is the man thinking what he will do when he is a widower?" "no, no!" cried he, repelling the idea with reproachful kindness. "when i think of your death, esther, i think of mine too. but i was wishing we had a good farm in bartlett or bethlehem or littleton, or some other township round the white mountains, but not where they could tumble on our heads. i should want to stand well with my neighbors and be called squire and sent to general court for a term or two; for a plain, honest man may do as much good there as a lawyer. and when i should be grown quite an old man, and you an old woman, so as not to be long apart, i might die happy enough in my bed, and leave you all crying around me. a slate gravestone would suit me as well as a marble one, with just my name and age, and a verse of a hymn, and something to let people know that i lived an honest man and died a christian." "there, now!" exclaimed the stranger; "it is our nature to desire a monument, be it slate or marble, or a pillar of granite, or a glorious memory in the universal heart of man." "we're in a strange way to-night," said the wife, with tears in her eyes. "they say it's a sign of something when folks' minds go a-wandering so. hark to the children!" they listened accordingly. the younger children had been put to bed in another room, but with an open door between; so that they could be heard talking busily among themselves. one and all seemed to have caught the infection from the fireside circle, and were outvying each other in wild wishes and childish projects of what they would do when they came to be men and women. at length a little boy, instead of addressing his brothers and sisters, called out to his mother. "i'll tell you what i wish, mother," cried he: "i want you and father and grandma'm, and all of us, and the stranger too, to start right away and go and take a drink out of the basin of the flume." nobody could help laughing at the child's notion of leaving a warm bed and dragging them from a cheerful fire to visit the basin of the flume--a brook which tumbles over the precipice deep within the notch. the boy had hardly spoken, when a wagon rattled along the road and stopped a moment before the door. it appeared to contain two or three men who were cheering their hearts with the rough chorus of a song which resounded in broken notes between the cliffs, while the singers hesitated whether to continue their journey or put up here for the night. "father," said the girl, "they are calling you by name." but the good man doubted whether they had really called him, and was unwilling to show himself too solicitous of gain by inviting people to patronize his house. he therefore did not hurry to the door, and, the lash being soon applied, the travellers plunged into the notch, still singing and laughing, though their music and mirth came back drearily from the heart of the mountain. "there, mother!" cried the boy, again; "they'd have given us a ride to the flume." again they laughed at the child's pertinacious fancy for a night-ramble. but it happened that a light cloud passed over the daughter's spirit; she looked gravely into the fire and drew a breath that was almost a sigh. it forced its way, in spite of a little struggle to repress it. then, starting and blushing, she looked quickly around the circle, as if they had caught a glimpse into her bosom. the stranger asked what she had been thinking of. "nothing," answered she, with a downcast smile; "only i felt lonesome just then." "oh, i have always had a gift of feeling what is in other people's hearts," said he, half seriously. "shall i tell the secrets of yours? for i know what to think when a young girl shivers by a warm hearth and complains of lonesomeness at her mother's side. shall i put these feelings into words?" "they would not be a girl's feelings any longer if they could be put into words," replied the mountain-nymph, laughing, but avoiding his eye. all this was said apart. perhaps a germ of love was springing in their hearts so pure that it might blossom in paradise, since it could not be matured on earth; for women worship such gentle dignity as his, and the proud, contemplative, yet kindly, soul is oftenest captivated by simplicity like hers. but while they spoke softly, and he was watching the happy sadness, the lightsome shadows, the shy yearnings, of a maiden's nature, the wind through the notch took a deeper and drearier sound. it seemed, as the fanciful stranger said, like the choral strain of the spirits of the blast who in old indian times had their dwelling among these mountains and made their heights and recesses a sacred region. there was a wail along the road as if a funeral were passing. to chase away the gloom, the family threw pine-branches on their fire till the dry leaves crackled and the flame arose, discovering once again a scene of peace and humble happiness. the light hovered about them fondly and caressed them all. there were the little faces of the children peeping from their bed apart, and here the father's frame of strength, the mother's subdued and careful mien, the high-browed youth, the budding girl and the good old grandam, still knitting in the warmest place. the aged woman looked up from her task, and with fingers ever busy was the next to speak. "old folks have their notions," said she, "as well as young ones. you've been wishing and planning and letting your heads run on one thing and another till you've set my mind a-wandering too. now, what should an old woman wish for, when she can go but a step or two before she comes to her grave? children, it will haunt me night and day till i tell you." "what is it, mother?" cried the husband and wife at once. then the old woman, with an air of mystery which drew the circle closer round the fire, informed them that she had provided her grave-clothes some years before--a nice linen shroud, a cap with a muslin ruff, and everything of a finer sort than she had worn since her wedding-day. but this evening an old superstition had strangely recurred to her. it used to be said in her younger days that if anything were amiss with a corpse--if only the ruff were not smooth or the cap did not set right--the corpse, in the coffin and beneath the clods, would strive to put up its cold hands and arrange it. the bare thought made her nervous. "don't talk so, grandmother," said the girl, shuddering. "now," continued the old woman, with singular earnestness, yet smiling strangely at her own folly, "i want one of you, my children, when your mother is dressed and in the coffin,--i want one of you to hold a looking-glass over my face. who knows but i may take a glimpse at myself and see whether all's right?" "old and young, we dream of graves and monuments," murmured the stranger-youth. "i wonder how mariners feel when the ship is sinking and they, unknown and undistinguished, are to be buried together in the ocean, that wide and nameless sepulchre?" for a moment the old woman's ghastly conception so engrossed the minds of her hearers that a sound abroad in the night, rising like the roar of a blast, had grown broad, deep and terrible before the fated group were conscious of it. the house and all within it trembled; the foundations of the earth seemed to be shaken, as if this awful sound were the peal of the last trump. young and old exchanged one wild glance and remained an instant pale, affrighted, without utterance or power to move. then the same shriek burst simultaneously from all their lips: "the slide! the slide!" the simplest words must intimate, but not portray, the unutterable horror of the catastrophe. the victims rushed from their cottage and sought refuge in what they deemed a safer spot, where, in contemplation of such an emergency, a sort of barrier had been reared. alas! they had quitted their security and fled right into the pathway of destruction. down came the whole side of the mountain in a cataract of ruin. just before it reached the house the stream broke into two branches, shivered not a window there, but overwhelmed the whole vicinity, blocked up the road and annihilated everything in its dreadful course. long ere the thunder of that great slide had ceased to roar among the mountains the mortal agony had been endured and the victims were at peace. their bodies were never found. the next morning the light smoke was seen stealing from the cottage chimney up the mountain-side. within, the fire was yet smouldering on the hearth, and the chairs in a circle round it, as if the inhabitants had but gone forth to view the devastation of the slide and would shortly return to thank heaven for their miraculous escape. all had left separate tokens by which those who had known the family were made to shed a tear for each. who has not heard their name? the story has been told far and wide, and will for ever be a legend of these mountains. poets have sung their fate. there were circumstances which led some to suppose that a stranger had been received into the cottage on this awful night, and had shared the catastrophe of all its inmates; others denied that there were sufficient grounds for such a conjecture. woe for the high-souled youth with his dream of earthly immortality! his name and person utterly unknown, his history, his way of life, his plans, a mystery never to be solved, his death and his existence equally a doubt,--whose was the agony of that death-moment? the sister-years. last night, between eleven and twelve o'clock, when the old year was leaving her final footprints on the borders of time's empire, she found herself in possession of a few spare moments, and sat down--of all places in the world--on the steps of our new city-hall. the wintry moonlight showed that she looked weary of body and sad of heart, like many another wayfarer of earth. her garments, having been exposed to much foul weather and rough usage, were in very ill condition, and, as the hurry of her journey had never before allowed her to take an instant's rest, her shoes were so worn as to be scarcely worth the mending. but after trudging only a little distance farther this poor old year was destined to enjoy a long, long sleep. i forgot to mention that when she seated herself on the steps she deposited by her side a very capacious bandbox in which, as is the custom among travellers of her sex, she carried a great deal of valuable property. besides this luggage, there was a folio book under her arm very much resembling the annual volume of a newspaper. placing this volume across her knees and resting her elbows upon it, with her forehead in her hands, the weary, bedraggled, world-worn old year heaved a heavy sigh and appeared to be taking no very pleasant retrospect of her past existence. while she thus awaited the midnight knell that was to summon her to the innumerable sisterhood of departed years, there came a young maiden treading lightsomely on tip-toe along the street from the direction of the railroad dépôt. she was evidently a stranger, and perhaps had come to town by the evening train of cars. there was a smiling cheerfulness in this fair maiden's face which bespoke her fully confident of a kind reception from the multitude of people with whom she was soon to form acquaintance. her dress was rather too airy for the season, and was bedizened with fluttering ribbons and other vanities which were likely soon to be rent away by the fierce storms or to fade in the hot sunshine amid which she was to pursue her changeful course. but still she was a wonderfully pleasant-looking figure, and had so much promise and such an indescribable hopefulness in her aspect that hardly anybody could meet her without anticipating some very desirable thing--the consummation of some long-sought good--from her kind offices. a few dismal characters there may be here and there about the world who have so often been trifled with by young maidens as promising as she that they have now ceased to pin any faith upon the skirts of the new year. but, for my own part, i have great faith in her, and, should i live to see fifty more such, still from each of those successive sisters i shall reckon upon receiving something that will be worth living for. the new year--for this young maiden was no less a personage--carried all her goods and chattels in a basket of no great size or weight, which hung upon her arm. she greeted the disconsolate old year with great affection, and sat down beside her on the steps of the city-hall, waiting for the signal to begin her rambles through the world. the two were own sisters, being both granddaughters of time, and, though one looked so much older than the other, it was rather owing to hardships and trouble than to age, since there was but a twelvemonth's difference between them. "well, my dear sister," said the new year, after the first salutations, "you look almost tired to death. what have you been about during your sojourn in this part of infinite space?" "oh, i have it all recorded here in my book of chronicles," answered the old year, in a heavy tone. "there is nothing that would amuse you, and you will soon get sufficient knowledge of such matters from your own personal experience. it is but tiresome reading." nevertheless, she turned over the leaves of the folio and glanced at them by the light of the moon, feeling an irresistible spell of interest in her own biography, although its incidents were remembered without pleasure. the volume, though she termed it her book of chronicles, seemed to be neither more nor less than the salem _gazette_ for ; in the accuracy of which journal this sagacious old year had so much confidence that she deemed it needless to record her history with her own pen. "what have you been doing in the political way?" asked the new year. "why, my course here in the united states," said the old year--"though perhaps i ought to blush at the confession--my political course, i must acknowledge, has been rather vacillatory, sometimes inclining toward the whigs, then causing the administration party to shout for triumph, and now again uplifting what seemed the almost prostrate banner of the opposition; so that historians will hardly know what to make of me in this respect. but the loco-focos--" "i do not like these party nicknames," interrupted her sister, who seemed remarkably touchy about some points. "perhaps we shall part in better humor if we avoid any political discussion." "with all my heart," replied the old year, who had already been tormented half to death with squabbles of this kind. "i care not if the name of whig or tory, with their interminable brawls about banks and the sub-treasury, abolition, texas, the florida war, and a million of other topics which you will learn soon enough for your own comfort,--i care not, i say, if no whisper of these matters ever reaches my ears again. yet they have occupied so large a share of my attention that i scarcely know what else to tell you. there has, indeed been a curious sort of war on the canada border, where blood has streamed in the names of liberty and patriotism; but it must remain for some future, perhaps far-distant, year to tell whether or no those holy names have been rightfully invoked. nothing so much depresses me in my view of mortal affairs as to see high energies wasted and human life and happiness thrown away for ends that appear oftentimes unwise, and still oftener remain unaccomplished. but the wisest people and the best keep a steadfast faith that the progress of mankind is onward and upward, and that the toil and anguish of the path serve to wear away the imperfections of the immortal pilgrim, and will be felt no more when they have done their office." "perhaps," cried the hopeful new year--"perhaps i shall see that happy day." "i doubt whether it be so close at hand," answered the old year, gravely smiling. "you will soon grow weary of looking for that blessed consummation, and will turn for amusement--as has frequently been my own practice--to the affairs of some sober little city like this of salem. here we sit on the steps of the new city-hall which has been completed under my administration, and it would make you laugh to see how the game of politics of which the capitol at washington is the great chess-board is here played in miniature. burning ambition finds its fuel here; here patriotism speaks boldly in the people's behalf and virtuous economy demands retrenchment in the emoluments of a lamplighter; here the aldermen range their senatorial dignity around the mayor's chair of state and the common council feel that they have liberty in charge. in short, human weakness and strength, passion and policy, man's tendencies, his aims and modes of pursuing them, his individual character and his character in the mass, may be studied almost as well here as on the theatre of nations, and with this great advantage--that, be the lesson ever so disastrous, its liliputian scope still makes the beholder smile." "have you done much for the improvement of the city?" asked the new year. "judging from what little i have seen, it appears to be ancient and time-worn." "i have opened the railroad," said the elder year, "and half a dozen times a day you will hear the bell which once summoned the monks of a spanish convent to their devotions announcing the arrival or departure of the cars. old salem now wears a much livelier expression than when i first beheld her. strangers rumble down from boston by hundreds at a time. new faces throng in essex street. railroad-hacks and omnibuses rattle over the pavements. there is a perceptible increase of oyster-shops and other establishments for the accommodation of a transitory diurnal multitude. but a more important change awaits the venerable town. an immense accumulation of musty prejudices will be carried off by the free circulation of society. a peculiarity of character of which the inhabitants themselves are hardly sensible will be rubbed down and worn away by the attrition of foreign substances. much of the result will be good; there will likewise be a few things not so good. whether for better or worse, there will be a probable diminution of the moral influence of wealth, and the sway of an aristocratic class which from an era far beyond my memory has held firmer dominion here than in any other new england town." the old year, having talked away nearly all of her little remaining breath, now closed her book of chronicles, and was about to take her departure, but her sister detained her a while longer by inquiring the contents of the huge bandbox which she was so painfully lugging along with her. "these are merely a few trifles," replied the old year, "which i have picked up in my rambles and am going to deposit in the receptacle of things past and forgotten. we sisterhood of years never carry anything really valuable out of the world with us. here are patterns of most of the fashions which i brought into vogue, and which have already lived out their allotted term; you will supply their place with others equally ephemeral. here, put up in little china pots, like rouge, is a considerable lot of beautiful women's bloom which the disconsolate fair ones owe me a bitter grudge for stealing. i have likewise a quantity of men's dark hair, instead of which i have left gray locks or none at all. the tears of widows and other afflicted mortals who have received comfort during the last twelve months are preserved in some dozens of essence-bottles well corked and sealed. i have several bundles of love-letters eloquently breathing an eternity of burning passion which grew cold and perished almost before the ink was dry. moreover, here is an assortment of many thousand broken promises and other broken ware, all very light and packed into little space. the heaviest articles in my possession are a large parcel of disappointed hopes which a little while ago were buoyant enough to have inflated mr. lauriat's balloon." "i have a fine lot of hopes here in my basket," remarked the new year. "they are a sweet-smelling flower--a species of rose." "they soon lose their perfume," replied the sombre old year. "what else have you brought to insure a welcome from the discontented race of mortals?" "why, to say the truth, little or nothing else," said her sister, with a smile, "save a few new _annuals_ and almanacs, and some new year's gifts for the children. but i heartily wish well to poor mortals, and mean to do all i can for their improvement and happiness." "it is a good resolution," rejoined the old year. "and, by the way, i have a plentiful assortment of good resolutions which have now grown so stale and musty that i am ashamed to carry them any farther. only for fear that the city authorities would send constable mansfield with a warrant after me, i should toss them into the street at once. many other matters go to make up the contents of my bandbox, but the whole lot would not fetch a single bid even at an auction of worn-out furniture; and as they are worth nothing either to you or anybody else, i need not trouble you with a longer catalogue." "and must i also pick up such worthless luggage in my travels?" asked the new year. "most certainly, and well if you have no heavier load to bear," replied the other. "and now, my dear sister, i must bid you farewell, earnestly advising and exhorting you to expect no gratitude nor good-will from this peevish, unreasonable, inconsiderate, ill-intending and worse-behaving world. however warmly its inhabitants may seem to welcome you, yet, do what you may and lavish on them what means of happiness you please, they will still be complaining, still craving what it is not in your power to give, still looking forward to some other year for the accomplishment of projects which ought never to have been formed, and which, if successful, would only provide new occasions of discontent. if these ridiculous people ever see anything tolerable in you, it will be after you are gone for ever." "but i," cried the fresh-hearted new year--"i shall try to leave men wiser than i find them. i will offer them freely whatever good gifts providence permits me to distribute, and will tell them to be thankful for what they have and humbly hopeful for more; and surely, if they are not absolute fools, they will condescend to be happy, and will allow me to be a happy year. for my happiness must depend on them." "alas for you, then, my poor sister!" said the old year, sighing, as she uplifted her burden. "we grandchildren of time are born to trouble. happiness, they say, dwells in the mansions of eternity, but we can only lead mortals thither step by step with reluctant murmurings, and ourselves must perish on the threshold. but hark! my task is done." the clock in the tall steeple of dr. emerson's church struck twelve; there was a response from dr. flint's, in the opposite quarter of the city; and while the strokes were yet dropping into the air the old year either flitted or faded away, and not the wisdom and might of angels, to say nothing of the remorseful yearnings of the millions who had used her ill, could have prevailed with that departed year to return one step. but she, in the company of time and all her kindred, must hereafter hold a reckoning with mankind. so shall it be, likewise, with the maidenly new year, who, as the clock ceased to strike, arose from the steps of the city-hall and set out rather timorously on her earthly course. "a happy new year!" cried a watchman, eying her figure very questionably, but without the least suspicion that he was addressing the new year in person. "thank you kindly," said the new year; and she gave the watchman one of the roses of hope from her basket. "may this flower keep a sweet smell long after i have bidden you good-bye!" then she stepped on more briskly through the silent streets, and such as were awake at the moment heard her footfall and said, "the new year is come!" wherever there was a knot of midnight roisterers, they quaffed her health. she sighed, however, to perceive that the air was tainted--as the atmosphere of this world must continually be--with the dying breaths of mortals who had lingered just long enough for her to bury them. but there were millions left alive to rejoice at her coming, and so she pursued her way with confidence, strewing emblematic flowers on the doorstep of almost every dwelling, which some persons will gather up and wear in their bosoms, and others will trample under foot. the carrier-boy can only say further that early this morning she filled his basket with new year's addresses, assuring him that the whole city, with our new mayor and the aldermen and common council at its head, would make a general rush to secure copies. kind patrons, will not you redeem the pledge of the new year? snowflakes. there is snow in yonder cold gray sky of the morning, and through the partially-frosted window-panes i love to watch the gradual beginning of the storm. a few feathery flakes are scattered widely through the air and hover downward with uncertain flight, now almost alighting on the earth, now whirled again aloft into remote regions of the atmosphere. these are not the big flakes heavy with moisture which melt as they touch the ground and are portentous of a soaking rain. it is to be in good earnest a wintry storm. the two or three people visible on the sidewalks have an aspect of endurance, a blue-nosed, frosty fortitude, which is evidently assumed in anticipation of a comfortless and blustering day. by nightfall--or, at least, before the sun sheds another glimmering smile upon us--the street and our little garden will be heaped with mountain snowdrifts. the soil, already frozen for weeks past, is prepared to sustain whatever burden may be laid upon it, and to a northern eye the landscape will lose its melancholy bleakness and acquire a beauty of its own when mother earth, like her children, shall have put on the fleecy garb of her winter's wear. the cloud-spirits are slowly weaving her white mantle. as yet, indeed, there is barely a rime like hoar-frost over the brown surface of the street; the withered green of the grass-plat is still discernible, and the slated roofs of the houses do but begin to look gray instead of black. all the snow that has yet fallen within the circumference of my view, were it heaped up together, would hardly equal the hillock of a grave. thus gradually by silent and stealthy influences are great changes wrought. these little snow-particles which the storm-spirit flings by handfuls through the air will bury the great earth under their accumulated mass, nor permit her to behold her sister sky again for dreary months. we likewise shall lose sight of our mother's familiar visage, and must content ourselves with looking heavenward the oftener. now, leaving the storm to do his appointed office, let us sit down, pen in hand, by our fireside. gloomy as it may seem, there is an influence productive of cheerfulness and favorable to imaginative thought in the atmosphere of a snowy day. the native of a southern clime may woo the muse beneath the heavy shade of summer foliage reclining on banks of turf, while the sound of singing-birds and warbling rivulets chimes in with the music of his soul. in our brief summer i do not think, but only exist in the vague enjoyment of a dream. my hour of inspiration--if that hour ever comes--is when the green log hisses upon the hearth, and the bright flame, brighter for the gloom of the chamber, rustles high up the chimney, and the coals drop tinkling down among the growing heaps of ashes. when the casement rattles in the gust and the snowflakes or the sleety raindrops pelt hard against the window-panes, then i spread out my sheet of paper with the certainty that thoughts and fancies will gleam forth upon it like stars at twilight or like violets in may, perhaps to fade as soon. however transitory their glow, they at least shine amid the darksome shadow which the clouds of the outward sky fling through the room. blessed, therefore, and reverently welcomed by me, her true-born son, be new england's winter, which makes us one and all the nurslings of the storm and sings a familiar lullaby even in the wildest shriek of the december blast. now look we forth again and see how much of his task the storm-spirit has done. slow and sure! he has the day--perchance the week--before him, and may take his own time to accomplish nature's burial in snow. a smooth mantle is scarcely yet thrown over the withered grass-plat, and the dry stalks of annuals still thrust themselves through the white surface in all parts of the garden. the leafless rose-bushes stand shivering in a shallow snowdrift, looking, poor things! as disconsolate as if they possessed a human consciousness of the dreary scene. this is a sad time for the shrubs that do not perish with the summer. they neither live nor die; what they retain of life seems but the chilling sense of death. very sad are the flower-shrubs in midwinter. the roofs of the houses are now all white, save where the eddying wind has kept them bare at the bleak corners. to discern the real intensity of the storm, we must fix upon some distant object--as yonder spire--and observe how the riotous gust fights with the descending snow throughout the intervening space. sometimes the entire prospect is obscured; then, again, we have a distinct but transient glimpse of the tall steeple, like a giant's ghost; and now the dense wreaths sweep between, as if demons were flinging snowdrifts at each other in mid-air. look next into the street, where we have an amusing parallel to the combat of those fancied demons in the upper regions. it is a snow-battle of schoolboys. what a pretty satire on war and military glory might be written in the form of a child's story by describing the snow-ball fights of two rival schools, the alternate defeats and victories of each, and the final triumph of one party, or perhaps of neither! what pitched battles worthy to be chanted in homeric strains! what storming of fortresses built all of massive snow-blocks! what feats of individual prowess and embodied onsets of martial enthusiasm! and when some well-contested and decisive victory had put a period to the war, both armies should unite to build a lofty monument of snow upon the battlefield and crown it with the victor's statue hewn of the same frozen marble. in a few days or weeks thereafter the passer-by would observe a shapeless mound upon the level common, and, unmindful of the famous victory, would ask, "how came it there? who reared it? and what means it?" the shattered pedestal of many a battle-monument has provoked these questions when none could answer. turn we again to the fireside and sit musing there, lending our ears to the wind till perhaps it shall seem like an articulate voice and dictate wild and airy matter for the pen. would it might inspire me to sketch out the personification of a new england winter! and that idea, if i can seize the snow-wreathed figures that flit before my fancy, shall be the theme of the next page. how does winter herald his approach? by the shrieking blast of latter autumn which is nature's cry of lamentation as the destroyer rushes among the shivering groves where she has lingered and scatters the sear leaves upon the tempest. when that cry is heard, the people wrap themselves in cloaks and shake their heads disconsolately, saying, "winter is at hand." then the axe of the woodcutter echoes sharp and diligently in the forest; then the coal-merchants rejoice because each shriek of nature in her agony adds something to the price of coal per ton; then the peat-smoke spreads its aromatic fragrance through the atmosphere. a few days more, and at eventide the children look out of the window and dimly perceive the flaunting of a snowy mantle in the air. it is stern winter's vesture. they crowd around the hearth and cling to their mother's gown or press between their father's knees, affrighted by the hollow roaring voice that bellows adown the wide flue of the chimney. it is the voice of winter; and when parents and children hear it, they shudder and exclaim, "winter is come. cold winter has begun his reign already." now throughout new england each hearth becomes an altar sending up the smoke of a continued sacrifice to the immitigable deity who tyrannizes over forest, country-side and town. wrapped in his white mantle, his staff a huge icicle, his beard and hair a wind-tossed snowdrift, he travels over the land in the midst of the northern blast, and woe to the homeless wanderer whom he finds upon his path! there he lies stark and stiff, a human shape of ice, on the spot where winter overtook him. on strides the tyrant over the rushing rivers and broad lakes, which turn to rock beneath his footsteps. his dreary empire is established; all around stretches the desolation of the pole. yet not ungrateful be his new england children (for winter is our sire, though a stern and rough one)--not ungrateful even for the severities which have nourished our unyielding strength of character. and let us thank him, too, for the sleigh-rides cheered by the music of merry bells; for the crackling and rustling hearth when the ruddy firelight gleams on hardy manhood and the blooming cheek of woman: for all the home-enjoyments and the kindred virtues which flourish in a frozen soil. not that we grieve when, after some seven months of storm and bitter frost, spring, in the guise of a flower-crowned virgin, is seen driving away the hoary despot, pelting him with violets by the handful and strewing green grass on the path behind him. often ere he will give up his empire old winter rushes fiercely buck and hurls a snowdrift at the shrinking form of spring, yet step by step he is compelled to retreat northward, and spends the summer month within the arctic circle. such fantasies, intermixed among graver toils of mind, have made the winter's day pass pleasantly. meanwhile, the storm has raged without abatement, and now, as the brief afternoon declines, is tossing denser volumes to and fro about the atmosphere. on the window-sill there is a layer of snow reaching halfway up the lowest pane of glass. the garden is one unbroken bed. along the street are two or three spots of uncovered earth where the gust has whirled away the snow, heaping it elsewhere to the fence-tops or piling huge banks against the doors of houses. a solitary passenger is seen, now striding mid-leg deep across a drift, now scudding over the bare ground, while his cloak is swollen with the wind. and now the jingling of bells--a sluggish sound responsive to the horse's toilsome progress through the unbroken drifts--announces the passage of a sleigh with a boy clinging behind and ducking his head to escape detection by the driver. next comes a sledge laden with wood for some unthrifty housekeeper whom winter has surprised at a cold hearth. but what dismal equipage now struggles along the uneven street? a sable hearse bestrewn with snow is bearing a dead man through the storm to his frozen bed. oh how dreary is a burial in winter, when the bosom of mother earth has no warmth for her poor child! evening--the early eve of december--begins to spread its deepening veil over the comfortless scene. the firelight gradually brightens and throws my flickering shadow upon the walls and ceiling of the chamber, but still the storm rages and rattles against the windows. alas! i shiver and think it time to be disconsolate, but, taking a farewell glance at dead nature in her shroud, i perceive a flock of snowbirds skimming lightsomely through the tempest and flitting from drift to drift as sportively as swallows in the delightful prime of summer. whence come they? where do they build their nests and seek their food? why, having airy wings, do they not follow summer around the earth, instead of making themselves the playmates of the storm and fluttering on the dreary verge of the winter's eve? i know not whence they come, nor why; yet my spirit has been cheered by that wandering flock of snow-birds. the seven vagabonds. rambling on foot in the spring of my life and the summer of the year, i came one afternoon to a point which gave me the choice of three directions. straight before me the main road extended its dusty length to boston; on the left a branch went toward the sea, and would have lengthened my journey a trifle of twenty or thirty miles, while by the right-hand path i might have gone over hills and lakes to canada, visiting in my way the celebrated town of stamford. on a level spot of grass at the foot of the guide-post appeared an object which, though locomotive on a different principle, reminded me of gulliver's portable mansion among the brobdignags. it was a huge covered wagon--or, more properly, a small house on wheels--with a door on one side and a window shaded by green blinds on the other. two horses munching provender out of the baskets which muzzled them were fastened near the vehicle. a delectable sound of music proceeded from the interior, and i immediately conjectured that this was some itinerant show halting at the confluence of the roads to intercept such idle travellers as myself. a shower had long been climbing up the western sky, and now hung so blackly over my onward path that it was a point of wisdom to seek shelter here. "halloo! who stands guard here? is the doorkeeper asleep?" cried i, approaching a ladder of two or three steps which was let down from the wagon. the music ceased at my summons, and there appeared at the door, not the sort of figure that i had mentally assigned to the wandering showman, but a most respectable old personage whom i was sorry to have addressed in so free a style. he wore a snuff-colored coat and small-clothes, with white top-boots, and exhibited the mild dignity of aspect and manner which may often be noticed in aged schoolmasters, and sometimes in deacons, selectmen or other potentates of that kind. a small piece of silver was my passport within his premises, where i found only one other person, hereafter to be described. "this is a dull day for business," said the old gentleman as he ushered me in; "but i merely tarry here to refresh the cattle, being bound for the camp-meeting at stamford." perhaps the movable scene of this narrative is still peregrinating new england, and may enable the reader to test the accuracy of my description. the spectacle--for i will not use the unworthy term of "puppet-show"--consisted of a multitude of little people assembled on a miniature stage. among them were artisans of every kind in the attitudes of their toil, and a group of fair ladies and gay gentlemen standing ready for the dance; a company of foot-soldiers formed a line across the stage, looking stern, grim and terrible enough to make it a pleasant consideration that they were but three inches high; and conspicuous above the whole was seen a merry andrew in the pointed cap and motley coat of his profession. all the inhabitants of this mimic world were motionless, like the figures in a picture, or like that people who one moment were alive in the midst of their business and delights and the next were transformed to statues, preserving an eternal semblance of labor that was ended and pleasure that could be felt no more. anon, however, the old gentleman turned the handle of a barrel-organ, the first note of which produced a most enlivening effect upon the figures and awoke them all to their proper occupations and amusements. by the selfsame impulse the tailor plied his needle, the blacksmith's hammer descended upon the anvil and the dancers whirled away on feathery tiptoes; the company of soldiers broke into platoons, retreated from the stage, and were succeeded by a troop of horse, who came prancing onward with such a sound of trumpets and trampling of hoofs as might have startled don quixote himself; while an old toper of inveterate ill-habits uplifted his black bottle and took off a hearty swig. meantime, the merry andrew began to caper and turn somersets, shaking his sides, nodding his head and winking his eyes in as lifelike a manner as if he were ridiculing the nonsense of all human affairs and making fun of the whole multitude beneath him. at length the old magician (for i compared the showman to prospero entertaining his guests with a masque of shadows) paused that i might give utterance to my wonder. "what an admirable piece of work is this!" exclaimed i, lifting up my hands in astonishment. indeed, i liked the spectacle and was tickled with the old man's gravity as he presided at it, for i had none of that foolish wisdom which reproves every occupation that is not useful in this world of vanities. if there be a faculty which i possess more perfectly than most men, it is that of throwing myself mentally into situations foreign to my own and detecting with a cheerful eye the desirable circumstances of each. i could have envied the life of this gray-headed showman, spent as it had been in a course of safe and pleasurable adventure in driving his huge vehicle sometimes through the sands of cape cod and sometimes over the rough forest-roads of the north and east, and halting now on the green before a village meeting-house and now in a paved square of the metropolis. how often must his heart have been gladdened by the delight of children as they viewed these animated figures, or his pride indulged by haranguing learnedly to grown men on the mechanical powers which produced such wonderful effects, or his gallantry brought into play--for this is an attribute which such grave men do not lack--by the visits of pretty maidens! and then with how fresh a feeling must he return at intervals to his own peculiar home! "i would i were assured of as happy a life as his," thought i. though the showman's wagon might have accommodated fifteen or twenty spectators, it now contained only himself and me and a third person, at whom i threw a glance on entering. he was a neat and trim young man of two or three and twenty; his drab hat and green frock-coat with velvet collar were smart, though no longer new, while a pair of green spectacles that seemed needless to his brisk little eyes gave him something of a scholar-like and literary air. after allowing me a sufficient time to inspect the puppets, he advanced with a bow and drew my attention to some books in a corner of the wagon. these he forthwith began to extol with an amazing volubility of well-sounding words and an ingenuity of praise that won him my heart as being myself one of the most merciful of critics. indeed, his stock required some considerable powers of commendation in the salesman. there were several ancient friends of mine--the novels of those happy days when my affections wavered between the _scottish chiefs_ and _thomas thumb_--besides a few of later date whose merits had not been acknowledged by the public. i was glad to find that dear little venerable volume the _new england primer_, looking as antique as ever, though in its thousandth new edition; a bundle of superannuated gilt picture-books made such a child of me that, partly for the glittering covers and partly for the fairy-tales within, i bought the whole, and an assortment of ballads and popular theatrical songs drew largely on my purse. to balance these expenditures, i meddled neither with sermons nor science nor morality, though volumes of each were there, nor with a _life of franklin_ in the coarsest of paper, but so showily bound that it was emblematical of the doctor himself in the court-dress which he refused to wear at paris, nor with webster's spelling-book, nor some of byron's minor poems, nor half a dozen little testaments at twenty-five cents each. thus far the collection might have been swept from some great bookstore or picked up at an evening auction-room, but there was one small blue-covered pamphlet which the pedler handed me with so peculiar an air that i purchased it immediately at his own price; and then for the first time the thought struck me that i had spoken face to face with the veritable author of a printed book. the literary-man now evinced a great kindness for me, and i ventured to inquire which way he was travelling. "oh," said he, "i keep company with this old gentlemen here, and we are moving now toward the camp-meeting at stamford." he then explained to me that for the present season he had rented a corner of the wagon as a book-store, which, as he wittily observed, was a true circulating library, since there were few parts of the country where it had not gone its rounds. i approved of the plan exceedingly, and began to sum up within my mind the many uncommon felicities in the life of a book-pedler, especially when his character resembled that of the individual before me. at a high rate was to be reckoned the daily and hourly enjoyment of such interviews as the present, in which he seized upon the admiration of a passing stranger and made him aware that a man of literary taste, and even of literary achievement, was travelling the country in a showman's wagon. a more valuable yet not infrequent triumph might be won in his conversations with some elderly clergyman long vegetating in a rocky, woody, watery back-settlement of new england, who as he recruited his library from the pedler's stock of sermons would exhort him to seek a college education and become the first scholar in his class. sweeter and prouder yet would be his sensations when, talking poetry while he sold spelling-books, he should charm the mind, and haply touch the heart, of a fair country schoolmistress, herself an unhonored poetess, a wearer of blue stockings which none but himself took pains to look at. but the scene of his completest glory would be when the wagon had halted for the night and his stock of books was transferred to some crowded bar-room. then would he recommend to the multifarious company, whether traveller from the city, or teamster from the hills, or neighboring squire, or the landlord himself, or his loutish hostler, works suited to each particular taste and capacity, proving, all the while, by acute criticism and profound remark, that the lore in his books was even exceeded by that in his brain. thus happily would he traverse the land, sometimes a herald before the march of mind, sometimes walking arm in arm with awful literature, and reaping everywhere a harvest of real and sensible popularity which the secluded bookworms by whose toil he lived could never hope for. "if ever i meddle with literature," thought i, fixing myself in adamantine resolution, "it shall be as a travelling bookseller." though it was still mid-afternoon, the air had now grown dark about us, and a few drops of rain came down upon the roof of our vehicle, pattering like the feet of birds that had flown thither to rest. a sound of pleasant voices made us listen, and there soon appeared halfway up the ladder the pretty person of a young damsel whose rosy face was so cheerful that even amid the gloomy light it seemed as if the sunbeams were peeping under her bonnet. we next saw the dark and handsome features of a young man who, with easier gallantry than might have been expected in the heart of yankee-land, was assisting her into the wagon. it became immediately evident to us, when the two strangers stood within the door, that they were of a profession kindred to those of my companions, and i was delighted with the more than hospitable--the even paternal--kindness of the old showman's manner as he welcomed them, while the man of literature hastened to lead the merry-eyed girl to a seat on the long bench. "you are housed but just in time, my young friends," said the master of the wagon; "the sky would have been down upon you within five minutes." the young man's reply marked him as a foreigner--not by any variation from the idiom and accent of good english, but because he spoke with more caution and accuracy than if perfectly familiar with the language. "we knew that a shower was hanging over us," said he, "and consulted whether it were best to enter the house on the top of yonder hill, but, seeing your wagon in the road--" "we agreed to come hither," interrupted the girl, with a smile, "because we should be more at home in a wandering house like this." i, meanwhile, with many a wild and undetermined fantasy was narrowly inspecting these two doves that had flown into our ark. the young man, tall, agile and athletic, wore a mass of black shining curls clustering round a dark and vivacious countenance which, if it had not greater expression, was at least more active and attracted readier notice, than the quiet faces of our countrymen. at his first appearance he had been laden with a neat mahogany box of about two feet square, but very light in proportion to its size, which he had immediately unstrapped from his shoulders and deposited on the floor of the wagon. the girl had nearly as fair a complexion as our own beauties, and a brighter one than most of them; the lightness of her figure, which seemed calculated to traverse the whole world without weariness, suited well with the glowing cheerfulness of her face, and her gay attire, combining the rainbow hues of crimson, green and a deep orange, was as proper to her lightsome aspect as if she had been born in it. this gay stranger was appropriately burdened with that mirth-inspiring instrument the fiddle, which her companion took from her hands, and shortly began the process of tuning. neither of us the previous company of the wagon needed to inquire their trade, for this could be no mystery to frequenters of brigade-musters, ordinations, cattle-shows, commencements, and other festal meetings in our sober land; and there is a dear friend of mine who will smile when this page recalls to his memory a chivalrous deed performed by us in rescuing the show-box of such a couple from a mob of great double-fisted countrymen. "come," said i to the damsel of gay attire; "shall we visit all the wonders of the world together?" she understood the metaphor at once, though, indeed, it would not much have troubled me if she had assented to the literal meaning of my words. the mahogany box was placed in a proper position, and i peeped in through its small round magnifying-window while the girl sat by my side and gave short descriptive sketches as one after another the pictures were unfolded to my view. we visited together--at least, our imaginations did--full many a famous city in the streets of which i had long yearned to tread. once, i remember, we were in the harbor of barcelona, gazing townward; next, she bore me through the air to sicily and bade me look up at blazing �tna; then we took wing to venice and sat in a gondola beneath the arch of the rialto, and anon she set me down among the thronged spectators at the coronation of napoleon. but there was one scene--its locality she could not tell--which charmed my attention longer than all those gorgeous palaces and churches, because the fancy haunted me that i myself the preceding summer had beheld just such a humble meeting-house, in just such a pine-surrounded nook, among our own green mountains. all these pictures were tolerably executed, though far inferior to the girl's touches of description; nor was it easy to comprehend how in so few sentences, and these, as i supposed, in a language foreign to her, she contrived to present an airy copy of each varied scene. when we had travelled through the vast extent of the mahogany box, i looked into my guide's face. "'where are you going, my pretty maid?'" inquired i, in the words of an old song. "ah!" said the gay damsel; "you might as well ask where the summer wind is going. we are wanderers here and there and everywhere. wherever there is mirth our merry hearts are drawn to it. to-day, indeed, the people have told us of a great frolic and festival in these parts; so perhaps we may be needed at what you call the camp-meeting at stamford." then, in my happy youth, and while her pleasant voice yet sounded in my ears, i sighed; for none but myself, i thought, should have been her companion in a life which seemed to realize my own wild fancies cherished all through visionary boyhood to that hour. to these two strangers the world was in its golden age--not that, indeed, it was less dark and sad than ever, but because its weariness and sorrow had no community with their ethereal nature. wherever they might appear in their pilgrimage of bliss, youth would echo back their gladness, care-stricken maturity would rest a moment from its toil, and age, tottering among the graves, would smile in withered joy for their sakes. the lonely cot, the narrow and gloomy street, the sombre shade, would catch a passing gleam like that now shining on ourselves as these bright spirits wandered by. blessed pair, whose happy home was throughout all the earth! i looked at my shoulders, and thought them broad enough to sustain those pictured towns and mountains; mine, too, was an elastic foot as tireless as the wing of the bird of paradise; mine was then an untroubled heart that would have gone singing on its delightful way. "oh, maiden," said i aloud, "why did you not come hither alone?" while the merry girl and myself were busy with the show-box the unceasing rain had driven another wayfarer into the wagon. he seemed pretty nearly of the old showman's age, but much smaller, leaner and more withered than he, and less respectably clad in a patched suit of gray; withal, he had a thin, shrewd countenance and a pair of diminutive gray eyes, which peeped rather too keenly out of their puckered sockets. this old fellow had been joking with the showman in a manner which intimated previous acquaintance, but, perceiving that the damsel and i had terminated our affairs, he drew forth a folded document and presented it to me. as i had anticipated, it proved to be a circular, written in a very fair and legible hand and signed by several distinguished gentlemen whom i had never heard of, stating that the bearer had encountered every variety of misfortune and recommending him to the notice of all charitable people. previous disbursements had left me no more than a five-dollar bill, out of which, however, i offered to make the beggar a donation provided he would give me change for it. the object of my beneficence looked keenly in my face, and discerned that i had none of that abominable spirit, characteristic though it be, of a full-blooded yankee, which takes pleasure in detecting every little harmless piece of knavery. "why, perhaps," said the ragged old mendicant, "if the bank is in good standing, i can't say but i may have enough about me to change your bill." "it is a bill of the suffolk bank," said i, "and better than the specie." as the beggar had nothing to object, he now produced a small buff leather bag tied up carefully with a shoe-string. when this was opened, there appeared a very comfortable treasure of silver coins of all sorts and sizes, and i even fancied that i saw gleaming among them the golden plumage of that rare bird in our currency the american eagle. in this precious heap was my bank-note deposited, the rate of exchange being considerably against me. his wants being thus relieved, the destitute man pulled out of his pocket an old pack of greasy cards which had probably contributed to fill the buff leather bag in more ways than one. "come!" said he; "i spy a rare fortune in your face, and for twenty-five cents more i'll tell you what it is." i never refuse to take a glimpse into futurity; so, after shuffling the cards and when the fair damsel had cut them, i dealt a portion to the prophetic beggar. like others of his profession, before predicting the shadowy events that were moving on to meet me he gave proof of his preternatural science by describing scenes through which i had already passed. here let me have credit for a sober fact. when the old man had read a page in his book of fate, he bent his keen gray eyes on mine and proceeded to relate in all its minute particulars what was then the most singular event of my life. it was one which i had no purpose to disclose till the general unfolding of all secrets, nor would it be a much stranger instance of inscrutable knowledge or fortunate conjecture if the beggar were to meet me in the street today and repeat word for word the page which i have here written. the fortune-teller, after predicting a destiny which time seems loth to make good, put up his cards, secreted his treasure-bag and began to converse with the other occupants of the wagon. "well, old friend," said the showman, "you have not yet told us which way your face is turned this afternoon." "i am taking a trip northward this warm weather," replied the conjurer, "across the connecticut first, and then up through vermont, and maybe into canada before the fall. but i must stop and see the breaking up of the camp-meeting at stamford." i began to think that all the vagrants in new england were converging to the camp-meeting and had made this wagon, their rendezvous by the way. the showman now proposed that when the shower was over they should pursue the road to stamford together, it being sometimes the policy of these people to form a sort of league and confederacy. "and the young lady too," observed the gallant bibliopolist, bowing to her profoundly, "and this foreign gentleman, as i understand, are on a jaunt of pleasure to the same spot. it would add incalculably to my own enjoyment, and i presume to that of my colleague and his friend, if they could be prevailed upon to join our party." this arrangement met with approbation on all hands, nor were any of those concerned more sensible of its advantages than myself, who had no title to be included in it. having already satisfied myself as to the several modes in which the four others attained felicity, i next set my mind at work to discover what enjoyments were peculiar to the old "straggler," as the people of the country would have termed the wandering mendicant and prophet. as he pretended to familiarity with the devil, so i fancied that he was fitted to pursue and take delight in his way of life by possessing some of the mental and moral characteristics--the lighter and more comic ones--of the devil in popular stories. among them might be reckoned a love of deception for its own sake, a shrewd eye and keen relish for human weakness and ridiculous infirmity, and the talent of petty fraud. thus to this old man there would be pleasure even in the consciousness--so insupportable to some minds--that his whole life was a cheat upon the world, and that, so far as he was concerned with the public, his little cunning had the upper hand of its united wisdom. every day would furnish him with a succession of minute and pungent triumphs--as when, for instance, his importunity wrung a pittance out of the heart of a miser, or when my silly good-nature transferred a part of my slender purse to his plump leather bag, or when some ostentatious gentleman should throw a coin to the ragged beggar who was richer than himself, or when--though he would not always be so decidedly diabolical--his pretended wants should make him a sharer in the scanty living of real indigence. and then what an inexhaustible field of enjoyment, both as enabling him to discern so much folly and achieve such quantities of minor mischief, was opened to his sneering spirit by his pretensions to prophetic knowledge. all this was a sort of happiness which i could conceive of, though i had little sympathy with it. perhaps, had i been then inclined to admit it, i might have found that the roving life was more proper to him than to either of his companions; for satan, to whom i had compared the poor man, has delighted, ever since the time of job, in "wandering up and down upon the earth," and, indeed, a crafty disposition which operates not in deep-laid plans, but in disconnected tricks, could not have an adequate scope, unless naturally impelled to a continual change of scene and society. my reflections were here interrupted. "another visitor!" exclaimed the old showman. the door of the wagon had been closed against the tempest, which was roaring and blustering with prodigious fury and commotion and beating violently against our shelter, as if it claimed all those homeless people for its lawful prey, while we, caring little for the displeasure of the elements, sat comfortably talking. there was now an attempt to open the door, succeeded by a voice uttering some strange, unintelligible gibberish which my companions mistook for greek and i suspected to be thieves' latin. however, the showman stepped forward and gave admittance to a figure which made me imagine either that our wagon had rolled back two hundred years into past ages or that the forest and its old inhabitants had sprung up around us by enchantment. it was a red indian armed with his bow and arrow. his dress was a sort of cap adorned with a single feather of some wild bird, and a frock of blue cotton girded tight about him; on his breast, like orders of knighthood, hung a crescent and a circle and other ornaments of silver, while a small crucifix betokened that our father the pope had interposed between the indian and the great spirit whom he had worshipped in his simplicity. this son of the wilderness and pilgrim of the storm took his place silently in the midst of us. when the first surprise was over, i rightly conjectured him to be one of the penobscot tribe, parties of which i had often seen in their summer excursions down our eastern rivers. there they paddle their birch canoes among the coasting-schooners, and build their wigwam beside some roaring mill-dam, and drive a little trade in basket-work where their fathers hunted deer. our new visitor was probably wandering through the country toward boston, subsisting on the careless charity of the people while he turned his archery to profitable account by shooting at cents which were to be the prize of his successful aim. the indian had not long been seated ere our merry damsel sought to draw him into conversation. she, indeed, seemed all made up of sunshine in the month of may, for there was nothing so dark and dismal that her pleasant mind could not cast a glow over it; and the wild man, like a fir tree in his native forest, soon began to brighten into a sort of sombre cheerfulness. at length she inquired whether his journey had any particular end or purpose. "i go shoot at the camp-meeting at stamford," replied the indian. "and here are five more," said the girl, "all aiming at the camp-meeting too. you shall be one of us, for we travel with light hearts; and, as for me, i sing merry songs and tell merry tales and am full of merry thoughts, and i dance merrily along the road, so that there is never any sadness among them that keep me company. but oh, you would find it very dull indeed to go all the way to stamford alone." my ideas of the aboriginal character led me to fear that the indian would prefer his own solitary musings to the gay society thus offered him; on the contrary, the girl's proposal met with immediate acceptance and seemed to animate him with a misty expectation of enjoyment. i now gave myself up to a course of thought which, whether it flowed naturally from this combination of events or was drawn forth by a wayward fancy, caused my mind to thrill as if i were listening to deep music. i saw mankind in this weary old age of the world either enduring a sluggish existence amid the smoke and dust of cities, or, if they breathed a purer air, still lying down at night with no hope but to wear out to-morrow, and all the to-morrows which make up life, among the same dull scenes and in the same wretched toil that had darkened the sunshine of today. but there were some full of the primeval instinct who preserved the freshness of youth to their latest years by the continual excitement of new objects, new pursuits and new associates, and cared little, though their birthplace might have been here in new england, if the grave should close over them in central asia. fate was summoning a parliament of these free spirits; unconscious of the impulse which directed them to a common centre, they had come hither from far and near, and last of all appeared the representatives of those mighty vagrants who had chased the deer during thousands of years, and were chasing it now in the spirit-land. wandering down through the waste of ages, the woods had vanished around his path; his arm had lost somewhat of its strength, his foot of its fleetness, his mien of its wild regality, his heart and mind of their savage virtue and uncultured force, but here, untamable to the routine of artificial life, roving now along the dusty road as of old over the forest-leaves,--here was the indian still. "well," said the old showman, in the midst of my meditations, "here is an honest company of us--one, two, three, four, five, six--all going to the camp-meeting at stamford. now, hoping no offence, i should like to know where this young gentleman may be going?" i started. how came i among these wanderers? the free mind that preferred its own folly to another's wisdom, the open spirit that found companions everywhere--above all, the restless impulse that had so often made me wretched in the midst of enjoyments,--these were my claims to be of their society. "my friends," cried i, stepping into the centre of the wagon, "i am going with you to the camp-meeting at stamford." "but in what capacity?" asked the old showman, after a moment's silence. "all of us here can get our bread in some creditable way. every honest man should have his livelihood. you, sir, as i take it, are a mere strolling gentleman." i proceeded to inform the company that when nature gave me a propensity to their way of life she had not left me altogether destitute of qualifications for it, though i could not deny that my talent was less respectable, and might be less profitable, than the meanest of theirs. my design, in short, was to imitate the story-tellers of whom oriental travellers have told us, and become an itinerant novelist, reciting my own extemporaneous fictions to such audiences as i could collect. "either this," said i, "is my vocation, or i have been born in vain." the fortune-teller, with a sly wink to the company, proposed to take me as an apprentice to one or other of his professions, either of which undoubtedly would have given full scope to whatever inventive talent i might possess. the bibliopolist spoke a few words in opposition to my plan--influenced partly, i suspect, by the jealousy of authorship, and partly by an apprehension that the _vivâ-voce_ practice would become general among novelists, to the infinite detriment of the book trade. dreading a rejection, i solicited the interest of the merry damsel. "'mirth,'" cried i, most aptly appropriating the words of l'allegro, "'to thee i sue! mirth, admit me of thy crew!'" "let us indulge the poor youth," said mirth, with a kindness which made me love her dearly, though i was no such coxcomb as to misinterpret her motives. "i have espied much promise in him. true, a shadow sometimes flits across his brow, but the sunshine is sure to follow in a moment. he is never guilty of a sad thought but a merry one is twin-born with it. we will take him with us, and you shall see that he will set us all a-laughing before we reach the camp-meeting at stamford." her voice silenced the scruples of the rest and gained me admittance into the league; according to the terms of which, without a community of goods or profits, we were to lend each other all the aid and avert all the harm that might be in our power. this affair settled, a marvellous jollity entered into the whole tribe of us, manifesting itself characteristically in each individual. the old showman, sitting down to his barrel-organ, stirred up the souls of the pigmy people with one of the quickest tunes in the music-book; tailors, blacksmiths, gentlemen and ladies all seemed to share in the spirit of the occasion, and the merry andrew played his part more facetiously than ever, nodding and winking particularly at me. the young foreigner flourished his fiddle-bow with a master's hand, and gave an inspiring echo to the showman's melody. the bookish man and the merry damsel started up simultaneously to dance, the former enacting the double shuffle in a style which everybody must have witnessed ere election week was blotted out of time, while the girl, setting her arms akimbo with both hands at her slim waist, displayed such light rapidity of foot and harmony of varying attitude and motion that i could not conceive how she ever was to stop, imagining at the moment that nature had made her, as the old showman had made his puppets, for no earthly purpose but to dance jigs. the indian bellowed forth a succession of most hideous outcries, somewhat affrighting us till we interpreted them as the war-song with which, in imitation of his ancestors, he was prefacing the assault on stamford. the conjurer, meanwhile, sat demurely in a corner extracting a sly enjoyment from the whole scene, and, like the facetious merry andrew, directing his queer glance particularly at me. as for myself, with great exhilaration of fancy, i began to arrange and color the incidents of a tale wherewith i proposed to amuse an audience that very evening; for i saw that my associates were a little ashamed of me, and that no time was to be lost in obtaining a public acknowledgment of my abilities. "come, fellow-laborers," at last said the old showman, whom we had elected president; "the shower is over, and we must be doing our duty by these poor souls at stamford." "we'll come among them in procession, with music and dancing," cried the merry damsel. accordingly--for it must be understood that our pilgrimage was to be performed on foot--we sallied joyously out of the wagon, each of us, even the old gentleman in his white top-boots, giving a great skip as we came down the ladder. above our heads there was such a glory of sunshine and splendor of clouds, and such brightness of verdure below, that, as i modestly remarked at the time, nature seemed to have washed her face and put on the best of her jewelry and a fresh green gown in honor of our confederation. casting our eyes northward, we beheld a horseman approaching leisurely and splashing through the little puddle on the stamford road. onward he came, sticking up in his saddle with rigid perpendicularity, a tall, thin figure in rusty black, whom the showman and the conjurer shortly recognized to be what his aspect sufficiently indicated--a travelling preacher of great fame among the methodists. what puzzled us was the fact that his face appeared turned from, instead of to, the camp-meeting at stamford. however, as this new votary of the wandering life drew near the little green space where the guide-post and our wagon were situated, my six fellow-vagabonds and myself rushed forward and surrounded him, crying out with united voices, "what news? what news from the camp-meeting at stamford?" the missionary looked down in surprise at as singular a knot of people as could have been selected from all his heterogeneous auditors. indeed, considering that we might all be classified under the general head of vagabond, there was great diversity of character among the grave old showman, the sly, prophetic beggar, the fiddling foreigner and his merry damsel, the smart bibliopolist, the sombre indian and myself, the itinerant novelist, a slender youth of eighteen. i even fancied that a smile was endeavoring to disturb the iron gravity of the preacher's mouth. "good people," answered he, "the camp-meeting is broke up." so saying, the methodist minister switched his steed and rode westward. our union being thus nullified by the removal of its object, we were sundered at once to the four winds of heaven. the fortune-teller, giving a nod to all and a peculiar wink to me, departed on his northern tour, chuckling within himself as he took the stamford road. the old showman and his literary coadjutor were already tackling their horses to the wagon with a design to peregrinate south-west along the sea-coast. the foreigner and the merry damsel took their laughing leave and pursued the eastern road, which i had that day trodden; as they passed away the young man played a lively strain and the girl's happy spirit broke into a dance, and, thus dissolving, as it were, into sunbeams and gay music, that pleasant pair departed from my view. finally, with a pensive shadow thrown across my mind, yet emulous of the light philosophy of my late companions, i joined myself to the penobscot indian and set forth toward the distant city. the white old maid. the moonbeams came through two deep and narrow windows and showed a spacious chamber richly furnished in an antique fashion. from one lattice the shadow of the diamond panes was thrown upon the floor; the ghostly light through the other slept upon a bed, falling between the heavy silken curtains and illuminating the face of a young man. but how quietly the slumberer lay! how pale his features! and how like a shroud the sheet was wound about his frame! yes, it was a corpse in its burial-clothes. suddenly the fixed features seemed to move with dark emotion. strange fantasy! it was but the shadow of the fringed curtain waving betwixt the dead face and the moonlight as the door of the chamber opened and a girl stole softly to the bedside. was there delusion in the moonbeams, or did her gesture and her eye betray a gleam of triumph as she bent over the pale corpse, pale as itself, and pressed her living lips to the cold ones of the dead? as she drew back from that long kiss her features writhed as if a proud heart were fighting with its anguish. again it seemed that the features of the corpse had moved responsive to her own. still an illusion. the silken curtains had waved a second time betwixt the dead face and the moonlight as another fair young girl unclosed the door and glided ghostlike to the bedside. there the two maidens stood, both beautiful, with the pale beauty of the dead between them. but she who had first entered was proud and stately, and the other a soft and fragile thing. "away!" cried the lofty one. "thou hadst him living; the dead is mine." "thine!" returned the other, shuddering. "well hast thou spoken; the dead is thine." the proud girl started and stared into her face with a ghastly look, but a wild-and mournful expression passed across the features of the gentle one, and, weak and helpless, she sank down on the bed, her head pillowed beside that of the corpse and her hair mingling with his dark locks. a creature of hope and joy, the first draught of sorrow had bewildered her. "edith!" cried her rival. edith groaned as with a sudden compression of the heart, and, removing her cheek from the dead youth's pillow, she stood upright, fearfully encountering the eyes of the lofty girl. "wilt thou betray me?" said the latter, calmly. "till the dead bid me speak i will be silent," answered edith. "leave us alone together. go and live many years, and then return and tell me of thy life. he too will be here. then, if thou tellest of sufferings more than death, we will both forgive thee." "and what shall be the token?" asked the proud girl, as if her heart acknowledged a meaning in these wild words. "this lock of hair," said edith, lifting one of the dark clustering curls that lay heavily on the dead man's brow. the two maidens joined their hands over the bosom of the corpse and appointed a day and hour far, far in time to come for their next meeting in that chamber. the statelier girl gave one deep look at the motionless countenance and departed, yet turned again and trembled ere she closed the door, almost believing that her dead lover frowned upon her. and edith, too! was not her white form fading into the moonlight? scorning her own weakness, she went forth and perceived that a negro slave was waiting in the passage with a waxlight, which he held between her face and his own and regarded her, as she thought, with an ugly expression of merriment. lifting his torch on high, the slave lighted her down the staircase and undid the portal of the mansion. the young clergyman of the town had just ascended the steps, and, bowing to the lady, passed in without a word. years--many years--rolled on. the world seemed new again, so much older was it grown since the night when those pale girls had clasped their hands across the bosom of the corpse. in the interval a lonely woman had passed from youth to extreme age, and was known by all the town as the "old maid in the winding-sheet." a taint of insanity had affected her whole life, but so quiet, sad and gentle, so utterly free from violence, that she was suffered to pursue her harmless fantasies unmolested by the world with whose business or pleasures she had naught to do. she dwelt alone, and never came into the daylight except to follow funerals. whenever a corpse was borne along the street, in sunshine, rain or snow, whether a pompous train of the rich and proud thronged after it or few and humble were the mourners, behind them came the lonely woman in a long white garment which the people called her shroud. she took no place among the kindred or the friends, but stood at the door to hear the funeral prayer, and walked in the rear of the procession as one whose earthly charge it was to haunt the house of mourning and be the shadow of affliction and see that the dead were duly buried. so long had this been her custom that the inhabitants of the town deemed her a part of every funeral, as much as the coffin-pall or the very corpse itself, and augured ill of the sinner's destiny unless the old maid in the winding-sheet came gliding like a ghost behind. once, it is said, she affrighted a bridal-party with her pale presence, appearing suddenly in the illuminated hall just as the priest was uniting a false maid to a wealthy man before her lover had been dead a year. evil was the omen to that marriage. sometimes she stole forth by moonlight and visited the graves of venerable integrity and wedded love and virgin innocence, and every spot where the ashes of a kind and faithful heart were mouldering. over the hillocks of those favored dead would she stretch out her arms with a gesture as if she were scattering seeds, and many believed that she brought them from the garden of paradise, for the graves which she had visited were green beneath the snow and covered with sweet flowers from april to november. her blessing was better than a holy verse upon the tombstone. thus wore away her long, sad, peaceful and fantastic life till few were so old as she, and the people of later generations wondered how the dead had ever been buried or mourners had endured their grief without the old maid in the winding-sheet. still years went on, and still she followed funerals and was not yet summoned to her own festival of death. one afternoon the great street of the town was all alive with business and bustle, though the sun now gilded only the upper half of the church-spire, having left the housetops and loftiest trees in shadow. the scene was cheerful and animated in spite of the sombre shade between the high brick buildings. here were pompous merchants in white wigs and laced velvet, the bronzed faces of sea-captains, the foreign garb and air of spanish creoles, and the disdainful port of natives of old england, all contrasted with the rough aspect of one or two back-settlers negotiating sales of timber from forests where axe had never sounded. sometimes a lady passed, swelling roundly forth in an embroidered petticoat, balancing her steps in high-heeled shoes and courtesying with lofty grace to the punctilious obeisances of the gentlemen. the life of the town seemed to have its very centre not far from an old mansion that stood somewhat back from the pavement, surrounded by neglected grass, with a strange air of loneliness rather deepened than dispelled by the throng so near it. its site would have been suitably occupied by a magnificent exchange or a brick block lettered all over with various signs, or the large house itself might have made a noble tavern with the "king's arms" swinging before it and guests in every chamber, instead of the present solitude. but, owing to some dispute about the right of inheritance, the mansion had been long without a tenant, decaying from year to year and throwing the stately gloom of its shadow over the busiest part of the town. such was the scene, and such the time, when a figure unlike any that have been described was observed at a distance down the street. "i espy a strange sail yonder," remarked a liverpool captain--"that woman in the long white garment." the sailor seemed much struck by the object, as were several others who at the same moment caught a glimpse of the figure that had attracted his notice. almost immediately the various topics of conversation gave place to speculations in an undertone on this unwonted occurrence. "can there be a funeral so late this afternoon?" inquired some. they looked for the signs of death at every door--the sexton, the hearse, the assemblage of black-clad relatives, all that makes up the woeful pomp of funerals. they raised their eyes, also, to the sun-gilt spire of the church, and wondered that no clang proceeded from its bell, which had always tolled till now when this figure appeared in the light of day. but none had heard that a corpse was to be borne to its home that afternoon, nor was there any token of a funeral except the apparition of the old maid in the winding-sheet. "what may this portend?" asked each man of his neighbor. all smiled as they put the question, yet with a certain trouble in their eyes, as if pestilence, or some other wide calamity, were prognosticated by the untimely intrusion among the living of one whose presence had always been associated with death and woe. what a comet is to the earth was that sad woman to the town. still she moved on, while the hum of surprise was hushed at her approach, and the proud and the humble stood aside that her white garment might not wave against them. it was a long, loose robe of spotless purity. its wearer appeared very old, pale, emaciated and feeble, yet glided onward without the unsteady pace of extreme age. at one point of her course a little rosy boy burst forth from a door and ran with open arms toward the ghostly woman, seeming to expect a kiss from her bloodless lips. she made a slight pause, fixing her eye upon him with an expression of no earthly sweetness, so that the child shivered and stood awestruck rather than affrighted while the old maid passed on. perhaps her garment might have been polluted even by an infant's touch; perhaps her kiss would have been death to the sweet boy within the year. "she is but a shadow," whispered the superstitious. "the child put forth his arms and could not grasp her robe." the wonder was increased when the old maid passed beneath the porch of the deserted mansion, ascended the moss-covered steps, lifted the iron knocker and gave three raps. the people could only conjecture that some old remembrance, troubling her bewildered brain, had impelled the poor woman hither to visit the friends of her youth--all gone from their home long since and for ever unless their ghosts still haunted it, fit company for the old maid in the winding-sheet. an elderly man approached the steps, and, reverently uncovering his gray locks, essayed to explain the matter. "none, madam," said he, "have dwelt in this house these fifteen years agone--no, not since the death of old colonel fenwicke, whose funeral you may remember to have followed. his heirs, being ill-agreed among themselves, have let the mansion-house go to ruin." the old maid looked slowly round with a slight gesture of one hand and a finger of the other upon her lip, appearing more shadow-like than ever in the obscurity of the porch. but again she lifted the hammer, and gave, this time, a single rap. could it be that a footstep was now heard coming down the staircase of the old mansion which all conceived to have been so long untenanted? slowly, feebly, yet heavily, like the pace of an aged and infirm person, the step approached, more distinct on every downward stair, till it reached the portal. the bar fell on the inside; the door was opened. one upward glance toward the church-spire, whence the sunshine had just faded, was the last that the people saw of the old maid in the winding-sheet. "who undid the door?" asked many. this question, owing to the depth of shadow beneath the porch, no one could satisfactorily answer. two or three aged men, while protesting against an inference which might be drawn, affirmed that the person within was a negro and bore a singular resemblance to old cæsar, formerly a slave in the house, but freed by death some thirty years before. "her summons has waked up a servant of the old family," said one, half seriously. "let us wait here," replied another; "more guests will knock at the door anon. but the gate of the graveyard should be thrown open." twilight had overspread the town before the crowd began to separate or the comments on this incident were exhausted. one after another was wending his way homeward, when a coach--no common spectacle in those days--drove slowly into the street. it was an old-fashioned equipage, hanging close to the ground, with arms on the panels, a footman behind and a grave, corpulent coachman seated high in front, the whole giving an idea of solemn state and dignity. there was something awful in the heavy rumbling of the wheels. the coach rolled down the street, till, coming to the gateway of the deserted mansion, it drew up, and the footman sprang to the ground. "whose grand coach is this?" asked a very inquisitive body. the footman made no reply, but ascended the steps of the old house, gave three taps with the iron hammer, and returned to open the coach door. an old man possessed of the heraldic lore so common in that day examined the shield of arms on the panel. "azure, a lion's head erased, between three flowers de luce," said he, then whispered the name of the family to whom these bearings belonged. the last inheritor of its honors was recently dead, after a long residence amid the splendor of the british court, where his birth and wealth had given him no mean station. "he left no child," continued the herald, "and these arms, being in a lozenge, betoken that the coach appertains to his widow." further disclosures, perhaps, might have been made had not the speaker been suddenly struck dumb by the stern eye of an ancient lady who thrust forth her head from the coach, preparing to descend. as she emerged the people saw that her dress was magnificent, and her figure dignified in spite of age and infirmity--a stately ruin, but with a look at once of pride and wretchedness. her strong and rigid features had an awe about them unlike that of the white old maid, but as of something evil. she passed up the steps, leaning on a gold-headed cane. the door swung open as she ascended, and the light of a torch glittered on the embroidery of her dress and gleamed on the pillars of the porch. after a momentary pause, a glance backward and then a desperate effort, she went in. the decipherer of the coat-of-arms had ventured up the lower step, and, shrinking back immediately, pale and tremulous, affirmed that the torch was held by the very image of old cæsar. "but such a hideous grin," added he, "was never seen on the face of mortal man, black or white. it will haunt me till my dying-day." meantime, the coach had wheeled round with a prodigious clatter on the pavement and rumbled up the street, disappearing in the twilight, while the ear still tracked its course. scarcely was it gone when the people began to question whether the coach and attendants, the ancient lady, the spectre of old cæsar and the old maid herself were not all a strangely-combined delusion with some dark purport in its mystery. the whole town was astir, so that, instead of dispersing, the crowd continually increased, and stood gazing up at the windows of the mansion, now silvered by the brightening moon. the elders, glad to indulge the narrative propensity of age, told of the long-faded splendor of the family, the entertainments they had given and the guests, the greatest of the land, and even titled and noble ones from abroad, who had passed beneath that portal. these graphic reminiscences seemed to call up the ghosts of those to whom they referred. so strong was the impression on some of the more imaginative hearers that two or three were seized with trembling fits at one and the same moment, protesting that they had distinctly heard three other raps of the iron knocker. "impossible!" exclaimed others. "see! the moon shines beneath the porch, and shows every part of it except in the narrow shade of that pillar. there is no one there." "did not the door open?" whispered one of these fanciful persons. "didst thou see it too?" said his companion, in a startled tone. but the general sentiment was opposed to the idea that a third visitant had made application at the door of the deserted house. a few, however, adhered to this new marvel, and even declared that a red gleam like that of a torch had shone through the great front window, as if the negro were lighting a guest up the staircase. this too was pronounced a mere fantasy. but at once the whole multitude started, and each man beheld his own terror painted in the faces of all the rest. "what an awful thing is this!" cried they. a shriek too fearfully distinct for doubt had been heard within the mansion, breaking forth suddenly and succeeded by a deep stillness, as if a heart had burst in giving it utterance. the people knew not whether to fly from the very sight of the house or to rush trembling in and search out the strange mystery. amid their confusion and affright they were somewhat reassured by the appearance of their clergyman, a venerable patriarch, and equally a saint, who had taught them and their fathers the way to heaven for more than the space of an ordinary lifetime. he was a reverend figure with long white hair upon his shoulders, a white beard upon his breast and a back so bent over his staff that he seemed to be looking downward continually, as if to choose a proper grave for his weary frame. it was some time before the good old man, being deaf and of impaired intellect, could be made to comprehend such portions of the affair as were comprehensible at all. but when possessed of the facts, his energies assumed unexpected vigor. "verily," said the old gentleman, "it will be fitting that i enter the mansion-house of the worthy colonel fenwicke, lest any harm should have befallen that true christian woman whom ye call the 'old maid in the winding-sheet.'" behold, then, the venerable clergyman ascending the steps of the mansion with a torch-bearer behind him. it was the elderly man who had spoken to the old maid, and the same who had afterward explained the shield of arms and recognized the features of the negro. like their predecessors, they gave three raps with the iron hammer. "old cæsar cometh not," observed the priest. "well, i wot he no longer doth service in this mansion." "assuredly, then, it was something worse in old cæsar's likeness," said the other adventurer. "be it as god wills," answered the clergyman. "see! my strength, though it be much decayed, hath sufficed to open this heavy door. let us enter and pass up the staircase." here occurred a singular exemplification of the dreamy state of a very old man's mind. as they ascended the wide flight of stairs the aged clergyman appeared to move with caution, occasionally standing aside, and oftener bending his head, as it were in salutation, thus practising all the gestures of one who makes his way through a throng. reaching the head of the staircase, he looked around with sad and solemn benignity, laid aside his staff, bared his hoary locks, and was evidently on the point of commencing a prayer. "reverend sir," said his attendant, who conceived this a very suitable prelude to their further search, "would it not be well that the people join with us in prayer?" "well-a-day!" cried the old clergyman, staring strangely around him. "art thou here with me, and none other? verily, past times were present to me, and i deemed that i was to make a funeral prayer, as many a time heretofore, from the head of this staircase. of a truth, i saw the shades of many that are gone. yea, i have prayed at their burials, one after another, and the old maid in the winding-sheet hath seen them to their graves." being now more thoroughly awake to their present purpose, he took his staff and struck forcibly on the floor, till there came an echo from each deserted chamber, but no menial to answer their summons. they therefore walked along the passage, and again paused, opposite to the great front window, through which was seen the crowd in the shadow and partial moonlight of the street beneath. on their right hand was the open door of a chamber, and a closed one on their left. the clergyman pointed his cane to the carved oak panel of the latter. "within that chamber," observed he, "a whole lifetime since, did i sit by the death-bed of a goodly young man who, being now at the last gasp--" apparently, there was some powerful excitement in the ideas which had now flashed across his mind. he snatched the torch from his companion's hand, and threw open the door with such sudden violence that the flame was extinguished, leaving them no other light than the moonbeams which fell through two windows into the spacious chamber. it was sufficient to discover all that could be known. in a high-backed oaken arm-chair, upright, with her hands clasped across her breast and her head thrown back, sat the old maid in the winding-sheet. the stately dame had fallen on her knees with her forehead on the holy knees of the old maid, one hand upon the floor and the other pressed convulsively against her heart. it clutched a lock of hair--once sable, now discolored with a greenish mould. as the priest and layman advanced into the chamber the old maid's features assumed such a semblance of shifting expression that they trusted to hear the whole mystery explained by a single word. but it was only the shadow of a tattered curtain waving betwixt the dead face and the moonlight. "both dead!" said the venerable man. "then who shall divulge the secret? methinks it glimmers to and fro in my mind like the light and shadow across the old maid's face. and now 'tis gone!" peter goldthwaite's treasure. "and so, peter, you won't even consider of the business?" said mr. john brown, buttoning his surtout over the snug rotundity of his person and drawing on his gloves. "you positively refuse to let me have this crazy old house, and the land under and adjoining, at the price named?" "neither at that, nor treble the sum," responded the gaunt, grizzled and threadbare peter goldthwaite. "the fact is, mr. brown, you must find another site for your brick block and be content to leave my estate with the present owner. next summer i intend to put a splendid new mansion over the cellar of the old house." "pho, peter!" cried mr. brown as he opened the kitchen door; "content yourself with building castles in the air, where house-lots are cheaper than on earth, to say nothing of the cost of bricks and mortar. such foundations are solid enough for your edifices, while this underneath us is just the thing for mine; and so we may both be suited. what say you, again?" "precisely what i said before, mr. brown," answered peter goldthwaite. "and, as for castles in the air, mine may not be as magnificent as that sort of architecture, but perhaps as substantial, mr. brown, as the very respectable brick block with dry-goods stores, tailors' shops and banking-rooms on the lower floor, and lawyers' offices in the second story, which you are so anxious to substitute." "and the cost, peter? eh?" said mr. brown as he withdrew in something of a pet. "that, i suppose, will be provided for off-hand by drawing a check on bubble bank?" john brown and peter goldthwaite had been jointly known to the commercial world between twenty and thirty years before under the firm of goldthwaite & brown; which copartnership, however, was speedily dissolved by the natural incongruity of its constituent parts. since that event, john brown, with exactly the qualities of a thousand other john browns, and by just such plodding methods as they used, had prospered wonderfully and become one of the wealthiest john browns on earth. peter goldthwaite, on the contrary, after innumerable schemes which ought to have collected all the coin and paper currency of the country into his coffers, was as needy a gentleman as ever wore a patch upon his elbow. the contrast between him and his former partner may be briefly marked, for brown never reckoned upon luck, yet always had it, while peter made luck the main condition of his projects, and always missed it. while the means held out his speculations had been magnificent, but were chiefly confined of late years to such small business as adventures in the lottery. once he had gone on a gold-gathering expedition somewhere to the south, and ingeniously contrived to empty his pockets more thoroughly than ever, while others, doubtless, were filling theirs with native bullion by the handful. more recently he had expended a legacy of a thousand or two of dollars in purchasing mexican scrip, and thereby became the proprietor of a province; which, however, so far as peter could find out, was situated where he might have had an empire for the same money--in the clouds. from a search after this valuable real estate peter returned so gaunt and threadbare that on reaching new england the scarecrows in the corn-fields beckoned to him as he passed by. "they did but flutter in the wind," quoth peter goldthwaite. no, peter, they beckoned, for the scarecrows knew their brother. at the period of our story his whole visible income would not have paid the tax of the old mansion in which we find him. it was one of those rusty, moss-grown, many-peaked wooden houses which are scattered about the streets of our elder towns, with a beetle-browed second story projecting over the foundation, as if it frowned at the novelty around it. this old paternal edifice, needy as he was, and though, being centrally situated on the principal street of the town, it would have brought him a handsome sum, the sagacious peter had his own reasons for never parting with, either by auction or private sale. there seemed, indeed, to be a fatality that connected him with his birthplace; for, often as he had stood on the verge of ruin, and standing there even now, he had not yet taken the step beyond it which would have compelled him to surrender the house to his creditors. so here he dwelt with bad luck till good should come. here, then, in his kitchen--the only room where a spark of fire took off the chill of a november evening--poor peter goldthwaite had just been visited by his rich old partner. at the close of their interview, peter, with rather a mortified look, glanced downward at his dress, parts of which appeared as ancient as the days of goldthwaite & brown. his upper garment was a mixed surtout, woefully faded, and patched with newer stuff on each elbow; beneath this he wore a threadbare black coat, some of the silk buttons of which had been replaced with others of a different pattern; and, lastly, though he lacked not a pair of gray pantaloons, they were very shabby ones, and had been partially turned brown by the frequent toasting of peter's shins before a scanty fire. peter's person was in keeping with his goodly apparel. gray-headed, hollow-eyed, pale-cheeked and lean-bodied, he was the perfect picture of a man who had fed on windy schemes and empty hopes till he could neither live on such unwholesome trash nor stomach more substantial food. but, withal, this peter goldthwaite, crack-brained simpleton as, perhaps, he was, might have cut a very brilliant figure in the world had he employed his imagination in the airy business of poetry instead of making it a demon of mischief in mercantile pursuits. after all, he was no bad fellow, but as harmless as a child, and as honest and honorable, and as much of the gentleman which nature meant him for, as an irregular life and depressed circumstances will permit any man to be. as peter stood on the uneven bricks of his hearth looking round at the disconsolate old kitchen his eyes began to kindle with the illumination of an enthusiasm that never long deserted him. he raised his hand, clenched it and smote it energetically against the smoky panel over the fireplace. "the time is come," said he; "with such a treasure at command, it were folly to be a poor man any longer. tomorrow morning i will begin with the garret, nor desist till i have torn the house down." deep in the chimney-corner, like a witch in a dark cavern, sat a little old woman mending one of the two pairs of stockings wherewith peter goldthwaite kept his toes from being frost-bitten. as the feet were ragged past all darning, she had cut pieces out of a cast-off flannel petticoat to make new soles. tabitha porter was an old maid upward of sixty years of age, fifty-five of which she had sat in that same chimney-corner, such being the length of time since peter's grandfather had taken her from the almshouse. she had no friend but peter, nor peter any friend but tabitha; so long as peter might have a shelter for his own head, tabitha would know where to shelter hers, or, being homeless elsewhere, she would take her master by the hand and bring him to her native home, the almshouse. should it ever be necessary, she loved him well enough to feed him with her last morsel and clothe him with her under-petticoat. but tabitha was a queer old woman, and, though never infected with peter's flightiness, had become so accustomed to his freaks and follies that she viewed them all as matters of course. hearing him threaten to tear the house down, she looked quietly up from her work. "best leave the kitchen till the last, mr. peter," said she. "the sooner we have it all down, the better," said peter goldthwaite. "i am tired to death of living in this cold, dark, windy, smoky, creaking, groaning, dismal old house. i shall feel like a younger man when we get into my splendid brick mansion, as, please heaven, we shall by this time next autumn. you shall have a room on the sunny side, old tabby, finished and furnished as best may suit your own notions." "i should like it pretty much such a room as this kitchen," answered tabitha. "it will never be like home to me till the chimney-corner gets as black with smoke as this, and that won't be these hundred years. how much do you mean to lay out on the house, mr. peter?" "what is that to the purpose?" exclaimed peter, loftily. "did not my great-grand-uncle, peter goldthwaite, who died seventy years ago, and whose namesake i am, leave treasure enough to build twenty such?" "i can't say but he did, mr. peter," said tabitha, threading her needle. tabitha well understood that peter had reference to an immense hoard of the precious metals which was said to exist somewhere in the cellar or walls, or under the floors, or in some concealed closet or other out-of-the-way nook of the old house. this wealth, according to tradition, had been accumulated by a former peter goldthwaite whose character seems to have borne a remarkable similitude to that of the peter of our story. like him, he was a wild projector, seeking to heap up gold by the bushel and the cart-load instead of scraping it together coin by coin. like peter the second, too, his projects had almost invariably failed, and, but for the magnificent success of the final one, would have left him with hardly a coat and pair of breeches to his gaunt and grizzled person. reports were various as to the nature of his fortunate speculation, one intimating that the ancient peter had made the gold by alchemy; another, that he had conjured it out of people's pockets by the black art; and a third--still more unaccountable--that the devil had given him free access to the old provincial treasury. it was affirmed, however, that some secret impediment had debarred him from the enjoyment of his riches, and that he had a motive for concealing them from his heir, or, at any rate, had died without disclosing the place of deposit. the present peter's father had faith enough in the story to cause the cellar to be dug over. peter himself chose to consider the legend as an indisputable truth, and amid his many troubles had this one consolation--that, should all other resources fail, he might build up his fortunes by tearing his house down. yet, unless he felt a lurking distrust of the golden tale, it is difficult to account for his permitting the paternal roof to stand so long, since he had never yet seen the moment when his predecessor's treasure would not have found plenty of room in his own strong-box. but now was the crisis. should he delay the search a little longer, the house would pass from the lineal heir, and with it the vast heap of gold, to remain in its burial-place till the ruin of the aged walls should discover it to strangers of a future generation. "yes," cried peter goldthwaite, again; "to-morrow i will set about it." the deeper he looked at the matter, the more certain of success grew peter. his spirits were naturally so elastic that even now, in the blasted autumn of his age, he could often compete with the springtime gayety of other people. enlivened by his brightening prospects, he began to caper about the kitchen like a hobgoblin, with the queerest antics of his lean limbs and gesticulations of his starved features. nay, in the exuberance of his feelings, he seized both of tabitha's hands and danced the old lady across the floor till the oddity of her rheumatic motions set him into a roar of laughter, which was echoed back from the rooms and chambers, as if peter goldthwaite were laughing in every one. finally, he bounded upward, almost out of sight, into the smoke that clouded the roof of the kitchen, and, alighting safely on the floor again, endeavored to resume his customary gravity. "to-morrow, at sunrise," he repeated, taking his lamp to retire to bed, "i'll see whether this treasure be hid in the wall of the garret." "and, as we're out of wood, mr. peter," said tabitha, puffing and panting with her late gymnastics, "as fast as you tear the house down i'll make a fire with the pieces." gorgeous that night were the dreams of peter goldthwaite. at one time he was turning a ponderous key in an iron door not unlike the door of a sepulchre, but which, being opened, disclosed a vault heaped up with gold coin as plentifully as golden corn in a granary. there were chased goblets, also, and tureens, salvers, dinner-dishes and dish-covers of gold or silver-gilt, besides chains and other jewels, incalculably rich, though tarnished with the damps of the vault; for, of all the wealth that was irrevocably lost to man, whether buried in the earth or sunken in the sea, peter goldthwaite had found it in this one treasure-place. anon he had returned to the old house as poor as ever, and was received at the door by the gaunt and grizzled figure of a man whom he might have mistaken for himself, only that his garments were of a much elder fashion. but the house, without losing its former aspect, had been changed into a palace of the precious metals. the floors, walls and ceilings were of burnished silver; the doors, the window-frames, the cornices, the balustrades and the steps of the staircase, of pure gold; and silver, with gold bottoms, were the chairs, and gold, standing on silver legs, the high chests of drawers, and silver the bedsteads, with blankets of woven gold and sheets of silver tissue. the house had evidently been transmuted by a single touch, for it retained all the marks that peter remembered, but in gold or silver instead of wood, and the initials of his name--which when a boy he had cut in the wooden door-post--remained as deep in the pillar of gold. a happy man would have been peter goldthwaite except for a certain ocular deception which, whenever he glanced backward, caused the house to darken from its glittering magnificence into the sordid gloom of yesterday. up betimes rose peter, seized an axe, hammer and saw which he had placed by his bedside, and hied him to the garret. it was but scantily lighted up as yet by the frosty fragments of a sunbeam which began to glimmer through the almost opaque bull-eyes of the window. a moralizer might find abundant themes for his speculative and impracticable wisdom in a garret. there is the limbo of departed fashions, aged trifles of a day and whatever was valuable only to one generation of men, and which passed to the garret when that generation passed to the grave--not for safekeeping, but to be out of the way. peter saw piles of yellow and musty account-books in parchment covers, wherein creditors long dead and buried had written the names of dead and buried debtors in ink now so faded that their moss-grown tombstones were more legible. he found old moth-eaten garments, all in rags and tatters, or peter would have put them on. here was a naked and rusty sword--not a sword of service, but a gentleman's small french rapier--which had never left its scabbard till it lost it. here were canes of twenty different sorts, but no gold-headed ones, and shoebuckles of various pattern and material, but not silver nor set with precious stones. here was a large box full of shoes with high heels and peaked toes. here, on a shelf, were a multitude of phials half filled with old apothecary's stuff which, when the other half had done its business on peter's ancestors, had been brought hither from the death-chamber. here--not to give a longer inventory of articles that will never be put up at auction--was the fragment of a full-length looking-glass which by the dust and dimness of its surface made the picture of these old things look older than the reality. when peter, not knowing that there was a mirror there, caught the faint traces of his own figure, he partly imagined that the former peter goldthwaite had come back either to assist or impede his search for the hidden wealth. and at that moment a strange notion glimmered through his brain that he was the identical peter who had concealed the gold, and ought to know whereabout it lay. this, however, he had unaccountably forgotten. "well, mr. peter!" cried tabitha, on the garret stairs. "have you torn the house down enough to heat the teakettle?" "not yet, old tabby," answered peter, "but that's soon done, as you shall see." with the word in his mouth, he uplifted the axe, and laid about him so vigorously that the dust flew, the boards crashed, and in a twinkling the old woman had an apron full of broken rubbish. "we shall get our winter's wood cheap," quoth tabitha. the good work being thus commenced, peter beat down all before him, smiting and hewing at the joints and timbers, unclenching spike-nails, ripping and tearing away boards, with a tremendous racket from morning till night. he took care, however, to leave the outside shell of the house untouched, so that the neighbors might not suspect what was going on. never, in any of his vagaries, though each had made him happy while it lasted, had peter been happier than now. perhaps, after all, there was something in peter goldthwaite's turn of mind which brought him an inward recompense for all the external evil that it caused. if he were poor, ill-clad, even hungry and exposed, as it were, to be utterly annihilated by a precipice of impending ruin, yet only his body remained in these miserable circumstances, while his aspiring soul enjoyed the sunshine of a bright futurity. it was his nature to be always young, and the tendency of his mode of life to keep him so. gray hairs were nothing--no, nor wrinkles nor infirmity; he might look old, indeed, and be somewhat disagreeably connected with a gaunt old figure much the worse for wear, but the true, the essential peter was a young man of high hopes just entering on the world. at the kindling of each new fire his burnt-out youth rose afresh from the old embers and ashes. it rose exulting now. having lived thus long--not too long, but just to the right age--a susceptible bachelor with warm and tender dreams, he resolved, so soon as the hidden gold should flash to light, to go a-wooing and win the love of the fairest maid in town. what heart could resist him? happy peter goldthwaite! every evening--as peter had long absented himself from his former lounging-places at insurance offices, news-rooms, and book-stores, and as the honor of his company was seldom requested in private circles--he and tabitha used to sit down sociably by the kitchen hearth. this was always heaped plentifully with the rubbish of his day's labor. as the foundation of the fire there would be a goodly-sized back-log of red oak, which after being sheltered from rain or damp above a century still hissed with the heat and distilled streams of water from each end, as if the tree had been cut down within a week or two. next there were large sticks, sound, black and heavy, which had lost the principle of decay and were indestructible except by fire, wherein they glowed like red-hot bars of iron. on this solid basis tabitha would rear a lighter structure, composed of the splinters of door-panels, ornamented mouldings, and such quick combustibles, which caught like straw and threw a brilliant blaze high up the spacious flue, making its sooty sides visible almost to the chimney-top. meantime, the gloom of the old kitchen would be chased out of the cobwebbed corners and away from the dusky cross-beams overhead, and driven nobody could tell whither, while peter smiled like a gladsome man and tabitha seemed a picture of comfortable age. all this, of course, was but an emblem of the bright fortune which the destruction of the house would shed upon its occupants. while the dry pine was flaming and crackling like an irregular discharge of fairy-musketry, peter sat looking and listening in a pleasant state of excitement; but when the brief blaze and uproar were succeeded by the dark-red glow, the substantial heat and the deep singing sound which were to last throughout the evening, his humor became talkative. one night--the hundredth time--he teased tabitha to tell him something new about his great-granduncle. "you have been sitting in that chimney-corner fifty-five years, old tabby, and must have heard many a tradition about him," said peter. "did not you tell me that when you first came to the house there was an old woman sitting where you sit now who had been housekeeper to the famous peter goldthwaite?" "so there was, mr. peter," answered tabitha, "and she was near about a hundred years old. she used to say that she and old peter goldthwaite had often spent a sociable evening by the kitchen fire--pretty much as you and i are doing now, mr. peter." "the old fellow must have resembled me in more points than one," said peter, complacently, "or he never would have grown so rich. but methinks he might have invested the money better than he did. no interest! nothing but good security! and the house to be torn down to come at it! what made him hide it so snug, tabby?" "because he could not spend it," said tabitha, "for as often as he went to unlock the chest the old scratch came behind and caught his arm. the money, they say, was paid peter out of his purse, and he wanted peter to give him a deed of this house and land, which peter swore he would not do." "just as i swore to john brown, my old partner," remarked peter. "but this is all nonsense, tabby; i don't believe the story." "well, it may not be just the truth," said tabitha, "for some folks say that peter did make over the house to the old scratch, and that's the reason it has always been so unlucky to them that lived in it. and as soon as peter had given him the deed the chest flew open, and peter caught up a handful of the gold. but, lo and behold! there was nothing in his fist but a parcel of old rags." "hold your tongue, you silly old tabby!" cried peter, in great wrath. "they were as good golden guineas as ever bore the effigies of the king of england. it seems as if i could recollect the whole circumstance, and how i, or old peter, or whoever it was, thrust in my hand, or his hand, and drew it out all of a blaze with gold. old rags indeed!" but it was not an old woman's legend that would discourage peter goldthwaite. all night long he slept among pleasant dreams, and awoke at daylight with a joyous throb of the heart which few are fortunate enough to feel beyond their boyhood. day after day he labored hard without wasting a moment except at meal-times, when tabitha summoned him to the pork and cabbage, or such other sustenance as she had picked up or providence had sent them. being a truly pious man, peter never failed to ask a blessing--if the food were none of the best, then so much the more earnestly, as it was more needed--nor to return thanks, if the dinner had been scanty, yet for the good appetite which was better than a sick stomach at a feast. then did he hurry back to his toil, and in a moment was lost to sight in a cloud of dust from the old walls, though sufficiently perceptible to the ear by the clatter which he raised in the midst of it. how enviable is the consciousness of being usefully employed! nothing troubled peter, or nothing but those phantoms of the mind which seem like vague recollections, yet have also the aspect of presentiments. he often paused with his axe uplifted in the air, and said to himself, "peter goldthwaite, did you never strike this blow before?" or "peter, what need of tearing the whole house down? think a little while, and you will remember where the gold is hidden." days and weeks passed on, however, without any remarkable discovery. sometimes, indeed, a lean gray rat peeped forth at the lean gray man, wondering what devil had got into the old house, which had always been so peaceable till now. and occasionally peter sympathized with the sorrows of a female mouse who had brought five or six pretty, little, soft and delicate young ones into the world just in time to see them crushed by its ruin. but as yet no treasure. by this time, peter, being as determined as fate and as diligent as time, had made an end with the uppermost regions and got down to the second story, where he was busy in one of the front chambers. it had formerly been the state-bedchamber, and was honored by tradition as the sleeping-apartment of governor dudley and many other eminent guests. the furniture was gone. there were remnants of faded and tattered paper-hangings, but larger spaces of bare wall ornamented with charcoal sketches, chiefly of people's heads in profile. these being specimens of peter's youthful genius, it went more to his heart to obliterate them than if they had been pictures on a church wall by michael angelo. one sketch, however, and that the best one, affected him differently. it represented a ragged man partly supporting himself on a spade and bending his lean body over a hole in the earth, with one hand extended to grasp something that he had found. but close behind him, with a fiendish laugh on his features, appeared a figure with horns, a tufted tail and a cloven hoof. "avaunt, satan!" cried peter. "the man shall have his gold." uplifting his axe, he hit the horned gentleman such a blow on the head as not only demolished him, but the treasure-seeker also, and caused the whole scene to vanish like magic. moreover, his axe broke quite through the plaster and laths and discovered a cavity. "mercy on us, mr. peter! are you quarrelling with the old scratch?" said tabitha, who was seeking some fuel to put under the dinner-pot. without answering the old woman, peter broke down a further space of the wall, and laid open a small closet or cupboard on one side of the fireplace, about breast-high from the ground. it contained nothing but a brass lamp covered with verdigris, and a dusty piece of parchment. while peter inspected the latter, tabitha seized the lamp and began to rub it with her apron. "there is no use in rubbing it, tabitha," said peter. "it is not aladdin's lamp, though i take it to be a token of as much luck. look here, tabby!" tabitha took the parchment and held it close to her nose, which was saddled with a pair of iron-bound spectacles. but no sooner had she begun to puzzle over it than she burst into a chuckling laugh, holding both her hands against her sides. "you can't make a fool of the old woman," cried she. "this is your own handwriting, mr. peter, the same as in the letter you sent me from mexico." "there is certainly a considerable resemblance," said peter, again examining the parchment. "but you know yourself, tabby, that this closet must have been plastered up before you came to the house or i came into the world. no; this is old peter goldthwaite's writing. these columns of pounds, shillings and pence are his figures, denoting the amount of the treasure, and this, at the bottom, is doubtless a reference to the place of concealment. but the ink has either faded or peeled off, so that it is absolutely illegible. what a pity!" "well, this lamp is as good as new. that's some comfort," said tabitha. "a lamp!" thought peter. "that indicates light on my researches." for the present peter felt more inclined to ponder on this discovery than to resume his labors. after tabitha had gone down stairs he stood poring over the parchment at one of the front windows, which was so obscured with dust that the sun could barely throw an uncertain shadow of the casement across the floor. peter forced it open and looked out upon the great street of the town, while the sun looked in at his old house. the air, though mild, and even warm, thrilled peter as with a dash of water. it was the first day of the january thaw. the snow lay deep upon the housetops, but was rapidly dissolving into millions of water-drops, which sparkled downward through the sunshine with the noise of a summer shower beneath the eaves. along the street the trodden snow was as hard and solid as a pavement of white marble, and had not yet grown moist in the spring-like temperature. but when peter thrust forth his head, he saw that the inhabitants, if not the town, were already thawed out by this warm day, after two or three weeks of winter weather. it gladdened him--a gladness with a sigh breathing through it--to see the stream of ladies gliding along the slippery sidewalks with their red cheeks set off by quilted hoods, boas and sable capes like roses amidst a new kind of foliage. the sleigh bells jingled to and fro continually, sometimes announcing the arrival of a sleigh from vermont laden with the frozen bodies of porkers or sheep, and perhaps a deer or two; sometimes, of a regular marketman with chickens, geese and turkeys, comprising the whole colony of a barn-yard; and sometimes, of a farmer and his dame who had come to town partly for the ride, partly to go a-shopping and partly for the sale of some eggs and butter. this couple rode in an old-fashioned square sleigh which had served them twenty winters and stood twenty summers in the sun beside their door. now a gentleman and lady skimmed the snow in an elegant car shaped somewhat like a cockle-shell; now a stage-sleigh with its cloth curtains thrust aside to admit the sun dashed rapidly down the street, whirling in and out among the vehicles that obstructed its passage; now came round a corner the similitude of noah's ark on runners, being an immense open sleigh with seats for fifty people and drawn by a dozen horses. this spacious receptacle was populous with merry maids and merry bachelors, merry girls and boys and merry old folks, all alive with fun and grinning to the full width of their mouths. they kept up a buzz of babbling voices and low laughter, and sometimes burst into a deep, joyous shout which the spectators answered with three cheers, while a gang of roguish boys let drive their snow-balls right among the pleasure-party. the sleigh passed on, and when concealed by a bend of the street was still audible by a distant cry of merriment. never had peter beheld a livelier scene than was constituted by all these accessories--the bright sun, the flashing water-drops, the gleaming snow, the cheerful multitude, the variety of rapid vehicles and the jingle-jangle of merry bells which made the heart dance to their music. nothing dismal was to be seen except that peaked piece of antiquity peter goldthwaite's house, which might well look sad externally, since such a terrible consumption was preying on its insides. and peter's gaunt figure, half visible in the projecting second story, was worthy of his house. "peter! how goes it, friend peter?" cried a voice across the street as peter was drawing in his head. "look out here, peter!" peter looked, and saw his old partner, mr. john brown, on the opposite sidewalk, portly and comfortable, with his furred cloak thrown open, disclosing a handsome surtout beneath. his voice had directed the attention of the whole town to peter goldthwaite's window, and to the dusty scarecrow which appeared at it. "i say, peter!" cried mr. brown, again; "what the devil are you about there, that i hear such a racket whenever i pass by? you are repairing the old house, i suppose, making a new one of it? eh?" "too late for that, i am afraid, mr. brown," replied peter. "if i make it new, it will be new inside and out, from the cellar upward." "had not you better let me take the job?" said mr. brown, significantly. "not yet," answered peter, hastily shutting the window; for ever since he had been in search of the treasure he hated to have people stare at him. as he drew back, ashamed of his outward poverty, yet proud of the secret wealth within his grasp, a haughty smile shone out on peter's visage with precisely the effect of the dim sunbeams in the squalid chamber. he endeavored to assume such a mien as his ancestor had probably worn when he gloried in the building of a strong house for a home to many generations of his posterity. but the chamber was very dark to his snow-dazzled eyes, and very dismal, too, in contrast with the living scene that he had just looked upon. his brief glimpse into the street had given him a forcible impression of the manner in which the world kept itself cheerful and prosperous by social pleasures and an intercourse of business, while he in seclusion was pursuing an object that might possibly be a phantasm by a method which most people would call madness. it is one great advantage of a gregarious mode of life that each person rectifies his mind by other minds and squares his conduct to that of his neighbors, so as seldom to be lost in eccentricity. peter goldthwaite had exposed himself to this influence by merely looking out of the window. for a while he doubted whether there were any hidden chest of gold, and in that case whether it was so exceedingly wise to tear the house down only to be convinced of its non-existence. but this was momentary. peter the destroyer resumed the task which fate had assigned him, nor faltered again till it was accomplished. in the course of his search he met with many things that are usually found in the ruins of an old house, and also with some that are not. what seemed most to the purpose was a rusty key which had been thrust into a chink of the wall, with a wooden label appended to the handle, bearing the initials "p.g." another singular discovery was that of a bottle of wine walled up in an old oven. a tradition ran in the family that peter's grandfather, a jovial officer in the old french war, had set aside many dozens of the precious liquor for the benefit of topers then unborn. peter needed no cordial to sustain his hopes, and therefore kept the wine to gladden his success. many half-pence did he pick up that had been lost through the cracks of the floor, and some few spanish coins, and the half of a broken sixpence which had doubtless been a love-token. there was likewise a silver coronation medal of george iii. but old peter goldthwaite's strong-box fled from one dark corner to another, or otherwise eluded the second peter's clutches till, should he seek much farther, he must burrow into the earth. we will not follow him in his triumphant progress step by step. suffice it that peter worked like a steam-engine and finished in that one winter the job which all the former inhabitants of the house, with time and the elements to aid them, had only half done in a century. except the kitchen, every room and chamber was now gutted. the house was nothing but a shell, the apparition of a house, as unreal as the painted edifices of a theatre. it was like the perfect rind of a great cheese in which a mouse had dwelt and nibbled till it was a cheese no more. and peter was the mouse. what peter had torn down, tabitha had burnt up, for she wisely considered that without a house they should need no wood to warm it, and therefore economy was nonsense. thus the whole house might be said to have dissolved in smoke and flown up among the clouds through the great black flue of the kitchen chimney. it was an admirable parallel to the feat of the man who jumped down his own throat. on the night between the last day of winter and the first of spring every chink and cranny had been ransacked except within the precincts of the kitchen. this fated evening was an ugly one. a snow-storm had set in some hours before, and was still driven and tossed about the atmosphere by a real hurricane which fought against the house as if the prince of the air in person were putting the final stroke to peter's labors. the framework being so much weakened and the inward props removed, it would have been no marvel if in some stronger wrestle of the blast the rotten walls of the edifice and all the peaked roofs had come crashing down upon the owner's head. he, however, was careless of the peril, but as wild and restless as the night itself, or as the flame that quivered up the chimney at each roar of the tempestuous wind. "the wine, tabitha," he cried--"my grandfather's rich old wine! we will drink it now." tabitha arose from her smoke-blackened bench in the chimney-corner and placed the bottle before peter, close beside the old brass lamp which had likewise been the prize of his researches. peter held it before his eyes, and, looking through the liquid medium, beheld the kitchen illuminated with a golden glory which also enveloped tabitha and gilded her silver hair and converted her mean garments into robes of queenly splendor. it reminded him of his golden dream. "mr. peter," remarked tabitha, "must the wine be drunk before the money is found?" "the money _is_ found!" exclaimed peter, with a sort of fierceness. "the chest is within my reach; i will not sleep till i have turned this key in the rusty lock. but first of all let us drink." there being no corkscrew in the house, he smote the neck of the bottle with old peter goldthwaite's rusty key, and decapitated the sealed cork at a single blow. he then filled two little china teacups which tabitha had brought from the cupboard. so clear and brilliant was this aged wine that it shone within the cups and rendered the sprig of scarlet flowers at the bottom of each more distinctly visible than when there had been no wine there. its rich and delicate perfume wasted itself round the kitchen. "drink, tabitha!" cried peter. "blessings on the honest old fellow who set aside this good liquor for you and me! and here's to peter goldthwaite's memory!" "and good cause have we to remember him," quoth tabitha as she drank. how many years, and through what changes of fortune and various calamity, had that bottle hoarded up its effervescent joy, to be quaffed at last by two such boon-companions! a portion of the happiness of a former age had been kept for them, and was now set free in a crowd of rejoicing visions to sport amid the storm and desolation of the present time. until they have finished the bottle we must turn our eyes elsewhere. it so chanced that on this stormy night mr. john brown found himself ill at ease in his wire-cushioned arm-chair by the glowing grate of anthracite which heated his handsome parlor. he was naturally a good sort of a man, and kind and pitiful whenever the misfortunes of others happened to reach his heart through the padded vest of his own prosperity. this evening he had thought much about his old partner, peter goldthwaite, his strange vagaries and continual ill-luck, the poverty of his dwelling at mr. brown's last visit, and peter's crazed and haggard aspect when he had talked with him at the window. "poor fellow!" thought mr. john brown. "poor crack-brained peter goldthwaite! for old acquaintance' sake i ought to have taken care that he was comfortable this rough winter." these feelings grew so powerful that, in spite of the inclement weather, he resolved to visit peter goldthwaite immediately. the strength of the impulse was really singular. every shriek of the blast seemed a summons, or would have seemed so had mr. brown been accustomed to hear the echoes of his own fancy in the wind. much amazed at such active benevolence, he huddled himself in his cloak, muffled his throat and ears in comforters and handkerchiefs, and, thus fortified, bade defiance to the tempest. but the powers of the air had rather the best of the battle. mr. brown was just weathering the corner by peter goldthwaite's house when the hurricane caught him off his feet, tossed him face downward into a snow-bank and proceeded to bury his protuberant part beneath fresh drifts. there seemed little hope of his reappearance earlier than the next thaw. at the same moment his hat was snatched away and whirled aloft into some far-distant region whence no tidings have as yet returned. nevertheless mr. brown contrived to burrow a passage through the snow-drift, and with his bare head bent against the storm floundered onward to peter's door. there was such a creaking and groaning and rattling, and such an ominous shaking, throughout the crazy edifice that the loudest rap would have been inaudible to those within. he therefore entered without ceremony, and groped his way to the kitchen. his intrusion even there was unnoticed. peter and tabitha stood with their backs to the door, stooping over a large chest which apparently they had just dragged from a cavity or concealed closet on the left side of the chimney. by the lamp in the old woman's hand mr. brown saw that the chest was barred and clamped with iron, strengthened with iron plates and studded with iron nails, so as to be a fit receptacle in which the wealth of one century might be hoarded up for the wants of another. peter goldthwaite was inserting a key into the lock. "oh, tabitha," cried he, with tremulous rapture, "how shall i endure the effulgence? the gold!--the bright, bright gold! methinks i can remember my last glance at it just as the iron-plated lid fell down. and ever since, being seventy years, it has been blazing in secret and gathering its splendor against this glorious moment. it will flash upon us like the noonday sun." "then shade your eyes, mr. peter!" said tabitha, with somewhat less patience than usual. "but, for mercy's sake, do turn the key!" and with a strong effort of both hands peter did force the rusty key through the intricacies of the rusty lock. mr. brown, in the mean time, had drawn near and thrust his eager visage between those of the other two at the instant that peter threw up the lid. no sudden blaze illuminated the kitchen. "what's here?" exclaimed tabitha, adjusting her spectacles and holding the lamp over the open chest. "old peter goldthwaite's hoard of old rags!" "pretty much so, tabby," said mr. brown, lifting a handful of the treasure. oh what a ghost of dead and buried wealth had peter goldthwaite raised to scare himself out of his scanty wits withal! here was the semblance of an incalculable sum, enough to purchase the whole town and build every street anew, but which, vast as it was, no sane man would have given a solid sixpence for. what, then, in sober earnest, were the delusive treasures of the chest? why, here were old provincial bills of credit and treasury notes and bills of land-banks, and all other bubbles of the sort, from the first issue--above a century and a half ago--down nearly to the revolution. bills of a thousand pounds were intermixed with parchment pennies, and worth no more than they. "and this, then, is old peter goldthwaite's treasure!" said john brown. "your namesake, peter, was something like yourself; and when the provincial currency had depreciated fifty or seventy-five per cent, he bought it up in expectation of a rise. i have heard my grandfather say that old peter gave his father a mortgage of this very house and land to raise cash for his silly project. but the currency kept sinking till nobody would take it as a gift, and there was old peter goldthwaite, like peter the second, with thousands in his strong-box and hardly a coat to his back. he went mad upon the strength of it. but never mind, peter; it is just the sort of capital for building castles in the air." "the house will be down about our ears," cried tabitha as the wind shook it with increasing violence. "let it fall," said peter, folding his arms, as he seated himself upon the chest. "no, no, my old friend peter!" said john brown. "i have house-room for you and tabby, and a safe vault for the chest of treasure. to-morrow we will try to come to an agreement about the sale of this old house; real estate is well up, and i could afford you a pretty handsome price." "and i," observed peter goldthwaite, with reviving spirits, "have a plan for laying out the cash to great advantage." "why, as to that," muttered john brown to himself, "we must apply to the next court for a guardian to take care of the solid cash; and if peter insists upon speculating, he may do it to his heart's content with old peter goldthwaite's treasure." chippings with a chisel. passing a summer several years since at edgartown, on the island of martha's vineyard, i became acquainted with a certain carver of tombstones who had travelled and voyaged thither from the interior of massachusetts in search of professional employment. the speculation had turned out so successful that my friend expected to transmute slate and marble into silver and gold to the amount of at least a thousand dollars during the few months of his sojourn at nantucket and the vineyard. the secluded life and the simple and primitive spirit which still characterizes the inhabitants of those islands, especially of martha's vineyard, insure their dead friends a longer and dearer remembrance than the daily novelty and revolving bustle of the world can elsewhere afford to beings of the past. yet, while every family is anxious to erect a memorial to its departed members, the untainted breath of ocean bestows such health and length of days upon the people of the isles as would cause a melancholy dearth of business to a resident artist in that line. his own monument, recording his decease by starvation, would probably be an early specimen of his skill. gravestones, therefore, have generally been an article of imported merchandise. in my walks through the burial-ground of edgartown--where the dead have lain so long that the soil, once enriched by their decay, has returned to its original barrenness--in that ancient burial-ground i noticed much variety of monumental sculpture. the elder stones, dated a century back or more, have borders elaborately carved with flowers and are adorned with a multiplicity of death's-heads, crossbones, scythes, hour-glasses, and other lugubrious emblems of mortality, with here and there a winged cherub to direct the mourner's spirit upward. these productions of gothic taste must have been quite beyond the colonial skill of the day, and were probably carved in london and brought across the ocean to commemorate the defunct worthies of this lonely isle. the more recent monuments are mere slabs of slate in the ordinary style, without any superfluous flourishes to set off the bald inscriptions. but others--and those far the most impressive both to my taste and feelings--were roughly hewn from the gray rocks of the island, evidently by the unskilled hands of surviving friends and relatives. on some there were merely the initials of a name; some were inscribed with misspelt prose or rhyme, in deep letters which the moss and wintry rain of many years had not been able to obliterate. these, these were graves where loved ones slept. it is an old theme of satire, the falsehood and vanity of monumental eulogies; but when affection and sorrow grave the letters with their own painful labor, then we may be sure that they copy from the record on their hearts. my acquaintance the sculptor--he may share that title with greenough, since the dauber of signs is a painter as well as raphael--had found a ready market for all his blank slabs of marble and full occupation in lettering and ornamenting them. he was an elderly man, a descendant of the old puritan family of wigglesworth, with a certain simplicity and singleness both of heart and mind which, methinks, is more rarely found among us yankees than in any other community of people. in spite of his gray head and wrinkled brow, he was quite like a child in all matters save what had some reference to his own business; he seemed, unless my fancy misled me, to view mankind in no other relation than as people in want of tombstones, and his literary attainments evidently comprehended very little either of prose or poetry which had not at one time or other been inscribed on slate or marble. his sole task and office among the immortal pilgrims of the tomb--the duty for which providence had sent the old man into the world, as it were with a chisel in his hand--was to label the dead bodies, lest their names should be forgotten at the resurrection. yet he had not failed, within a narrow scope, to gather a few sprigs of earthly, and more than earthly, wisdom--the harvest of many a grave. and, lugubrious as his calling might appear, he was as cheerful an old soul as health and integrity and lack of care could make him, and used to set to work upon one sorrowful inscription or another with that sort of spirit which impels a man to sing at his labor. on the whole, i found mr. wigglesworth an entertaining, and often instructive, if not an interesting, character; and, partly for the charm of his society, and still more because his work has an invariable attraction for "man that is born of woman," i was accustomed to spend some hours a day at his workshop. the quaintness of his remarks and their not infrequent truth--a truth condensed and pointed by the limited sphere of his view--gave a raciness to his talk which mere worldliness and general cultivation would at once have destroyed. sometimes we would discuss the respective merits of the various qualities of marble, numerous slabs of which were resting against the walls of the shop, or sometimes an hour or two would pass quietly without a word on either side while i watched how neatly his chisel struck out letter after letter of the names of the nortons, the mayhews, the luces, the daggets, and other immemorial families of the vineyard. often with an artist's pride the good old sculptor would speak of favorite productions of his skill which were scattered throughout the village graveyards of new england. but my chief and most instructive amusement was to witness his interviews with his customers, who held interminable consultations about the form and fashion of the desired monuments, the buried excellence to be commemorated, the anguish to be expressed, and finally the lowest price in dollars and cents for which a marble transcript of their feelings might be obtained. really, my mind received many fresh ideas which perhaps may remain in it even longer than mr. wigglesworth's hardest marble will retain the deepest strokes of his chisel. an elderly lady came to bespeak a monument for her first love, who had been killed by a whale in the pacific ocean no less than forty years before. it was singular that so strong an impression of early feeling should have survived through the changes of her subsequent life, in the course of which she had been a wife and a mother, and, so far as i could judge, a comfortable and happy woman. reflecting within myself, it appeared to me that this lifelong sorrow--as, in all good faith, she deemed it--was one of the most fortunate circumstances of her history. it had given an ideality to her mind; it had kept her purer and less earthy than she would otherwise have been by drawing a portion of her sympathies apart from earth. amid the throng of enjoyments and the pressure of worldly care and all the warm materialism of this life she had communed with a vision, and had been the better for such intercourse. faithful to the husband of her maturity, and loving him with a far more real affection than she ever could have felt for this dream of her girlhood, there had still been an imaginative faith to the ocean-buried; so that an ordinary character had thus been elevated and refined. her sighs had been the breath of heaven to her soul. the good lady earnestly desired that the proposed monument should be ornamented with a carved border of marine plants interwined with twisted sea-shells, such as were probably waving over her lover's skeleton or strewn around it in the far depths of the pacific. but, mr. wigglesworth's chisel being inadequate to the task, she was forced to content herself with a rose hanging its head from a broken stem. after her departure i remarked that the symbol was none of the most apt. "and yet," said my friend the sculptor, embodying in this image the thoughts that had been passing through my own mind, "that broken rose has shed its sweet smell through forty years of the good woman's life." it was seldom that i could find such pleasant food for contemplation as in the above instance. none of the applicants, i think, affected me more disagreeably than an old man who came, with his fourth wife hanging on his arm, to bespeak gravestones for the three former occupants of his marriage-bed. i watched with some anxiety to see whether his remembrance of either were more affectionate than of the other two, but could discover no symptom of the kind. the three monuments were all to be of the same material and form, and each decorated in bas-relief with two weeping willows, one of these sympathetic trees bending over its fellow, which was to be broken in the midst and rest upon a sepulchral urn. this, indeed, was mr. wigglesworth's standing emblem of conjugal bereavement. i shuddered at the gray polygamist who had so utterly lost the holy sense of individuality in wedlock that methought he was fain to reckon upon his fingers how many women who had once slept by his side were now sleeping in their graves. there was even--if i wrong him, it is no great matter--a glance sidelong at his living spouse, as if he were inclined to drive a thriftier bargain by bespeaking four gravestones in a lot. i was better pleased with a rough old whaling-captain who gave directions for a broad marble slab divided into two compartments, one of which was to contain an epitaph on his deceased wife and the other to be left vacant till death should engrave his own name there. as is frequently the case among the whalers of martha's vineyard, so much of this storm-beaten widower's life had been tossed away on distant seas that out of twenty years of matrimony he had spent scarce three, and those at scattered intervals, beneath his own roof. thus the wife of his youth, though she died in his and her declining age, retained the bridal dewdrops fresh around her memory. my observations gave me the idea, and mr. wigglesworth confirmed it, that husbands were more faithful in setting up memorials to their dead wives than widows to their dead husbands. i was not ill-natured enough to fancy that women less than men feel so sure of their own constancy as to be willing to give a pledge of it in marble. it is more probably the fact that, while men are able to reflect upon their lost companions as remembrances apart from themselves, women, on the other hand, are conscious that a portion of their being has gone with the departed whithersoever he has gone. soul clings to soul, the living dust has a sympathy with the dust of the grave; and by the very strength of that sympathy the wife of the dead shrinks the more sensitively from reminding the world of its existence. the link is already strong enough; it needs no visible symbol. and, though a shadow walks ever by her side and the touch of a chill hand is on her bosom, yet life, and perchance its natural yearnings, may still be warm within her and inspire her with new hopes of happiness. then would she mark out the grave the scent of which would be perceptible on the pillow of the second bridal? no, but rather level its green mound with the surrounding earth, as if, when she dug up again her buried heart, the spot had ceased to be a grave. yet, in spite of these sentimentalities, i was prodigiously amused by an incident of which i had not the good-fortune to be a witness, but which mr. wigglesworth related with considerable humor. a gentlewoman of the town, receiving news of her husband's loss at sea, had bespoken a handsome slab of marble, and came daily to watch the progress of my friend's chisel. one afternoon, when the good lady and the sculptor were in the very midst of the epitaph--which the departed spirit might have been greatly comforted to read--who should walk into the workshop but the deceased himself, in substance as well as spirit! he had been picked up at sea, and stood in no present need of tombstone or epitaph. "and how," inquired i, "did his wife bear the shock of joyful surprise?" "why," said the old man, deepening the grin of a death's-head on which his chisel was just then employed, "i really felt for the poor woman; it was one of my best pieces of marble--and to be thrown away on a living man!" a comely woman with a pretty rosebud of a daughter came to select a gravestone for a twin-daughter, who had died a month before. i was impressed with the different nature of their feelings for the dead. the mother was calm and woefully resigned, fully conscious of her loss, as of a treasure which she had not always possessed, and therefore had been aware that it might be taken from her; but the daughter evidently had no real knowledge of what death's doings were. her thoughts knew, but not her heart. it seemed to me that by the print and pressure which the dead sister had left upon the survivor's spirit her feelings were almost the same as if she still stood side by side and arm in arm with the departed, looking at the slabs of marble, and once or twice she glanced around with a sunny smile, which, as its sister-smile had faded for ever, soon grew confusedly overshadowed. perchance her consciousness was truer than her reflection; perchance her dead sister was a closer companion than in life. the mother and daughter talked a long while with mr. wigglesworth about a suitable epitaph, and finally chose an ordinary verse of ill-matched rhymes which had already been inscribed upon innumerable tombstones. but when we ridicule the triteness of monumental verses, we forget that sorrow reads far deeper in them than we can, and finds a profound and individual purport in what seems so vague and inexpressive unless interpreted by her. she makes the epitaph anew, though the selfsame words may have served for a thousand graves. "and yet," said i afterward to mr. wigglesworth, "they might have made a better choice than this. while you were discussing the subject i was struck by at least a dozen simple and natural expressions from the lips of both mother and daughter. one of these would have formed an inscription equally original and appropriate." "no, no!" replied the sculptor, shaking his head; "there is a good deal of comfort to be gathered from these little old scraps of poetry, and so i always recommend them in preference to any new-fangled ones. and somehow they seem to stretch to suit a great grief and shrink to fit a small one." it was not seldom that ludicrous images were excited by what took place between mr. wigglesworth and his customers. a shrewd gentlewoman who kept a tavern in the town was anxious to obtain two or three gravestones for the deceased members of her family, and to pay for these solemn commodities by taking the sculptor to board. hereupon a fantasy arose in my mind of good mr. wigglesworth sitting down to dinner at a broad, flat tombstone carving one of his own plump little marble cherubs, gnawing a pair of crossbones and drinking out of a hollow death's-head or perhaps a lachrymatory vase or sepulchral urn, while his hostess's dead children waited on him at the ghastly banquet. on communicating this nonsensical picture to the old man he laughed heartily and pronounced my humor to be of the right sort. "i have lived at such a table all my days," said he, "and eaten no small quantity of slate and marble." "hard fare," rejoined i, smiling, "but you seemed to have found it excellent of digestion, too." a man of fifty or thereabouts with a harsh, unpleasant countenance ordered a stone for the grave of his bitter enemy, with whom he had waged warfare half a lifetime, to their mutual misery and ruin. the secret of this phenomenon was that hatred had become the sustenance and enjoyment of the poor wretch's soul; it had supplied the place of all kindly affections; it had been really a bond of sympathy between himself and the man who shared the passion; and when its object died, the unappeasable foe was the only mourner for the dead. he expressed a purpose of being buried side by side with his enemy. "i doubt whether their dust will mingle," remarked the old sculptor to me; for often there was an earthliness in his conceptions. "oh yes," replied i, who had mused long upon the incident; "and when they rise again, these bitter foes may find themselves dear friends. methinks what they mistook for hatred was but love under a mask." a gentleman of antiquarian propensities provided a memorial for an indian of chabbiquidick--one of the few of untainted blood remaining in that region, and said to be a hereditary chieftain descended from the sachem who welcomed governor mayhew to the vineyard. mr. wiggles-worth exerted his best skill to carve a broken bow and scattered sheaf of arrows in memory of the hunters and warriors whose race was ended here, but he likewise sculptured a cherub, to denote that the poor indian had shared the christian's hope of immortality. "why," observed i, taking a perverse view of the winged boy and the bow and arrows, "it looks more like cupid's tomb than an indian chief's." "you talk nonsense," said the sculptor, with the offended pride of art. he then added with his usual good-nature, "how can cupid die when there are such pretty maidens in the vineyard?" "very true," answered i; and for the rest of the day i thought of other matters than tombstones. at our next meeting i found him chiselling an open book upon a marble headstone, and concluded that it was meant to express the erudition of some black-letter clergyman of the cotton mather school. it turned out, however, to be emblematical of the scriptural knowledge of an old woman who had never read anything but her bible, and the monument was a tribute to her piety and good works from the orthodox church of which she had been a member. in strange contrast with this christian woman's memorial was that of an infidel whose gravestone, by his own direction, bore an avowal of his belief that the spirit within him would be extinguished like a flame, and that the nothingness whence he sprang would receive him again. mr. wigglesworth consulted me as to the propriety of enabling a dead man's dust to utter this dreadful creed. "if i thought," said he, "that a single mortal would read the inscription without a shudder, my chisel should never cut a letter of it. but when the grave speaks such falsehoods, the soul of man will know the truth by its own horror." "so it will," said i, struck by the idea. "the poor infidel may strive to preach blasphemies from his grave, but it will be only another method of impressing the soul with a consciousness of immortality." there was an old man by the name of norton, noted throughout the island for his great wealth, which he had accumulated by the exercise of strong and shrewd faculties combined with a most penurious disposition. this wretched miser, conscious that he had not a friend to be mindful of him in his grave, had himself taken the needful precautions for posthumous remembrance by bespeaking an immense slab of white marble with a long epitaph in raised letters, the whole to be as magnificent as mr. wigglesworth's skill could make it. there was something very characteristic in this contrivance to have his money's worth even from his own tombstone, which, indeed, afforded him more enjoyment in the few months that he lived thereafter than it probably will in a whole century, now that it is laid over his bones. this incident reminds me of a young girl--a pale, slender, feeble creature most unlike the other rosy and healthful damsels of the vineyard, amid whose brightness she was fading away. day after day did the poor maiden come to the sculptor's shop and pass from one piece of marble to another, till at last she pencilled her name upon a slender slab which, i think, was of a more spotless white than all the rest. i saw her no more, but soon afterward found mr. wigglesworth cutting her virgin-name into the stone which she had chosen. "she is dead, poor girl!" said he, interrupting the tune which he was whistling, "and she chose a good piece of stuff for her headstone. now, which of these slabs would you like best to see your own name upon?" "why, to tell you the truth, my good mr. wigglesworth," replied i, after a moment's pause, for the abruptness of the question had somewhat startled me--"to be quite sincere with you, i care little or nothing about a stone for my own grave, and am somewhat inclined to scepticism as to the propriety of erecting monuments at all over the dust that once was human. the weight of these heavy marbles, though unfelt by the dead corpse or the enfranchised soul, presses drearily upon the spirit of the survivor and causes him to connect the idea of death with the dungeon-like imprisonment of the tomb, instead of with the freedom of the skies. every gravestone that you ever made is the visible symbol of a mistaken system. our thoughts should soar upward with the butterfly, not linger with the exuviæ that confined him. in truth and reason, neither those whom we call the living, and still less the departed, have anything to do with the grave." "i never heard anything so heathenish," said mr. wigglesworth, perplexed and displeased at sentiments which controverted all his notions and feelings and implied the utter waste, and worse, of his whole life's labor. "would you forget your dead friends the moment they are under the sod?" "they are not under the sod," i rejoined; "then why should i mark the spot where there is no treasure hidden? forget them? no; but, to remember them aright, i would forget what they have cast off. and to gain the truer conception of death i would forget the grave." but still the good old sculptor murmured, and stumbled, as it were, over the gravestones amid which he had walked through life. whether he were right or wrong, i had grown the wiser from our companionship and from my observations of nature and character as displayed by those who came, with their old griefs or their new ones, to get them recorded upon his slabs of marble. and yet with my gain of wisdom i had likewise gained perplexity; for there was a strange doubt in my mind whether the dark shadowing of this life, the sorrows and regrets, have not as much real comfort in them--leaving religious influences out of the question--as what we term life's joys. the shaker bridal. one day, in the sick-chamber of father ephraim, who had been forty years the presiding elder over the shaker settlement at goshen, there was an assemblage of several of the chief men of the sect. individuals had come from the rich establishment at lebanon, from canterbury, harvard and alfred, and from all the other localities where this strange people have fertilized the rugged hills of new england by their systematic industry. an elder was likewise there who had made a pilgrimage of a thousand miles from a village of the faithful in kentucky to visit his spiritual kindred the children of the sainted mother ann. he had partaken of the homely abundance of their tables, had quaffed the far-famed shaker cider, and had joined in the sacred dance every step of which is believed to alienate the enthusiast from earth and bear him onward to heavenly purity and bliss. his brethren of the north had now courteously invited him to be present on an occasion when the concurrence of every eminent member of their community was peculiarly desirable. the venerable father ephraim sat in his easy-chair, not only hoary-headed and infirm with age, but worn down by a lingering disease which it was evident would very soon transfer his patriarchal staff to other hands. at his footstool stood a man and woman, both clad in the shaker garb. "my brethren," said father ephraim to the surrounding elders, feebly exerting himself to utter these few words, "here are the son and daughter to whom i would commit the trust of which providence is about to lighten my weary shoulders. read their faces, i pray you, and say whether the inward movement of the spirit hath guided my choice aright." accordingly, each elder looked at the two candidates with a most scrutinizing gaze. the man--whose name was adam colburn--had a face sunburnt with labor in the fields, yet intelligent, thoughtful and traced with cares enough for a whole lifetime, though he had barely reached middle age. there was something severe in his aspect and a rigidity throughout his person--characteristics that caused him generally to be taken for a schoolmaster; which vocation, in fact, he had formerly exercised for several years. the woman, martha pierson, was somewhat above thirty, thin and pale, as a shaker sister almost invariably is, and not entirely free from that corpse-like appearance which the garb of the sisterhood is so well calculated to impart. "this pair are still in the summer of their years," observed the elder from harvard, a shrewd old man. "i would like better to see the hoar-frost of autumn on their heads. methinks, also, they will be exposed to peculiar temptations on account of the carnal desires which have heretofore subsisted between them." "nay, brother," said the elder from canterbury; "the hoar-frost and the black frost hath done its work on brother adam and sister martha, even as we sometimes discern its traces in our cornfields while they are yet green. and why should we question the wisdom of our venerable father's purpose, although this pair in their early youth have loved one another as the world's people love? are there not many brethren and sisters among us who have lived long together in wedlock, yet, adopting our faith, find their hearts purified from all but spiritual affection?" whether or no the early loves of adam and martha had rendered it inexpedient that they should now preside together over a shaker village, it was certainly most singular that such should be the final result of many warm and tender hopes. children of neighboring families, their affection was older even than their school-days; it seemed an innate principle interfused among all their sentiments and feelings, and not so much a distinct remembrance as connected with their whole volume of remembrances. but just as they reached a proper age for their union misfortunes had fallen heavily on both and made it necessary that they should resort to personal labor for a bare subsistence. even under these circumstances martha pierson would probably have consented to unite her fate with adam colburn's, and, secure of the bliss of mutual love, would patiently have awaited the less important gifts of fortune. but adam, being of a calm and cautious character, was loth to relinquish the advantages which a single man possesses for raising himself in the world. year after year, therefore, their marriage had been deferred. adam colburn had followed many vocations, had travelled far and seen much of the world and of life. martha had earned her bread sometimes as a sempstress, sometimes as help to a farmer's wife, sometimes as schoolmistress of the village children, sometimes as a nurse or watcher of the sick, thus acquiring a varied experience the ultimate use of which she little anticipated. but nothing had gone prosperously with either of the lovers; at no subsequent moment would matrimony have been so prudent a measure as when they had first parted, in the opening bloom of life, to seek a better fortune. still, they had held fast their mutual faith. martha might have been the wife of a man who sat among the senators of his native state, and adam could have won the hand, as he had unintentionally won the heart, of a rich and comely widow. but neither of them desired good-fortune save to share it with the other. at length that calm despair which occurs only in a strong and somewhat stubborn character and yields to no second spring of hope settled down on the spirit of adam colburn. he sought an interview with martha and proposed that they should join the society of shakers. the converts of this sect are oftener driven within its hospitable gates by worldly misfortune than drawn thither by fanaticism, and are received without inquisition as to their motives. martha, faithful still, had placed her hand in that of her lover and accompanied him to the shaker village. here the natural capacity of each, cultivated and strengthened by the difficulties of their previous lives, had soon gained them an important rank in the society, whose members are generally below the ordinary standard of intelligence. their faith and feelings had in some degree become assimilated to those of their fellow-worshippers. adam colburn gradually acquired reputation not only in the management of the temporal affairs of the society, but as a clear and efficient preacher of their doctrines. martha was not less distinguished in the duties proper to her sex. finally, when the infirmities of father ephraim had admonished him to seek a successor in his patriarchal office, he thought of adam and martha, and proposed to renew in their persons the primitive form of shaker government as established by mother ann. they were to be the father and mother of the village. the simple ceremony which would constitute them such was now to be performed. "son adam and daughter martha," said the venerable father ephraim, fixing his aged eyes piercingly upon them, "if ye can conscientiously undertake this charge, speak, that the brethren may not doubt of your fitness." "father," replied adam, speaking with the calmness of his character, "i came to your village a disappointed man, weary of the world, worn out with continual trouble, seeking only a security against evil fortune, as i had no hope of good. even my wishes of worldly success were almost dead within me. i came hither as a man might come to a tomb willing to lie down in its gloom and coldness for the sake of its peace and quiet. there was but one earthly affection in my breast, and it had grown calmer since my youth; so that i was satisfied to bring martha to be my sister in our new abode. we are brother and sister, nor would i have it otherwise. and in this peaceful village i have found all that i hope for--all that i desire. i will strive with my best strength for the spiritual and temporal good of our community. my conscience is not doubtful in this matter. i am ready to receive the trust." "thou hast spoken well, son adam," said the father. "god will bless thee in the office which i am about to resign." "but our sister," observed the elder from harvard. "hath she not likewise a gift to declare her sentiments?" martha started and moved her lips as if she would have made a formal reply to this appeal. but, had she attempted it, perhaps the old recollections, the long-repressed feelings of childhood, youth and womanhood, might have gushed from her heart in words that it would have been profanation to utter there. "adam has spoken," said she, hurriedly; "his sentiments are likewise mine." but while speaking these few words martha grew so pale that she looked fitter to be laid in her coffin than to stand in the presence of father ephraim and the elders; she shuddered, also, as if there were something awful or horrible in her situation and destiny. it required, indeed, a more than feminine strength of nerve to sustain the fixed observance of men so exalted and famous throughout the sect as these were. they had overcome their natural sympathy with human frailties and affections. one, when he joined the society, had brought with him his wife and children, but never from that hour had spoken a fond word to the former or taken his best-loved child upon his knee. another, whose family refused to follow him, had been enabled--such was his gift of holy fortitude--to leave them to the mercy of the world. the youngest of the elders, a man of about fifty, had been bred from infancy in a shaker village, and was said never to have clasped a woman's hand in his own, and to have no conception of a closer tie than the cold fraternal one of the sect. old father ephraim was the most awful character of all. in his youth he had been a dissolute libertine, but was converted by mother ann herself, and had partaken of the wild fanaticism of the early shakers. tradition whispered at the firesides of the village that mother ann had been compelled to sear his heart of flesh with a red-hot iron before it could be purified from earthly passions. however that might be, poor martha had a woman's heart, and a tender one, and it quailed within her as she looked round at those strange old men, and from them to the calm features of adam colburn. but, perceiving that the elders eyed her doubtfully, she gasped for breath and again spoke. "with what strength is left me by my many troubles," said she, "i am ready to undertake this charge, and to do my best in it." "my children, join your hands," said father ephraim. they did so. the elders stood up around, and the father feebly raised himself to a more erect position, but continued sitting in his great chair. "i have bidden you to join your hands," said he, "not in earthly affection, for ye have cast off its chains for ever, but as brother and sister in spiritual love and helpers of one another in your allotted task. teach unto others the faith which ye have received. open wide your gates--i deliver you the keys thereof--open them wide to all who will give up the iniquities of the world and come hither to lead lives of purity and peace. receive the weary ones who have known the vanity of earth; receive the little children, that they may never learn that miserable lesson. and a blessing be upon your labors; so that the time may hasten on when the mission of mother ann shall have wrought its full effect, when children shall no more be born and die, and the last survivor of mortal race--some old and weary man like me--shall see the sun go down nevermore to rise on a world of sin and sorrow." the aged father sank back exhausted, and the surrounding elders deemed, with good reason, that the hour was come when the new heads of the village must enter on their patriarchal duties. in their attention to father ephraim their eyes were turned from martha pierson, who grew paler and paler, unnoticed even by adam colburn. he, indeed, had withdrawn his hand from hers and folded his arms with a sense of satisfied ambition. but paler and paler grew martha by his side, till, like a corpse in its burial-clothes, she sank down at the feet of her early lover; for, after many trials firmly borne, her heart could endure the weight of its desolate agony no longer. night-sketches, beneath an umbrella. pleasant is a rainy winter's day within-doors. the best study for such a day--or the best amusement: call it what you will--is a book of travels describing scenes the most unlike that sombre one which is mistily presented through the windows. i have experienced that fancy is then most successful in imparting distinct shapes and vivid colors to the objects which the author has spread upon his page, and that his words become magic spells to summon up a thousand varied pictures. strange landscapes glimmer through the familiar walls of the room, and outlandish figures thrust themselves almost within the sacred precincts of the hearth. small as my chamber is, it has space enough to contain the ocean-like circumference of an arabian desert, its parched sands tracked by the long line of a caravan with the camels patiently journeying through the heavy sunshine. though my ceiling be not lofty, yet i can pile up the mountains of central asia beneath it till their summits shine far above the clouds of the middle atmosphere. and with my humble means--a wealth that is not taxable--i can transport hither the magnificent merchandise of an oriental bazaar, and call a crowd of purchasers from distant countries to pay a fair profit for the precious articles which are displayed on all sides. true it is, however, that amid the bustle of traffic, or whatever else may seem to be going on around me, the raindrops will occasionally be heard to patter against my window-panes, which look forth upon one of the quietest streets in a new england town. after a time, too, the visions vanish, and will not appear again at my bidding. then, it being nightfall, a gloomy sense of unreality depresses my spirits, and impels me to venture out before the clock shall strike bedtime to satisfy myself that the world is not entirely made up of such shadowy materials as have busied me throughout the day. a dreamer may dwell so long among fantasies that the things without him will seem as unreal as those within. when eve has fairly set in, therefore, i sally forth, tightly buttoning my shaggy overcoat and hoisting my umbrella, the silken dome of which immediately resounds with the heavy drumming of the invisible raindrops. pausing on the lowest doorstep, i contrast the warmth and cheerfulness of my deserted fireside with the drear obscurity and chill discomfort into which i am about to plunge. now come fearful auguries innumerable as the drops of rain. did not my manhood cry shame upon me, i should turn back within-doors, resume my elbow-chair, my slippers and my book, pass such an evening of sluggish enjoyment as the day has been, and go to bed inglorious. the same shivering reluctance, no doubt, has quelled for a moment the adventurous spirit of many a traveller when his feet, which were destined to measure the earth around, were leaving their last tracks in the home-paths. in my own case poor human nature may be allowed a few misgivings. i look upward and discern no sky, not even an unfathomable void, but only a black, impenetrable nothingness, as though heaven and all its lights were blotted from the system of the universe. it is as if nature were dead and the world had put on black and the clouds were weeping for her. with their tears upon my cheek i turn my eyes earthward, but find little consolation here below. a lamp is burning dimly at the distant corner, and throws just enough of light along the street to show, and exaggerate by so faintly showing, the perils and difficulties which beset my path. yonder dingily-white remnant of a huge snowbank, which will yet cumber the sidewalk till the latter days of march, over or through that wintry waste must i stride onward. beyond lies a certain slough of despond, a concoction of mud and liquid filth, ankle-deep, leg-deep, neck-deep--in a word, of unknown bottom--on which the lamplight does not even glimmer, but which i have occasionally watched in the gradual growth of its horrors from morn till nightfall. should i flounder into its depths, farewell to upper earth! and hark! how roughly resounds the roaring of a stream the turbulent career of which is partially reddened by the gleam of the lamp, but elsewhere brawls noisily through the densest gloom! oh, should i be swept away in fording that impetuous and unclean torrent, the coroner will have a job with an unfortunate gentleman who would fain end his troubles anywhere but in a mud-puddle. pshaw! i will linger not another instant at arm's-length from these dim terrors, which grow more obscurely formidable the longer i delay to grapple with them. now for the onset, and, lo! with little damage save a dash of rain in the face and breast, a splash of mud high up the pantaloons and the left boot full of ice-cold water, behold me at the corner of the street. the lamp throws down a circle of red light around me, and twinkling onward from corner to corner i discern other beacons, marshalling my way to a brighter scene. but this is a lonesome and dreary spot. the tall edifices bid gloomy defiance to the storm with their blinds all closed, even as a man winks when he faces a spattering gust. how loudly tinkles the collected rain down the tin spouts! the puffs of wind are boisterous, and seem to assail me from various quarters at once. i have often observed that this corner is a haunt and loitering-place for those winds which have no work to do upon the deep dashing ships against our iron-bound shores, nor in the forest tearing up the sylvan giants with half a rood of soil at their vast roots. here they amuse themselves with lesser freaks of mischief. see, at this moment, how they assail yonder poor woman who is passing just within the verge of the lamplight! one blast struggles for her umbrella and turns it wrong side outward, another whisks the cape of her cloak across her eyes, while a third takes most unwarrantable liberties with the lower part of her attire. happily, the good dame is no gossamer, but a figure of rotundity and fleshly substance; else would these aerial tormentors whirl her aloft like a witch upon a broomstick, and set her down, doubtless, in the filthiest kennel hereabout. from hence i tread upon firm pavements into the centre of the town. here there is almost as brilliant an illumination as when some great victory has been won either on the battlefield or at the polls. two rows of shops with windows down nearly to the ground cast a glow from side to side, while the black night hangs overhead like a canopy, and thus keeps the splendor from diffusing itself away. the wet sidewalks gleam with a broad sheet of red light. the raindrops glitter as if the sky were pouring down rubies. the spouts gush with fire. methinks the scene is an emblem of the deceptive glare which mortals throw around their footsteps in the moral world, thus bedazzling themselves till they forget the impenetrable obscurity that hems them in, and that can be dispelled only by radiance from above. and, after all, it is a cheerless scene, and cheerless are the wanderers in it. here comes one who has so long been familiar with tempestuous weather that he takes the bluster of the storm for a friendly greeting, as if it should say, "how fare ye, brother?" he is a retired sea-captain wrapped in some nameless garment of the pea-jacket order, and is now laying his course toward the marine-insurance office, there to spin yarns of gale and shipwreck with a crew of old seadogs like himself. the blast will put in its word among their hoarse voices, and be understood by all of them. next i meet an unhappy slipshod gentleman with a cloak flung hastily over his shoulders, running a race with boisterous winds and striving to glide between the drops of rain. some domestic emergency or other has blown this miserable man from his warm fireside in quest of a doctor. see that little vagabond! how carelessly he has taken his stand right underneath a spout while staring at some object of curiosity in a shop-window! surely the rain is his native element; he must have fallen with it from the clouds, as frogs are supposed to do. here is a picture, and a pretty one--a young man and a girl, both enveloped in cloaks and huddled beneath the scanty protection of a cotton umbrella. she wears rubber overshoes, but he is in his dancing-pumps, and they are on their way no doubt, to some cotillon-party or subscription-ball at a dollar a head, refreshments included. thus they struggle against the gloomy tempest, lured onward by a vision of festal splendor. but ah! a most lamentable disaster! bewildered by the red, blue and yellow meteors in an apothecary's window, they have stepped upon a slippery remnant of ice, and are precipitated into a confluence of swollen floods at the corner of two streets. luckless lovers! were it my nature to be other than a looker-on in life, i would attempt your rescue. since that may not be, i vow, should you be drowned, to weave such a pathetic story of your fate as shall call forth tears enough to drown you both anew. do ye touch bottom, my young friends? yes; they emerge like a water-nymph and a river-deity, and paddle hand in hand out of the depths of the dark pool. they hurry homeward, dripping, disconsolate, abashed, but with love too warm to be chilled by the cold water. they have stood a test which proves too strong for many. faithful though over head and ears in trouble! onward i go, deriving a sympathetic joy or sorrow from the varied aspect of mortal affairs even as my figure catches a gleam from the lighted windows or is blackened by an interval of darkness. not that mine is altogether a chameleon spirit with no hue of its own. now i pass into a more retired street where the dwellings of wealth and poverty are intermingled, presenting a range of strongly-contrasted pictures. here, too, may be found the golden mean. through yonder casement i discern a family circle--the grandmother, the parents and the children--all flickering, shadow-like, in the glow of a wood-fire.--bluster, fierce blast, and beat, thou wintry rain, against the window-panes! ye cannot damp the enjoyment of that fireside.--surely my fate is hard that i should be wandering homeless here, taking to my bosom night and storm and solitude instead of wife and children. peace, murmurer! doubt not that darker guests are sitting round the hearth, though the warm blaze hides all but blissful images. well, here is still a brighter scene--a stately mansion illuminated for a ball, with cut-glass chandeliers and alabaster lamps in every room, and sunny landscapes hanging round the walls. see! a coach has stopped, whence emerges a slender beauty who, canopied by two umbrellas, glides within the portal and vanishes amid lightsome thrills of music. will she ever feel the night-wind and the rain? perhaps--perhaps! and will death and sorrow ever enter that proud mansion? as surely as the dancers will be gay within its halls to-night. such thoughts sadden yet satisfy my heart, for they teach me that the poor man in this mean, weatherbeaten hovel, without a fire to cheer him, may call the rich his brother--brethren by sorrow, who must be an inmate of both their households; brethren by death, who will lead them both to other homes. onward, still onward, i plunge into the night. now have i reached the utmost limits of the town, where the last lamp struggles feebly with the darkness like the farthest star that stands sentinel on the borders of uncreated space. it is strange what sensations of sublimity may spring from a very humble source. such are suggested by this hollow roar of a subterranean cataract where the mighty stream of a kennel precipitates itself beneath an iron grate and is seen no more on earth. listen a while to its voice of mystery, and fancy will magnify it till you start and smile at the illusion. and now another sound--the rumbling of wheels as the mail-coach, outward bound, rolls heavily off the pavements and splashes through the mud and water of the road. all night long the poor passengers will be tossed to and fro between drowsy watch and troubled sleep, and will dream of their own quiet beds and awake to find themselves still jolting onward. happier my lot, who will straightway hie me to my familiar room and toast myself comfortably before the fire, musing and fitfully dozing and fancying a strangeness in such sights as all may see. but first let me gaze at this solitary figure who comes hitherward with a tin lantern which throws the circular pattern of its punched holes on the ground about him. he passes fearlessly into the unknown gloom, whither i will not follow him. this figure shall supply me with a moral wherewith, for lack of a more appropriate one, i may wind up my sketch. he fears not to tread the dreary path before him, because his lantern, which was kindled at the fireside of his home, will light him back to that same fireside again. and thus we, night-wanderers through a stormy and dismal world, if we bear the lamp of faith enkindled at a celestial fire, it will surely lead us home to that heaven whence its radiance was borrowed. endicott and the red cross. at noon of an autumnal day more than two centuries ago the english colors were displayed by the standard bearer of the salem train-band, which had mustered for martial exercise under the orders of john endicott. it was a period when the religious exiles were accustomed often to buckle on their armor and practise the handling of their weapons of war. since the first settlement of new england its prospects had never been so dismal. the dissensions between charles i. and his subjects were then, and for several years afterward, confined to the floor of parliament. the measures of the king and ministry were rendered more tyrannically violent by an opposition which had not yet acquired sufficient confidence in its own strength to resist royal injustice with the sword. the bigoted and haughty primate laud, archbishop of canterbury, controlled the religious affairs of the realm, and was consequently invested with powers which might have wrought the utter ruin of the two puritan colonies, plymouth and massachusetts. there is evidence on record that our forefathers perceived their danger, but were resolved that their infant country should not fall without a struggle, even beneath the giant strength of the king's right arm. such was the aspect of the times when the folds of the english banner with the red cross in its field were flung out over a company of puritans. their leader, the famous endicott, was a man of stern and resolute countenance, the effect of which was heightened by a grizzled beard that swept the upper portion of his breastplate. this piece of armor was so highly polished that the whole surrounding scene had its image in the glittering steel. the central object in the mirrored picture was an edifice of humble architecture with neither steeple nor bell to proclaim it--what, nevertheless, it was--the house of prayer. a token of the perils of the wilderness was seen in the grim head of a wolf which had just been slain within the precincts of the town, and, according to the regular mode of claiming the bounty, was nailed on the porch of the meeting-house. the blood was still plashing on the doorstep. there happened to be visible at the same noontide hour so many other characteristics of the times and manners of the puritans that we must endeavor to represent them in a sketch, though far less vividly than they were reflected in the polished breastplate of john endicott. in close vicinity to the sacred edifice appeared that important engine of puritanic authority the whipping-post, with the soil around it well trodden by the feet of evil-doers who had there been disciplined. at one corner of the meeting-house was the pillory and at the other the stocks, and, by a singular good fortune for our sketch, the head of an episcopalian and suspected catholic was grotesquely encased in the former machine, while a fellow-criminal who had boisterously quaffed a health to the king was confined by the legs in the latter. side by side on the meeting-house steps stood a male and a female figure. the man was a tall, lean, haggard personification of fanaticism, bearing on his breast this label, "a wanton gospeller," which betokened that he had dared to give interpretations of holy writ unsanctioned by the infallible judgment of the civil and religious rulers. his aspect showed no lack of zeal to maintain his heterodoxies even at the stake. the woman wore a cleft stick on her tongue, in appropriate retribution for having wagged that unruly member against the elders of the church, and her countenance and gestures gave much cause to apprehend that the moment the stick should be removed a repetition of the offence would demand new ingenuity in chastising it. the above-mentioned individuals had been sentenced to undergo their various modes of ignominy for the space of one hour at noonday. but among the crowd were several whose punishment would be lifelong--some whose ears had been cropped like those of puppy-dogs, others whose cheeks had been branded with the initials of their misdemeanors; one with his nostrils slit and seared, and another with a halter about his neck, which he was forbidden ever to take off or to conceal beneath his garments. methinks he must have been grievously tempted to affix the other end of the rope to some convenient beam or bough. there was likewise a young woman with no mean share of beauty whose doom it was to wear the letter a on the breast of her gown in the eyes of all the world and her own children. and even her own children knew what that initial signified. sporting with her infamy, the lost and desperate creature had embroidered the fatal token in scarlet cloth with golden thread and the nicest art of needlework; so that the capital a might have been thought to mean "admirable," or anything rather than "adulteress." let not the reader argue from any of these evidences of iniquity that the times of the puritans were more vicious than our own, when as we pass along the very street of this sketch we discern no badge of infamy on man or woman. it was the policy of our ancestors to search out even the most secret sins and expose them to shame, without fear or favor, in the broadest light of the noonday sun. were such the custom now, perchance we might find materials for a no less piquant sketch than the above. except the malefactors whom we have described and the diseased or infirm persons, the whole male population of the town, between sixteen years and sixty were seen in the ranks of the train-band. a few stately savages in all the pomp and dignity of the primeval indian stood gazing at the spectacle. their flint-headed arrows were but childish weapons, compared with the matchlocks of the puritans, and would have rattled harmlessly against the steel caps and hammered iron breastplates which enclosed each soldier in an individual fortress. the valiant john endicott glanced with an eye of pride at his sturdy followers, and prepared to renew the martial toils of the day. "come, my stout hearts!" quoth he, drawing his sword. "let us show these poor heathen that we can handle our weapons like men of might. well for them if they put us not to prove it in earnest!" the iron-breasted company straightened their line, and each man drew the heavy butt of his matchlock close to his left foot, thus awaiting the orders of the captain. but as endicott glanced right and left along the front he discovered a personage at some little distance with whom it behoved him to hold a parley. it was an elderly gentleman wearing a black cloak and band and a high-crowned hat beneath which was a velvet skull-cap, the whole being the garb of a puritan minister. this reverend person bore a staff which seemed to have been recently cut in the forest, and his shoes were bemired, as if he had been travelling on foot through the swamps of the wilderness. his aspect was perfectly that of a pilgrim, heightened also by an apostolic dignity. just as endicott perceived him he laid aside his staff and stooped to drink at a bubbling fountain which gushed into the sunshine about a score of yards from the corner of the meeting-house. but ere the good man drank he turned his face heavenward in thankfulness, and then, holding back his gray beard with one hand, he scooped up his simple draught in the hollow of the other. "what ho, good mr. williams!" shouted endicott. "you are welcome back again to our town of peace. how does our worthy governor winthrop? and what news from boston?" "the governor hath his health, worshipful sir," answered roger williams, now resuming his staff and drawing near. "and, for the news, here is a letter which, knowing i was to travel hitherward to-day, his excellency committed to my charge. belike it contains tidings of much import, for a ship arrived yesterday from england." mr. williams, the minister of salem, and of course known to all the spectators, had now reached the spot where endicott was standing under the banner of his company, and put the governor's epistle into his hand. the broad seal was impressed with winthrop's coat-of-arms. endicott hastily unclosed the letter and began to read, while, as his eye passed down the page, a wrathful change came over his manly countenance. the blood glowed through it till it seemed to be kindling with an internal heat, nor was it unnatural to suppose that his breastplate would likewise become red hot with the angry fire of the bosom which it covered. arriving at the conclusion, he shook the letter fiercely in his hand, so that it rustled as loud as the flag above his head. "black tidings these, mr. williams," said he; "blacker never came to new england. doubtless you know their purport?" "yea, truly," replied roger williams, "for the governor consulted respecting this matter with my brethren in the ministry at boston, and my opinion was likewise asked. and his excellency entreats you by me that the news be not suddenly noised abroad, lest the people be stirred up unto some outbreak, and thereby give the king and the archbishop a handle against us." "the governor is a wise man--a wise man, and a meek and moderate," said endicott, setting his teeth grimly. "nevertheless, i must do according to my own best judgment. there is neither man, woman nor child in new england but has a concern as dear as life in these tidings; and if john endicott's voice be loud enough, man, woman and child shall hear them.--soldiers, wheel into a hollow square.--ho, good people! here are news for one and all of you." the soldiers closed in around their captain, and he and roger williams stood together under the banner of the red cross, while the women and the aged men pressed forward and the mothers held up their children to look endicott in the face. a few taps of the drum gave signal for silence and attention. "fellow-soldiers, fellow-exiles," began endicott, speaking under strong excitement, yet powerfully restraining it, "wherefore did ye leave your native country? wherefore, i say, have we left the green and fertile fields, the cottages, or, perchance, the old gray halls, where we were born and bred, the churchyards where our forefathers lie buried? wherefore have we come hither to set up our own tombstones in a wilderness? a howling wilderness it is. the wolf and the bear meet us within halloo of our dwellings. the savage lieth in wait for us in the dismal shadow of the woods. the stubborn roots of the trees break our ploughshares when we would till the earth. our children cry for bread, and we must dig in the sands of the seashore to satisfy them. wherefore, i say again, have we sought this country of a rugged soil and wintry sky? was it not for the enjoyment of our civil rights? was it not for liberty to worship god according to our conscience?" "call you this liberty of conscience?" interrupted a voice on the steps of the meeting-house. it was the wanton gospeller. a sad and quiet smile flitted across the mild visage of roger williams, but endicott, in the excitement of the moment, shook his sword wrathfully at the culprit--an ominous gesture from a man like him. "what hast thou to do with conscience, thou knave?" cried he. "i said liberty to worship god, not license to profane and ridicule him. break not in upon my speech, or i will lay thee neck and heels till this time to-morrow.--hearken to me, friends, nor heed that accursed rhapsodist. as i was saying, we have sacrificed all things, and have come to a land whereof the old world hath scarcely heard, that we might make a new world unto ourselves and painfully seek a path from hence to heaven. but what think ye now? this son of a scotch tyrant--this grandson of a papistical and adulterous scotch woman whose death proved that a golden crown doth not always save an anointed head from the block--" "nay, brother, nay," interposed mr. williams; "thy words are not meet for a secret chamber, far less for a public street." "hold thy peace, roger williams!" answered endicott, imperiously. "my spirit is wiser than thine for the business now in hand.--i tell ye, fellow-exiles, that charles of england and laud, our bitterest persecutor, arch-priest of canterbury, are resolute to pursue us even hither. they are taking counsel, saith this letter, to send over a governor-general in whose breast shall be deposited all the law and equity of the land. they are minded, also, to establish the idolatrous forms of english episcopacy; so that when laud shall kiss the pope's toe as cardinal of rome he may deliver new england, bound hand and foot, into the power of his master." a deep groan from the auditors--a sound of wrath as well as fear and sorrow--responded to this intelligence. "look ye to it, brethren," resumed endicott, with increasing energy. "if this king and this arch-prelate have their will, we shall briefly behold a cross on the spire of this tabernacle which we have builded, and a high altar within its walls, with wax tapers burning round it at noon-day. we shall hear the sacring-bell and the voices of the romish priests saying the mass. but think ye, christian men, that these abominations may be suffered without a sword drawn, without a shot fired, without blood spilt--yea, on the very stairs of the pulpit? no! be ye strong of hand and stout of heart. here we stand on our own soil, which we have bought with our goods, which we have won with our swords, which we have cleared with our axes, which we have tilled with the sweat of our brows, which we have sanctified with our prayers to the god that brought us hither! who shall enslave us here? what have we to do with this mitred prelate--with this crowned king? what have we to do with england?" endicott gazed round at the excited countenances of the people, now full of his own spirit, and then turned suddenly to the standard-bearer, who stood close behind him. "officer, lower your banner," said he. the officer obeyed, and, brandishing his sword, endicott thrust it through the cloth and with his left hand rent the red cross completely out of the banner. he then waved the tattered ensign above his head. "sacrilegious wretch!" cried the high-churchman in the pillory, unable longer to restrain himself; "thou hast rejected the symbol of our holy religion." "treason! treason!" roared the royalist in the stocks. "he hath defaced the king's banner!" "before god and man i will avouch the deed," answered endicott.--"beat a flourish, drummer--shout, soldiers and people--in honor of the ensign of new england. neither pope nor tyrant hath part in it now." with a cry of triumph the people gave their sanction to one of the boldest exploits which our history records. and for ever honored be the name of endicott! we look back through the mist of ages, and recognize in the rending of the red cross from new england's banner the first omen of that deliverance which our fathers consummated after the bones of the stern puritan had lain more than a century in the dust. the lily's quest. an apologue. two lovers once upon a time had planned a little summer-house in the form of an antique temple which it was their purpose to consecrate to all manner of refined and innocent enjoyments. there they would hold pleasant intercourse with one another and the circle of their familiar friends; there they would give festivals of delicious fruit; there they would hear lightsome music intermingled with the strains of pathos which make joy more sweet; there they would read poetry and fiction and permit their own minds to flit away in day-dreams and romance; there, in short--for why should we shape out the vague sunshine of their hopes?--there all pure delights were to cluster like roses among the pillars of the edifice and blossom ever new and spontaneously. so one breezy and cloudless afternoon adam forrester and lilias fay set out upon a ramble over the wide estate which they were to possess together, seeking a proper site for their temple of happiness. they were themselves a fair and happy spectacle, fit priest and priestess for such a shrine, although, making poetry of the pretty name of lilias, adam forrester was wont to call her "lily" because her form was as fragile and her cheek almost as pale. as they passed hand in hand down the avenue of drooping elms that led from the portal of lilias fay's paternal mansion they seemed to glance like winged creatures through the strips of sunshine, and to scatter brightness where the deep shadows fell. but, setting forth at the same time with this youthful pair, there was a dismal figure wrapped in a black velvet cloak that might have been made of a coffin-pall, and with a sombre hat such as mourners wear drooping its broad brim over his heavy brows. glancing behind them, the lovers well knew who it was that followed, but wished from their hearts that he had been elsewhere, as being a companion so strangely unsuited to their joyous errand. it was a near relative of lilias fay, an old man by the name of walter gascoigne, who had long labored under the burden of a melancholy spirit which was sometimes maddened into absolute insanity and always had a tinge of it. what a contrast between the young pilgrims of bliss and their unbidden associate! they looked as if moulded of heaven's sunshine and he of earth's gloomiest shade; they flitted along like hope and joy roaming hand in hand through life, while his darksome figure stalked behind, a type of all the woeful influences which life could fling upon them. but the three had not gone far when they reached a spot that pleased the gentle lily, and she paused. "what sweeter place shall we find than this?" said she. "why should we seek farther for the site of our temple?" it was indeed a delightful spot of earth, though undistinguished by any very prominent beauties, being merely a nook in the shelter of a hill, with the prospect of a distant lake in one direction and of a church-spire in another. there were vistas and pathways leading onward and onward into the green woodlands and vanishing away in the glimmering shade. the temple, if erected here, would look toward the west; so that the lovers could shape all sorts of magnificent dreams out of the purple, violet and gold of the sunset sky, and few of their anticipated pleasures were dearer than this sport of fantasy. "yes," said adam forrester; "we might seek all day and find no lovelier spot. we will build our temple here." but their sad old companion, who had taken his stand on the very site which they proposed to cover with a marble floor, shook his head and frowned, and the young man and the lily deemed it almost enough to blight the spot and desecrate it for their airy temple that his dismal figure had thrown its shadow there. he pointed to some scattered stones, the remnants of a former structure, and to flowers such as young girls delight to nurse in their gardens, but which had now relapsed into the wild simplicity of nature. "not here," cried old walter gascoigne. "here, long ago, other mortals built their temple of happiness; seek another site for yours." "what!" exclaimed lilias fay. "have any ever planned such a temple save ourselves?" "poor child!" said her gloomy kinsman. "in one shape or other every mortal has dreamed your dream." then he told the lovers, how--not, indeed, an antique temple, but a dwelling--had once stood there, and that a dark-clad guest had dwelt among its inmates, sitting for ever at the fireside and poisoning all their household mirth. under this type adam forrester and lilias saw that the old man spake of sorrow. he told of nothing that might not be recorded in the history of almost every household, and yet his hearers felt as if no sunshine ought to fall upon a spot where human grief had left so deep a stain--or, at least, that no joyous temple should be built there. "this is very sad," said the lily, sighing. "well, there are lovelier spots than this," said adam forrester, soothingly--"spots which sorrow has not blighted." so they hastened away, and the melancholy gascoigne followed them, looking as if he had gathered up all the gloom of the deserted spot and was bearing it as a burden of inestimable treasure. but still they rambled on, and soon found themselves in a rocky dell through the midst of which ran a streamlet with ripple and foam and a continual voice of inarticulate joy. it was a wild retreat walled on either side with gray precipices which would have frowned somewhat too sternly had not a profusion of green shrubbery rooted itself into their crevices and wreathed gladsome foliage around their solemn brows. but the chief joy of the dell was in the little stream which seemed like the presence of a blissful child with nothing earthly to do save to babble merrily and disport itself, and make every living soul its playfellow, and throw the sunny gleams of its spirit upon all. "here, here is the spot!" cried the two lovers, with one voice, as they reached a level space on the brink of a small cascade. "this glen was made on purpose for our temple." "and the glad song of the brook will be always in our ears," said lilias fay. "and its long melody shall sing the bliss of our lifetime," said adam forrester. "ye must build no temple here," murmured their dismal companion. and there again was the old lunatic standing just on the spot where they meant to rear their lightsome dome, and looking like the embodied symbol of some great woe that in forgotten days had happened there. and, alas! there had been woe, nor that alone. a young man more than a hundred years before had lured hither a girl that loved him, and on this spot had murdered her and washed his bloody hands in the stream which sang so merrily, and ever since the victim's death-shrieks were often heard to echo between the cliffs. "and see!" cried old gascoigne; "is the stream yet pure from the stain of the murderer's hands?" "methinks it has a tinge of blood," faintly answered the lily; and, being as slight as the gossamer, she trembled and clung to her lover's arm, whispering, "let us flee from this dreadful vale." "come, then," said adam forrester as cheerily as he could; "we shall soon find a happier spot." they set forth again, young pilgrims on that quest which millions--which every child of earth--has tried in turn. and were the lily and her lover to be more fortunate than all those millions? for a long time it seemed not so. the dismal shape of the old lunatic still glided behind them, and for every spot that looked lovely in their eyes he had some legend of human wrong or suffering so miserably sad that his auditors could never afterward connect the idea of joy with the place where it had happened. here a heartbroken woman kneeling to her child had been spurned from his feet; here a desolate old creature had prayed to the evil one, and had received a fiendish malignity of soul in answer to her prayer; here a new-born infant, sweet blossom of life, had been found dead with the impress of its mother's fingers round its throat; and here, under a shattered oak, two lovers had been stricken by lightning and fell blackened corpses in each other's arms. the dreary gascoigne had a gift to know whatever evil and lamentable thing had stained the bosom of mother earth; and when his funereal voice had told the tale, it appeared like a prophecy of future woe as well as a tradition of the past. and now, by their sad demeanor, you would have fancied that the pilgrim-lovers were seeking, not a temple of earthly joy, but a tomb for themselves and their posterity. "where in this world," exclaimed adam forrester, despondingly, "shall we build our temple of happiness?" "where in this world, indeed?" repeated lilias fay; and, being faint and weary--the more so by the heaviness of her heart--the lily drooped her head and sat down on the summit of a knoll, repeating, "where in this world shall we build our temple?" "ah! have you already asked yourselves that question?" said their companion, his shaded features growing even gloomier with the smile that dwelt on them. "yet there is a place even in this world where ye may build it." while the old man spoke adam forrester and lilias had carelessly thrown their eyes around, and perceived that the spot where they had chanced to pause possessed a quiet charm which was well enough adapted to their present mood of mind. it was a small rise of ground with a certain regularity of shape that had perhaps been bestowed by art, and a group of trees which almost surrounded it threw their pensive shadows across and far beyond, although some softened glory of the sunshine found its way there. the ancestral mansion wherein the lovers would dwell together appeared on one side, and the ivied church where they were to worship on another. happening to cast their eyes on the ground, they smiled, yet with a sense of wonder, to see that a pale lily was growing at their feet. "we will build our temple here," said they, simultaneously, and with an indescribable conviction that they had at last found the very spot. yet while they uttered this exclamation the young man and the lily turned an apprehensive glance at their dreary associate, deeming it hardly possible that some tale of earthly affliction should not make those precincts loathsome, as in every former case. the old man stood just behind them, so as to form the chief figure in the group, with his sable cloak muffling the lower part of his visage and his sombre hat overshadowing his brows. but he gave no word of dissent from their purpose, and an inscrutable smile was accepted by the lovers as a token that here had been no footprint of guilt or sorrow to desecrate the site of their temple of happiness. in a little time longer, while summer was still in its prime, the fairy-structure of the temple arose on the summit of the knoll amid the solemn shadows of the trees, yet often gladdened with bright sunshine. it was built of white marble, with slender and graceful pillars supporting a vaulted dome, and beneath the centre of this dome, upon a pedestal, was a slab of dark-veined marble on which books and music might be strewn. but there was a fantasy among the people of the neighborhood that the edifice was planned after an ancient mausoleum and was intended for a tomb, and that the central slab of dark-veined marble was to be inscribed with the names of buried ones. they doubted, too, whether the form of lilias fay could appertain to a creature of this earth, being so very delicate and growing every day more fragile, so that she looked as if the summer breeze should snatch her up and waft her heavenward. but still she watched the daily growth of the temple, and so did old walter gascoigne, who now made that spot his continual haunt, leaning whole hours together on his staff and giving as deep attention to the work as though it had been indeed a tomb. in due time it was finished and a day appointed for a simple rite of dedication. on the preceding evening, after adam forrester had taken leave of his mistress, he looked back toward the portal of her dwelling and felt a strange thrill of fear, for he imagined that as the setting sunbeams faded from her figure she was exhaling away, and that something of her ethereal substance was withdrawn with each lessening gleam of light. with his farewell glance a shadow had fallen over the portal, and lilias was invisible. his foreboding spirit deemed it an omen at the time, and so it proved; for the sweet earthly form by which the lily had been manifested to the world was found lifeless the next morning in the temple with her head resting on her arms, which were folded upon the slab of dark-veined marble. the chill winds of the earth had long since breathed a blight into this beautiful flower; so that a loving hand had now transplanted it to blossom brightly in the garden of paradise. but alas for the temple of happiness! in his unutterable grief adam forrester had no purpose more at heart than to convert this temple of many delightful hopes into a tomb and bury his dead mistress there. and, lo! a wonder! digging a grave beneath the temple's marble floor, the sexton found no virgin earth such as was meet to receive the maiden's dust, but an ancient sepulchre in which were treasured up the bones of generations that had died long ago. among those forgotten ancestors was the lily to be laid; and when the funeral procession brought lilias thither in her coffin, they beheld old walter gascoigne standing beneath the dome of the temple with his cloak of pall and face of darkest gloom, and wherever that figure might take its stand the spot would seem a sepulchre. he watched the mourners as they lowered the coffin down. "and so," said he to adam forrester, with the strange smile in which his insanity was wont to gleam forth, "you have found no better foundation for your happiness than on a grave?" but as the shadow of affliction spoke a vision of hope and joy had its birth in adam's mind even from the old man's taunting words, for then he knew what was betokened by the parable in which the lily and himself had acted, and the mystery of life and death was opened to him. "joy! joy!" he cried, throwing his arms toward heaven. "on a grave be the site of our temple, and now our happiness is for eternity." with those words a ray of sunshine broke through the dismal sky and glimmered down into the sepulchre, while at the same moment the shape of old walter gascoigne stalked drearily away, because his gloom, symbolic of all earthly sorrow, might no longer abide there now that the darkest riddle of humanity was read. footprints on the seashore. it must be a spirit much unlike my own which can keep itself in health and vigor without sometimes stealing from the sultry sunshine of the world to plunge into the cool bath of solitude. at intervals, and not infrequent ones, the forest and the ocean summon me--one with the roar of its waves, the other with the murmur of its boughs--forth from the haunts of men. but i must wander many a mile ere i could stand beneath the shadow of even one primeval tree, much less be lost among the multitude of hoary trunks and hidden from the earth and sky by the mystery of darksome foliage. nothing is within my daily reach more like a forest than the acre or two of woodland near some suburban farmhouse. when, therefore, the yearning for seclusion becomes a necessity within me, i am drawn to the seashore which extends its line of rude rocks and seldom-trodden sands for leagues around our bay. setting forth at my last ramble on a september morning, i bound myself with a hermit's vow to interchange no thoughts with man or woman, to share no social pleasure, but to derive all that day's enjoyment from shore and sea and sky, from my soul's communion with these, and from fantasies and recollections or anticipated realities. surely here is enough to feed a human spirit for a single day.--farewell, then, busy world! till your evening lights shall shine along the street--till they gleam upon my sea-flushed face as i tread homeward--free me from your ties and let me be a peaceful outlaw. highways and cross-paths are hastily traversed, and, clambering down a crag, i find myself at the extremity of a long beach. how gladly does the spirit leap forth and suddenly enlarge its sense of being to the full extent of the broad blue, sunny deep! a greeting and a homage to the sea! i descend over its margin and dip my hand into the wave that meets me, and bathe my brow. that far-resounding roar is ocean's voice of welcome. his salt breath brings a blessing along with it. now let us pace together--the reader's fancy arm in arm with mine--this noble beach, which extends a mile or more from that craggy promontory to yonder rampart of broken rocks. in front, the sea; in the rear, a precipitous bank the grassy verge of which is breaking away year after year, and flings down its tufts of verdure upon the barrenness below. the beach itself is a broad space of sand, brown and sparkling, with hardly any pebbles intermixed. near the water's edge there is a wet margin which glistens brightly in the sunshine and reflects objects like a mirror, and as we tread along the glistening border a dry spot flashes around each footstep, but grows moist again as we lift our feet. in some spots the sand receives a complete impression of the sole, square toe and all; elsewhere it is of such marble firmness that we must stamp heavily to leave a print even of the iron-shod heel. along the whole of this extensive beach gambols the surf-wave. now it makes a feint of dashing onward in a fury, yet dies away with a meek murmur and does but kiss the strand; now, after many such abortive efforts, it rears itself up in an unbroken line, heightening as it advances, without a speck of foam on its green crest. with how fierce a roar it flings itself forward and rushes far up the beach! as i threw my eyes along the edge of the surf i remember that i was startled, as robinson crusoe might have been, by the sense that human life was within the magic circle of my solitude. afar off in the remote distance of the beach, appearing like sea-nymphs, or some airier things such as might tread upon the feathery spray, was a group of girls. hardly had i beheld them, when they passed into the shadow of the rocks and vanished. to comfort myself--for truly i would fain have gazed a while longer--i made acquaintance with a flock of beach-birds. these little citizens of the sea and air preceded me by about a stone's-throw along the strand, seeking, i suppose, for food upon its margin. yet, with a philosophy which mankind would do well to imitate, they drew a continual pleasure from their toil for a subsistence. the sea was each little bird's great playmate. they chased it downward as it swept back, and again ran up swiftly before the impending wave, which sometimes overtook them and bore them off their feet. but they floated as lightly as one of their own feathers on the breaking crest. in their airy flutterings they seemed to rest on the evanescent spray. their images--long-legged little figures with gray backs and snowy bosoms--were seen as distinctly as the realities in the mirror of the glistening strand. as i advanced they flew a score or two of yards, and, again alighting, recommenced their dalliance with the surf-wave; and thus they bore me company along the beach, the types of pleasant fantasies, till at its extremity they took wing over the ocean and were gone. after forming a friendship with these small surf-spirits, it is really worth a sigh to find no memorial of them save their multitudinous little tracks in the sand. when we have paced the length of the beach, it is pleasant and not unprofitable to retrace our steps and recall the whole mood and occupation of the mind during the former passage. our tracks, being all discernible, will guide us with an observing consciousness through every unconscious wandering of thought and fancy. here we followed the surf in its reflux to pick up a shell which the sea seemed loth to relinquish. here we found a seaweed with an immense brown leaf, and trailed it behind us by its long snake-like stalk. here we seized a live horseshoe by the tail, and counted the many claws of that queer monster. here we dug into the sand for pebbles, and skipped them upon the surface of the water. here we wet our feet while examining a jelly-fish which the waves, having just tossed it up, now sought to snatch away again. here we trod along the brink of a fresh-water brooklet which flows across the beach, becoming shallower and more shallow, till at last it sinks into the sand and perishes in the effort to bear its little tribute to the main. here some vagary appears to have bewildered us, for our tracks go round and round and are confusedly intermingled, as if we had found a labyrinth upon the level beach. and here amid our idle pastime we sat down upon almost the only stone that breaks the surface of the sand, and were lost in an unlooked-for and overpowering conception of the majesty and awfulness of the great deep. thus by tracking our footprints in the sand we track our own nature in its wayward course, and steal a glance upon it when it never dreams of being so observed. such glances always make us wiser. this extensive beach affords room for another pleasant pastime. with your staff you may write verses--love-verses if they please you best--and consecrate them with a woman's name. here, too, may be inscribed thoughts, feelings, desires, warm outgushings from the heart's secret places, which you would not pour upon the sand without the certainty that almost ere the sky has looked upon them the sea will wash them out. stir not hence till the record be effaced. now (for there is room enough on your canvas) draw huge faces--huge as that of the sphynx on egyptian sands--and fit them with bodies of corresponding immensity and legs which might stride halfway to yonder island. child's-play becomes magnificent on so grand a scale. but, after all, the most fascinating employment is simply to write your name in the sand. draw the letters gigantic, so that two strides may barely measure them, and three for the long strokes; cut deep, that the record may be permanent. statesmen and warriors and poets have spent their strength in no better cause than this. is it accomplished? return, then, in an hour or two, and seek for this mighty record of a name. the sea will have swept over it, even as time rolls its effacing waves over the names of statesmen and warriors and poets. hark! the surf-wave laughs at you. passing from the beach, i begin to clamber over the crags, making my difficult way among the ruins of a rampart shattered and broken by the assaults of a fierce enemy. the rocks rise in every variety of attitude. some of them have their feet in the foam and are shagged halfway upward with seaweed; some have been hollowed almost into caverns by the unwearied toil of the sea, which can afford to spend centuries in wearing away a rock, or even polishing a pebble. one huge rock ascends in monumental shape, with a face like a giant's tombstone, on which the veins resemble inscriptions, but in an unknown tongue. we will fancy them the forgotten characters of an antediluvian race, or else that nature's own hand has here recorded a mystery which, could i read her language, would make mankind the wiser and the happier. how many a thing has troubled me with that same idea! pass on and leave it unexplained. here is a narrow avenue which might seem to have been hewn through the very heart of an enormous crag, affording passage for the rising sea to thunder back and forth, filling it with tumultuous foam and then leaving its floor of black pebbles bare and glistening. in this chasm there was once an intersecting vein of softer stone, which the waves have gnawed away piecemeal, while the granite walls remain entire on either side. how sharply and with what harsh clamor does the sea rake back the pebbles as it momentarily withdraws into its own depths! at intervals the floor of the chasm is left nearly dry, but anon, at the outlet, two or three great waves are seen struggling to get in at once; two hit the walls athwart, while one rushes straight through, and all three thunder as if with rage and triumph. they heap the chasm with a snow-drift of foam and spray. while watching this scene i can never rid myself of the idea that a monster endowed with life and fierce energy is striving to burst his way through the narrow pass. and what a contrast to look through the stormy chasm and catch a glimpse of the calm bright sea beyond! many interesting discoveries may be made among these broken cliffs. once, for example, i found a dead seal which a recent tempest had tossed into the nook of the rocks, where his shaggy carcase lay rolled in a heap of eel-grass as if the sea-monster sought to hide himself from my eye. another time a shark seemed on the point of leaping from the surf to swallow me, nor did i wholly without dread approach near enough to ascertain that the man-eater had already met his own death from some fisherman in the bay. in the same ramble i encountered a bird--a large gray bird--but whether a loon or a wild goose or the identical albatross of the ancient mariner was beyond my ornithology to decide. it reposed so naturally on a bed of dry seaweed, with its head beside its wing, that i almost fancied it alive, and trod softly lest it should suddenly spread its wings skyward. but the sea-bird would soar among the clouds no more, nor ride upon its native waves; so i drew near and pulled out one of its mottled tail-feathers for a remembrance. another day i discovered an immense bone wedged into a chasm of the rocks; it was at least ten feet long, curved like a scymitar, bejewelled with barnacles and small shellfish and partly covered with a growth of seaweed. some leviathan of former ages had used this ponderous mass as a jaw-bone. curiosities of a minuter order may be observed in a deep reservoir which is replenished with water at every tide, but becomes a lake among the crags save when the sea is at its height. at the bottom of this rocky basin grow marine plants, some of which tower high beneath the water and cast a shadow in the sunshine. small fishes dart to and fro and hide themselves among the seaweed; there is also a solitary crab who appears to lead the life of a hermit, communing with none of the other denizens of the place, and likewise several five-fingers; for i know no other name than that which children give them. if your imagination be at all accustomed to such freaks, you may look down into the depths of this pool and fancy it the mysterious depth of ocean. but where are the hulks and scattered timbers of sunken ships? where the treasures that old ocean hoards? where the corroded cannon? where the corpses and skeletons of seamen who went down in storm and battle? on the day of my last ramble--it was a september day, yet as warm as summer--what should i behold as i approached the above-described basin but three girls sitting on its margin and--yes, it is veritably so--laving their snowy feet in the sunny water? these, these are the warm realities of those three visionary shapes that flitted from me on the beach. hark their merry voices as they toss up the water with their feet! they have not seen me. i must shrink behind this rock and steal away again. in honest truth, vowed to solitude as i am, there is something in this encounter that makes the heart flutter with a strangely pleasant sensation. i know these girls to be realities of flesh and blood, yet, glancing at them so briefly, they mingle like kindred creatures with the ideal beings of my mind. it is pleasant, likewise, to gaze down from some high crag and watch a group of children gathering pebbles and pearly shells and playing with the surf as with old ocean's hoary beard. nor does it infringe upon my seclusion to see yonder boat at anchor off the shore swinging dreamily to and fro and rising and sinking with the alternate swell, while the crew--four gentlemen in roundabout jackets--are busy with their fishing-lines. but with an inward antipathy and a headlong flight do i eschew the presence of any meditative stroller like myself, known by his pilgrim-staff, his sauntering step, his shy demeanor, his observant yet abstracted eye. from such a man as if another self had scared me i scramble hastily over the rocks, and take refuge in a nook which many a secret hour has given me a right to call my own. i would do battle for it even with the churl that should produce the title-deeds. have not my musings melted into its rocky walls and sandy floor and made them a portion of myself? it is a recess in the line of cliffs, walled round by a rough, high precipice which almost encircles and shuts in a little space of sand. in front the sea appears as between the pillars of a portal; in the rear the precipice is broken and intermixed with earth which gives nourishment not only to clinging and twining shrubs, but to trees that grip the rock with their naked roots and seem to struggle hard for footing and for soil enough to live upon. these are fir trees, but oaks hang their heavy branches from above, and throw down acorns on the beach, and shed their withering foliage upon the waves. at this autumnal season the precipice is decked with variegated splendor. trailing wreaths of scarlet flaunt from the summit downward; tufts of yellow-flowering shrubs and rose-bushes, with their reddened leaves and glossy seed-berries, sprout from each crevice; at every glance i detect some new light or shade of beauty, all contrasting with the stern gray rock. a rill of water trickles down the cliff and fills a little cistern near the base. i drain it at a draught, and find it fresh and pure. this recess shall be my dining-hall. and what the feast? a few biscuits made savory by soaking them in sea-water, a tuft of samphire gathered from the beach, and an apple for the dessert. by this time the little rill has filled its reservoir again, and as i quaff it i thank god more heartily than for a civic banquet that he gives me the healthful appetite to make a feast of bread and water. dinner being over, i throw myself at length upon the sand and, basking in the sunshine, let my mind disport itself at will. the walls of this my hermitage have no tongue to tell my follies, though i sometimes fancy that they have ears to hear them and a soul to sympathize. there is a magic in this spot. dreams haunt its precincts and flit around me in broad sunlight, nor require that sleep shall blindfold me to real objects ere these be visible. here can i frame a story of two lovers, and make their shadows live before me and be mirrored in the tranquil water as they tread along the sand, leaving no footprints. here, should i will it, i can summon up a single shade and be myself her lover.--yes, dreamer, but your lonely heart will be the colder for such fancies.--sometimes, too, the past comes back, and finds me here, and in her train come faces which were gladsome when i knew them, yet seem not gladsome now. would that my hiding-place were lonelier, so that the past might not find me!--get ye all gone, old friends, and let me listen to the murmur of the sea--a melancholy voice, but less sad than yours. of what mysteries is it telling? of sunken ships and whereabouts they lie? of islands afar and undiscovered whose tawny children are unconscious of other islands and of continents, and deem the stars of heaven their nearest neighbors? nothing of all this. what, then? has it talked for so many ages and meant nothing all the while? no; for those ages find utterance in the sea's unchanging voice, and warn the listener to withdraw his interest from mortal vicissitudes and let the infinite idea of eternity pervade his soul. this is wisdom, and therefore will i spend the next half-hour in shaping little boats of driftwood and launching them on voyages across the cove, with the feather of a sea-gull for a sail. if the voice of ages tell me true, this is as wise an occupation as to build ships of five hundred tons and launch them forth upon the main, bound to "far cathay." yet how would the merchant sneer at me! and, after all, can such philosophy be true? methinks i could find a thousand arguments against it. well, then, let yonder shaggy rock mid-deep in the surf--see! he is somewhat wrathful: he rages and roars and foams,--let that tall rock be my antagonist, and let me exercise my oratory like him of athens who bandied words with an angry sea and got the victory. my maiden-speech is a triumphant one, for the gentleman in seaweed has nothing to offer in reply save an immitigable roaring. his voice, indeed, will be heard a long while after mine is hushed. once more i shout and the cliffs reverberate the sound. oh what joy for a shy man to feel himself so solitary that he may lift his voice to its highest pitch without hazard of a listener!--but hush! be silent, my good friend! whence comes that stifled laughter? it was musical, but how should there be such music in my solitude? looking upward, i catch a glimpse of three faces peeping from the summit of the cliff like angels between me and their native sky.--ah, fair girls! you may make yourself merry at my eloquence, but it was my turn to smile when i saw your white feet in the pool. let us keep each other's secrets. the sunshine has now passed from my hermitage, except a gleam upon the sand just where it meets the sea. a crowd of gloomy fantasies will come and haunt me if i tarry longer here in the darkening twilight of these gray rocks. this is a dismal place in some moods of the mind. climb we, therefore, the precipice, and pause a moment on the brink gazing down into that hollow chamber by the deep where we have been what few can be--sufficient to our own pastime. yes, say the word outright: self-sufficient to our own happiness. how lonesome looks the recess now, and dreary too, like all other spots where happiness has been! there lies my shadow in the departing sunshine with its head upon the sea. i will pelt it with pebbles. a hit! a hit! i clap my hands in triumph, and see my shadow clapping its unreal hands and claiming the triumph for itself. what a simpleton must i have been all day, since my own shadow makes a mock of my fooleries! homeward! homeward! it is time to hasten home. it is time--it is time; for as the sun sinks over the western wave the sea grows melancholy and the surf has a saddened tone. the distant sails appear astray and not of earth in their remoteness amid the desolate waste. my spirit wanders forth afar, but finds no resting-place and comes shivering back. it is time that i were hence. but grudge me not the day that has been spent in seclusion which yet was not solitude, since the great sea has been my companion, and the little sea-birds my friends, and the wind has told me his secrets, and airy shapes have flitted around me in my hermitage. such companionship works an effect upon a man's character as if he had been admitted to the society of creatures that are not mortal. and when, at noontide, i tread the crowded streets, the influence of this day will still be felt; so that i shall walk among men kindly and as a brother, with affection and sympathy, but yet shall not melt into the indistinguishable mass of humankind. i shall think my own thoughts and feel my own emotions and possess my individuality unviolated. but it is good at the eve of such a day to feel and know that there are men and women in the world. that feeling and that knowledge are mine at this moment, for on the shore, far below me, the fishing-party have landed from their skiff and are cooking their scaly prey by a fire of driftwood kindled in the angle of two rude rocks. the three visionary girls are likewise there. in the deepening twilight, while the surf is dashing near their hearth, the ruddy gleam of the fire throws a strange air of comfort over the wild cove, bestrewn as it is with pebbles and seaweed and exposed to the "melancholy main." moreover, as the smoke climbs up the precipice, it brings with it a savory smell from a pan of fried fish and a black kettle of chowder, and reminds me that my dinner was nothing but bread and water and a tuft of samphire and an apple. methinks the party might find room for another guest at that flat rock which serves them for a table; and if spoons be scarce, i could pick up a clam-shell on the beach. they see me now; and--the blessing of a hungry man upon him!--one of them sends up a hospitable shout: "halloo, sir solitary! come down and sup with us!" the ladies wave their handkerchiefs. can i decline? no; and be it owned, after all my solitary joys, that this is the sweetest moment of a day by the seashore. edward fane's rosebud. there is hardly a more difficult exercise of fancy than, while gazing at a figure of melancholy age, to recreate its youth, and without entirely obliterating the identity of form and features to restore those graces which time has snatched away. some old people--especially women--so age-worn and woeful are they, seem never to have been young and gay. it is easier to conceive that such gloomy phantoms were sent into the world as withered and decrepit as we behold them now, with sympathies only for pain and grief, to watch at death-beds and weep at funerals. even the sable garments of their widowhood appear essential to their existence; all their attributes combine to render them darksome shadows creeping strangely amid the sunshine of human life. yet it is no unprofitable task to take one of these doleful creatures and set fancy resolutely at work to brighten the dim eye, and darken the silvery locks, and paint the ashen cheek with rose-color, and repair the shrunken and crazy form, till a dewy maiden shall be seen in the old matron's elbow-chair. the miracle being wrought, then let the years roll back again, each sadder than the last, and the whole weight of age and sorrow settle down upon the youthful figure. wrinkles and furrows, the handwriting of time, may thus be deciphered and found to contain deep lessons of thought and feeling. such profit might be derived by a skilful observer from my much-respected friend the widow toothaker, a nurse of great repute who has breathed the atmosphere of sick-chambers and dying-breaths these forty years. see! she sits cowering over her lonesome hearth with her gown and upper petticoat drawn upward, gathering thriftily into her person the whole warmth of the fire which now at nightfall begins to dissipate the autumnal chill of her chamber. the blaze quivers capriciously in front, alternately glimmering into the deepest chasms of her wrinkled visage, and then permitting a ghostly dimness to mar the outlines of her venerable figure. and nurse toothaker holds a teaspoon in her right hand with which to stir up the contents of a tumbler in her left, whence steams a vapory fragrance abhorred of temperance societies. now she sips, now stirs, now sips again. her sad old heart has need to be revived by the rich infusion of geneva which is mixed half and half with hot water in the tumbler. all day long she has been sitting by a death-pillow, and quitted it for her home only when the spirit of her patient left the clay and went homeward too. but now are her melancholy meditations cheered and her torpid blood warmed and her shoulders lightened of at least twenty ponderous years by a draught from the true fountain of youth in a case-bottle. it is strange that men should deem that fount a fable, when its liquor fills more bottles than the congress-water.--sip it again, good nurse, and see whether a second draught will not take off another score of years, and perhaps ten more, and show us in your high-backed chair the blooming damsel who plighted troths with edward fane.--get you gone, age and widowhood!--come back, unwedded youth!--but, alas! the charm will not work. in spite of fancy's most potent spell, i can see only an old dame cowering over the fire, a picture of decay and desolation, while the november blast roars at her in the chimney and fitful showers rush suddenly against the window. yet there was a time when rose grafton--such was the pretty maiden-name of nurse toothaker--possessed beauty that would have gladdened this dim and dismal chamber as with sunshine. it won for her the heart of edward fane, who has since made so great a figure in the world and is now a grand old gentleman with powdered hair and as gouty as a lord. these early lovers thought to have walked hand in hand through life. they had wept together for edward's little sister mary, whom rose tended in her sickness--partly because she was the sweetest child that ever lived or died, but more for love of him. she was but three years old. being such an infant, death could not embody his terrors in her little corpse; nor did rose fear to touch the dead child's brow, though chill, as she curled the silken hair around it, nor to take her tiny hand and clasp a flower within its fingers. afterward, when she looked through the pane of glass in the coffin-lid and beheld mary's face, it seemed not so much like death or life as like a wax-work wrought into the perfect image of a child asleep and dreaming of its mother's smile. rose thought her too fair a thing to be hidden in the grave, and wondered that an angel did not snatch up little mary's coffin and bear the slumbering babe to heaven and bid her wake immortal. but when the sods were laid on little mary, the heart of rose was troubled. she shuddered at the fantasy that in grasping the child's cold fingers her virgin hand had exchanged a first greeting with mortality and could never lose the earthy taint. how many a greeting since! but as yet she was a fair young girl with the dewdrops of fresh feeling in her bosom, and, instead of "rose"--which seemed too mature a name for her half-opened beauty--her lover called her "rosebud." the rosebud was destined never to bloom for edward fane. his mother was a rich and haughty dame with all the aristocratic prejudices of colonial times. she scorned rose grafton's humble parentage and caused her son to break his faith, though, had she let him choose, he would have prized his rosebud above the richest diamond. the lovers parted, and have seldom met again. both may have visited the same mansions, but not at the same time, for one was bidden to the festal hall and the other to the sick-chamber; he was the guest of pleasure and prosperity, and she of anguish. rose, after their separation, was long secluded within the dwelling of mr. toothaker, whom she married with the revengeful hope of breaking her false lover's heart. she went to her bridegroom's arms with bitterer tears, they say, than young girls ought to shed at the threshold of the bridal-chamber. yet, though her husband's head was getting gray and his heart had been chilled with an autumnal frost, rose soon began to love him, and wondered at her own conjugal affection. he was all she had to love; there were no children. in a year or two poor mr. toothaker was visited with a wearisome infirmity which settled in his joints and made him weaker than a child. he crept forth about his business, and came home at dinner-time and eventide, not with the manly tread that gladdens a wife's heart, but slowly, feebly, jotting down each dull footstep with a melancholy dub of his staff. we must pardon his pretty wife if she sometimes blushed to own him. her visitors, when they heard him coming, looked for the appearance of some old, old man, but he dragged his nerveless limbs into the parlor--and there was mr. toothaker! the disease increasing, he never went into the sunshine save with a staff in his right hand and his left on his wife's shoulder, bearing heavily downward like a dead man's hand. thus, a slender woman still looking maiden-like, she supported his tall, broad-chested frame along the pathway of their little garden, and plucked the roses for her gray-haired husband, and spoke soothingly as to an infant. his mind was palsied with his body; its utmost energy was peevishness. in a few months more she helped him up the staircase with a pause at every step, and a longer one upon the landing-place, and a heavy glance behind as he crossed the threshold of his chamber. he knew, poor man! that the precincts of those four walls would thenceforth be his world--his world, his home, his tomb, at once a dwelling-and a burial-place--till he were borne to a darker and a narrower one. but rose was with him in the tomb. he leaned upon her in his daily passage from the bed to the chair by the fireside, and back again from the weary chair to the joyless bed--his bed and hers, their marriage-bed--till even this short journey ceased and his head lay all day upon the pillow and hers all night beside it. how long poor mr. toothaker was kept in misery! death seemed to draw near the door, and often to lift the latch, and sometimes to thrust his ugly skull into the chamber, nodding to rose and pointing at her husband, but still delayed to enter. "this bedridden wretch cannot escape me," quoth death. "i will go forth and run a race with the swift and fight a battle with the strong, and come back for toothaker at my leisure." oh, when the deliverer came so near, in the dull anguish of her worn-out sympathies did she never long to cry, "death, come in"? but no; we have no right to ascribe such a wish to our friend rose. she never failed in a wife's duty to her poor sick husband. she murmured not though a glimpse of the sunny sky was as strange to her as him, nor answered peevishly though his complaining accents roused her from sweetest dream only to share his wretchedness. he knew her faith, yet nourished a cankered jealousy; and when the slow disease had chilled all his heart save one lukewarm spot which death's frozen fingers were searching for, his last words were, "what would my rose have done for her first love, if she has been so true and kind to a sick old man like me?" and then his poor soul crept away and left the body lifeless, though hardly more so than for years before, and rose a widow, though in truth it was the wedding-night that widowed her. she felt glad, it must be owned, when mr. toothaker was buried, because his corpse had retained such a likeness to the man half alive that she hearkened for the sad murmur of his voice bidding her shift his pillow. but all through the next winter, though the grave had held him many a month, she fancied him calling from that cold bed, "rose, rose! come put a blanket on my feet!" so now the rosebud was the widow toothaker. her troubles had come early, and, tedious as they seemed, had passed before all her bloom was fled. she was still fair enough to captivate a bachelor, or with a widow's cheerful gravity she might have won a widower, stealing into his heart in the very guise of his dead wife. but the widow toothaker had no such projects. by her watchings and continual cares her heart had become knit to her first husband with a constancy which changed its very nature and made her love him for his infirmities, and infirmity for his sake. when the palsied old man was gone, even her early lover could not have supplied his place. she had dwelt in a sick-chamber and been the companion of a half-dead wretch till she could scarcely breathe in a free air and felt ill at ease with the healthy and the happy. she missed the fragrance of the doctor's stuff. she walked the chamber with a noiseless footfall. if visitors came in, she spoke in soft and soothing accents, and was startled and shocked by their loud voices. often in the lonesome evening she looked timorously from the fireside to the bed, with almost a hope of recognizing a ghastly face upon the pillow. then went her thoughts sadly to her husband's grave. if one impatient throb had wronged him in his lifetime, if she had secretly repined because her buoyant youth was imprisoned with his torpid age, if ever while slumbering beside him a treacherous dream had admitted another into her heart,--yet the sick man had been preparing a revenge which the dead now claimed. on his painful pillow he had cast a spell around her; his groans and misery had proved more captivating charms than gayety and youthful grace; in his semblance disease itself had won the rosebud for a bride, nor could his death dissolve the nuptials. by that indissoluble bond she had gained a home in every sick-chamber, and nowhere else; there were her brethren and sisters; thither her husband summoned her with that voice which had seemed to issue from the grave of toothaker. at length she recognized her destiny. we have beheld her as the maid, the wife, the widow; now we see her in a separate and insulated character: she was in all her attributes nurse toothaker. and nurse toothaker alone, with her own shrivelled lips, could make known her experience in that capacity. what a history might she record of the great sicknesses in which she has gone hand in hand with the exterminating angel! she remembers when the small-pox hoisted a red banner on almost every house along the street. she has witnessed when the typhus fever swept off a whole household, young and old, all but a lonely mother, who vainly shrieked to follow her last loved one. where would be death's triumph if none lived to weep? she can speak of strange maladies that have broken out as if spontaneously, but were found to have been imported from foreign lands with rich silks and other merchandise, the costliest portion of the cargo. and once, she recollects, the people died of what was considered a new pestilence, till the doctors traced it to the ancient grave of a young girl who thus caused many deaths a hundred years after her own burial. strange that such black mischief should lurk in a maiden's grave! she loves to tell how strong men fight with fiery fevers, utterly refusing to give up their breath, and how consumptive virgins fade out of the world, scarcely reluctant, as if their lovers were wooing them to a far country.--tell us, thou fearful woman; tell us the death-secrets. fain would i search out the meaning of words faintly gasped with intermingled sobs and broken sentences half-audibly spoken between earth and the judgment-seat. an awful woman! she is the patron-saint of young physicians and the bosom-friend of old ones. in the mansions where she enters the inmates provide themselves black garments; the coffin-maker follows her, and the bell tolls as she comes away from the threshold. death himself has met her at so many a bedside that he puts forth his bony hand to greet nurse toothaker. she is an awful woman. and oh, is it conceivable that this handmaid of human infirmity and affliction--so darkly stained, so thoroughly imbued with all that is saddest in the doom of mortals--can ever again be bright and gladsome even though bathed in the sunshine of eternity? by her long communion with woe has she not forfeited her inheritance of immortal joy? does any germ of bliss survive within her? hark! an eager knocking st nurse toothaker's door. she starts from her drowsy reverie, sets aside the empty tumbler and teaspoon, and lights a lamp at the dim embers of the fire. "rap, rap, rap!" again, and she hurries adown the staircase, wondering which of her friends can be at death's door now, since there is such an earnest messenger at nurse toothaker's. again the peal resounds just as her hand is on the lock. "be quick, nurse toothaker!" cries a man on the doorstep. "old general fane is taken with the gout in his stomach and has sent for you to watch by his death-bed. make haste, for there is no time to lose."--"fane! edward fane! and has he sent for me at last? i am ready. i will get on my cloak and begone. so," adds the sable-gowned, ashen-visaged, funereal old figure, "edward fane remembers his rosebud." our question is answered. there is a germ of bliss within her. her long-hoarded constancy, her memory of the bliss that was remaining amid the gloom of her after-life like a sweet-smelling flower in a coffin, is a symbol that all may be renewed. in some happier clime the rosebud may revive again with all the dewdrops in its bosom. the threefold destiny. a fa�ry legend. i have sometimes produced a singular and not unpleasing effect, so far as my own mind was concerned, by imagining a train of incidents in which the spirit and mechanism of the faëry legend should be combined with the characters and manners of familiar life. in the little tale which follows a subdued tinge of the wild and wonderful is thrown over a sketch of new england personages and scenery, yet, it is hoped, without entirely obliterating the sober hues of nature. rather than a story of events claiming to be real, it may be considered as an allegory such as the writers of the last century would have expressed in the shape of an eastern tale, but to which i have endeavored to give a more lifelike warmth than could be infused into those fanciful productions. in the twilight of a summer eve a tall dark figure over which long and remote travel had thrown an outlandish aspect was entering a village not in "faëry londe," but within our own familiar boundaries. the staff on which this traveller leaned had been his companion from the spot where it grew in the jungles of hindostan; the hat that overshadowed his sombre brow, had shielded him from the suns of spain; but his cheek had been blackened by the red-hot wind of an arabian desert and had felt the frozen breath of an arctic region. long sojourning amid wild and dangerous men, he still wore beneath his vest the ataghan which he had once struck into the throat of a turkish robber. in every foreign clime he had lost something of his new england characteristics, and perhaps from every people he had unconsciously borrowed a new peculiarity; so that when the world-wanderer again trod the street of his native village it is no wonder that he passed unrecognized, though exciting the gaze and curiosity of all. yet, as his arm casually touched that of a young woman who was wending her way to an evening lecture, she started and almost uttered a cry. "ralph cranfield!" was the name that she half articulated. "can that be my old playmate faith egerton?" thought the traveller, looking round at her figure, but without pausing. ralph cranfield from his youth upward had felt himself marked out for a high destiny. he had imbibed the idea--we say not whether it were revealed to him by witchcraft or in a dream of prophecy, or that his brooding fancy had palmed its own dictates upon him as the oracles of a sybil, but he had imbibed the idea, and held it firmest among his articles of faith--that three marvellous events of his life were to be confirmed to him by three signs. the first of these three fatalities, and perhaps the one on which his youthful imagination had dwelt most fondly, was the discovery of the maid who alone of all the maids on earth could make him happy by her love. he was to roam around the world till he should meet a beautiful woman wearing on her bosom a jewel in the shape of a heart--whether of pearl or ruby or emerald or carbuncle or a changeful opal, or perhaps a priceless diamond, ralph cranfield little cared, so long as it were a heart of one peculiar shape. on encountering this lovely stranger he was bound to address her thus: "maiden, i have brought you a heavy heart. may i rest its weight on you?" and if she were his fated bride--if their kindred souls were destined to form a union here below which all eternity should only bind more closely--she would reply, with her finger on the heart-shaped jewel, "this token which i have worn so long is the assurance that you may." and, secondly, ralph cranfield had a firm belief that there was a mighty treasure hidden somewhere in the earth of which the burial-place would be revealed to none but him. when his feet should press upon the mysterious spot, there would be a hand before him pointing downward--whether carved of marble or hewn in gigantic dimensions on the side of a rocky precipice, or perchance a hand of flame in empty air, he could not tell, but at least he would discern a hand, the forefinger pointing downward, and beneath it the latin word "_effode_"--"dig!" and, digging thereabouts, the gold in coin or ingots, the precious stones, or of whatever else the treasure might consist, would be certain to reward his toil. the third and last of the miraculous events in the life of this high-destined man was to be the attainment of extensive influence and sway over his fellow-creatures. whether he were to be a king and founder of a hereditary throne, or the victorious leader of a people contending for their freedom, or the apostle of a purified and regenerated faith, was left for futurity to show. as messengers of the sign by which ralph cranfield might recognize the summons, three venerable men were to claim audience of him. the chief among them--a dignified and majestic person arrayed, it may be supposed, in the flowing garments of an ancient sage--would be the bearer of a wand or prophet's rod. with this wand or rod or staff the venerable sage would trace a certain figure in the air, and then proceed to make known his heaven-instructed message, which, if obeyed, must lead to glorious results. with this proud fate before him, in the flush of his imaginative youth ralph cranfield had set forth to seek the maid, the treasure, and the venerable sage with his gift of extended empire. and had he found them? alas! it was not with the aspect of a triumphant man who had achieved a nobler destiny than all his fellows, but rather with the gloom of one struggling against peculiar and continual adversity, that he now passed homeward to his mother's cottage. he had come back, but only for a time, to lay aside the pilgrim's staff, trusting that his weary manhood would regain somewhat of the elasticity of youth in the spot where his threefold fate had been foreshown him. there had been few changes in the village, for it was not one of those thriving places where a year's prosperity makes more than the havoc of a century's decay, but, like a gray hair in a young man's head, an antiquated little town full of old maids and aged elms and moss-grown dwellings. few seemed to be the changes here. the drooping elms, indeed, had a more majestic spread, the weather-blackened houses were adorned with a denser thatch of verdant moss, and doubtless there were a few more gravestones in the burial-ground inscribed with names that had once been familiar in the village street; yet, summing up all the mischief that ten years had wrought, it seemed scarcely more than if ralph cranfield had gone forth that very morning and dreamed a day-dream till the twilight, and then turned back again. but his heart grew cold because the village did not remember him as he remembered the village. "here is the change," sighed he, striking his hand upon his breast. "who is this man of thought and care, weary with world-wandering and heavy with disappointed hopes? the youth returns not who went forth so joyously." and now ralph cranfield was at his mother's gate, in front of the small house where the old lady, with slender but sufficient means, had kept herself comfortable during her son's long absence. admitting himself within the enclosure, he leaned against a great old tree, trifling with his own impatience as people often do in those intervals when years are summed into a moment. he took a minute survey of the dwelling--its windows brightened with the sky-gleam, its doorway with the half of a millstone for a step, and the faintly-traced path waving thence to the gate. he made friends again with his childhood's friend--the old tree against which he leaned--and, glancing his eye down its trunk, beheld something that excited a melancholy smile. it was a half-obliterated inscription--the latin word "_effode_"--which he remembered to have carved in the bark of the tree with a whole day's toil when he had first begun to muse about his exalted destiny. it might be accounted a rather singular coincidence that the bark just above the inscription had put forth an excrescence shaped not unlike a hand, with the forefinger pointing obliquely at the word of fate. such, at least, was its appearance in the dusky light. "now, a credulous man," said ralph cranfield, carelessly, to himself, "might suppose that the treasure which i have sought round the world lies buried, after all, at the very door of my mother's dwelling. that would be a jest indeed." more he thought not about the matter, for now the door was opened and an elderly woman appeared on the threshold, peering into the dusk to discover who it might be that had intruded on her premises and was standing in the shadow of her tree. it was ralph cranfield's mother. pass we over their greeting, and leave the one to her joy and the other to his rest--if quiet rest he found. but when morning broke, he arose with a troubled brow, for his sleep and his wakefulness had alike been full of dreams. all the fervor was rekindled with which he had burned of yore to unravel the threefold mystery of his fate. the crowd of his early visions seemed to have awaited him beneath his mother's roof and thronged riotously around to welcome his return. in the well-remembered chamber, on the pillow where his infancy had slumbered, he had passed a wilder night than ever in an arab tent or when he had reposed his head in the ghastly shades of a haunted forest. a shadowy maid had stolen to his bedside and laid her finger on the scintillating heart; a hand of flame had glowed amid the darkness, pointing downward to a mystery within the earth; a hoary sage had waved his prophetic wand and beckoned the dreamer onward to a chair of state. the same phantoms, though fainter in the daylight, still flitted about the cottage and mingled among the crowd of familiar faces that were drawn thither by the news of ralph cranfield's return to bid him welcome for his mother's sake. there they found him, a tall, dark, stately man of foreign aspect, courteous in demeanor and mild of speech, yet with an abstracted eye which seemed often to snatch a glance at the invisible. meantime, the widow cranfield went bustling about the house full of joy that she again had somebody to love and be careful of, and for whom she might vex and tease herself with the petty troubles of daily life. it was nearly noon when she looked forth from the door and descried three personages of note coming along the street through the hot sunshine and the masses of elm-tree shade. at length they reached her gate and undid the latch. "see, ralph!" exclaimed she, with maternal pride; "here is squire hawkwood and the two other selectmen coming on purpose to see you. now, do tell them a good long story about what you have seen in foreign parts." the foremost of the three visitors, squire hawkwood, was a very pompous but excellent old gentleman, the head and prime-mover in all the affairs of the village, and universally acknowledged to be one of the sagest men on earth. he wore, according to a fashion even then becoming antiquated, a three-cornered hat, and carried a silver-headed cane the use of which seemed to be rather for flourishing in the air than for assisting the progress of his legs. his two companions were elderly and respectable yeomen who, retaining an ante-revolutionary reverence for rank and hereditary wealth, kept a little in the squire's rear. as they approached along the pathway ralph cranfield sat in an oaken elbow-chair half unconsciously gazing at the three visitors and enveloping their homely figures in the misty romance that pervaded his mental world. "here," thought he, smiling at the conceit--"here come three elderly personages, and the first of the three is a venerable sage with a staff. what if this embassy should bring me the message of my fate?" while squire hawkwood and his colleagues entered, ralph rose from his seat and advanced a few steps to receive them, and his stately figure and dark countenance as he bent courteously toward his guests had a natural dignity contrasting well with the bustling importance of the squire. the old gentleman, according to invariable custom, gave an elaborate preliminary flourish with his cane in the air, then removed his three-cornered hat in order to wipe his brow, and finally proceeded to make known his errand. "my colleagues and myself," began the squire, "are burdened with momentous duties, being jointly selectmen of this village. our minds for the space of three days past have been laboriously bent on the selection of a suitable person to fill a most important office and take upon himself a charge and rule which, wisely considered, may be ranked no lower than those of kings and potentates. and whereas you, our native townsman, are of good natural intellect and well cultivated by foreign travel, and that certain vagaries and fantasies of your youth are doubtless long ago corrected,--taking all these matters, i say, into due consideration, we are of opinion that providence hath sent you hither at this juncture for our very purpose." during this harangue cranfield gazed fixedly at the speaker, as if he beheld something mysterious and unearthly in his pompous little figure, and as if the squire had worn the flowing robes of an ancient sage instead of a square-skirted coat, flapped waistcoat, velvet breeches and silk stockings. nor was his wonder without sufficient cause, for the flourish of the squire's staff, marvellous to relate, had described precisely the signal in the air which was to ratify the message of the prophetic sage whom cranfield had sought around the world. "and what," inquired ralph cranfield, with a tremor in his voice--"what may this office be which is to equal me with kings and potentates?" "no less than instructor of our village school," answered squire hawkwood, "the office being now vacant by the death of the venerable master whitaker after a fifty years' incumbency." "i will consider of your proposal," replied ralph cranfield, hurriedly, "and will make known my decision within three days." after a few more words the village dignitary and his companions took their leave. but to cranfield's fancy their images were still present, and became more and more invested with the dim awfulness of figures which had first appeared to him in a dream, and afterward had shown themselves in his waking moments, assuming homely aspects among familiar things. his mind dwelt upon the features of the squire till they grew confused with those of the visionary sage and one appeared but the shadow of the other. the same visage, he now thought, had looked forth upon him from the pyramid of cheops; the same form had beckoned to him among the colonnades of the alhambra; the same figure had mistily revealed itself through the ascending steam of the great geyser. at every effort of his memory he recognized some trait of the dreamy messenger of destiny in this pompous, bustling, self-important, little-great man of the village. amid such musings ralph cranfield sat all day in the cottage, scarcely hearing and vaguely answering his mother's thousand questions about his travels and adventures. at sunset he roused himself to take a stroll, and, passing the aged elm tree, his eye was again caught by the semblance of a hand pointing downward at the half-obliterated inscription. as cranfield walked down the street of the village the level sunbeams threw his shadow far before him, and he fancied that, as his shadow walked among distant objects, so had there been a presentiment stalking in advance of him throughout his life. and when he drew near each object over which his tall shadow had preceded him, still it proved to be one of the familiar recollections of his infancy and youth. every crook in the pathway was remembered. even the more transitory characteristics of the scene were the same as in by-gone days. a company of cows were grazing on the grassy roadside, and refreshed him with their fragrant breath. "it is sweeter," thought he, "than the perfume which was wafted to our ship from the spice islands." the round little figure of a child rolled from a doorway and lay laughing almost beneath cranfield's feet. the dark and stately man stooped down, and, lifting the infant, restored him to his mother's arms. "the children," said he to himself, and sighed and smiled--"the children are to be my charge." and while a flow of natural feeling gushed like a well-spring in his heart he came to a dwelling which he could nowise forbear to enter. a sweet voice which seemed to come from a deep and tender soul was warbling a plaintive little air within. he bent his head and passed through the lowly door. as his foot sounded upon the threshold a young woman advanced from the dusky interior of the house, at first hastily, and then with a more uncertain step, till they met face to face. there was a singular contrast in their two figures--he dark and picturesque, one who had battled with the world, whom all suns had shone upon and whom all winds had blown on a varied course; she neat, comely and quiet--quiet even in her agitation--as if all her emotions had been subdued to the peaceful tenor of her life. yet their faces, all unlike as they were, had an expression that seemed not so alien--a glow of kindred feeling flashing upward anew from half-extinguished embers. "you are welcome home," said faith egerton. but cranfield did not immediately answer, for his eye had, been caught by an ornament in the shape of a heart which faith wore as a brooch upon her bosom. the material was the ordinary white quartz, and he recollected having himself shaped it out of one of those indian arrowheads which are so often found in the ancient haunts of the red men. it was precisely on the pattern of that worn by the visionary maid. when cranfield departed on his shadowy search, he had bestowed this brooch, in a gold setting, as a parting gift to faith egerton. "so, faith, you have kept the heart?" said he, at length. "yes," said she, blushing deeply; then, more gayly, "and what else have you brought me from beyond the sea?" "faith," replied ralph cranfield, uttering the fated words by an uncontrollable impulse, "i have brought you nothing but a heavy heart. may i rest its weight on you?" "this token which i have worn so long," said faith, laying her tremulous finger on the heart, "is the assurance that you may." "faith, faith!" cried cranfield, clasping her in his arms; "you have interpreted my wild and weary dream!" yes, the wild dreamer was awake at last. to find the mysterious treasure he was to till the earth around his mother's dwelling and reap its products; instead of warlike command or regal or religious sway, he was to rule over the village children; and now the visionary maid had faded from his fancy, and in her place he saw the playmate of his childhood. would all who cherish such wild wishes but look around them, they would oftenest find their sphere of duty, of prosperity and happiness, within those precincts and in that station where providence itself has cast their lot. happy they who read the riddle without a weary world-search or a lifetime spent in vain! twice told tales sunday at home by nathaniel hawthorne every sabbath morning in the summer time i thrust back the curtain, to watch the sunrise stealing down a steeple, which stands opposite my chamber-window. first, the weathercock begins to flash; then, a fainter lustre gives the spire an airy aspect; next it encroaches on the tower, and causes the index of the dial to glisten like gold, as it points to the gilded figure of the hour. now, the loftiest window gleams, and now the lower. the carved framework of the portal is marked strongly out. at length, the morning glory, in its descent from heaven, comes down the stone steps, one by one; and there stands the steeple, glowing with fresh radiance, while the shades of twilight still hide themselves among the nooks of the adjacent buildings. methinks, though the same sun brightens it every fair morning, yet the steeple has a peculiar robe of brightness for the sabbath. by dwelling near a church, a person soon contracts an attachment for the edifice. we naturally personify it, and conceive its massive walls and its dim emptiness to be instinct with a calm, and meditative, and somewhat melancholy spirit. but the steeple stands foremost, in our thoughts, as well as locally. it impresses us as a giant, with a mind comprehensive and discriminating enough to care for the great and small concerns of all the town. hourly, while it speaks a moral to the few that think, it reminds thousands of busy individuals of their separate and most secret affairs. it is the steeple, too, that flings abroad the hurried and irregular accents of general alarm; neither have gladness and festivity found a better utterance, than by its tongue; and when the dead are slowly passing to their home, the steeple has a melancholy voice to bid them welcome. yet, in spite of this connection with human interests, what a moral loneliness, on week-days, broods round about its stately height! it has no kindred with the houses above which it towers; it looks down into the narrow thoroughfare, the lonelier, because the crowd are elbowing their passage at its base. a glance at the body of the church deepens this impression. within, by the light of distant windows, amid refracted shadows, we discern the vacant pews and empty galleries, the silent organ, the voiceless pulpit, and the clock, which tells to solitude how time is passing. time,--where man lives not,--what is it but eternity? and in the church, we might suppose, are garnered up, throughout the week, all thoughts and feelings that have reference to eternity, until the holy day comes round again, to let them forth. might not, then, its more appropriate site be in the outskirts of the town, with space for old trees to wave around it, and throw their solemn shadows over a quiet green? we will say more of this, hereafter. but, on the sabbath, i watch the earliest sunshine, and fancy that a holier brightness marks the day, when there shall be no buzz of voices on the exchange, nor traffic in the shops, nor crowd, nor business, anywhere but at church. many have fancied so. for my own part, whether i see it scattered down among tangled woods, or beaming broad across the fields, or hemmed in between brick buildings, or tracing out the figure of the casement on my chamber-floor, still i recognize the sabbath sunshine. and ever let me recognize it! some illusions, and this among them, are the shadows of great truths. doubts may flit around me, or seem to close their evil wings, and settle down; but so long as i imagine that the earth is hallowed, and the light of heaven retains its sanctity, on the sabbath,--while that blessed sunshine lives within me,--never can my soul have lost the instinct of its faith. if it have gone astray, it will return again. i love to spend such pleasant sabbaths, from morning till night, behind the curtain of my open window. are they spent amiss? every spot, so near the church as to be visited by the circling shadow of the steeple, should be deemed consecrated ground, to-day. with stronger truth be it said, that a devout heart may consecrate a den of thieves, as an evil one may convert a temple to the same. my heart, perhaps, has not such holy, nor, i would fain trust, such impious potency. it must suffice, that, though my form be absent, my inner man goes constantly to church, while many, whose bodily presence fills the accustomed seats, have left their souls at home. but i am there, even before my friend, the sexton. at length, he comes,--a man of kindly, but sombre aspect, in dark gray clothes, and hair of the same mixture,--he comes and applies his key to the wide portal. now my thoughts may go in among the dusty pews, or ascend the pulpit without sacrilege, but soon come forth again to enjoy the music of the bell. how glad, yet solemn too! all the steeples in town are talking together, aloft in the sunny air, and rejoicing among themselves, while their spires point heavenward. meantime, here are the children assembling to the sabbath school, which is kept somewhere within the church. often, while looking at the arched portal, i have been gladdened by the sight of a score of these little girls and boys, in pink, blue, yellow, and crimson frocks, bursting suddenly forth into the sunshine, like a swarm of gay butterflies that had been shut up in the solemn gloom. or i might compare them to cherubs, haunting that holy place. about a quarter of an hour before the second ringing of the bell, individuals of the congregation begin to appear. the earliest is invariably an old woman in black, whose bent frame and rounded shoulders are evidently laden with some heavy affliction, which she is eager to rest upon the altar. would that the sabbath came twice as often, for the sake of that sorrowful old soul! there is an elderly man, also, who arrives in good season, and leans against the corner of the tower, just within the line of its shadow, looking downward with a darksome brow. i sometimes fancy that the old woman is the happier of the two. after these, others drop in singly, and by twos and threes, either disappearing through the doorway or taking their stand in its vicinity. at last, and always with an unexpected sensation, the bell turns in the steeple overhead, and throws out an irregular clangor, jarring the tower to its foundation. as if there were magic in the sound, the sidewalks of the street, both up and down along, are immediately thronged with two long lines of people, all converging hitherward, and streaming into the church. perhaps the far-off roar of a coach draws nearer,--a deeper thunder by its contrast with the surrounding stillness,--until it sets down the wealthy worshippers at the portal, among their humblest brethren. beyond that entrance, in theory at least, there are no distinctions of earthly rank; nor indeed, by the goodly apparel which is flaunting in the sun, would there seem to be such, on the hither side. those pretty girls! why will they disturb my pious meditations! of all days in the week, they should strive to look least fascinating on the sabbath, instead of heightening their mortal loveliness, as if to rival the blessed angels, and keep our thoughts from heaven. were i the minister himself, i must needs look. one girl is white muslin from the waist upwards, and black silk downwards to her slippers; a second blushes from topknot to shoe-tie, one universal scarlet; another shines of a pervading yellow, as if she had made a garment of the sunshine. the greater part, however, have adopted a milder cheerfulness of hue. their veils, especially when the wind raises them, give a lightness to the general effect, and make them appear like airy phantoms, as they flit up the steps, and vanish into the sombre doorway. nearly all--though it is very strange that i should know it--wear white stockings, white as snow, and neat slippers, laced crosswise with black ribbon, pretty high above the ankles. a white stocking is infinitely more effective than a black one. here comes the clergyman, slow and solemn, in severe simplicity, needing no black silk gown to denote his office. his aspect claims my reverence, but cannot win my love. were i to picture saint peter, keeping fast the gate of heaven, and frowning, more stern than pitiful, on the wretched applicants, that face should be my study. by middle age, or sooner, the creed has generally wrought upon the heart, or been a-tempered by it. as the minister passes into the church, the bell holds its iron tongue, and all the low murmur of the congregation dies away. the gray sexton looks up and down the street, and then at my window-curtain, where, through the small peephole, i half fancy that he has caught my eye. now, every loiterer has gone in, and the street lies asleep in the quiet sun, while a feeling of loneliness comes over me, and brings also an uneasy sense of neglected privileges and duties. o, i ought to have gone to church! the hustle of the rising congregation reaches my ears. they are standing up to pray. could i bring my heart into unison with those who are praying in yonder church, and lift it heavenward, with a fervor of supplication, but no distinct request, would not that be the safest kind of prayer? "lord, look down upon me in mercy!" with that sentiment gushing from my soul, might i not leave all the rest to him? hark! the hymn. this, at least, is a portion of the service which i can enjoy better than if i sat within the walls, where the full choir and the massive melody of the organ, would fall with a weight upon me. at this distance, it thrills through my frame, and plays upon my heartstrings, with a pleasure both of the sense and spirit. heaven be praised, i know nothing of music, as a science; and the most elaborate harmonies, if they please me, please as simply as a nurse's lullaby. the strain has ceased, but prolongs itself in my mind, with fanciful echoes, till i start from my revery, and find that the sermon has commenced. it is my misfortune seldom to fructify, in a regular way, by any but printed sermons. the first strong idea, which the preacher utters, gives birth to a train of thought, and leads me onward, step by step, quite out of hearing of the good man's voice, unless he be indeed a son of thunder. at my open window, catching now and then a sentence of the "parson's saw," i am as well situated as at the foot of the pulpit stairs. the broken and scattered fragments of this one discourse will be the texts of many sermons, preached by those colleague pastors,--colleagues, but often disputants,--my mind and heart. the former pretends to be a scholar, and perplexes me with doctrinal points; the latter takes me on the score of feeling; and both, like several other preachers, spend their strength to very little purpose. i, their sole auditor, cannot always understand them. suppose that a few hours have passed, and behold me still behind my curtain, just before the close of the afternoon service. the hour-hand on the dial has passed beyond four o'clock. the declining sun is hidden behind the steeple, and throws its shadow straight across the street, so that my chamber is darkened, as with a cloud. around the church-door all is solitude, and an impenetrable obscurity beyond the threshold. a commotion is heard. the seats are slammed down, and the pew-doors thrown back,--a multitude of feet are trampling along the unseen aisles,--and the congregation bursts suddenly through the portal. foremost, scampers a rabble of boys, behind whom moves a dense and dark phalanx of grown men, and lastly, a crowd of females, with young children, and a few scattered husbands. this instantaneous outbreak of life into loneliness is one of the pleasantest scenes of the day. some of the good people are rubbing their eyes, thereby intimating that they have been wrapped, as it were, in a sort of holy trance, by the fervor of their devotion. there is a young man, a third-rate coxcomb, whose first care is always to flourish a white handkerchief, and brush the seat of a tight pair of black silk pantaloons, which shine as if varnished. they must have been made of the stuff called "everlasting," or perhaps of the same piece as christian's garments in the pilgrim's progress, for he put them on two summers ago, and has not yet worn the gloss off. i have taken a great liking to those black silk pantaloons. but, now, with nods and greetings among friends, each matron takes her husband's arm, and paces gravely homeward, while the girls also flutter away, after arranging sunset walks with their favored bachelors. the sabbath eve is the eve of love. at length, the whole congregation is dispersed. no; here, with faces as glossy as black satin, come two sable ladies and a sable gentleman, and close in their rear the minister, who softens his severe visage, and bestows a kind word on each. poor souls! to them the most captivating picture of bliss in heaven is--"there we shall be white!" all is solitude again. but, hark!--a broken warbling of voices, and now, attuning its grandeur to their sweetness, a stately peal of the organ. who are the choristers? let me dream that the angels, who came down from heaven, this blessed morn, to blend themselves with the worship of the truly good, are playing and singing their farewell to the earth. on the wings of that rich melody they were borne upward. this, gentle reader, is merely a flight of poetry. a few of the singing men and singing women had lingered behind their fellows, and raised their voices fitfully, and blew a careless note upon the organ. yet, it lifted my soul higher than all their former strains. they are gone, the sons and daughters of music,--and the gray sexton is just closing the portal. for six days more, there will be no face of man in the pews, and aisles, and galleries, nor a voice in the pulpit, nor music in the choir. was it worth while to rear this massive edifice, to be a desert in the heart of the town, and populous only for a few hours of each seventh day? o, but the church is a symbol of religion! may its site, which was consecrated on the day when the first tree was felled, be kept holy forever, a spot of solitude and peace, amid the trouble and vanity of our week-day world! there is a moral, and a religion too, even in the silent walls. and may the steeple still point heavenward, and be decked with the hallowed sunshine of the sabbath morn!